In Dialogue with Classical Indian Traditions: Encounter, Transformation and Interpretation 9781138541399, 9781351011136

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‘This edited volume offers a number of case studies using theological, philosophical, and philological approaches to identify, interpret, and discuss dialogue in the literatures of ancient India. This is a timely topic, and the book includes a rich collection of approaches and traditions.’ Knut A Jacobsen, University of Bergen, Norway

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In Dialogue with Classical Indian Traditions

Dialogue is a recurring and significant component of Indian religious and philosophical literature. Whether it be as a narrative account of a conversation between characters within a text, as an implied response or provocation towards an interlocutor outside the text, or as a hermeneutical lens through which commentators and modern audiences can engage with an ancient text, dialogue features prominently in many of the most foundational sources from classical India. Despite its ubiquity, there are very few studies that explore this important facet of Indian texts. This book redresses this imbalance by undertaking a close textual analysis of a range of religious and philosophical literature to highlight the many uses and functions of dialogue in the sources themselves and in subsequent interpretations. Using the themes of encounter, transformation and interpretation – all of which emerged from face-to-face discussions between the contributors of this volume – each Chapter explores dialogue in its own context, thereby demonstrating the variety and pervasiveness of dialogue in different genres of the textual tradition. This is a rich and detailed study that offers a fresh and timely perspective on many of the most well-known and influential sources from classical India. As such, it will be of great use to scholars of religious studies, Asian studies, comparative literature and literary theory. Brian Black is Lecturer in Religious Studies in the Department of Politics, Philosophy and Religion at Lancaster University, UK. His research interests include Indian religions, comparative philosophy, the use of dialogue in Indian religious and philosophical texts, and Hindu and Buddhist ethics. He is author of the book The Character of the Self in Ancient India: Priests, Kings, and Women in the Early Upaniṣads. Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad is Fellow of the British Academy, and Distinguished Professor of Comparative Religion and Philosophy at Lancaster University, UK. He has published several books, including Advaita Metaphysics and Epistemology, Knowledge and Liberation in Classical Indian Thought and Divine Self, Human Self: The Philosophy of Being in Two Gītā Commentaries. His most recent book is Human Being, Bodily Being: Phenomenology from Classical India.

Dialogues in South Asian Traditions Religion, Philosophy, Literature and History

Face-to-face conversation and dialogue are defining features of South Asian traditional texts, rituals and practices. Not only has the region of South Asia always consisted of a multiplicity of peoples and cultures in communication with each other, but also performed and written dialogues have been indelible features within the religions of South Asia; Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism, Sikhism and Islam are all multi-vocal religions. Their doctrines, practices and institutions have never had only one voice of authority, and dialogue has been a shared tactic for negotiating contesting interpretations within each tradition. This series examines the use of the dialogical genre in South Asian religious and cultural traditions. Historical inquiries into the plurality of religious identity in South Asia, particularly when constructed by the dialogical genre, are crucial in an age when, as Amartya Sen has recently observed, singular identities seem to hold more destructive sway than multiple ones. This series approaches dialogue in its widest sense, including discussion, debate, argument, conversation, communication, confrontation and negotiation. Opening up a dynamic historical and literary mode of analysis, which assumes the plural dimensions of religious identities and communities from the start, this series challenges many outdated assumptions and representations of South Asian religions. Series Editors: Laurie Patton, Middlebury College, USA Brian Black, Lancaster University, UK Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad, Lancaster University, UK Dialogue in Early South Asian Religions Hindu, Buddhist, and Jain Traditions Edited by Brian Black and Laurie Patton Shared Characters in Jain, Buddhist and Hindu Narrative Gods, Kings and Other Heroes Naomi Appleton In Dialogue with Classical Indian Traditions Encounter, Transformation and Interpretation Edited by Brian Black and Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad For more information and a full list of titles in the series, please visit: www. routledge.com/dialogues-in-south-asian-traditions-religion-philosophy-literatureand-history/book-series/asthasiarel

In Dialogue with Classical Indian Traditions Encounter, Transformation and Interpretation Edited by Brian Black and Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad

First published 2019 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2019 selection and editorial matter, Brian Black and Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Brian Black and Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record has been requested for this book ISBN: 978-1-138-54139-9 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-351-01113-6 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by Swales & Willis, Exeter, Devon, UK

Contents

List of contributors Acknowledgements Introduction

ix xiii 1

BRIAN BLACK AND CHAKRAVARTHI RAM-PRASAD

PART 1

Encounter 1

Sources of Indian secularism? Dialogues on politics and religion in Hindu and Buddhist traditions

21 23

BRIAN BLACK

2

Dialogues with solitary Buddhas

36

NAOMI APPLETON

3

Refutation or dialogue? Śaṃkara’s treatment of the Bhāgavatas

51

J G SUTHREN HIRST

4

We resort to reason: The argumentative structure in Veṅkaṭanātha’s Seśvaramīmāṃsā

66

ELISA FRESCHI

5

‘Speakers of highest truth’: Philosophical plurilogues about brahman in the early Upaniṣads JESSICA FRAZIER

84

viii

Contents

PART 2

Transformation 6

Transformative dialogue in the Yogavāsiṣṭha

105 107

JAMES MADAIO

7

Being human, dialogically

130

LYNN THOMAS

8

Dialoguing the Vārkari tradition

145

MONIKA KIRLOSKAR-STEINBACH

9

Convincing the king: Jain ministers and religious persuasion through dialogue

160

JONATHAN GEEN

PART 3

Interpretation

179

10

181

Careful attention and the voice of another MARIA HEIM

11

Mahābhārata dialogues on dharma and devotion with Kṛṣṇa and Hanumān

197

BRUCE M SULLIVAN

12

Models of royal piety in the Mahābhārata: The case of Vidura, Sanatsujāta and Vidurā

211

JAMES M HEGARTY

13

Dialogue in extremis: Vālin in the Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa

228

CHAKRAVARTHI RAM-PRASAD

Afterword

244

LAURIE L PATTON

Bibliography Index

248 264

Contributors

Naomi Appleton is senior lecturer in Asian Religions at the University of Edinburgh. Her main research interest is the role of narrative in the construction, communication and challenge of religious ideas in early India. She is the author of Jātaka Stories in Theravāda Buddhism (Ashgate 2010), Narrating Karma and Rebirth: Buddhist and Jain Multi-Life Stories (Cambridge University Press 2014) and Shared Characters in Jain Buddhist and Hindu Narrative (Routledge 2017) as well as a range of articles on related themes. She has also published translations of early Buddhist narrative texts from Sanskrit and Pāli. Brian Black is lecturer in Religious Studies in the Department of Politics, Philosophy and Religion at Lancaster University. His research interests include Indian religions, comparative philosophy, the use of dialogue in Indian religious and philosophical texts, and Hindu and Buddhist ethics. He is author of the book The Character of the Self in Ancient India: Priests, Kings, and Women in the Early Upaniṣads (SUNY 2007). He has co-edited the following books: Gender and Narrative in the Mahābhārata (with Simon Brodbeck, Routledge 2007); Confronting Secularism in Europe and India: Legitimacy and Disenchantment in Contemporary Times (with Gavin Hyman and Graham Smith, Bloomsbury 2014); and Dialogue in Early South Asian Religions: Hindu, Buddhist, and Jain Traditions (with Laurie Patton, Routledge 2015). He is also co-editor (with Laurie Patton and Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad) of the book series Dialogues in South Asian Traditions: Religion, Philosophy, Literature, and History (Routledge). Jessica Frazier is a university research lecturer at the University of Oxford and a Fellow of the Oxford Centre for Hindu Studies. Her work explores philosophies of self and reality in the Indian Bhedabheda Vedantic tradition on one hand, and theoretical issues in European Phenomenology on the other; from her first book Reality, Religion, and Passion: Indian and Western Approaches in Hans-Georg Gadamer and Rupa Gosvami, to her most recent, Hindu Worldviews: Theories of Self, Ritual and Reality, she has sought to explore the Indian philosophical tradition’s sources for rethinking fundamental building blocks of our worldpicture. Forthcoming books explore Gadamer’s distinctive ‘hermeneutic’ ontology, and the Indian Bhedabheda tradition’s rich tradition of reflection of ontology, divinity and the sacred.

x

Contributors

Elisa Freschi has worked on topics of Indian Philosophy (especially Mīmāṃsā and Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta) and more in general on comparative philosophy, epistemology, philosophy of religion, philosophy of language, deontic logic and on the re-use of texts in Indian philosophy (about which she has edited several volumes, published as special issues of the Journal of Indian Philosophy (2015), of Buddhist Studies Review (2017) and by Harrassowitz (2017). She is a convinced advocate of reading Sanskrit philosophical texts within their history and understanding them through a philosophical approach. After her monographs on Prābhākara Mīmāṃsā (Brill 2012) and on the intersection of grammar, ritual texts and mīmāṃsā (P Lang 2013), she is currently working on the reformulation of the concept of God within Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta. Jonathan Geen received his Doctorate in Religious Studies from McMaster University and is currently associate professor of Religious Studies at King’s University College at Western University in London, Ontario, Canada. His primary research interest has been the intersection between Hindu and Jaina mythology, including: ‘The Evolution of Draupadī’s Marriage in the Jaina Tradition’ (Asiatische Studien 2005); ‘Jaina Origins for the Mahābhārata Story of Draupadī’s Past Life’ (Asiatische Studien 2006); ‘The Rescue of Draupadī’ (South Asian Studies 2008); ‘Kṛṣṇa and his Rivals in the Hindu and Jaina Traditions’ (BSOAS 2009); ‘Fair Trade and Reversal of Fortune: Kṛṣṇa and Mahāvīra in the Hindu and Jaina Traditions’ (JAAR 2011); ‘Hinduism and Jainism’ (Oxford Bibliographies Online: Hinduism 2012); and ‘Echoes of Govardhana in Jain Literature: The Lifting of Koṭiśilā and Consecration as Ardhacakrin’ (Journal of Vaishnava Studies 2015). James Hegarty is professor of Sanskrit and Indian Religions at Cardiff University. He is a specialist in the role of narrative in the transmission and adaptation of religious knowledge. He is the author of Religion, Narrative and Public Imagination in South Asia: Past and Place in the Sanskrit Mahābhārata (Routledge 2012) as well as numerous other works on Sanskrit and vernacular religious literature. Maria Heim is professor of Religion and Elizabeth W Bruss Reader at Amherst College, where she teaches courses on ancient Indian religion, literature and philosophy. Her most recent books are Voice of the Buddha: Buddhaghosa on the Immeasurable Words (Oxford University Press 2018) and The Forerunner of all Things: Buddhaghosa on Mind, Intention, and Agency (Oxford University Press 2014). She received her PhD from Harvard University and her BA from Reed College, and was honoured with a Guggenheim Fellowship in 2005. She is currently working on emotions in classical Indian thought. Monika Kirloskar-Steinbach specialises in cross-cultural philosophy and political philosophy. She is editor-in-chief of the Journal of World Philosophies (https://scholarworks.iu.edu/iupjournals/index.php/jwp/index) and of the new series Bloomsbury Introductions to World Philosophies. Kirloskar-Steinbach is a professor at University Konstanz, Germany.

Contributors

xi

James Madaio is a research fellow at the Oriental Institute of the Czech Academy of Sciences in Prague. He is also a fellow at the Oxford Centre for Hindu Studies and associate editor of the Journal of Hindu Studies (Oxford University Press). He received his doctorate from the Religions and Theology department at the University of Manchester. James was previously a postdoctoral fellow at New Europe College in Bucharest and an affiliated researcher at the Kuppuswami Sastri Research Institute in Chennai. He was a lecturer at the Honors College at the University of Maryland, College Park and a research associate at the Kahlil Gibran Chair for Values and Peace at the University of Maryland. Laurie L Patton is the president and professor of religion at Middlebury College. The recipient of a PhD from the University of Chicago in 1991, she is the author or editor of nine books on South Asian history, culture and religion, and over 50 articles. Her research also engages mythology, ritual, literary theory, gender, contemporary Sanskrit and most recently, religion and the public square. She translated The Bhagavad Gita for Penguin Classics and has published three books of her own poetry, including, most recently, House Crossing (Station Hill Press 2018). She is a member of the American Academy of Arts & Sciences. Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad is Fellow of the British Academy, and distinguished professor of Comparative Religion and Philosophy at Lancaster University. In addition to some 50 papers on a wide range of subjects, he has published several books, including Advaita Metaphysics and Epistemology, Knowledge and Liberation in Classical Indian Thought and Divine Self, Human Self: The Philosophy of Being in Two Gītā Commentaries. His most recent book is Human Being, Bodily Being: Phenomenology from Classical India. Bruce M Sullivan is professor emeritus at Northern Arizona University. He is a specialist in Hinduism and Sanskrit literature, and the author of four books, including a study of Vyāsa in the Mahābhārata (EJ Brill 1990). Two books were co-authored with a scholar in India, NP Unni, each a translation and study of a Kūṭiyāṭṭam drama (Delhi 1995 and 2001). Sullivan also edited and contributed to Sacred Objects in Secular Spaces: Exhibiting Asian Religions in Museums (Bloombury 2015). His educational background includes a PhD in South Asian Languages and Civilizations and the History of Religions from the University of Chicago. J G Suthren Hirst is an honorary research fellow in South Asian Studies at the University of Manchester, where she formerly taught for many years. Her longterm research interest has been in Vedānta traditions with particular emphasis on the works and pedagogy of the famous eighth century Advaita Vedāntin, Śaṃkara (Suthren Hirst 1990, 1996, 2005, 2016; etc). Lynn Thomas is an honorary research fellow at Roehampton University. Her doctoral research at the University of Oxford was on theories of cosmic time in the Mahābhārata, and her research has continued to focus on different aspects of time, kingship and narrative structure within the text, as well as

xii Contributors more broadly. She has also co-edited (with J G Suthren Hirst) Playing for Real: Hindu Role Models, Religion, and Gender (Oxford University Press 2004). Her most recent research has centred on ways in which expositions of polity within Indian texts might engage with contemporary discussions of human rights. This was the focus of her latest publication: ‘Negotiating the Spaces: Exploring Issues of Human Rights in an Indian Text’ Religion 48:1 (2018).

Acknowledgements

The Chapters in this book and the themes that tie the book together emerge from the discussions and debates that took place during a symposium held in Lancaster in July 2017. The editors would like to acknowledge the support of the Arts and Humanities Research Council for providing the funding for the symposium and to the department of Politics, Philosophy and Religion at Lancaster University for offering institutional support. We’d like to thank the following colleagues who engaged with the themes of the project: Sam Clark, Gavin Hyman, Shuruq Naguib and Deborah Sutton; and those colleagues who gave administrative support to the conference: Patrick Bishop and Katherine Young. We would like to include a special thanks to Zoë Slatoff for editing and preparing this manuscript for publication. We would also like to thank our respective families and the staff at Routledge.

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Introduction Brian Black and Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad

Introduction Dialogue is a recurring and significant component of Indian religious and philosophical literature. It is an important compositional feature as far back as the Ṛgveda and the Upaniṣads, and becomes a central device in terms of framing and structuring texts in the Mahābhārata, Rāmāyaṇa, Yoga-Vā sis ̣tha, the ̣ Purāṇas and other Hindu sources. In the Buddhist tradition, dialogue features prominently in early literature such as the Nikāyas and the Jātakas, while continuing to be important in the Gaṇḍavyūha, Prajñāpāramitā Sūtras and other Mahāyāna texts. In the Jaina tradition, dialogue is used extensively in canonical texts such as the Rāyapaseṇiya and the Vivāgasuyaṃ, and continues to be a dominant feature in the Vasudevahiṇḍi, Ādipurāṇa and Triṣaṣṭiśalākāpuruṣacarita. In addition to narrative, normative texts such as the Mānava-dharmaśāstra are sometimes framed by dialogue, while philosophical texts, such as sūtras, śāstras and saṃgrahas are often rhetorically in dialogue with their opponents. Our interest in dialogue begins from this initial observation: that it appears repeatedly in classical Indian sources. In its widest sense, we take dialogue to mean a language-loaded encounter between two or more interlocutors, whether these interlocutors are people – real or imagined – or texts – either contemporaneous or of different historical periods. This book does not attempt to define dialogue in any specific way, but rather to examine its various forms and uses in particular classical Indian contexts. Dialogue is a particularly rich and complex literary expression, because there is always a range of issues being addressed simultaneously and in relation to each other: the interlocutors, their relationship, what they are talking about, the social context of their encounter, what is at stake, the consequences and the structures and motifs one dialogical episode has in relation to others. In paying attention to the ubiquity of dialogue in Indian sources, our primary assumption is that the recurring use of this particularly rich and complex mode of expression was not accidental. It was used repeatedly because it effectively addressed a variety of concerns. Within the context of texts about religion and philosophy, dialogue is a mode for exploring epistemology, ethics, metaphysics, theology and hermeneutics. As we

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Brian Black and Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad

will see, dialogue is not a method, but methods of inquiry, pedagogy and transformation can be structured by it. Despite its ubiquity, dialogue is a relatively under-theorised aspect of classical Indian texts. In some cases, such as the Viśiṣṭādvaitin philosopher Veṅkaṭanātha (see Chapter 3) and the Buddhist commentator Buddhaghosa (see Chapter 10), it is reflected upon explicitly, but in most of the cases in this book the significance of dialogue remains implicit. Despite the rare instances of explicit comments and explanations, dialogical forms are used both extensively and deliberately. In other words, elaborate, sophisticated, self-conscious use of dialogue is found aplenty in the tradition, even if its thematisation is only occasionally seen as a relevant, higher-order reflection on intellectual and spiritual practice. This book is an exploration of this often overlooked, yet intrinsic feature of many textual sources from classical Indian traditions; but while many of the authors are indeed interested in bringing out the nature of the dialogue involved, the primary interest of this collection is what that dialogue does. We could say that this volume curates instances of dialogue: the Chapters are laid out in a way that draws attention to many features of dialogue, but its ultimate purpose is to present the importance of each dialogue in its own context, thereby demonstrating the variety and pervasiveness of dialogue in different genres of the textual tradition. There are several terms in Sanskrit, including saṃvāda, samāgama and vāda, which have overlapping connotations with the English word ‘dialogue’. Literally meaning ‘speech together’, saṃvāda is a term that appears as far back as the Ṛgveda (8.101.4) and is used on several occasions in the Upaniṣads, often to denote a conversation between a teacher and student. In these and later sources, the term can have a variety of related meanings depending on its context. As traced by Laurie Patton, in the Brāhmaṇas saṃvāda can mean ‘bargain’ (Śatapatha Brāhman ̣a 9.5.2.16); in the Yuddhakān ̣d ̣a of the Rāmāyan ̣a it can mean an ‘account’, ‘incident’ or ‘story’ (6.125.8); in the Mīmāmṣā system, it can mean ‘agreement’ or ‘accord’ (cf Śabara 1.3.11; 1.4.22; Tantravārttika 1.2.22; 1.2.47); but the most common meanings of saṃvāda are ‘conversation’, ‘discussion’ or ‘dialogue’ (see Black and Patton 2015: 2). In the Mahābhārata, saṃvāda is sometimes used as a generic term to describe a dialogical episode in a narrative (e.g. 3.10.6; 3.29.1). Another term with overlapping connotations with ‘dialogue’ is samāgama, which literally means to ‘come together’ or ‘join’. In the Mahābhārata, samāgama can sometimes refer to a sexual union (Mahābhārata 1.57.58), but more often refers to an ‘encounter’, ‘meeting’, ‘gathering’ or ‘assembly’; it is polysemic in much the same way ‘intercourse’ is. Such meetings or encounters can vary from armed conflicts to large ritual gatherings, while sometimes describing a dialogical episode. Although it does not tend to be used as a generic description of dialogical episodes in the Critical Edition as saṃvāda sometimes is, some manuscript traditions of the Mahābhārata use the term in this way. For example, the dialogue between Hanūmat and Bhīma, which is analysed by Bruce Sullivan in Chapter 11, is referred to as a samāgama in devanāgarī and Kaśmīrī manuscripts. Similarly, the term saṃbhāṣya is occasionally used in the Mahābhārata

Introduction

3

to refer to a dialogue. Literally meaning ‘to speak together’ or ‘converse with’, the word saṃbhāṣya appears in a conversation between Yudhiṣṭhira and the snake, as discussed by Lynn Thomas in Chapter 7. Another term with resonances with ‘dialogue’, is vāda, which literally means ‘speech’, ‘discourse’ or ‘talk’. In Chapter 5 Jessica Frazier notes that in the Upaniṣads vāda’s meaning extends beyond ‘speech’, to include ‘discussion, debate, the search for greater knowledge and a display of skill’. According to the Nyāyasūtras of Akṣapāda Gautama, there are three types of debate, the first of which is called vāda, which describes ‘an honest debate where both sides, proponent and opponent, are seeking the truth’ (Matilal 1998: 2). The other two types of debate are jalpa, which refers to debates where rules do not apply, and vitaṇḍā, where anything goes (Matilal 1998: 2). In keeping with this connotation of fair debate that was shared widely among philosophical schools, the Viśiṣṭādvaitin philosopher Veṅkaṭanātha, as discussed by Elisa Freschi in Chapter 4, defines vāda as ‘as a dialogue aiming at the establishment of the truth’. The meanings and uses of these terms, as well as others, give us important insights into the range of ways that notions of dialogue have been understood in classical Indian sources. The focus of this book, however, is not on the terms themselves, but rather on examples of dialogical encounters. Despite the richness of the vocabulary that describe conversations, discussions, debates and verbal altercations, the episodes or instances of dialogue appear far more frequently and are explored more elaborately than any of the terms that describe them. As such, our primary interest is not in the meaning or conceptual implications of any particular term, but rather in the episodes and instances themselves. There are two major forms of dialogue discussed in the Chapters in this book: narrative and discourse. What we mean by narrative are those dialogues that portray characters interacting with each other, such as we find in the Upaniṣads, Nikāyas, Jātakas, Sutta Nipāta, Rāmāyaṇa, Yoga-Vā sis ̣tha, ̣ Vasudevahiṇḍi, Ādipurāṇa, Triṣaṣṭiśalākāpuruṣacarita and the Bhaktavijaya. Most of the Chapters in this book are about these types of dialogues. The other types of dialogue we find in discursive texts, such as philosophical commentaries. Although this literature does not depict characters in conversation with each other, they are composed in a rhetoric style in which the positions of rival schools are refuted. The Chapters by Freschi and Suthren Hirst explore these types of dialogue. Although these two types of dialogue are distinct, they share overlapping features. Narrative dialogues are also rhetorically addressed to specific audiences, and can also address arguments against some views, while finding common ground with others. Meanwhile commentarial dialogues can share similar structures with narrative dialogues, even if not embedded within a story. The Chapters in this book emerge from a three-day intensive workshop on dialogue in Indian sources at Lancaster University in July of 2017. We invited scholars working on a range of material from classical India to examine the details, uses and implications of dialogue in the sources they research. Earlier drafts of all the papers were discussed in detail during the workshop, with the Chapters in this book very much a product of the conversations that took place in

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Lancaster. In addition to addressing a range of types of dialogue, the Chapters in this book include dialogues from textual sources across Hinduism, Buddhism and Jainism – thus reflecting real communication across religious and philosophical traditions. They also include a wide historical scope, from the Upaniṣads and Nikāyas to bhakti literature from the thirteenth century. In covering a wide range of sources and time periods, this book does not claim to be exhaustive, but rather representative of both the ubiquity and diversity of dialogue in classical India. If there is a unifying argument of the book as a whole, it is that examining the details, uses and implications of dialogue brings out otherwise unnoticed or unexplored features of classical Indian thought. The book is structured around three themes that emerged from our discussions during the workshop in Lancaster: encounter, transformation and interpretation. These three themes all address some of the most general and generic aspects of dialogue, focusing on questions such as: what constitutes a dialogue, who participates in dialogue, what is talked about, what results from dialogue and how they have been interpreted. In addressing these questions about the form itself, we hope to maximise the relevance of this book and its individual Chapters for ongoing research on Indian classical sources, comparative philosophy and religion and studies on dialogue itself.

Encounter By ‘encounter’ we refer to the meeting of interlocutors, including their identities and the power dynamics between them. The interlocutors in the dialogues discussed throughout this book include teachers, students, rivals, renouncers, kings, advisors, gods, women and animals. The types of dialogue examined range from friendly discussions to hostile debates; from face-to-face meetings to implied communications across time and space; from narrative depictions of conversation to rhetorical gestures towards unspecified philosophical opponents. Taken together, the Chapters in this section demonstrate that, whether actual or implied, the character of the engagement between interlocutors shapes how teachings and arguments are articulated, as well as its transformative potential. Chapter 1: Sources of Indian secularism? Dialogues on politics and religion in Hindu and Buddhist traditions In the first Chapter, Brian Black analyses two dialogues between a sage and a king: the first between the brahmin Yājñavalkya and King Janaka from the Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad, and the second between the Buddha and King Ajātasattu from the Dīgha Nikāya. In comparing these two dialogues, Black argues that Hindu and Buddhist sources use the same literary paradigm to explore the relationship between religion and politics in distinct, yet overlapping ways. His analysis focuses on two interrelated issues, each of which is addressed by both dialogues: (1) the relationship between political and religious authority, and (2) the plurality of religious groups.

Introduction

5

In examining these two issues of both dialogical encounters, Black shows that the identities of the interlocutors and how they relate to each other frame the encounter, with the relationship between political and religious authority explored through the dynamics between them. In other words, these dialogues demonstrate the integral relationship between what the interlocutors say to each other and how they interact with each other. As Black argues, differences between how the encounter between sage and king is portrayed in the Upaniṣads and Nikāyas point to differences in how Hindu and Buddhist sources characterise the relationship between religion and politics. Chapter 2: Dialogues with solitary Buddhas In Chapter 2, Naomi Appleton discusses dialogues with paccekabuddhas in the Pāli Canon. Despite their solitary reputation, in Pāli sources paccekabuddhas are repeatedly depicted as interacting with others, especially with kings and princes. A distinctive feature of paccekabuddhas is that they speak very little, often using signs or images to convey their teachings. Indeed, in some cases paccekabuddhas do not speak at all and are not even physically present for their encounter. To illustrate this point, Appleton describes a scene from the Sutta Nipāta, in which a paccekabuddha invites a prince to visit him, but does not remain in his hut to deliver his teaching face-to-face. Instead, he leaves his footprints behind to suggest he is there, even though he had already departed. When the prince visits and does not find the paccekabuddha present, he sits on the empty bench in the empty hut and achieves paccekabodhi himself. In this example, no words are exchanged and the paccekabuddha is physically absent. Nonetheless there is an interactive encounter that leads to the same type of transformation as one of the Buddha’s sermons. This discussion takes us to the limit of dialogue, implicitly questioning the exact role of language in it: while no words are spoken, nonetheless, the symbolism, expressive as it is of complex doctrine, is explicable only through language. As opposed to encounters that emphasise a particular teaching or doctrine, dialogues with paccekabuddhas focus on the importance of an interpersonal interaction, thus bringing attention to the encounter itself as part of the teaching. Perhaps because paccekabuddhas are generally known to be independent of the Buddhist community, the dialogues that portray them teaching indicate that even the most solitary figures are still embedded within a web of social relations. Chapter 3: Refutation or dialogue? Śaṃkara’s treatment of the Bhāgavatas In the third Chapter, J G Suthren Hirst explores the notion of implied or potential dialogue by looking at Śaṃkara’s Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya. Śaṃkara is explicit that his primary concern is to refute the views of opponents, unequivocally rejecting what is incompatible with Advaita. Suthren Hirst asks whether in these circumstances it is even possible to consider these arguments as ‘dialogues’. Beginning with Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya 2.2.42–45, but also considering this material in the

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light of his broader corpus, Suthren Hirst argues that Śaṃkara is not simply refuting his opponents, but indeed conducting a dialogue with some of them, particularly the Bhāgavatas, who had a solid grounding in the Vedas. In relation to the theme of encounter, Suthren Hirst shows that Śaṃkara’s precise wording indicates that certain Bhāgavata practices and beliefs could be aligned with his own Advaitin understanding. Śaṃkara’s starting point for this implied dialogue is recognising a common ground in how Advaita and his Bhāgavatas interlocutors view the supreme. Despite disputing some of their assumptions, Śaṃkara builds on the transcendental claims they have in common. Another way Śaṃkara finds common ground is through his engagement with the Bhagavad Gītā. Despite not being an obvious fit for explicating Advaita teachings, Śaṃkara’s commentary on the Bhagavad Gītā could be seen as part of his implied dialogical encounter with his philosophical interlocutors. As Suthren Hirst argues, Śaṃkara uses the Bhagavad Gītā to show how, rightly interpreted, aspects of Vaiṣṇava theology and practice can provide a stepping stone along the way to non-dual realisation. Suthren Hirst notes that because it was Śaṃkara who apparently set the precedent for including the Bhagavad Gītā among the scriptural sources of Vedānta, then it may have been his implied encounter with the Bhagavatas that began this commentarial tradition among Vedānta schools. Once more, we are at the boundaries of the dialogical, one shaded subtly by the very notion of implication. Chapter 4: We resort to reason: The argumentative structure in Veṅkaṭanātha’s Seśvaramīmāṃsā In Chapter 4, Elisa Freschi also discusses dialogue within the context of philosophical texts, in this case focusing on the work of Veṅkaṭanātha, a central figure in the systematisation of the Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta school. Freschi’s Chapter investigates how Veṅkaṭanātha uses several dialogical structures to deal with different types of discussants and analyses his motivations for the various approaches that he takes. Veṅkaṭanātha’s general approach to dialogue is illustrated in his understanding of the term vāda, which he defines as an encounter aiming at the establishment of the truth. As we have seen, this understanding was widely accepted among the different philosophical schools of classical India. As Freschi observes, Veṅkaṭanātha appears to follow this definition himself, since he engages in discussions without ending them abruptly with ad hominem attacks, paralogisms or appeals to authority. An interesting aspect of Veṅkaṭanātha’s approach to dialogue in relation to the theme of encounter is that he makes no distinction between past and present interlocutors. Veṅkaṭanātha may dedicate more space to Mīmāṃsakas than to Buddhists, but there is nothing in his style to indicate whether or not he is engaging with a living discussant. According to Freshi, this indicates that Veṅkaṭanātha’s engagement with the arguments of his interlocutors emerges out of his own interest and curiosity, rather than on the social and political relevance of their views. This approach is another example of how Veṅkaṭanātha seems to

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comply with his own definition of vāda as aiming at the establishment of truth. Freschi concludes that the works of Veṅkaṭanātha represent the use of dialogue as a mode of presenting philosophical discussions that are based on reason and argumentation. An interlocutor can potentially change the views of a living discussant; or change the understanding contemporaries have of opponents situated in the past. Here, dialogue is an optimistic epistemological undertaking. Chapter 5: ‘Speakers of highest truth’: Philosophical plurilogues about Brahman in the early Upaniṣads In Chapter 5, Jessica Frazier argues that some dialogues in the Upaniṣads can be characterised as a collaborative search for broad, over-spanning truths. Seen in this way, these dialogues offer a distinctive Indian model, which focuses on creatively canvassing broad speculative explanations. As with Freschi, Frazier’s Chapter addresses the term vāda, noting that in the Upaniṣads its meaning includes not only ‘speech’, but also ‘discussion, debate, the search for greater knowledge and a display of skill’. In relation to the theme of encounter, Frazier characterises this model of dialogue as collaborative, with interlocutors working together, listening to each other and building on each other’s insights to achieve the goal of higher knowledge. Embedded within this model is a critique of the standard modern descriptions of the ‘public sphere’, in which dialogue is often celebrated as a performance of citizenship or a community-building exercise. In the Upaniṣads, in contrast, the goal is to elevate one’s understanding by assimilating diverse views into an encompassing position that is abductively derived from all of them together. In this model of dialogue as idea-building, rather than mere talk, as Frazier describes it, competition is resolved by debate rather than violence because it is the increased explanatory power of an idea that unites theories. Encounter: Discussion As we can see, the Chapters in this section cover a wide range of encounters depicted in ancient Indian sources. Whereas Appleton’s Chapter examines dialogues in which paccekabuddhas assume the traditional role of a teacher, sometime guiding their interlocutor to a higher awareness, the encounters discussed by Black are often part of an ongoing negotiation between kings and sages for establishing a relative hierarchy between them. The dialogues discussed by Frazier are characterised as a collaborative process by which interlocutors work together towards a common goal, while both Suthren Hirst and Freschi examine ways that philosophers rhetorically engage with opponents present and past, sometimes refuting their views, but also participating in shared practices and attempting to find a common ground, even while searching for the best ways of articulating their truth-commitments. Throughout these various types of encounters, dialogue with another is often presented as the starting point for religious or philosophical inquiry, with the

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identities of the interlocutors and their relationship with each other playing an important role in shaping the character and transformative potential of their interaction. By paying attention to all available details of an encounter, we not only get a better understanding of why some arguments are made and not others, but we also see that teachings are characterised as situational and contextual. By articulating religious and philosophical doctrines dialogically, whether literally in that format or implicitly in engagement with other viewpoints, our sources convey the notion that ideas are not formulated in isolation, but as part of an ecology of encounter, argument, refraction and transformation.

Transformation By ‘transformation’ we refer to the consequences of the encounter, including persuasion, conversion, mutual recognition, disagreement, impasse or enlightenment. If encounter refers to the meeting of interlocutors, then transformation refers to what happens subsequently to those involved, where relationships and meanings shift. The Chapters in this section explore the potential for an encounter with another to have the power to change one’s understanding or experience of the world. Chapter 6: Transformative dialogue in the Yogavāsiṣṭha In Chapter 6, James Madaio examines the transformative potential of dialogues from the Yogavāsiṣṭha. The main frame story of the Yogavāsiṣṭha depicts a dialogue between the enlightened sage Vasiṣṭha and the dejected prince Rāma. Throughout, Vasiṣṭha instructs Rāma about the nature of non-dual reality through a series of narratives, many of which feature dialogical encounters. Noting that the stories serve a variety of pedagogical functions, Madaio focuses attention on a number of key dialogues that exemplify and draw the reader into the practice of vicāra, a probing inquiry into the nature of world and identity. Focusing particularly on the dialogue between the enlightened queen Cūḍālā and her materialistic husband, king Śikhidvaja, Madaio situates the method of vicāra within the radically non-dual interpretative framework of the Yogavāsiṣṭha and in relation to the work’s analysis of the apparent egoic agent who carries out the practice. Madaio characterises this dialogue, as well as others in the Yogavāsiṣṭha, as gnoseological, wherein one interlocutor, of an omniscient nature, leads another to a higher understanding through dialogue. The method of this self-inquiry is modelled through dialogues that serve to prompt an internal dialogue in the reader. Madaio explores the interaction between the reader and the text by arguing that certain characters in the text can be productively understood as a mirror of the reader. In discussing the transformative potential of dialogue, not just within the text, but for readers and listeners, Madaio anticipates the theme of interpretation in the third section of this book.

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Chapter 7: Being human, dialogically In the seventh Chapter, Lynn Thomas offers a close reading of a dialogue from the Āraṇyakaparvan of the Mahābhārata, between the Pāṇḍava king, Yudhiṣṭhira, and the snake Nahuṣa, who had previously been a king of the gods, but is reduced to his present reptilian form because of a curse. As she argues, the dialogue between Yudhiṣṭhira and Nahuṣa highlights the contrast between the human and the snake as primarily defined in terms of their interactions with others. Whereas Yudhiṣṭhira operates within a network of social relationships, the snake lives alone, concealed in a cave. It is through dialogue that the snake can finally overcome his curse and change back into a human. Thomas also notes that all the virtues advocated by Yudhiṣṭhira – generosity, speaking kindly, telling the truth and practising non-injury – can only be practised in relation to others. In relation to the theme of transformation, Thomas shows that this dialogue effects change in a very dramatic way, with Nahuṣa beginning the encounter bound by a curse in the form of a snake, but ending with his regaining his former, human, state. Nahuṣa is able to re-transform into a human because he meaningfully engages with Yudhiṣṭhira, and learns that others are as much subjects of their own experience as he is. Thomas calls this two-way engagement in which an interlocutor learns how to see through the eyes of the other ‘the gaze returned’. Chapter 8: Dialoguing the Vārkari tradition In the next Chapter, Monika Kirloskar-Steinbach examines how three santakaviyatrīs of the Maharashtrian Vārkarī tradition exercise their agency as women. Focusing on Muktābaī, Janābāī and Bahiṇābāī, Kirloskar-Steinbach demonstrates how they each engage in dialogues with men and/or male deities, through which they establish themselves on equal footing, while offering criticism and dissent of their prescribed gender roles, particularly the ideal of the pativrata, the virtuous and devoted wife. Although their social roles as females demand subservience to male needs and interests in their daily lives, through dialogue they forge mutual relationships of deep trust and companionship, particularly with the god Viṭṭal. They establish a playful, and yet deeply caring relationship, but one in which they can persuade, cajole, curse and even insult their divine interlocutor, as they seek help from him to navigate the existential problems they face. Here, the other in the dialogue is so fundamental to one’s own being and identity, that his presence is concrete rather than merely literal; his interaction is through grace and love rather than ordinary language. Selfconstitution through the divine is also a dialogical exercise, once more making us rethink the functions of dialogue beyond physical conversation. We might see some similarities between these dialogues and those discussed by Thomas in which she talks about ‘the gaze returned’. Like the dialogue between Yudhiṣṭhira and the snake, which has at the outset an unequal power dynamic between the interlocutors, the santakaviyatrīs are mortal women and

10 Brian Black and Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad Viṭṭal is a male god. Despite the asymmetry, their agentive (rather than submissive) devotion and an almost provocative friendship enable them to establish reciprocity with their ever-present intelocutor. Kirloskar-Steinbach suggests that these egalitarian dialogues with a male deity could model other non-oppressive ways of pursuing intimate relationships. Chapter 9: Convincing the King: Jain ministers and religious persuasion through dialogue In the ninth Chapter, Jonathan Geen offers a comparative analysis of three versions of a dialogue between the Jain teacher Svayambuddha and the king Mahābala. Variations of this encounter appear in three important Jain texts: Saṅghadāsa’s Vasudevahiṇḍi, Jinasena’s Ādipurāṇa and Hemacandra’s Triṣaṣṭiśalākāpuruṣacarita. All three versions portray the Jain sage Svayambuddha instructing the king Mahābala to renounce the pleasures of the senses and to live the life of a Jain mendicant. As Geen shows, despite the shared scenario, the circumstances of their encounter and the process by which their discussion unfolds can vary considerably. Whereas in the Vasudevahiṇḍi and Triṣaṣṭiśalākāpuruṣacarita the dialogue between Mahābala and Svayambuddha is portrayed with the minister learning of the king’s impending death, in the Ādipurāṇa their dialogue takes place during the king’s birthday celebrations, when he is surrounded by Svayambuddha and three other royal ministers. And whereas in the Vasudevahiṇḍi their dialogue takes place between the two of them, in the Ādipurāṇa and the Triṣaṣṭiśalākāpuruṣacarita their encounter includes a debate in which Svayambuddha dismisses the views of three rival sages. In examining three versions of the same dialogue together, Geen points out their remarkable malleability in Jain tradition, with each version including some details in common with another version, yet each one omitting a detail included in the two others. In relation to the theme of transformation, it is interesting that even as the context of the encounter can change from one version to the next, the outcome of their dialogue remains largely the same, as in all three versions the king renounces the throne and becomes a renunciate. This paper therefore highlights the importance of looking at the function of dialogue: it can lead to the same end but there are several versions of it. In characteristic Jain fashion, the running of the encounter through different versions holds together both a unifying truth and multiple realisations. Transformation: discussion As we can see, there are many types of transformations that can take place through dialogue, including interlocutors changing their mind, changing their way of being in the world, changing their religious or social identity, changing their social future, or changing their relationship with another. Madaio’s Chapter examined the gnoseological potential for dialogue, where an interlocutor of an

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omniscient nature leads another to a higher understanding. (Since, in fact, Prince Rāma is divine but born as a human, dialogue with an omniscient teacher transforms him back into his own omniscience from which his teacher’s knowledge derives. This complexifies the transformative nature of dialogue further.) Similarly Geen explored dialogue’s emancipatory potential, examining three dialogues in which a Jain sage advises a king to adopt the life of a renunciate. Whereas the dialogues analysed by both Madaio and Geen feature an enlightened teacher guiding a student towards a liberating knowledge, the dialogues explored by Thomas and Kirloskar-Steinbach are more focused on the social relations between interlocutors. Thomas shows how the inherently social nature of dialogue can be used to enact more far-reaching transformations of the sociality of those involved in that dialogue: the snake-life of Nahuṣa precisely is a nondialogical life, and his re-transformation begins as he goes beyond mere threat and challenge to interacting with Yudhiṣṭhira, ultimately reaching full integration back into the social life he once possessed. Kirloskar-Steinbach demonstrates how dialogue can be a radical theological expression of the call to more egalitarian relationships amongst humans. Throughout these various types of transformations, dialogue with another requires shared practices of engagement to be followed for a change to take place. Madaio’s Chapter shows that dialogue has the potential to transform because it follows a particular method of inquiry, but it also requires a teacher to be enlightened and a student to be receptive of the teaching. Thomas examines a dialogue in which the ability to lead to a change requires interlocutors to return each other’s gaze. Similarly, Kirloskar-Steinbach shows that free-spirited yet caring dialogue can make the most dramatically unequal friendship possible (between god and human) into a model for what should definitely be an equal relationship (between women and men). In two of the three versions of the dialogue between Svayambuddha and Mahābala, the king is able to be transformed by the sage’s teachings because the sage tells him he is about to die. There are interesting parallels between the emotional states of Mahābala and Rāma when they receive their teachings. Dialogue does not lead to transformation automatically, but only when there is a readiness to be transformed; but that requires practices of understanding and interpretation.

Interpretation By ‘interpretation’ we refer to the hermeneutics of dialogue, including how dialogue yields meaning. In some Chapters, we see how dialogue becomes the methodology for manifesting a problem in life and offering some sort of a solution to it. As the text encodes its purposes in dialogue, it invites us to develop an exegesis that is sensitive to how dialogue functions, thereby getting to an understanding of what the text means to convey. Some Chapters in this section will look at how dialogue sets up intertextual and intratextual relationships, while others will look at how dialogue has been understood by commentators and modern-day audiences. As we will see, there are certain features of the

12 Brian Black and Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad dialogue form that make it accessible to later interpreters, including its multivocal nature that permits horizons of meaning to widen and fuse. Chapter 10: Careful attention and the voice of another We begin this section with a Chapter by Maria Heim, who reads the Pāli suttas alongside the fifth century CE commentator Buddhaghosa, who considered the opening framework (nidāna) of each sutta to be vital for interpreting its embedded teachings. Heim’s Chapter explores the theme of interpretation by analysing the methods through which Buddhaghosa derived meaning through the suttas. As she observes, Buddhaghosa offers a theoretical apparatus to help us understand the contextual nature of the Buddha’s teachings. As opposed to modern reading practices that often abstract the doctrinal content from the narratives, Buddhaghosa’s commentaries illustrate that in some important sense, the dialogues are integral to understanding the meaning of the sutta as a whole. It is Buddhaghosa’s attention to the details of the nidāna, Heim argues, that reading alongside him heightens the power of the suttas: we come to see how a sutta can be an intervention not only for the people involved in the narrative, but also for the ideal reader as trained by Buddhaghosa. As such, Buddhaghosa reads a nidāna as demonstrating how the Buddha is speaking to the inclinations and dispositions of his audience, giving an impromptu sermon that addresses their particular needs – in the process making the Buddha narratively present for the reader, who also has particular needs. By reading the suttas alongside Buddhaghosa, Heim demonstrates how the suttas – and perhaps other ancient and classical Indian texts – not only spoke to their own context, but also how they continue to speak to readers in the future. The dialogues within the text become the focus of the commentator’s dialogue with it, by means of which he sets up our own dialogues with him and the dialogues within the text. Dialogue therefore becomes the mode of an ever-relevant hermeneutic. Chapter 11: Mahābhārata dialogues on dharma and devotion with Kṛṣṇa and Hanumān In Chapter 11, Bruce M Sullivan discusses the dialogue between Bhīma and the monkey king Hanūmat (Hanūmān) from the Āraṇyakaparvan of the Mahābhārata. As Sullivan demonstrates, this dialogue has many parallels and thematic resonances with the Bhagavad Gītā, as both are private discussions between a Pāṇḍava warrior and a deity who is also a family elder. And in both, the deity uses the encounter as an occasion to reveal their divine form, in each case overwhelming their Pāṇḍava disciple. Moreover, both dialogues address some of the same themes, including the temporal logic of kāla and the yugas, the ethical tension between kṣatriya-dharma and sva-dharma, and the redemptive emotion of bhakti. Sullivan argues that the similarities between the Hanūmat/Bhīma dialogue and the Bhagavad Gītā indicate that the former was patterned on the latter, with the

Introduction 13 two sharing an intratextual relationship within the Mahābhārata. Although not a commentary as such, as it does not present a line-by-line explication, the Bhīma/Hanūmat dialogue utilises its location in the narrative before the much more famous dialogue by appearing to prehend its doctrines (particularly the four-fold functioning of time across the yugas, Kṛṣṇa’s explicit statements of his divinity, and his viśvarūpa revelation), thereby conceptually providing support and context for the Gītā. Reciprocally, the Bhīma/Hanūmat dialogue invokes the authority of the Bhagavad Gītā to enhance its own message. As Sullivan observes, by having Hanūmat fulfil the same function within the encounter – as the revealer of cosmic truths to a Pāṇḍava warrior who is his relative – the text invites us to see Hanūmat as divine. Interpreting the two as themselves being in dialogue with each other allows us to know more about each of them. Chapter 12: Models of royal piety in the Mahābhārata: The case of Vidura, Sanatsujāta and Vidurā In Chapter 12, James Hegarty analyses three dialogues in the Udyogaparvan of the Mahābhārata: (1) between Dhṛtarāṣṭra and his brother and advisor Vidura, (2) between Dhṛtarāṣṭra and the sage Sanatsujāta and (3) between queen Vidurā and her son Saṃjaya. Besides all appearing in the Udyogaparvan, these three dialogues are inter-related: the first two comprise one continuous scene, as Sanatsujāta replaces Vidura in instructing Dhṛtarāṣṭra during the latter’s long dark night of the soul; the third dialogue appears much later in the parvan, but Vidurā is both Vidura’s namesake and his foil. In his analysis of the first dialogue, Hegarty shows that Vidura’s emphasis on controlling the senses, equanimity and truthfulness offers a distinctive perspective on the harmonisation of competing religious and political imperatives. In the second dialogue, Sanatsujāta’s teachings overlap with those of Vidura, but rather than promoting impartial kingship, his instructions are more directed towards emancipation. In the third dialogue, which is described as a saṃvāda (5.131.1), Vidurā berates her son for retreating from battle. Rather than advise controlling his senses or cultivating virtues, Vidurā instead exhorts her son to act like a man by seeking fame in battle against his enemies. In contrast to the blind king who seems to misunderstand his advisor’s teaching, Saṃjaya listens to his mother, faces his foes, and attains victory on the battlefield. By reading these three dialogues together, and by paying attention to variations among manuscript traditions along the way, Hegarty offers two different layers of interpretation. The first of these looks largely to the past, examining mutual textual influences from the Vedas and Upaniṣads, as well as the intratextual relationship between these three dialogical episodes and other sections of the Mahābhārata. As Hegarty notes, there are different types of relationships of intratextuality, with Sanatsujāta and Vidura talking to, and with, one another, but with Vidura and Vidurā locked in an intratextual altercation. The second layer of interpretation looks to the future, moving forward into the manuscript traditions of the Mahābhārata to explore how later variations in the text amplify and play

14 Brian Black and Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad with its content. This, as Hegarty describes it, is a dialogue between the scribe, diverse reading communities and the story itself, and once more, interpreting the content and context of the dialogues makes us understand better how dialogues themselves have multiple functions across different interlocutors (i.e., both characters within the text and exegetes across time). Chapter 13: Dialogue in extremis: Vālin in the Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa In the final Chapter, Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad provides a close reading and analysis of the dialogue between Rāma and Vālin, which appears in the Kiṣikindhākāṇḍa of the Rāmāyaṇa. This episode, in which Rāma breaches dharmic norms by stealthily slaying the monkey-king Vālin while he is engaged in one-to-one combat with his brother, has been problematic for both commentators and modern audiences. Ram-Prasad examines the philosophical implications of this dialogue by engaging closely with both Vālin’s and Rāma’s perspectives, asking how we can understand Vālin’s persuasive summary of Rāma’s actions, as well as Rāma’s own multiple, inconsistent arguments in defence, and Vālin’s astonishing acceptance of that defence. By engaging with the perspective of both interlocutors, Ram-Prasad simultaneously examines two possible interpretations: one as the narrative enactment of the unresolved (perhaps irresolvable) dialogue between the subaltern expression of alterity and the elite pursuit of closure; the other as a theological metaphor for the necessarily arbitrary choice of faith in the face of existential bafflement. As Ram-Prasad reflects, it remains an open question whether these two readings relate to one another and, if so, how. Building on this aspect of their encounter, Ram-Prasad brings attention to the hermeneutical implications of the dialogue form itself. Dialogues can leave an extra space for creative interpretation because they are often suggestive and unresolved. This not only relates to how we might interpret dialogue as readers of the text, but also how we understand the transformative potential of dialogue. As Ram-Prasad argues: the way we think about the relationship between the two readings of the text ‘has implications for how we ought to understand the transformative potential that the incident contains’. It is this openness of dialogue that makes it ‘a model for the reconceptualisation of the purposes of traditional narratives’ and help make classical dialogues continue to live for us today. Interpretation: Discussion The Chapters in this section have discussed a number of ways in which dialogue has been interpreted, either within the text, by later commentators, or by audiences today. In reading the Pāli suttas alongside Buddhaghosa, Heim has shown how a Buddhist commentator has paid close attention to the details of dialogical narrative as a way of understanding the truths of the Buddha’s teaching. For Buddhaghosa, the literary form of the texts is integral to interpreting Buddhist sources; his reading gives his own as well as later audiences the opportunity to have their particular encounter with the Buddha. Sullivan explores

Introduction 15 the theme of interpretation by discussing the intertextual relationship between several dialogues in the Mahābhārata, arguing that the Hanumad-BhīmaSamāgama is in dialogue with and modelled on the Bhagavad Gītā. Hegarty’s Chapter also looks at intratextuality, exploring the relationship between three interrelated dialogues in the Mahābhārata. In addition to their intratextual relationship, Hegarty discusses their intertextual relationship with previous texts, such as the Upaniṣads, and how later manuscript traditions shift their interpretive trajectories by expanding and embellishing each dialogue. Finally, Ram-Prasad explores the multi-perspectival dimension of dialogue, by offering opposing but not mutually exclusive readings of the dialogue between Rāma and Vālin. One of the implications of Ram-Prasad’s Chapter is that the dialogue form leaves itself particularly open to creative interpretations because of the ‘in betweenness of the encounter’, as most dialogues are irreducible to one perspective or one interpretation.

Other themes: ethics, politics and religion As discussed above, the themes of encounter, transformation and interpretation all relate to the formal features of what constitutes a dialogue. But in addition to its form, there are a number of specific issues or topics that are repeatedly addressed through dialogue. Three such issues which are particularly prominent in this book are ethics, politics and religion. We use the terms ‘ethics’, ‘politics’ and ‘religion’ very loosely and suggestively, all too aware of their limitations in mapping onto sources composed in different languages and assuming different conceptual frameworks from our own. Nevertheless, these terms loosely describe the topics of three types of encounters repeatedly explored in our sources: (1) dialogues that address ways of approaching the encounter itself; (2) dialogues between sages and kings; and (3) dialogues between humans and gods. Ethics The ethical implications of dialogue are those that emerge from reflections upon or attempts to establish dispositions, rules or codes of conduct on how to engage in an encounter with another. As we have seen, different dialogues approach the ethics of the encounter in different ways. Veṅkaṭanātha, as Freschi explains, participates in shared practices by engaging with his interlocutors on their own terms. In his engagements with Mīmāṃsā authors, for example, he argues as if he were a Mīmāṃsā philosopher himself, following the debating structure of his opponents. By engaging with his opponents in this way, and not with personal attacks and appeals to authority, Veṅkaṭanātha enacts his ideal of a dialogue seeking truth. Similarly, Frazier argues that some of the dialogues in the Upaniṣads illustrate an abductive method of reasoning, in which views of a wide range of interlocutors work together to form a more comprehensive understanding. Interlocutors are able to achieve such collaboration by carefully attending to each other’s

16 Brian Black and Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad views. Frazier calls such examples plurilogues, as they include multiple ideas that may initially seem separate, but through conversation are assimilated into an overarching position that explains or grounds them. Seen in this way, the dialogues in the Upaniṣads are not merely narrative descriptions of verbal interaction, but offer an implicit method of reasoning in how they are structured. Śaṃkara’s dialogues, by contrast, are much more agonistic, but he nevertheless follows shared practices of engagement by following strict methods of addressing his opponents. The precise wording of his engagement with some opponents shows that, despite the fact that his overriding aim is refutation, he engages with them with elaborate precision. Indeed, it is precisely because of this aim that he is so precise; to be a philosophical critique he needs to engage in dialogue and not a diatribe. Thomas’s Chapter highlights episodes that explore how respect and empathy between interlocutors can be achieved through dialogue. As she points out, even though dialogues featuring agonistic or teacher/pupil interactions are much more common, the dialogues that portray a reciprocal interaction provide a model for learning how to see through the eyes of the other. Taking these examples together, we see that ethics – or an interest in and care towards interacting with others – is a recurring topic of dialogue itself. In some cases, we might see this interest in the social dynamics of the encounter as also addressing epistemology. By this we mean that dialogue can explore the conditions for knowledge, addressing the question how we know what we know. While knowledge can occasionally be presented in these texts as arising in autonomous subjects, the conditions for that arising are nevertheless given by a series of pedagogic encounters. And much more frequently, knowledge arises altogether through dialogical encounter in which knowledge can be verified because of conditions such as learning from the proper teacher, by means of particular teaching methods such as vicāra, or participating in shared debating practices. Coming to know is therefore intimately connected – by virtue of dialogical encounter – with appropriate ways of coming to know. Dialogue, therefore, is revealed as intrinsically a call to an ethics of knowledge. Politics Politics here refers to the historical question of the attainment and retention of power, that is to say, monarchical sovereignty. Five of the Chapters in this book analyse dialogues between a sage and a king, revealing some important similarities that not only amplify some of the claims made in individual Chapters, but collectively shed light on this genre of encounter more broadly. One feature that all the dialogues between sages and kings discussed in this book share in common is that they address the topic of renunciation. In the dialogue from the Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad explored by Black, after Yājñavalkya instructs Janaka to act virtuously and control his senses, the king symbolically abdicates the throne to Yājñavalkya, yet it is not clear whether he actually renounces it or not. In the Buddhist analogue to this dialogue,

Introduction 17 Ajātasattu asks the Buddha about the fruits of the homeless life. Similarly, as Appleton points out, the vast majority of dialogues between paccekabuddhas and kings are about controlling the senses and becoming a renunciate; while in all three variations of the Jain dialogue discussed by Geen, Svayambuddha advises king Mahābala to give up the pleasures of the senses and take up the life of a Jain renouncer. The dialogues with Dhṛtarāṣṭra also address self-control and renunciation, but as Hegarty points out there are qualitative differences between Vidura’s advice to control his senses for the sake of becoming a great king and Sanatsujāta’s instruction to control his sense for the sake of renouncing the throne. Hegarty’s discussion brings into focus a dynamic that we see across all the other dialogues with kings analysed in this book: the extent to which teachings about controlling the senses can be reconfigured as a political discourse. In the dialogues analysed by Black, both Yājñavalkya and the Buddha talk about self-discipline, while also appealing directly to the king’s position as ruler. Neither Yājñavalkya nor the Buddha is nearly as explicit as Vidura in explaining to the king how the virtues of the renunciate will transform him into an impartial ruler, but we still might see these episodes as early indications of what Hegarty calls the ‘harmonisation of religious and political imperatives’. Although most of the kings taught by paccekabuddhas do become renouncers, Appleton notes that sometimes their teachings have more to do with restraining the senses for the sake of attaining kingship, than for the sake of renunciation. In contrast, only the Jain dialogues discussed by Geen maintain a strict separation between the teachings of renunciation and the duties of a king. Madaio also discusses a dialogue between a sage and a king, where the king learns about renunciation. Although the sage does not translate the gnoseological teaching into a political discourse, we know from this dialogue’s intertextual relationship with other sources about Rāma that this teaching is not a prelude to renunciation, but to rulership. But rather than seeing this knowledge as specifically relevant to kings, Madaio argues that the king is an exemplar for all those in his kingdom. A recurring element of many encounters between sages and kings is an embedded debate among rival sages in the presence of the king. As Black examines in detail, this is a feature shared by the Upaniṣads and Nikāyas, as both Yājñavalkya and the Buddha earn the opportunity to offer their own teachings by indirectly debating against six rival sages. Similarly, two of the three versions of the dialogue discussed by Geen include Svayambuddha countering the views of three rivals before returning to his dialogue with king Mahābala. And in one of the dialogues discussed by Appleton, a king encounters a group of paccekabuddhas, each of whom offer him a teaching. In contrast to the dialogues analysed by Black and Geen, here there is no competition among the paccekabuddhas. Rather than one view ultimately convincing the king, none of the teachings is complete on its own, but cumulatively they nudge the king towards realisation. Through Black’s study, we see dialogue as a literary paradigm that depicts a pluralistic religious landscape in which the king is the locus

18 Brian Black and Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad of interaction between different religious communities, where practices of engagement are shared across competing views. Looking at these dialogues between kings and sages together, it is clear that the king in dialogue with a sage is a particular mode of encounter that appears repeatedly in ancient Indian texts, with many of these dialogues participating in a shared political ideology that links the ethical comportment of the king with his ability to rule in a pluralistic context. Although in some cases, such as in the Jain dialogues analysed by Geen, teachings about renunciation are separated from the activities of a king. In the other examples, teaching the king to be self-disciplined, to master his senses and emotions, and to display control of his thoughts, words and actions, is not exclusively for the sake of renunciation, but can also be linked to his secular responsibilities. Religion ‘Religion’ here stands for the content of what is depicted in the human being’s peculiar form of dialogue with a presence that signifies transcendence, whether in the form of an enlightened being or the divine. Dialogues with enlightened beings are often in the form of pedagogical encounters in which a teacher leads a student to an enlightened understanding through instruction. As we have seen, paccekabuddhas are enlightened beings who have realised the truth themselves, independent of the Buddhist community, who often transmit knowledge that leads to awakening (paccekabodhi) using non-verbal methods such as symbols and signs. Appleton argues that such methods of teaching characterise enlightenment as ultimately experiential, as paccekabuddhas can provoke a direct experience or spontaneous moment of meditation, or encourage their interlocutors to engage in their own personal reflection. Similarly, many dialogues of the Yogavāsiṣṭha feature an omniscient teacher leading another to a higher understanding through dialogue. Madaio describes such dialogues as gnoseological as they offer a method of inquiry that leads a student to self-knowledge. Although the method of vicāra is different from the non-verbal techniques of paccekabuddhas, both encourage students to engage in their own personal reflection. Heim also explores dialogues with an enlightened being, noting that for Buddhaghosa each dialogue not only explores the inclinations and dispositions of the Buddha’s audience in the narrative, but also characterises his teachings as the unfolding of his omniscient understanding, which is understood not so much as an encyclopaedic grasp on all things simultaneously but an unhindered expansion of his understanding upon turning his attention to something or someone. Seen in this way, dialogues with the Buddha do not just deliver conceptual meaning, but they also give interlocutors both inside and outside the text the occasions to have a direct encounter with the Buddha. While Hindu, Buddhist and Jain sources all have many examples of dialogues that lead interlocutors towards an enlightened understanding of reality, it is primarily in Hindu sources where we find dialogues with a deity. Sullivan’s Chapter looks at two dialogues where an encounter with a deity is both an

Introduction 19 occasion for a theological teaching and a divine revelation. In both dialogues, ideas about cosmic time and the nature of the divine are disclosed, and in both cases the encounter with the divine is portrayed as ‘secret’, as there is divine self-disclosure in the course of the encounter. Although being in the presence of a god’s divine form proves to be too intense for Arjuna and Bhīma, both episodes portray the disclosure of divine form as non-verbal transmission of truth. Whereas Arjuna’s encounter with Kṛṣṇa and Bhīma’s with Hanūmān are represented as both esoteric and unique – despite the universal relevance of their teachings – the santakaviyatrīs’ dialogues with Viṭṭal are represented as available to anyone. As Kirloskar-Steinbach points out, dialogues with God take place in the context of the mundane, everyday experiences of wives and servants performing menial tasks. Although these interactions are not characterised as secret, they are private, as there are no external witnesses. Moreover, rather than striking fear in his interlocutors, Viṭṭal engages with his devotees on their own terms, allowing for himself to be questioned and criticised. Here we see a very different type of divine encounter, one in which women set up dialogical spaces for themselves where they can speak to God in ways that they cannot speak to other people. Ram-Prasad’s Chapter offers yet another type of encounter with God, as Vālin does not know Rāma’s divine status when he confronts him about the human injustices he has performed. Ram-Prasad argues that Vālin does not have a true dialogue with God, because there is no disclosure of divinity during his accusation of Rāma. Rather than addressing Rāma as God, Vālin addresses him as a king from the perspective of a subaltern. Only after Rāma has offered an unconvincing defence of kingship does Vālin mysteriously realise Rāma’s divinity. At that point, as Ram-Prasad points out, ‘when he is heard by God as a devotee, he no longer argues’. Language-borne dialogue functions as clarification of the nature of human power and relationships, whereas the recognition of divine presence is not through dialogue but its cessation. Looking at the dialogues discussed by Sullivan, Kirloskar-Steinbach and Ram-Prasad alongside each other, we can see that they express or enact Hindu theology, yet in different ways. Dialogue may culminate in divine revelation, or be the very process by which divine presence is constructed, or a human limitation that leaves the recognition of divinity an elusive mystery. Looking at theological and non-theological dialogues together, we see that they use dialogues to depict the epistemic disjuncture by which transcendental knowledge dawns in the hitherto unknowing participant.

In dialogue with tradition In this introduction, we have discussed a number of themes that thread through the various Chapters in this book. Perhaps one that runs through all the Chapters, in one way or another, is the dialogue between classical Indian sources and public debates today. Rather than arguing for their mere relevance, the Chapters in this book show the potential for Indian sources to offer new perspectives,

20 Brian Black and Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad critical engagements and correctives about a number of issues that are as important today as they were hundreds or thousands of years ago. When reading the Chapters in this book alongside each other, we learn about a number of ways in which dialogue is explored. From Buddhaghosa, we learn to pay attention to the nidāna – the contextualising narrative details – of any encounter, by which relevance is continually re-created through the hermeneutic requirements of audiences and readers. From the Yoga-vāsiṣṭha we discover that some interlocutors can be mirrors for readers, even today, as the discipline of following dialogue becomes the practice of self-understanding. Some dialogues in the Mahābhārata show us the need to see through the eyes of the other, like Nahuṣa was able to do with Yudhiṣṭhira. When we enter into dialogue with classical Indian sources, we find that they address a number of pressing issues of today. In engaging with dialogues from the Upaniṣads and Nikāyas we find that they complicate some of the assumptions made about how religion and political can be separated, while they offer different ways of imagining interactive spaces in which a plurality of religious views are expressed and discussed. Or, as Frazier suggests, perhaps they offer a theory of debate and inquiry that can be collaborative without being monotonal. Or when we enter into dialogue with our sources about feminism, we find that women in premodern contexts also articulate how they face the obstacles of oppression, but found different strategies to confront them. Kirloskar-Steinbach suggests that the narrative details of each conversational episode featuring the santakaviyatrīs, which emphasise the situatedness of unconventional conversations with God, enable us to think through the implications of friendship and equality for gendered situations today. These dialogues both complicate and expand what we might consider to be a feminist response to these issues. Or, if we want to have a conversation about human rights, we find that our sources offer compelling perspectives on how we might imagine what a human is and the ways in which humans engage with others. Rather than focusing on rights, our sources focus on responsibilities towards others. For Nahuṣa, only by performing his duties towards others does he become transformed. Thomas suggests that dialogues in the Mahābhārata could contribute to the ‘interlocution of “nonWestern” traditions’ (2012: 47) that Upendra Baxi has suggested could contribute to human rights discourse. Heim’s reading of how Buddhaghosa read the Buddha’s conversations opens up the possibility that reading practices from the tradition can help cultivate sensitivity to context, attention to detail and openness to transformation: important inflections for hermeneutics in a time of totalising narratives and the demeaning of dialogue. Or yet again, Ram-Prasad’s demonstration of the layered meanings of a dialogue on power enable us to intervene from a classical, textually informed perspective in debates on subalternity that have only rarely ranged beyond the restrictions of modernity. The Chapters in this volume concentrate on laying out the features and content of various dialogical encounters; but we hope that their larger import can emerge – dialogically, as it were – in the reader’s response to them.

Part 1

Encounter

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Sources of Indian secularism? Dialogues on politics and religion in Hindu and Buddhist traditions Brian Black

Introduction In recent debates Amartya Sen, Ashis Nandy and Rajeev Bhargava have engaged with ancient sources in their arguments either advocating or criticising Indian secularism today. In this Chapter I would like to stage a dialogue between the writings of these three political theorists and two sources from ancient India, both of which are themselves dialogues. The first dialogue is between Yājñavalkya and King Janaka, from the Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad; while the other one is between the Buddha and King Ajātasattu, from the Dīgha Nikāya. By looking at these two dialogues together, I will demonstrate that Hindu and Buddhist sources use the same literary paradigm to explore the relationship between religion and politics in distinct, yet overlapping ways. I will do this by focusing on two interrelated themes addressed by both dialogues: (1) the relationship between political and religious authority, and (2) the plurality of religious groups. In addition to gaining insights into the specific textual connections between the Upaniṣads and Nikāyas, I will argue that these two sources make important contributions to a more general discussion about politics and religion in ancient India (see also Chapters 9 and 12). Moreover, by reading these dialogues within the context of the arguments of Sen, Nandy and Bhargava, I hope to indicate ways in which an engagement with classical Indian sources might enhance debates about secularism today. As we will see, Sen, Nandy and Bhargava have each engaged with ancient sources when discussing strategies for addressing religious diversity. As I will suggest, their conceptualisations of these strategies – argumentation (Sen), tolerance (Nandy) and principled co-existence (Bhargava) – have a number of resonances with the dialogues from the Upaniṣads and Nikāyas.

The dialogues Although neither Sen, Nandy nor Bhargava engage with our two dialogues, all three reflect on the relevance of Aśoka’s inscriptions to modern debates about secularism in India.1 One of the ways that our dialogues are most directly relevant to modern debates then, is that they address some of the same issues

24 Brian Black that are addressed in Aśoka’s inscriptions. Here I am thinking of discussions about renunciation and the ethics of self-control, as well as confronting a religiously diverse landscape. In Aśoka’s inscriptions, as well as in our sources, the ideal king is characterised as one who both engages with religious teachers and attempts to embody their teachings. Geoffrey Samuel has described this as the ‘wisdom king’ model of kingship (2008: 69–76). According to Samuel, it is very likely that there was a widespread stereotype of the wisdom king or proto-dharmarāja model of kingship in India in the period from 500 BCE onwards … A variety of stories describe these kings as having tendencies towards the śramaṇa or renunciate lifestyle, or as actually becoming śramaṇas or renunciates. It also seems likely that this model of kingship was seen at the time to contrast markedly with the warrior king or cakravartin model of kingship associated with the Brahmanical reforms in the Kuru-Pañcāla Region. (2008: 73) Another reason why I have chosen these two dialogues is because they are very similar to each other. Indeed, I am inclined to think of them as two versions of the same literary structure,2 which might, along with other features of the dialogues, further our appreciation of the textual relationship between Brahmanical and Buddhist traditions.3 Our first dialogue, which appears in the fourth book of the Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad, is a prolonged conversation between the brahmin Yājñavalkya and the king Janaka. Embedded within this conversation are verbal exchanges reported by Janaka between himself and six other brahmins. After Yājñavalkya counters the views of each of these other brahmins, he offers his own teaching to Janaka, much of which is about the ethics of a renouncer. Our second dialogue, which is between the Buddha and Ajātasattu, and which appears in the Sāmaññaphala Sutta of the Dīgha Nikāya, has a similar structure (see Chapter 10 for a very different approach to this same sutta). It is also a prolonged conversation between a religious teacher and a king, containing embedded verbal exchanges reported by the king between himself and six members of rival religious groups. Unlike Yājñavalkya, the Buddha does not explicitly counter the views of the six other teachers, but rather the king voices his own dissatisfaction with each of their discourses. After Ajātasattu recounts all six views, the Buddha begins his teaching, much of which is about the ethics of a renouncer. Because they share the same literary model, but are from different traditions, these two dialogues give us an excellent opportunity to examine how Brahmins and Buddhists explored some of the same issues, but in different ways. As I will demonstrate, both dialogues have resonances with modern debates, but neither dialogue is either more or less secular than the other. On this point, I would disagree with Romila Thapar who characterises the Buddhist model as more ‘conducive’ to secularism than the Brahmanical model (2010: 79).4 Moreover, I would argue that conceptual resources from premodern India that are most

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likely to support and extend modern notions of argumentation (Sen), toleration (Nandy) or principled co-existence (Bhargava) would be those that were developed through dialogues and contestations between and among religious communities, rather than doctrines or practices specific to one tradition. A final reason, then, for focusing on these two dialogues is because they both explore themes that speak directly to the debates among Sen, Nandy and Bhargava. Both Sen and Nandy point to Aśoka as an example of pre-modern traditions of toleration, but whereas Sen characterises the Mauryan king as a proto-secularist, Nandy sees the ancient monarch as offering an indigenous alternative to secularism. In a discussion on the ‘interdependent role of institutions and behavioural patterns in achieving justice’, Sen describes Aśoka as having an ‘optimistic belief’ in the capacity for people to behave morally by cultivating their thoughts, speech and actions towards others (2010 [2009]: 76). Sen then compares John Rawls’ assumption about reasonable behaviours with ‘Ashoka’s vision of a society led by right behaviour (or dharma)’ (2010 [2009]: 80). Here Sen invokes Aśoka to demonstrate that ideas of justice are not limited to Western traditions. In contrast, Nandy emphasises that Aśoka developed toleration from within a religious perspective, rather than from a non-religious position: Aśoka ‘based his tolerance on Buddhism, not on secularism’ (1998: 337). Bhargava has commented on the myth-making tendencies of supporters of secularism when looking to examples from India’s past, particularly to invocations of Aśoka as part of the ‘mythology of secular nationalism’ (2014a: 173). Nonetheless, Bhargava has recently conducted his own critical engagement with Aśoka’s inscriptions, arguing that they open up conceptual spaces that can contribute to modern secularism (2014a: 174) and demonstrate a ‘public morality’ (2014a: 197) that goes beyond the European concept of toleration. As we read our two dialogues with recent debates in mind, I would like to focus on two inter-related themes that Sen, Nandy and Bhargava all touch upon in one way or another: separation and plurality.

Separation In relation to the first theme, separation, I will discuss how each dialogue explores the relationship between the religious teacher and political leader. As I will suggest, both the Upaniṣads and Nikāyas use dialogue to explore the relationship between religion and politics in ways that are different from, but comparable to, Indian definitions of secularism. Moreover, I will argue that in both the Brahmanical and Buddhist traditions the concept of dharma plays a crucial role in terms of articulating the separation of religious and political power, yet in different ways. In the Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad, the relationship between the brahmin and the king is generally depicted as complementary and inter-dependent (Black 2007: 105–114), which is reflected by the friendly banter between Janaka and Yājñavalkya throughout their encounter. As the dialogue unfolds, the relative hierarchy between them shifts, with Yājñavalkya initially approaching the king, but with

26 Brian Black Janaka getting down from his throne to approach Yājñavalkya after the brahmin’s teaching. At the end of the dialogue Janaka offers both himself and the people of Videha to be Yājñavalkya’s slaves. Yājñavalkya responds by declaring that Janaka is now fearless (abhaya) and has reached the world of brahman (4.4.23–5). Here we see a certain balance between the brahmin and king that is characteristic of other dialogues in the Upaniṣads. This balance is illustrated through their changing spatial relationship, with both of them entering the other’s domain: Yājñavalkya gaining mastery over the king and his people; Janaka mastering the brahmin’s teaching. In the Sāmaññaphala Sutta the religious teacher is not a brahmin, but the Buddha, who is speaking with King Ajātasattu of Magadha – who we learn, at the end of this sutta, has usurped the throne by killing his father. In contrast to our previous dialogue, there is no friendly banter between the Buddha and Ajātasattu. Moreover, there is no shift in the relative status between the two characters, as the Buddha is characterised as the superior of the two throughout their encounter. Also, unlike Yājñavalkya, who initially approaches the king, the Buddha remains at his residence in the mango-grove at Rājagaha, with the king arriving in his presence, together with a large entourage. At the end of their exchange the king announces himself as a lay supporter, with the Buddha assuring him progress along the noble path. However, after the king has departed, he confides in his monks that the king cannot attain the spotless eye of dhamma because of the crime of killing his father. Here the relationship between the Buddha and the king is presented as a hierarchy with the Buddha clearly depicted as the superior of the two. A number of scholars have commented upon this sutta’s exploration of the notion of separation between political and religious authority. Ian Harris has seen this dialogue as underlining ‘the status difference between secular authority and the person who renounces the household life and becomes a bhikkhu’ (1999: 3).5 We should note, however, that other dialogues in the Nikāyas are not as critical of the king as this one is of Ajātasattu. King Sankha in the Cakkavatisīhanāda Sutta, for example, achieves the ‘unequal goal of the holy life’ (26.26, tr. Walshe), but only after he shaves off his hair and beard to become a renouncer. Similarly, in the Makhādeva Sutta of the Majjhima Nikāya, King Makhādeva is the first of a lineage of kings who renounces the throne at the sight of their first grey hairs. The last in the line of kings who follow this practice is King Nimi, who, as Naomi Appleton discusses, shares a number of characteristics with King Janaka in Buddhist and Jain literature (2017: 137–169). In other words, whereas the Sāmaññaphala Sutta separates the king from the Buddha in characterising Ajātasattu as having committed a violent act too reprehensible to reach enlightenment, other dialogues present kings who can achieve enlightenment, but only after renouncing their position as king (for the relationship between dialogues with kings and teachings about renunciation, see also Chapters 2, 6, 9 and 12). Looking at our dialogues within the context of the Upaniṣads and Nikāyas more generally, we can see that Brahmanical and Buddhist sources use the same literary paradigm to conceptualise the relationship between religion and politics

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in different, yet overlapping ways. Whereas the Brahmanical model tends to emphasise complementarity between the king and the religious leader, the Buddhist model is more likely to emphasise their distinct roles. We might further understand the differences among the Brahmanical and Buddhist political models by linking these dialogues with the different ways the Upaniṣads and Nikāyas define dharma/dhamma. The word dharma, which first appears in the Ṛgveda, has a wide semantic range in the Vedas, but one of its primary usages relates to royal authority (see Brereton 2004; Olivelle 2004). In the Upaniṣads dharma only appears ten times (Hiltebeitel 2011: 91) and remains very much ‘a peripheral concept’ (Olivelle 2004: 82). Nevertheless, one emerging understanding of dharma in the Upaniṣads, although less explicit, develops out of discussions about the relationship between religious and political power. This articulation of dharma appears in a creation myth in the first section of the Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad, where brahman creates the royal class, the gods, the vaiśya class and the śūdra class. Yet after creating each one, brahman remains incomplete. Finally, brahman creates dharma: ‘Thus, there is nothing higher than dharma’ (BU 1.4.14). At one point this myth instructs that a brahmin should pay homage to a kṣatriya during the consecration ceremony, but it also claims that the priestly power (brahman) should be regarded as the womb and the source of the king’s political authority. Neither Yājñavalkya nor Janaka speak of dharma in this way, but we might see their speech and actions in relation to each other as an enactment of this understanding of dharma, as their encounter plays out the mutually dependent relationship between them (see Black 2007: 110–112). Similar to the brahman and kṣatra powers, Yājñavalkya and Janaka are portrayed as interdependent. Yet just as the brahman is portrayed as the womb of the kṣatra, Yājñavalkya is portrayed as the source of Janaka’s power. Despite the emphasis on interdependence, there is still hierarchy, with the Upaniṣads privileging the position of the brahmin. In the Nikāyas dhamma does not have the explicit political connotations that it can in the Upaniṣads and later Brahmanical texts, yet it remains an important concept in terms of understanding the relationship between religion and politics. Rupert Gethin has neatly summarised the range of meanings of dhamma in Pāli literature (2004), with the primary meaning as the ‘teaching’ of the Buddha – referring both to the content of his teaching and to the texts ‘that contain and set out those teachings’ (2004: 94). While there are other meanings of dhamma, including good conduct, truth, nature, natural law and mental and physical states, most of these usages refer to ways of leading a ‘good and righteous life’ (2004: 85) or to describing the nature of reality as such. In the Nikāyas the term dhamma does not tend to be directly associated with royal power, nor is dhamma worked out through the relationship between kings and religious leaders.6 Indeed, as Hiltebeitel points out, the Buddha discusses dhamma ‘most extensively’ with brahmins (2011: 101). One of the only explicit political usages is the term dhammacakkappavattana, the wheel turning monarch. As Thapar reflects:

28 Brian Black The Buddhist chakkavatti was the dhammika-dhammaraja (the king of righteousness or the righteous king), aware of the advantage of a society governed by dhamma. His claim to be regarded as a chakkavatti was because he turned the wheel of law/dhamma. This was unlike most kshatriya heroes in Brahmanical texts who were chakravartins because their campaigns brought them victories over their enemies. (2010: 79) Here the chakkavatti upholds dhamma as defined by the Buddhist community, but plays no role in the understanding and articulation of dhamma. While I would agree with Thapar that there is a distinction between the king who upholds morality and the king who wins military campaigns, it is important to recognise that this distinction is present in both Brahmanical and Buddhist sources. As I have suggested above, both of our dialogues could be regarded as examples of the ‘wisdom king’ model, while kings such as Indra and Rāma could be considered examples of the ‘warrior king’. The warrior king model was largely rejected by the Buddhist tradition, but the wisdom king model was shared by both Brahmanism and Buddhist, as well as Jainism and perhaps other traditions. Although dharma/dhamma is defined quite differently by Brahmanical and Buddhist sources, both traditions characterise it as dynamic and relational. In the Upaniṣads dharma tends to be imagined in social terms, sometimes through dialogue, with the conversation between Yājñavalkya and Janaka playing out the relationship between the brahman and kṣatra powers. Through such dialogues, the relative hierarchy between the king and the brahmin can change, indicating that the dynamics of dharma are contextual and adapting as a particular situation develops. Indeed, the repeated motif of the kṣatriya teaching the brahmin demonstrates that we don’t always know in advance who will emerge superior at the end of conversations between brahmins and kings. In the Nikāyas, dhamma, as the teaching of the Buddha, revolves around the central doctrine of dependent origination, in which reality is characterised as non-essential and relational. The Buddha’s dhamma also emphasises change and interconnectedness, but in Buddhist sources the king does not play a role in its articulation. These different conceptions of dharma/dhamma might suggest that the Brahmanical political model emphasises a power-sharing arrangement between religious and political authorities, while the Buddhist model places more emphasis on separation. However, this becomes complicated when we compare how our different sources characterise dharma/dhamma in relation to varṇa/vaṇṇa. In the Upaniṣads varṇa is what separates the king and the brahmin, while in the Nikāyas, the Buddha and the king have the same vaṇṇa, but are separated by knowledge of the dhamma. Here we see that in the Upaniṣads there is a clear separation between brahmin and king in terms of their social identity, but both brahmins and kings are depicted, at least metaphorically, as sharing each other’s powers and knowledge. In the Nikāyas there is no social distinction between the

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king and the Buddha, but there is a clear separation of roles and a hierarchy is created through knowledge of the Buddha’s teachings. We might say that in the Upaniṣads dharma is what binds together the political and the religious, while in the Nikāyas dhamma is what separates them. There are a number of resonances between how the Upaniṣads and Nikāyas explore the relationship between the king and the religious teacher and how Sen, Nandy and Bhargava define secularism. Sen, who calls himself an ‘unreformed secularist’ (1998: 456), defines secularism as a political ‘principle’ that ‘requires the separation of the state from any particular religious order’ (1998: 456). This type of separation does not require that the state refrains from any matter relating to religion, but rather that the state needs to treat all religious communities equally. Similar to Sen’s emphasis on separation, we see that both the Upaniṣads and Nikāyas spend a considerable amount of time articulating the differences between conceptual spaces that are in some ways comparable to modern notions of the religious and the secular. Yet while both of our dialogues present models of distinguishing between religious and political authority, it is not clear to what extent different religious traditions are presented as equal to one another. As we will discuss in the following section, both dialogues present the conversation between the renunciate and the king in the context of competition among a plurality of religious groups, with the king ultimately favouring one over the others. But in both examples, the starting point is a certain degree of equality, as multiple religious traditions have access to the king and have to win over the king through their arguments. As we will see below, a key part of how Sen defines secularism is based on traditions of argumentation. What is striking in our two dialogues is that, similar to what Sen argues, both present the relationship between religious and political authority as in some way predicated upon a shared tradition of debate. In contrast to Sen, who champions secularism as a principle of religious equality, Ashis Nandy characterises secularism as an intolerant ideology that is hostile towards religion. As we have seen, in his discussion of Aśoka, Nandy highlights the Mauryan king’s religious commitment to Buddhism. Moreover, although Nandy might agree with some of Sen’s characterisations of Aśoka, he strongly resists the projection of ‘the ideology of secularism onto the past’ (1998: 337). The term ‘secularism’, as Nandy explains, is part of ‘a peculiar form of imperialism of categories’ (1998: 321). Here Nandy is making the point that many of the distinct and complex strategies for negotiating plurality from India’s traditions get left out or undermined if restricted to the conceptual straitjacket of secularism. Rather than look for resources to support and develop modern ideas, Nandy attempts to ‘recover’ traditional ideas and practices of religious tolerance from the ‘hegemonic language of secularism’ (1998: 321). With this in mind, we might be suspicious of seeing the traditions of argumentation in the Upaniṣads and Nikāyas as a prerequisite of secularism, but rather characterise these traditions as indigenous strategies for negotiating plurality that could offer an alternative to modern ideas of secularism.

30 Brian Black One particular type of tradition that Nandy attempts to recover is an indigenous ‘political subjectivity’ (Pecora 2014: 163). Vincent Pecora contrasts Nandy’s critical traditionalism with what Jürgen Habermas calls ‘semantic potentials’: ‘Where Habermas’s subject is distinctly modern and consciously uses the “semantic potentials” of its past to leaven the material goals of civil society, Nandy’s “critical traditionalism” is designed to resist the formation of the modern subject from the start’ (2014: 163). In other words, when engaging with traditional sources, Nandy is not looking for political policies, but rather for everyday practices of toleration and accommodation. Unlike Sen and Habermas, both of whom translate politically relevant religious discourse into a secular language, Nandy aims to recover a traditional subjectivity that can serve as an alternative to the secularised self. Here we might look at the type of teachings that Yājñavalkya and the Buddha share with the king, which, as I have mentioned above, focus on discipline and the ethics of self-control, with the ideal king characterised as one who embodies these teachings. In other words, both teachings might contribute to the type of traditional subjectivity discussed by Nandy. Rajeev Bhargava describes secularism as a ‘universal normative doctrine’ (2010: 100), which offers an alternative to political models that articulate a close relationship between religion and the state. As with Sen, Bhargava defines secularism in terms of separation, adding that such separation is ‘inspired by a specific set of values’ (2010: 100). Bhargava has characterised the nature of the separation of the state from religion in the Indian context as one of ‘principled distance’, which he sees as ‘one particular way of unpacking the metaphor of separation’ (2010: 110). Such an understanding of secularism, Bhargava maintains, need not incorporate all the values of modernity that Nandy associates with it: ‘Secularism is not a comprehensive doctrine laden with every single substantive value in the empire of modernity nor merely a strategy with instrumental significance. Rather, it seeks separation for the sake of specific values’ (2002: 10). The specific values that Bhargava associates with secularism are: ‘peace, toleration, religious liberty, and equality of passive citizenship rights’ (2010: 104–106, 114). Although Bhargava might argue that such values are universal, his articulation of them closely resembles values one might associate with the ‘the empire of modernity’. In the context of our dialogue, it is worth reflecting further on Bhargava’s definition of secularism as separation ‘inspired by a specific set of values’ (2010: 100). In the Upaniṣads separation is based on maintaining distinct social identities, while in the Nikāyas it is based more on the value of preserving the Buddha’s teachings. It might be, then, that what makes these traditions different from modern secularism is not that there wasn’t a well-theorised commitment to separating religious and political power, but rather that such separation works in different ways and was based on different values from the values on which secularism is based today.

Plurality Now I would like to move on to the next theme, which is how our dialogues explore religious plurality. Both Sen and Nandy make strong claims about

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traditions of tolerance in premodern India, while Bhargava has discussed Aśoka’s policies in terms of principled co-existence. In light of these discussions, it is significant that the Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad and Dīgha Nikāya are two of our oldest sources to explore the issue of religious plurality in a political context. We might see both dialogues as early instances of a recurring Indian paradigm in which religious and philosophical debates are conducted in the presence of the king. Yet while both dialogues develop strategies for dealing with diverse religious groups – some of which may be comparable to the acceptance of heterodoxy, tolerance or principled coexistence – they seem to have different assumptions about the nature and implications of plurality. As I will suggest, looking at how the Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad and Dīgha Nikāya explore religious plurality might shed interesting light on our assumptions about the politics of religious pluralism today. As I have noted, each dialogue includes an embedded verbal exchange in which the king recounts the views of rival religious leaders. In the Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad Janaka recounts the views of six brahmins from different Vedic lineages. Whereas Yājñavalkya was from the school known as the White Yajurveda, his opponents represent rival Vedic traditions, including the Sāma Veda and the Ṛg Veda.7 King Janaka presents each of their teachings about brahman as a one-line statement, with each teacher equating brahman with a different aspect of the psycho-physical self, including brahman as: speech, breath, the eye, the ear, the mind and the heart. Yājñavalkya does not proclaim any of these answers to be false, but rather he describes each as completely obvious: as being known by anyone with a father, a mother and a teacher. Moreover, he criticises each teaching as incomplete – as a ‘one-footed brahman’ – with Yājñavalkya displaying his own knowledge of each teaching by giving a detailed explanation for each answer. It is worth noting that the answers the six brahmins give are typical of the scripted and rehearsed exchanges we often see in the ritually embedded debates in earlier Vedic literature. Here Yājñavalkya seems to be indicating that these brahmins only know their scripted lines, but haven’t included the full explanations of their teachings. Similar to Yājñavalkya’s indirect encounter with six brahmins, the Sāmaññaphala Sutta depicts Ajātasattu’s account of the views of six rival teachers.8 In this case, the rivals include Nigaṇṭha Nātaputta – the name given throughout the Pāli Canon to refer to Mahāvīra – who is known as the founder of Jainism; Makkhali Gosāla, who is known as the founder of the Ājīvikas; Pūraṇa Kassapa, who is also likely to be an Ājīvika; Ajita Kesakambalī, a materialist; Pakudha Kaccāyana, an atomist; and Sañjaya Belaṭṭhaputta, who is referred to as an ‘eel-wriggler’ because he refuses to commit to any position. It is uncertain whether any of these rivals are brahmins, but they are all clearly non-Buddhists.9 As noted above, the Buddha does not counter the views of his rivals, but rather the king already has concluded that none of the six religious teachers really answered his question about the fruits of the homeless life. All of them delivered a teaching about a core doctrine of their tradition, but none of them demonstrated any practical benefits of their teachings. In contrast, the Buddha responds to

32 Brian Black Ajātasattu’s question by first giving an example of a labourer and then of a householder, both of whom become Buddhists and then receive robes, food, lodging, medicine and protection as a consequence. Only after giving these examples does the Buddha launch into a long discourse. But throughout his teaching, the Buddha returns to the king’s initial question on twelve occasions (see Walshe 1995, note 130, p. 547), concluding with the claim that becoming an arhat is another fruit of the homeless life. In contrast to Yājñavalkya, the Buddha does not claim to be able to teach what his rivals teach, but rather wins the king over by answering his question more directly. This model of juxtaposing different views – often six – with one presented as superior to all the others, is a recurring motif across Brahmanical, Buddhist and Jain traditions, as well as in later religious and philosophical literature. But within the same model, our two dialogues represent different ways of addressing the plurality of views. In the Upaniṣads, Yājñavalkya appeals to a common ground among the diversity of teachings. Despite doctrinal differences and fierce rivalries, brahmins in the Upaniṣads – as well as in other texts – share a common set of values in accepting the authority of the Vedas, the yajña and the status of brahmins. The plurality of views as explored by the Upaniṣads, then, is within the Brahmanical tradition. Brahmins compete for patronage and political influence, but when they do secure patronage, it is not depicted as exclusive. The Nikāyas extend this paradigm of plurality within a tradition to explore plurality among different traditions. Rather than appealing to a common ground, the Buddha claims that his views are more relevant to the king. As with Janaka, Ajātasattu is depicted as listening to teachings from a wide range of teachers. Both dialogues seem to suggest that the king can be under the moral authority of one religious teacher while still offering support to others. In both dialogues, religious difference is mediated through the king, who gives voice to a wide range of religious views. In these two cases, the rival groups do not talk to each other directly, but through the king, who recounts their views. With the arguments of Habermas (2008a) in mind, we might be tempted to see the king as ‘translating’ the views of different religious teachers into a political discourse. Both Yājñavalkya and the Buddha appeal directly to the king’s position as ruler, comparing the transcendent value of their teachings to things of practical value for a king. Yājñavalkya describes how upaniṣads prepare someone for where they go after they die in a similar way to how getting a hold of a ship or a chariot prepares one for a great journey. The Buddha also makes his teachings relevant to political authority, saying that a king who overcomes danger by conquering his enemies is comparable to a monk who is perfected in morality (2.63). But neither Yājñavalkya nor the Buddha completely ‘translates’ their teachings into a political discourse in the way that Habermas has in mind. Moreover, even though both dialogues depict the king as the medium through which rival traditions interact, other dialogues in both the Upaniṣads and the Nikāyas depict religious rivals in direct communication with each other. In other words, the ‘secular’ is not the only space through which religious communities interact with each other. Nonetheless, both the Upaniṣads

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and Nikāyas offer glimpses of public discussions that resonate with notions of argumentation, toleration and principled co-existence. When Sen argues that modern secularism since Independence ‘contains strong influences of Indian intellectual history’ (2005: 19), he has in mind two distinct, yet related influences from ancient traditions, which he describes as ‘argumentation’ and ‘acceptance of heterodoxy’. By argumentation, Sen refers to public reasoning, which ‘includes the opportunity for citizens to participate in political discussions and to influence public choice’ (2005: 14). Sen is particularly interested in argumentative traditions that include participants with vastly different and often competing world views. By acceptance of heterodoxy, Sen is interested in the numerous examples of sceptics, agnostics and atheists from India’s traditions. Such examples offer a corrective to interpretations of India’s traditions that, according to Sen, place too much emphasis on religion and contribute to the long but neglected ‘tradition of rational assessment’ (2005: 19). We might see our two dialogues as demonstrating what Sen has in mind by argumentation. Yājñavalkya and the Buddha emerge as superior over their rivals, not only because of the content of their teachings, but also because of how they reason, as both are able to demonstrate the practical value of their teachings. However, we might hesitate in emphasising the ‘public’ nature of these examples of argumentation. The ‘public’ as imagined by Sen, as well as Habermas, shares the postEnlightenment assumption of a separation between the public and private spheres. In contrast, we might say that our dialogues – as well as the Upaniṣads and the Nikāyas more widely – depict interactive spaces10 where members of different religious communities can debate and discuss and where they often share similar practices of how to engage with one another (see also Chapter 5 in this volume). In addition to having resonances with Sen’s notion of argumentation, our dialogues also have commonalities with Nandy’s notion of tolerance. As Nandy argues, it is not secularism, but India’s premodern religious traditions that ‘have, over the centuries, developed internal principles of tolerance’. Because of their longterm success in dealing with diversity, ‘these principles must have a play in contemporary politics’ (1998: 336). In light of Nandy’s arguments, it is worth keeping in mind that in neither of our dialogues is debate presented as something outside of or separate from a religious tradition, but in both cases intellectuals need to use reasoned arguments to appeal to concerns outside of their immediate religious communities. Here we see that, unlike Sen’s notion of the public, the interactive spaces depicted in these dialogues do not exclude ‘private’ religious commitments. Our dialogues also have resonances with what Bhargava calls ‘principled co-existence’. In his discussion of Aśoka’s inscriptions, Bhargava argues that in contrast to the ‘classical seventeenth century meaning’ of toleration that focuses on refraining ‘from interference in the activities of others’, Aśoka emphasises virtues of self-restraint towards oneself (2014a: 193). Echoing his own description of Indian secularism, Bhargava calls Aśoka’s programme for dealing with religious diversity a ‘principled co-existence’ (2014a: 196). Although our dialogues do not discuss explicitly how restraint of thought, speech and action should be employed for the sake of engaging with other groups, both of our dialogues juxtapose an

34 Brian Black engagement with different religious leaders with teachings that emphasise the value of controlling one’s senses. Yājñavalkya characterises knowledge of the self as a change in one’s disposition, as propelling a way of acting in the world that is free from evil (BU 4.4.23). Similarly, the Buddha teaches that the repeated practice of moral injunctions will produce a psychological transformation (2.75–81). In this way, both dialogues are early examples of an emerging political ideal linking the ethical comportment of the king with his ability to rule in a pluralistic context – of a political discourse in which the king is depicted as someone who should be selfdisciplined, mastering his senses and emotions and displaying control of his thoughts, words and actions. He should also be someone who is generous to religious teachers, who engages with religious teachings and who promotes virtue throughout his empire.11 In this way, although the Upaniṣads and Nikāyas employ different terminology and have different schemas of the mind-body complex, they both emphasise an ascetic self-control and both present this type of knowledge as relevant, even indispensable, to a king.

Conclusions As we have seen in the work of Sen, Nandy and Bhargava, India’s classical traditions play an important role in debates about secularism in modern times. For Sen, traditions of debate and acceptance of difference make secularism possible in India today. For Nandy, India’s traditions give us a critical perspective from which to challenge the present and to imagine a different future. Bhargava, who is initially more hesitant to engage with historical sources, finds a principled co-existence that not only can inform Indian secularism, but that can improve upon Europe’s traditions of toleration. In relating our sources to modern debates, it is notable that religious pluralism is widely regarded as one of the greatest challenges facing secularism today. Our two dialogues are relevant to such discussions because they are some of the oldest sources in the world explicitly to address religious plurality in a political context. They also offer a number of strategies for engagement between different religious groups, such as dialogue, debate and self-discipline. The fact that ancient Hindu and Buddhist sources used the same literary paradigm to work through questions about the relationship between religion and politics suggests that our dialogues are not merely about inter-religious dialogue, but are, in some ways, products of inter-religious dialogue. If we are going to engage with ‘resources’ from classical traditions to address religious diversity today, then models – such as our two dialogues – that have been shared across distinct and competing religious groups are likely to be particularly valuable.

Acknowledgements I would like to thank the following conversation partners who have provided feedback to earlier versions of this paper: Rajeev Bhargava, Chakravarthi RamPrasad, Monika Kirloskar-Steinbach, James Madaio and Christian Novetzke.

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Notes 1 However, other defenders of modern secularism have looked to the Upaniṣads for inspiration. When reflecting on the importance of Mohandas Gandhi to the Independence movement, Jawaharlal Nehru argued that the essence of the Mahatma’s teaching ‘was fearlessness and truth’ – the same lessons that can be learned from some of India’s oldest philosophical sources, the Upaniṣads: The greatest gift for an individual or a nation, so we had been told in our ancient books, was abhay (fearlessness), not merely bodily courage, but the absence of fear from the mind. Janaka and Yajnavalkya had said, at the dawn of our history, that it was the function of the leaders of a people to make them fearless. (2010: 393) 2 This similarity has also been noted by Deussen (2004 [1897]: 475), Goto (2005: 72, n. 4) and Black (2007: 70–74). 3 See Black (2009) and the other articles in Religions of South Asia 3.1. See also Hiltebeitel (2011) and Appleton (2017). 4 Indeed, Copeland et al. have suggested that ‘the history of Brahmins in Indian Public life often celebrates remarkably secular values’ (2012: 18). 5 See also Reynolds (1972) and Chakravarti (1996). 6 Thapar makes a similar point: ‘The mutual interdependence of temporal and spiritual power, represented by the king and the priest and central to the Vedas is rejected by the Buddhist tradition’ (2010: 79). 7 Satyakāma Jābāla features prominently in the Chāndogya Upaniṣad, which is associated with the Sāmaveda. Vidagdha Śākalya, has been ascribed authorship of the Padapāṭha, which connects him closely with the Ṛgveda. Both of these characters, as well as other characters in this scene, appear elsewhere as interlocutors of Yājñavalkya. For further discussion of Yājñavalkya’s interlocutors, see Witzel (1997) and Black (2007: 67–74). 8 The term used here is the compound samaṇa-brāhmaṇā, which is usually rendered as ‘ascetics and brahmins’ (see, for example, Walshe 1995: 21–24). For a critique of this rendering, see McGovern (2013). 9 McGovern asserts that ‘none of them appears to be a “Brahman” in the conventional sense – that is, a person born into a Brahmanical lineage who promotes the Brahmanical ideology of varṇa, sacrifice and Vedic knowledge, as do the Brahmanical interlocutors found in encounter dialogs’ (2013: 103). 10 I thank Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad for suggesting this term. 11 For example, the Law Code of Manu portrays the king as being self-disciplined: The king must act out his rule according to a set of highly choreographed actions: ‘Day and night he should strive vigorously to subdue his organs; for when he has subdued his own organs, he is able to bring his subjects under his control’ (7.44, tr. Olivelle).

2

Dialogues with solitary Buddhas1 Naomi Appleton

Introduction The Pāli term paccekabuddha, with its Sanskrit counterpart pratyekabuddha, is usually rendered into English as ‘solitary buddha’ or ‘lone buddha’.2 Such figures, we are told, only arise in times between Buddhism, when no teachings or monastic institutions are available.3 These remarkable beings thus realise the truth themselves, without a teacher, like a full Buddha. However, unlike a full Buddha they do not teach it to others, preferring instead to live the life of a solitary renouncer.4 Surely, then, it is futile to wish to study dialogues in which paccekabuddhas feature. However, despite solitude being one motif that is strongly associated with paccekabuddhas, there are plenty of narratives in which paccekabuddhas speak and teach. Indeed they are associated with several series of verses on the benefits of renunciation, including those that famously advocate wandering ‘lonely as a rhinoceros’.5 Their teachings – and their interlocutors’ responses to the teachings – reveal certain key characteristics of this category of awakened being. One such characteristic is a common preference for teaching using signs rather than – or more often in addition to – words, or of offering puzzling teachings that provoke an intense intellectual or emotional response on the part of the listener. In this Chapter I will be exploring these different types of dialogic exchange, beginning with stories in which paccekabuddhas have important things to say, and continuing with an exploration of their teaching through signs. The characterisation of paccekabuddhas varies across different bodies of Buddhist literature. For this Chapter I will focus only on Pāli sources,6 since Sanskrit literature tends to only feature pratyekabuddhas as either a category of future promised awakening, or a past recipient of karmically potent service. With very few exceptions, we do not find teaching pratyekabuddhas in, for example, Ārya Śūra’s Jātakamālā, the Divyāvadāna, the Mahāvastu or the Avadānaśataka, even though the latter contains a whole decade of stories about these awakened beings, alongside stories of arhats and other figures.7 As a result, it is in Pāli literature that we can have the most productive dialogues with paccekabuddhas. It is also for this reason that I tend to use the Pāli term for this category of beings.

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This Chapter will focus predominantly on two sources. The first of these is a series of stories associated with the Rhinoceros Horn verses of the Sutta Nipāta, found in the commentary to that text as well as in the commentary to the Apadāna chapter on paccekabuddhas.8 While the famous verses themselves are not part of dialogues, they are embedded in stories in which paccekabuddhas have various encounters and experiences, including teaching others. The second source that I will explore is the Jātakatthavaṇṇanā, the large commentarial jātaka collection, which preserves some of the most interesting encounters with paccekabuddhas in Buddhist literature.9 After exploring a range of narratives that illuminate the participation of paccekabuddhas in dialogues, I will ask what this tells us about paccekabuddhas, and about dialogue. As we will see, the ways in which paccekabuddhas teach can contribute to our understanding of the potentially transformative nature of dialogue, as addressed elsewhere in this volume (see, in particular, Chapters 6–9). In addition, the very presence of paccekabuddhas in early Pāli literature reveals some broader dialogues around the question of whether the Buddha and the institutions that he founded are necessary to the attainment of the ultimate goal of release from rebirth.

Verbal dialogues We may begin our exploration with the most conventional form of dialogue, in which a paccekabuddha has a spoken exchange with another character. Very occasionally the paccekabuddhas teach fellow renouncers, and one example of this provides a neat starting point for our discussion as it hints at a widespread association between paccekabuddhas and the limits of verbal teachings. In the story associated with Sutta Nipāta 45–46, a prince and young brahmin become pupils of some paccekabuddhas, who teach them how to correctly pursue a renouncer life. However, the young men cannot progress because they are too attached to one another and thus haven’t the discipline to remain apart. Only when both independently reflect on this, and strive to overcome their reliance on one another, are they able to achieve paccekabodhi. Thus, we see, teachings can only go so far; it is direct realisation and committed striving – ideally in solitude – that leads to awakening. The paccekabuddhas may not be silent, and they do teach, but the onus is on the recipient of the teaching to put it into practice. The Sutta Nipāta commentary would have us believe that this is a sign of the limited teaching ability of paccekabuddhas: the text claims that paccekabuddhas cannot provide conceptual description (paññatti) of the dhamma, but do teach the correct behaviour of a renouncer (see Bodhi [trans.] 2017: 406–407). However, we might see a rather more positive message in the idea that everyone must ultimately experience the truth for themselves. We will return to this issue later. Although a few stories of paccekabuddhas guiding other renouncers do exist, the vast majority of stories that feature paccekabuddhas teaching show them doing so to an audience of kings or princes (for other dialogues with kings, see

38 Naomi Appleton Chapters 1, 6, 9 and 12).10 Such figures are, of course, the polar opposite of the solitary renouncers, being engrossed in state responsibilities and sensual pleasures, and surrounded by the hubbub of city and court. As such, the paccekabuddhas’ teachings tend to focus on the importance of supporting or becoming renouncers. The former lesson is addressed, for example, in the Āditta-jātaka (J424), in which King Bharata (the Bodhisatta) and his queen invite some paccekabuddhas to visit in order that they may give alms. Seven come and offer verses of teaching in exchange for their meal, and many of these verses focus on the karmic benefits of generosity. Here, as in several other stories in the Jātakas, the paccekabuddhas are the supreme recipients of gifts, in a narrative time that is necessarily devoid of buddhas and arhats.11 There is no indication that they are silent sages, yet neither is there any real dialogue, since the king and queen simply rejoice in this straightforward teaching and continue to be generous throughout their lives. A more dialogic exchange is found in another story of seven paccekabuddhas and a king, however, this time in the tale accompanying Sutta Nipāta 58. In this story, King Suta-Brahmadatta (‘Brahmadatta the Learned’) is visited by seven paccekabuddhas (who are in fact his past-life fellow renouncers from the time of the Buddha Kassapa). The king asks them who they are, and they reply that they are called ‘very learned’ or more literally ‘those that have heard much’ (bahussuta), so the king asks them for a teaching, and they each offer him a verse. The first paccekabuddha tells him: ‘Let one be happy, Great King. Let there be the destruction of passion’ (sukhito hotu mahārāja rāgakkhayo hotu). The king is not that impressed, saying, ‘This one isn’t very learned, but the second will be very learned. Tomorrow I will hear a differentiated dhamma-teaching’ (ayaṃ na bahussuto, dutiyo bahussuto bhavissati, sve dāni vicitradhammadesanaṃ sossāmi). However, the rest of the paccekabuddhas offer similarly enigmatic verses, declaring their wish for there to be the destruction of hatred (dosa), delusion (moha), passing (gati), rolling on (vaṭṭa), clinging (upadhi)12 and thirst (taṇha). Despite his initial dissatisfaction with what appears to be their paltry learning – or perhaps because of his dissatisfaction – the king reflects on their words and realises the truth of the causes of existence. He declares the paccekabuddhas to be ‘nippariyāyabahussutā’, or very learned without being round-about, or without description or elaboration.13 Furthermore, the king declares that just as a finger pointing at the earth or sky doesn’t only indicate a part of the earth or sky the width of the finger, but rather indicates the whole earth or sky, so by teaching one small thing the paccekabuddhas have revealed an immeasurable number of things.14 Thus, through the process of interaction with these teachers, the king comes to an independent realisation, prompted by the enigmatic verses. He then renounces and achieves paccekabodhi himself. Many other stories show paccekabuddhas teaching about the benefits of renunciation. The Sonaka-jātaka (J529) contains eight verses about the benefits of being a renouncer (in this case a samaṇa) spoken by a paccekabuddha to his former friend the king (and Bodhisatta). These benefits are all to do with the lack

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of attachments felt by a renouncer, such that he never hoards food (verse 1), he eats blamelessly and in peace (2 and 3), he wanders freely in the kingdom (4), he feels no pain when his city burns down because nothing of his is burnt (5), he feels no pain when the kingdom is plundered as nothing of his is destroyed (6), he wanders safe from robbers or other dangers (7) and wherever he goes he goes without a care (8). These verses, several of which are also found in the Mahāvastu in a story with some parallels to the Sonaka-jātaka,15 are followed by another series of verses that explain to the king the well-known story of a crow so greedy that he becomes trapped inside an elephant carcass that he has been eating. Clearly the emphasis in this story is on the dangers of greed, as well as the benefits of having no attachments. That having no attachments leads to having no fear is emphasised in the stories accompanying Sutta Nipāta 42 and 72, in which paccekabuddhas demonstrate and explain their fearlessness, much to the admiration of a king. Fear can also feature as a tool that accompanies the teachings of a paccekabuddha, however, such as in an exchange between a paccekabuddha and his former friend the king (and Bodhisatta) in the Darīmukha-jātaka (J378). Here not only are sense desires criticised in themselves, but the likelihood of them leading to a hellish rebirth is also highlighted. Although the king initially resists the paccekabuddha’s instruction to renounce, he is eventually persuaded, perhaps because of this inevitable and terrifying consequence of living an indulgent life. The danger of sense desires is a theme even when the intention is not to persuade a king to renounce: In the Telapatta-Jātaka (J96, see also J132), a young prince (the Bodhisatta) asks a group of 500 paccekabuddhas whether or not he’s ever likely to be king, given the number of brothers he has. They advise him to seek another kingdom across the other side of a wilderness. But this wilderness, they warn, is inhabited by demonesses who try to ensnare men through appealing to the five senses – with couches, perfumes, dainty food, beauty and song – and then devour their captives. The prince sets off, accompanied by five companions, each of whom succumbs in turn to a sensual temptation, leaving only the Bodhisatta to reach the other side alive. Thus while the paccekabuddhas’ practical advice leads to a kingship, it still involves restraint of the senses. Not only can sense desires lead to hell or to being eaten alive by demonesses, they can also lead to moral transgressions. In the Pānīya-jātaka (J459) five householders become paccekabuddhas after reflecting on a misdeed. They later visit a king (the Bodhisatta), who asks them why they saw the pain of desires despite their youth. The reply in a series of verses that explain their moments of immorality: the first stole water from a friend, the second felt lust towards another man’s wife, the third told a lie in order to save his own life, the fourth permitted slaughter of animals for sacrifice and the fifth allowed the consumption of strong drink at a festival, which led to fights and injuries. All five reflected upon their misdeed, and used that as a means to achieve paccekabodhi. Having heard their explanations the king praises them, and then – following a debate

40 Naomi Appleton with his wife about the merits of desires – decides to renounce. This story’s focus on regretting misdeeds is a slightly different angle to the norm, though the immorality is all predicated on attachment, and the need to overcome desire is certainly the lesson that the king takes away for discussion with his wife. The motif of paccekabuddhas explaining the cause of their attainment in a series of verses is also found in the Kumbhakāra-jātaka (J408), though here the roles are somewhat different: the paccekabuddhas are former kings, and their audience is an ordinary householder, in this case a potter (though an extraordinary one inasmuch as he is the Bodhisatta). These particular kings-becomepaccekabuddhas are famous not only in other Buddhist contexts, but also in the Jain tradition.16 In the verses that the kings speak to explain to the potter how they came to renounce, we find the by-now familiar focus on the dangers of worldly life, and the benefits of being a renouncer. The first king saw a mango tree stripped bare because of its vigorous fruiting; the second saw how two bracelets bash together to make an annoying noise while a single one remains silent; the third saw a bird attacked because it was carrying meat; and the fourth saw a prime bull being fatally wounded because of lust and rivalry. Thus three of the verses note the danger of having something that others want; once again the lesson seems to be that lust or attachment leads to pain, and here it is highlighted that this is even the case if the lust belongs to other people. The other verse, containing the image of two noisy bracelets contrasted with one silent one (also found in the Mahājanaka-jātaka [J539] and Sutta Nipāta verse 48) highlights the particular benefits of solitude. In this case, then, the need for solitary renunciation appears linked to the need to remove oneself from other people’s desires. The verses declared by these kings-become-paccekabuddhas of course prompt the potter to renounce, though here as in every case where the renouncer is the Bodhisatta, this results in meditative attainments and/or a heavenly rebirth, not in paccekabodhi. The reason for this is straightforward: the Bodhisatta must stay in the realm of rebirth in order to become the Buddha in a later lifetime. However, the limitation leaves us with a sense – unusual in the jātakas – of the Bodhisatta’s inferiority to other spiritual beings, a theme to which we will return below. The stories that are found in the Sutta Nipāta commentary have an easier time communicating the power of the teachings of a paccekabuddha, since the audience (almost always a king) goes on to attain paccekabodhi himself. That said, the more variable results in the jātakas perhaps communicate the broader benefits of reducing one’s attachments or leaving worldly life, for everyone, not just kings who then swiftly quit saṃsāra altogether. We will return to this larger question about the results of the teachings of paccekabuddhas later, but first let us explore another key method that is used by these figures, alongside verses and other verbal teachings, namely the use of signs or visual metaphors.

Teaching through signs Often a verbal teaching provided by a paccekabuddha is combined with – or replaced by – a sign or an image, or a call to personal experience. These images

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or experiences, like the teachings, almost exclusively focus around a key Buddhist value: cultivating non-attachment or overcoming desires. Sometimes this involves a focus on the need for renunciation or the benefits of solitude or peace and quiet. On other occasions reflection on impermanence – for example the withering of a leaf or tree – is a way to overcome attachment as well as provide a sense of urgency. Greed, hatred, love and pride are all exposed as forms of attachment that are futile and damaging. The result of all of these reflections, of course, is renunciation and/or the attainment of paccekabodhi. Many paccekabuddhas, we learn from stories such as the Kumbhakāra-jātaka discussed above, attained their awakening this way, and so it is natural that they should turn to the same methods when teaching others.17 A simple example of the combination of words and images in this way is the story linked to Sutta Nipāta 54, in which a paccekabuddha uses a magical vision of fellow paccekabuddhas in the Himalayas, alongside some well-chosen words about the benefits of proper renunciation, to persuade a prince living as a semirenouncer in a park that he needs to go further. Similarly, the two are combined in the story that accompanies verse 38 of the Sutta Nipāta. This story begins with a past life, when three friends became renouncers in the community of Kassapa Buddha, a buddha of a distant past time. They were all subsequently reborn in a heaven realm, and then as human kings. Two of them then become paccekabuddhas, and they wonder what has become of their former friend. Seeing that he is a king still entangled in worldly life, they decide to pay him a visit, to give him an object (ārammaṇa) to reflect upon. They fly through the air to the pleasure-park where the king is basking in the admiration of his retinue, and they settle at the foot of a bamboo thicket. The moment he sees them, the king feels his affection for them well-up, and he asks them who they are. They reply that they are named ‘unattached’ (asajjamāna). After he asks for further clarification of what this means, they explain using the image of the bamboo thicket: the king, they say, is like the thicket, densely entangled such as it would be impossible to uproot, whereas they are like the little green top sprout, easily cut off. This little teaching immediately results in the king attaining the fourth jhāna of meditative absorption, and shortly thereafter he attains paccekabodhi. Attachment comes in many different forms, and this is addressed in the Pañcūposatha-jātaka (J490) through different characters who are afflicted in different ways. In this story the Bodhisatta is a brahmin sage who lives in the forest and is visited regularly by four animals: a pigeon, a snake, a jackal and a bear. One day the pigeon sees his mate caught and killed by a hawk and resolves to overcome his desire for her. Meanwhile the snake in anger kills a bull and then greatly regrets the trouble and pain he has caused so vows to overcome his anger. In a commonly repeated motif, the jackal gets stuck inside an elephant corpse as he eats away greedily, not noticing that the hide is shrinking in the sun and blocking his way out. After eventually managing to escape he vows to overcome his greed. Also afflicted by greed, the bear crosses paths with the villagers and is attacked, and so he too vows to overcome his desires. As a result of realising the need to overcome their attachments – referred to respectively as

42 Naomi Appleton rāga, kodha, lobha and atricchatā – the four animals decide to observe the holy day (uposatha) fast. Meanwhile, we learn, the sage is affected by another attachment, namely pride (māna). A paccekabuddha sees this and deliberately comes to sit on his seat, causing the sage to get angry. The paccekabuddha rebukes him for his pride, and reveals to him that he will become a full Buddha (a rare occurrence of such a prediction in the Jātakas), but the sage is still too proud to honour him. It is only after the paccekabuddha magically flies off into the sky that the sage is shocked into bitterly regretting his pride, and vowing to overcome it. He and the animals then exchange verses about their experiences. Thus in this story we see the combination of learning from personal experiences (in the case of the animals), learning from what a teacher (the paccekabuddha) says, and learning from what he does. It is only by sitting in the sage’s seat and then displaying his magical powers that the paccekabuddha is able to bring the sage to his senses. As we have already started to see, much can also be taught through example. In the story that accompanies Sutta Nipāta 47, four paccekabuddhas visit their past-life friend, now King of Varanasi, and demonstrate their qualities by eating the best and the most disgusting food with the same equanimity. This provides an object of meditation (ārammaṇa) that prompts the king to renounce and eventually attain paccekabodhi himself. Even the importance of experiencing solitude can be taught by one renouncer to another: In the story associated with Sutta Nipāta 39, a paccekabuddha invites a prince to visit him in his hut, then leaves footprints to suggest he is in, while actually going elsewhere. The prince visits, and not finding the paccekabuddha there, he sits on the empty bench in the empty hut and achieves paccekabodhi himself!

Teachers and teachings Having taken a tour through a range of stories from Pāli literature, we must now draw together the various themes that have emerged, and ask what we have learnt about paccekabuddhas, and about teaching through dialogue. Paccekabuddhas One clear lesson from these Pāli narratives is that despite their reputation as silent and solitary, and unable or unwilling to communicate the dhamma to others, paccekabuddhas do engage in rich dialogues that have much to teach us. Sometimes these dialogues are conventional conversations, in which paccekabuddhas offer advice or teachings to laypeople. In other cases the teachings are enigmatic, such that the audience must fully engage in their own personal reflection, or accompanied by potent imagery. In almost every case there is a clear emphasis – regardless of the method of teaching – on the importance of non-attachment and renunciation. We will return to the content and method of teaching shortly, but first let us concentrate on the characterisation of the paccekabuddhas themselves.

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The stories that we have explored suggest that the paccekabuddhas’ reputation for being solitary is not entirely fair. Not only do they often travel or live in groups (sometimes bound together by past-life friendship), they actively seek opportunities to help others. The association with solitude may, at least in part, be a symptom of philological confusion. As KR Norman has argued, it is possible, given evidence in both Buddhist and Jain contexts (where patteyabuddha is the equivalent Prakrit term), that the concept was originally of a person ‘awakened by signs/causes’ (pratyaya-buddha), a term still in use in some Sanskrit and Chinese sources, where it has been taken to imply awakening through understanding the chain of causation.18 As we have seen, this association with signs would fit neatly with several of the most extensive narratives. However, even if we accept the association with solitude rather than signs, there is no reason to posit that paccekabuddhas are solitary after their awakening; rather, we might understand their solitude to be a form of self-reliance that led to an independent realisation of the dhamma, outside of any formal study or practice. Such an understanding would be entirely consistent with what we see of how their realisation came about, through a direct experience or spontaneous moment of meditation. The emphasis of their name, then, is on an experiential and personal awakening, rather than a preference for social isolation or a reluctance to engage with others; indeed I might go so far as to suggest ‘independent buddha’ as an alternative translation. Similarly, the notion that paccekabuddhas cannot or do not teach is not supported by the narratives. As we have seen, some of the stories that accompany the Rhinoceros Horn verses seem to align with the more general statement at the beginning of the commentary that paccekabuddhas cannot explain the dhamma in conceptual terms. Certainly we see that the teachings offered by these enigmatic characters are often clipped and provocative, rather than full of explanations. However, the stories do not present this as a limitation, but rather as a strength: like a finger pointing at the sky, as the story of Brahmadatta the Learned suggests. Likewise, the idea that paccekabuddhas teach only correct behaviour is not borne out by the stories, for though several do portray paccekabuddhas offering the ‘going forth’ to students, several others present figures attaining paccekabodhi before becoming a renouncer. The monastic behaviour of paccekabuddhas seems not to be of great importance to these teachers, who are just as likely to provoke a realisation in their student before renunciation as after it. While the idea that paccekabuddhas are solitary and do not teach does not seem well supported by the narratives, it is clearly of benefit to a tradition that sought to place the Buddha (and his predecessors, former buddhas) at the centre of an institutionalised monastic community. Several scholars have suggested that the very concept of a paccekabuddha arose as a way to include non-Buddhist or pre-Buddhist ascetics.19 However, as Reginald Ray argues, it might be more helpful to think of them as an alternative model of Buddhist renunciation, and to understand that ‘the pratyekabuddha and former buddhas together represent the two categories of saint with which Buddhism sees a direct and lineal connection’

44 Naomi Appleton (Ray 1994: 239). Martin Wiltshire (1990) summed up the likely move very neatly: Initially the various renouncer traditions allowed for the existence of a variety of awakened beings who had achieved awakening through their own efforts. However, as the early Buddhist tradition sought to establish itself as unique, the idea of multiple awakened beings became incompatible with a buddhology that prioritised the Buddha as founder and teacher, and as a figure believed to be necessary to the achievement of awakening by others. So the paccekabuddha concept was created to allow for appreciation of these other legendary awakened beings, without undermining the growing ‘cultus’ surrounding the founder figure. Furthermore, the idea that paccekabuddhas do not teach (and indeed that they can only arise in times of no Buddha-teaching) was then promulgated as a way to ensure that only the Buddha’s dhamma has authority.20 These figures were thereby placed firmly in the past, leaving the Buddhist monastic community with a clear monopoly on the path to awakening. The characterisation of paccekabuddhas in Pāli narrative supports this understanding of the history of the concept. Not only do we find no support for the idea that paccekabuddhas do not teach, we see that the realisations they have – and the teachings that they give – are entirely in line with the Buddhist dhamma, albeit not expressed in scripture or learning. Indeed, as we have already noted, the main realisation achieved by paccekabuddhas is about the benefits of renunciation and the overcoming of sense desires, due to the impermanence of the world and the dangers of attachment to it. They would appear, therefore, to be entirely Buddhist, and this has pros and cons: while they provide no challenge in terms of alternative or contradictory teachings, they do challenge the idea of the Buddha as a being uniquely able to reveal and explain the dhamma. They also challenge the necessity of institutions such as Buddhist monasticism. Given the tension surrounding the concept of paccekabuddhas, it is no surprise to see that there is evidence of some unease about their status within the narrative sources. As we noted earlier, the inability of the Bodhisatta to achieve awakening even after being inspired into renunciation by a teaching paccekabuddha implies a certain inferiority, even if this is simply due to the restrictions of the jātaka genre. In some stories we see evidence that the genre-conventions of the Jātakas have created a dilemma around the identification of the hero of the tale: In the Mahājanaka-jātaka (J539), for example, the renouncer King Janaka has so many associations with paccekabuddhas – including awakening through signs, teaching through signs and pursuing a wholly solitary form of renunciation – that he must originally have been understood to be a paccekabuddha, as he is considered in other narrative traditions. However, in the jātaka he is the clear hero of the story, and so becomes identified with the Bodhisatta, limiting his attainment within the narrative.21 Another slant on the relative status of different characters is found in the Gaṅgamāla-jātaka (J421) when a king’s former barber, now a paccekabuddha, uses a familiar form of address to greet the king (the Bodhisatta), much to the disdain of the king’s mother. The king has to explain the proper hierarchy to his family, placing himself below Gaṅgamāla. Clearly this demonstrates the superiority of paccekabuddha-barber over Bodhisatta-king,

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yet perhaps the message is really about the superiority of spiritual attainments over social status, rather than of paccekabuddhas over the Bodhisatta. Indeed, the question is rather differently addressed in the Mahāmora-jātaka (J491), in which the Bodhisatta-as-peacock is explicitly said to have better understanding than a hunter-become-paccekabuddha, in what appears to be a direct rebuttal of other stories in which paccekabuddhas teach the Bodhisatta. The question of paccekabuddhas’ status is addressed in a different manner in the Apadāna, where a clever move is made to explain how in fact these teachers are themselves dependent on buddhas. As the Buddha explains in a series of verses, paccekabuddhas arise because they honoured past buddhas but did not attain liberation at that time. This, the verses imply, explains why all they need to tip them over into awakening is a small object of meditation, and why they are able to attain awakening without the teaching of a buddha.22 This explanation neatly shows the paccekabuddhas up to be slow or incomplete sāvakas, and places them firmly within the institutions of Buddhist monasticism once again. That this explanation was developed only after the proliferation of stories about paccekabuddhas is demonstrated by the general lack of interest in the past lives of paccekabuddhas in Pāli narratives about them. I have not found any jātaka stories that tell of the past-lives of paccekabuddhas, who are instead associated with immediate and present awakening. The introduction to the commentary on the Rhinoceros Horn verses of the Sutta Nipāta clearly states that paccekabuddhas have a long, multi-life path.23 In support of this general declaration, several of the stories mention paccekabuddhas having had past lives as monks in the retinue of Buddha Kassapa.24 However, even here these past lives are mentioned only in passing, usually to explain a multi-life bond that brings a group of former monks together again as paccekabuddhas. The past lives do not, therefore, make the attainment of paccekabodhi by the characters within the narratives appear less impressive. There is nonetheless clearly an attempt to institutionalise paccekabuddhas through such inclusions, and to reassert their dependence on full buddhas. This hints at a growing unease about these otherwise independent awakened beings. Thus it would seem that concerns about the relative status of paccekabuddhas and the founding figure of the Buddhist sāsana (or his predecessors, the buddhas of past ages) troubled at least some narrative compilers. However, their efforts to show the superiority of the Bodhisatta, or the ultimate dependence of paccekabuddhas on full buddhas, cannot detract from the picture we get of these characters as accomplished renouncers, and dedicated teachers, who operate independently of monastic institutions and the carefully codified teachings of the dhamma. Teaching and dialogue We have already seen the remarkable consistency in terms of the content of the paccekabuddhas’ teachings: the main message we find is about the benefits of reducing sense desires, ideally through renunciation, occasionally with an

46 Naomi Appleton emphasis on the benefits of solitary practice. Overcoming sense desires – whether in the form of lust, greed, hatred, attachment or pride – enables one to be moral and successful, free from fear and attachment and, ultimately, free from saṃsāra. In contrast, we learn that being subject to desires and attachments will lead to moral transgressions, pain, fear, hellish rebirths or being eaten alive by demonesses. We have also seen some interesting characteristics of the form of the paccekabuddhas’ teachings, for while they do teach using words, their teachings are not extensive, and they also often mix in the use of images or signs, and emphasise the need for a personal and experiential appreciation of the dhamma.25 So what have we learned more generally about teaching from these dialogues with solitary buddhas? One important lesson is around the importance of a personal encounter. All the teachings are given in person, and often involve more than words. Words can be combined with – or replaced by – surprising actions, such as taking someone’s seat, demonstrating supernormal power,26 or being unmoved by disgusting food or terrifying noises. They can also feature alongside imagery and signs, such as an entangled bamboo thicket, or an empty hut. The paccekabuddha’s own encounter with such signs, which often led to their own profound realisation, is also described to others as an example and a teaching. All this is done in person, in an exchange that forces the audience to think differently and challenge their assumptions. And all this takes place without reference to institutions or scriptures. As Ray (1994: 225) puts it, ‘the pratyekabuddha knows nothing of memorized or written texts, and his instruction is spontaneous and situational, suited to the time, place, and needs of the listener’.27 Of course, the Buddha is also presented as teaching through dialogue, as well as through engineering experiences for his audience. In the famous story of KisaGotamī, for example, he helps a mother come to terms with the death of her son by sending her on a mission to find a cure for the child: a mustard seed from a household that has never experienced death. Realising gradually that no such household exists, she is able to reconcile herself to her son’s death, and ordains as a nun.28 However, the Buddha is more usually presented discoursing on aspects of the dhamma. In what is supposedly the Buddha’s first sermon, the Dhammacakkappavattana Sutta (Saṃyutta Nikāya 52.2), for example, we hear about the middle way, the eightfold path and the four noble truths. Indeed, the whole of the Saṃyutta Nikāya is ordered according to particular themes, while the Aṅguttara Nikāya presents the teachings according to numerical lists. Even the more dialogically embedded suttas of the Dīgha- and Majjhima-Nik āyas contain elaborate explanations of key formulae such as the three marks of existence, the five aggregates that make up a person, the chain of conditioned arising, the workings of karma, and other teachings now considered essential to any scholarly description of the Buddhist dhamma. What makes the teachings of paccekabuddhas so interesting, therefore, is their nature as both abstract and straightforward. Their key teaching is the need to overcome attachment, and this psychological teaching alone is sufficient to lead many beings to awakening, regardless of the state of their knowledge about other aspects of reality. Yet if

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that is so, what is the need for all these more elaborate and discursive teachings of the Buddha? Thus the teaching methods of the paccekabuddhas are both an opportunity and a challenge for the Buddhist community. On the one hand, they demonstrate the power of dialogic teaching, in which an encounter leads to a transformation (as also discussed elsewhere in this volume). They also show that teachings can only point the way, and that each individual must ultimately experience the truth for themselves. Neither of these two messages is at odds with mainstream Buddhist teaching. However, on the other hand, the stories of paccekabuddhas present a teaching and path that look simpler than the monastic training and study of the dhamma that are prescribed by the Buddha. This simpler path is then declared impossible to follow in the current time, because of the availability of the more discursive teachings of the Buddha. As we already noted, audiences and dialogue partners within the stories of paccekabuddhas often respond by renouncing and attaining paccekabodhi themselves. However, audiences outside the story must take away the general lessons about overcoming desires, without desiring to emulate these exemplary renouncers, since paccekabodhi is, by definition, not available in this current time of Buddha-teachings. These general lessons about desire and the pain that it brings are central to the Buddhist worldview, of course, and so the teachings of the paccekabuddhas continue to have relevance, and all the potent images and enigmatic verses that feature in the stories continue to prompt transformative experiences. The impressive attainments of the paccekabuddhas might also serve to demonstrate the timeless applicability of the correct understanding of experience, and thereby bolster Buddhist claims to teach the truth. Nonetheless, the simple and timeless teachings of these independent buddhas cannot help but challenge the Buddha’s position as a teacher necessary to the awakening of others, as well as challenge the necessity of the discursive teachings of the suttas, and of the monastic institutions that preserve them.

Conclusion The many Buddhist stories in which paccekabuddhas enter into dialogues with others demonstrate that they are far from the silent sages that their reputation suggests. Rather, they have a rich ability to communicate their realisation of bodhi to others, through words and through signs, and for great benefit. This attention to the encounter itself, and not just the teachings, is similar to the dialogues discussed in other Chapters of this section. Indeed, one of the things that dialogues with paccekabuddhas teach us is that teaching can work best when it is interactive, and when it makes demands on the person taught, prompting them to look at the world differently. We might even take this a stage further and suggest that the paccekabuddhas seem often to be teaching that a teaching alone cannot encapsulate the dhamma, and that realisation of the dhamma has to be a personal experience. What they offer, therefore, is an account of their own personal realisation, or a provocation that leads a person to experience a similar

48 Naomi Appleton realisation. Often the provocation takes the form of a sign, and sometimes these signs are explicitly referred to using the same terminology applied to meditation objects. And, we learn, a sign can be as powerful as a word, and a word can be as powerful as ten words, if it is well chosen and suited to the audience. A dialogue need not be loud or vociferous in order to persuade or transform. Indeed, the words that paccekabuddhas speak may be more potent precisely because these renouncers tend to say rather little. And why is this characterisation of paccekabuddha teachers only found in Pāli literature? This is at first glance surprising, given the emphasis in such literature on the Buddha as the source of all dhamma. Their presence as an alternative voice within the early teachings was clearly the source of real tension, and attempts were made to demonstrate their ultimate reliance on full buddhas and the Buddhist institution of monasticism. Yet rather than simply rejecting their awakening as inferior to the Buddha – as became standard in the Mahāyāna, of course – or solely using them as generic ‘best recipients’ in a narrative time between Buddhisms, Pāli literature shows a genuine interest in paccekabuddhas as real three-dimensional characters whose awakening can teach us something valuable in a way that differs from – but is entirely in line with – the teaching of the Buddha. They may ultimately be silenced by the declaration that paccekabodhi is no longer a possible attainment, but they still speak to us of the power of a transformational encounter with a teacher.

Notes 1 I am grateful to the audience at the symposium, and the convenors of that symposium (also the editors of this volume), for their insightful comments, many of which have fed into this Chapter. I also presented related material to colleagues in Edinburgh in October 2017, and am grateful for feedback that I received there. 2 This has remained the standard translation despite Norman’s convincing argument (1983), discussed further below, that the figures may originally have been those ‘awakened by signs’. Both associations – with solitude and signs – remain strong in the narrative literature. As explained below, my focus in this paper will be Pāli sources, so I will use the Pāli term as standard, preferring Sanskrit only when referring to Sanskrit materials. 3 Bodhi (2017: 406 and 1375 n.379) notes that the Sutta Nipāta commentary has an erroneous reading, stating that paccekabuddhas only arise during times of buddhas. Not only does this run contrary to the Apadāna commentary and other sources in Pāli and Sanskrit, but it is contradicted by the story attached to Sutta Nipāta verse 74, in which the last remaining paccekabuddha enters parinibbāna because he has been informed by the gods of the descent of the Bodhisatta into his final life. 4 For a thorough survey of Pāli understandings of paccekabuddhas see Kloppenborg (1974), which also contains a translation of the stories of paccekabuddhas found in the Sutta Nipāta commentary. See also the classic study by Louis de La Vallée Poussin (1908–1927) and more recent discussions by Wiltshire (1990) and Ray (1994). 5 Or, according to some interpretations, as a rhinoceros horn, taken as a reference to the single horn of an Indian rhinoceros. For a discussion see Jones (2014).

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6 In addition, I will focus only on stories in which paccekabuddhas teach. For a more general study of how paccekabuddhas fill a narrative and conceptual gap in jātaka literature, including in Sanskrit sources, see Appleton (2019). 7 These stories, by presenting us with narrative characters who became pratyekabuddhas, come closest to the Pāli materials, but there is still little interaction with the pratyekabuddhas themselves. I explored this decade of stories, and the role of pratyekabuddhas more broadly in the Avadānaśataka, in a paper for the 2017 Congress of the International Association of Buddhist Studies. 8 These can be found translated in Kloppenborg (1974) and Bodhi (2017), and the PTS edition is Smith (1916–1918). For easy cross-reference, I refer to each story by the Sutta Nipāta verse number with which it is associated; the verses are numbered 35–75. 9 Stories are referred to by number as in the Fausboll edition (1877–1896) and the translation by the team led by Cowell (1895–1907). 10 Indeed pratyekabodhi is commonly associated with kingship. In the commentary to the Sutta Nipāta verses, all except three of the 41 stories concern kings that become paccekabuddhas. Many of the paccekabuddhas of the Jātakas are also former kings, though there are notable exceptions to this, as discussed below. 11 For more on this role of paccekabuddhas in Jātaka literature see Appleton (2019). 12 Or substratum/foundation of rebirth. 13 The term paryāya can also refer to formulae/liturgy in some contexts, so this may be a comment on the limitations of ritual education. However, in a Pāli commentarial context nippariyāya usually refers to teachings in the abstract, such as are found, for example, in the Abhidhamma, and contrasted with the figurative or discursive teachings of the Suttas. 14 My translation and paraphrasing throughout; see also Bodhi (trans.) (2017: 471–473). Although this story can again be linked to the statement in the commentary that paccekabuddhas cannot explain the dhamma, this ‘limitation’ is certainly not portrayed in a negative light here. 15 The parallel is the Arindama story at the end of the Mahāvastu. For a discussion of this story cluster, amongst the broader network of tales involving renouncer kings associated with Videha, see Appleton (2017: chapter 6). 16 For a discussion and references to previous scholarship on the subject see Appleton (2017: chapter 6). 17 Indeed this focus on signs is a key association with paccekabuddhas, and also features in several stories in which we find no dialogue. For example, the stories accompanying Sutta Nipāta 44 and 64 both concern a king pondering the impermanence of trees, a theme also found in several jātaka stories, while that accompanying Sutta Nipāta 59 presents a king gradually realising that however many adornments he has he is never satisfied, and only gives himself backache! 18 See helpful discussion in Fujita (1985). 19 This view is shared in slightly varied forms by KR Norman (1983); Richard Gombrich (1979); and Fujita (1985), amongst others. In some jātaka stories, paccekabuddhas appear to slot into a narrative gap, too, serving as generic ‘best renouncers’ or ‘best recipients of gifts’ in a time necessarily devoid of buddhas and arhats. This notion of paccekabuddhas being imported to fill gaps led Katz (1982: 193) to suggest that the idea that paccekabuddhas do not teach may actually be meant to imply only that they do not teach the Buddhist dhamma. However, as we have seen, their teachings are entirely Buddhist. 20 Wiltshire (1990), especially chapter 3 and Conclusion. The helpful survey of sources and comment that Wiltshire presents in this, his doctoral thesis turned book, has been largely ignored thanks to several major flaws in its overall approach. 21 For a full discussion of his very complex story, which draws together many of the associations with the paccekabuddhas, see Appleton (2017: chapter 6).

50 Naomi Appleton 22 See translation in Kloppenborg (1974: 13–15). This notion underpins Sanskrit avadāna presentations of pratyekabuddhas as well: the Avadānaśataka and Divyāvadāna have several stories about people gaining pratyekabodhi as a result of service to a buddha in a past life. 23 In this they parallel the paths of buddhas and arhats, who are also discussed in this introduction. See Bodhi (trans.) (2017: 406–407). 24 This is explicitly said to be the case in the stories surrounding verses 35–39, 42, 45, 46, 47 and 58, though there is an implication that the same circumstances may apply throughout the stories. 25 While this would appear to be an idea entirely in line with mainstream Buddhist teachings, it is interesting that commentarial interpretations took the limited nature of paccekabuddhas’ teachings as evidence of their inability to awaken others (as expressed, for example, in the Sutta Nipāta commentary: see Bodhi [trans.] (2017: 406–407). 26 In Sanskrit sources the supernormal powers of pratyekabuddhas is a more prominent theme, and a miraculous display is often enough to inspire a spontaneous gift and aspiration. 27 However, many of Ray’s other comments about paccekabuddhas as non-verbal teachers ring more true in relation to Sanskrit materials than Pāli ones, for example his argument (on p. 224) that: Through the activity of presenting himself for darśan by the laity, the pratyekabuddha is in fact teaching the dharma. It is this kind of direct, visual teaching, rather than verbal instruction, that primarily characterizes what the pratyekabuddha has to transmit to the laity. There is a need for more scholarly acknowledgement of the variety of presentations of paccekabuddhas in different textual sources. 28 As recounted in the Therīgāthā and commentary: see Pruitt (1999: 222–224).

3

Refutation or dialogue? Śaṃkara’s treatment of the Bhāgavatas J G Suthren Hirst

Introduction In the introduction to their edited collection, Dialogue in Early South Asian Religions, Laurie Patton and Brian Black observe that ‘looking at … the conversational participants inside the text can indicate audiences outside the text’ (2015: 3). Although written from a rather different perspective, this accords with a long-term theme in my own work on the great Advaita Vedāntin teachercommentator, Śaṃkara (c.700 CE), in which I seek to recover something of his cultural and religious context. We cannot, of course, simplistically read off historical conversation partners from dialogues in either narrative texts or philosophical commentaries, but need to look at the particularities of a text to detect its illocutionary force (Keune 2016). In previous work I have used sociolinguistic analysis to help identify one particular set of Śaṃkara’s Viṣṇu-worshipping opponents (Suthren Hirst 2011). In this Chapter, I turn to Śaṃkara’s debate with another: the Bhāgavatas in his Brahma-sūtra commentary (Brahmasūtra-bhāṣya 2.2.42–45). I suggest that the debate’s precise form signals what we may call an ‘implied dialogue’ with at least some of these Bhāgavatas, rather than a total refutation of them all for rhetorical purposes alone. On the basis of recent work on the Pāñcarātra tradition, I also suggest an identification for this particular group which Śaṃkara seems to have been prepared to engage in encounter. The prima facie case for this is not strong! The whole of Brahma-sūtra 2.2 is, in the opinion of Śaṃkara and most other Vedāntin commentators, dedicated to refuting opponents by processes of argumentation. (It follows the establishment of one’s own, deemed correct, position, based on the Vedic śruti texts in Brahma-sūtra 1 and the smṛti texts in Brahma-sūtra 2.1.) In Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya 2.2, Śaṃkara systematically refutes Sāṃkhyans, Vaiśeṣikas, various Buddhists, Jains, and then a conglomerate of those who suppose the Lord to be merely the efficient cause of the cosmos and not its substantial cause as well. They include Naiyāyikas and Māheśvara worshippers of Śiva, with Vaiśeṣika, Sāṃkhya and Yoga thrown in again for good measure. At one point they are condemned as vedabāhya (Brahma-sūtrabhāṣya 2.2.38; Suthren Hirst 2008). Throughout 2.2, strong verbs of refutation

52 J G Suthren Hirst are used: e.g. nir-ā-√kṛ (2.2.1), nir√as (2.2.33), prati√ṣidh (2.2.38). Moreover the views of the Buddhists and Vaiśeṣikas are ‘never to be relied on (natarām apekṣitavya)’ (2.2.18), ‘to be completely disregarded (atyantam anādāraṇīya)’ (2.2.17,32). In 2.2.42–45, the case is no different. Using prati-ā-√khyā, Śaṃkara speaks of refuting the Bhāgavatas, apparently equated with Pāñcarātrins, demolishes their view of ontology and causality, shows how a key Pāñcarātra teacher, Śāṇḍilya, slighted the Vedas and concludes, ‘Therefore it is established that this conception is “un-joined up”’ (2.2.45).1 Early on, however, a question is raised. Given that Śaṃkara has spent Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya 1 and 2.1 showing that brahman is both substantial and efficient cause of all, why should he now be targeting opponents who also hold this view? Śaṃkara concedes that there are aspects of the Bhāgavata view which are common (samāna) to his own, but emphasises that this section is to refute the rest.2 Perhaps then the illocutionary force of this passage is simply to hierarchise the Bhāgavata position just below the Advaitin one, showing that some aspects of it are less objectionable than the ‘vedabāhya’ schools, but that nonetheless it is finally to be rejected. Overall, I agree with this view. Pāñcarātra generally adheres to a highly ritualised cosmo-theology (Rastelli 1999a, 1999b) which would seem immediately at odds with Śaṃkara’s particular Advaitin rejection of all ritual (karma) as binding one to the world of rebirth. Nonetheless, I argue that the wording on Śaṃkara’s partial agreement is highly significant. In 2.2.42, he says: ‘If what is intended is the perpetual worship of this Lord, characterised by preparing for worship and so on, and done with the mind on none other, then this is not rejected.’3 The reference to ‘preparing for worship and so on’ (abhigamanādi) is to five specific Pāñcarātra practices which he has just named. The notion of constant focus occurs elsewhere in his commentaries.4 In other words, Śaṃkara takes pains to show that what he has in common (samāna) with the Bhāgavatas is not just broad acceptance of the Vedas or a generally similar teaching on causality. Rather his precise wording, as I shall show later, indicates that certain Bhāgavata practices and beliefs can be aligned with his own Advaitin understanding, an understanding which eventually transcends the issues of causality with which the Brahmasūtras themselves are, in his view, concerned. Thus in terms of the three Bhāgavata characteristics he identifies – theology of the transcendent Lord, psycho-cosmology of manifestation and devotional practice, it is only their particular views of the second with which he disagrees. This, I contend, both allows him to conform to the Brahma-sūtras’ own focus of rejecting false views on causality and leaves open a possible space for encounter. So although there is not an extended exchange between two different speakers overtly presented as in dialogue with each other, as in the narrative dialogues examined in this volume (for the distinction between narrative and discursive dialogues, see introduction, pp. XXX), the text contains clues that Śaṃkara might be willing to engage on some issues. It signals an implied or potential dialogue.

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This is not replicated in any other section of Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya 2.2. The only possible similarity is in 2.1.3, when Śaṃkara acknowledges that terms used by Sāṃkhya and by Yoga are found in the Upaniṣadic texts. However this does not lead him to suggest that he is in agreement with the way they interpret or practise such self-restraint. His emphasis is rather on showing why only Advaita can interpret such texts appropriately. Studying Śaṃkara’s remarks on the Bhāgavatas, the great Pāñcarātra scholar, Gerhard Oberhammer, using source-critical methods developed in biblical studies, had concluded that the statement about agreement should be seen as a fragmentary and problematic residue of an earlier non-Advaitin commentary, which Śaṃkara’s refutations are designed to reject (1977–1978: 231–233). His work highlights how unusual the particular format of Śaṃkara’s comment here is. I do not, however, think that we need to accept Oberhammer’s reading. As I shall show, there are good reasons to see Śaṃkara’s statement on agreement as not incompatible with other aspects of Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya 2.2.42–45 or his wider corpus, including his Gītā commentary. Although the Bhagavad-gītā was a text of no obvious appeal to an Advaitin, it was apparently Śaṃkara who set the precedent for including it in the triple foundation of texts (Upaniṣads, Brahma-sūtra and Gītā) on which it became mandatory for Vedāntins to comment. Our analysis here may, tangentially, suggest a reason for this. Our passage has also attracted the recent attention of other Pāñcarātra scholars, including Rastelli (1999a: 50) and Bock-Raming (2002: 248–257), the latter in some detail. Their primary purpose has, however, been to reconstitute the historical development of Pāñcarātra. In the following, I turn their approach on its head to see whether such scholarship lends any plausibility to the notion that Śaṃkara’s shaping of this particular debate may indicate an implied dialogue with a specific group amongst those whom he finally refutes. Having done so, I then show how Śaṃkara’s wider work suggests ways in which such a group of readers or potential pupils could be drawn to an Advaitin view, establishing both motive and opportunity.

The socio-religious context In Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya 2.2.42, Śaṃkara refers to his current interlocutors as ‘Bhāgavatas’. In 2.2.44 he then speaks of the pañcarātra-siddhāntins, those who hold the established position of the Pāñcaratra.5 The two terms have complex intertwined histories. ‘Bhāgavata’, ‘worshipper of Bhagavān = the Lord’, is sometimes used as a general term for all Vaiṣṇava worshippers, whatever their preferred name for the Supreme: Kṛṣṇa, Nārāyaṇa, Viṣṇu, Puruṣottoma or Vāsudeva, for example. Early-twentieth-century scholars tended to homogenise these traditions, S K De’s reference to ‘all the different mythological accounts of the Pāñcarātra-Nārāyaṇīya-Sātvata-Bhāgavata religion’ being typical (1931: 672). More recent scholarship tends to envisage historically different strands which become variously interwoven, their designations changing in significance through this process (e.g. Van Buitenen 1962; Brockington 1998: 298).6 ‘Bhāgavata’ can

54 J G Suthren Hirst then be used as including, or being synonymous with, terms such as ‘Sātvata’7 or ‘Pāñcarātra’, to designate some specific social, ritual or devotional group.8 Complicating matters further, Pāñcarātra itself comprises a complex of traditions rather than a single system (Rastelli 1999a; Leach 2014; pace van Buitenen 1962: 296), and within particular texts we find clues to how different groups were incorporated (cf Bock-Raming 1992 on Nārāyaṇīya, Mahābhārata 12.326.17–46). The equation of the terms ‘ekāntika’, ‘sātvata’, ‘bhāgavata’ and ‘pāñcarātrika’ is finally found by the time of the Padma-saṃhitā (late twelfth/ early thirteenth century) (Compagnone 2011: 361). This mêlée of Vaiṣṇava activity attracted responses from different brahmin constellations. Colas has demonstrated how brahminical texts of the ritual Kalpasūtra corpora used in South India were negotiating links between what was initially private household worship of deities like Viṣṇu and Śiva, and Vedic ritual (1995: 112–116). While the Baudhāyana collection, for example, was nonpartisan towards such deities, the Vaikhānasa-smārtasūtra largely focused on worship of Viṣṇu (115), as practised by those conversant with, and continuing in, Vedic ritual practice.9 Yielding equivalent results to worship of all (Vedic) deities (Vaikhānasa-smārtasūtra 4.10–12), it was to be practised ‘by everyone who has established (an image of) the highest god Viṣṇu in his dwelling’ (cited in Gonda 1977c: 597). The different positions of the standard Baudhāyana and the later Vaikhānasa texts immediately alert us to the fact that Vedic practitioners could take different approaches to Vaiṣṇava devotion, from ignoring it to showing its Vedic grounding. It is in such a pluriform context that Śaṃkara was teaching. The sectarian Vaiṣṇava Āgama texts, developed partly to guide public temple worship, and sometimes misleadingly presented as independent of the Veda,10 show further elaborations of this complexity amid concerns with boundarymarking. In South India, the Vaikhānasa Āgamas demarcated themselves as ‘Vedic’, insisting on their public temple officiants being brahmins. By contrast, some of the Pāñcarātra texts claimed their practice to be open to those from all varṇas and āśramas and to be inclusive of ritual specialists who came from jātis of particular types of ‘mixed parentage’.11 Interestingly, the Pāñcarātra Jayākhya-saṃhitā, c.600–850,12 a text whose perspective was quite possibly contemporary with Śaṃkara, presented itself as an integrating force for a diversity of Vaiṣṇava groups (Colas 1995: 118).13 Conversation partners? All this indicates that, amongst the profusion of Vaiṣṇava devotion, there was a spectrum of different socio-religious possibilities with mid- and end-points in the chart on the following page. Given, then, Śaṃkara’s presentation of the Bhāgavatas in Brahma-sūtrabhāṣya 2.2.42–45, can we find any indication on this spectrum of possible conversation partners with whom he might agree in some respects, and whose existence might have contributed to the shape of the debate in our passage? At first sight, this seems highly unlikely. For one thing, these are all people engaged

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Non-partisan Vedic brahmin ritualists

Brahmin practitioners integrating Vedic ritual with domestic and public worship of Viṣṇu

Integration of Vaiṣṇava diversity, including brahmin and nonbrahmin officiants

Baudhāyana older

Baudhāyana younger; Vaikhānasa

Jayākhya-saṃhitā (key Pāñcarātra Āgama)

in ritual practices which would appear to be at odds with Śaṃkara’s rejection of ritual action – except at the conventional level, and in preparatory purification for the pursuit of jñāna or liberating knowledge. For another, it would seem that those Pāñcarātra groups who tended towards including non-brahmin practitioners would be particularly unattractive to Śaṃkara, given the clear precedence he accords to brahmins in the search for liberation. Finally, Śaṃkara frequently warns the pupil or hearer against worshipping the Lord as separate from himself, whether with Vedic sacrificial oblations (bali), devotional offerings (upahāra), prostration before an image (namaskāra) or the performance of daily duties (varṇāśramakarma) (e.g Upadeśa-sāhasrī Gadya-bandha 1.25). End of conversation! However, I indicated above that, in Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya 2.2.42, Śaṃkara mentions a list of five key practices which he links approvingly with focused concentration on a single Lord. These five map directly onto the so-called pañcakāla rituals of the Pāñcarātrins, although Śaṃkara does not call them by this technical term. Work by Rastelli (2000) and Czerniak-Drożdżowicz (2002) may help us to understand not only Śaṃkara’s lack of opposition to these practices, but even his possible willingness to entertain them if directed aright. The crucial issue is who was qualified to perform these rituals within Pāñcarātra circles themselves. The five times The Jayākhya-saṃhitā calls these practices ‘pañcakāla’, literally, the ‘five times’. Named as such, they are allocated to different times throughout each day. Gonda and others assumed that these practices were to be performed by all Pāñcarātrins (1977a: 72). This would initially make sense, as we saw above that the Jayākhya seems to be a text which presents itself as incorporating different social and ritual groups of Vaiṣṇavas. However, it would hardly seem to make these five practices appealing to Śaṃkara, given his conservative brahminical social position. Rastelli’s close reading of the Jayākhya, however, challenges Gonda’s view. She argues that it was, in fact, only brahmins who were permitted to perform the pañcakāla rituals. She shows that, if a teacher who adhered to the rituals of the ‘five times’ was not present to receive the ritual kumbha (water pot), then a ‘devotee of Viṣṇu’ (viṣṇubhakta) who adhered to the six brahminical practices (ṣaṭkarma)14 could be the recipient (Rastelli 2000: 110–111). This implies that those who adhered to the pañcakāla were themselves brahmins, if a substitute

56 J G Suthren Hirst had to be not just a Viṣṇu-worshipper but a brahmin too. In addition, when the Jayākhya-saṃhitā delineates characteristics of various Vaiṣṇava groups, it is only the ‘Sātvatas’ who are specially linked with the performance of the pañcakāla rituals. These Sātvatas are further typified as those who, among the four varṇas, are qualified (adhikārin) to perform rituals and to give initiation (2000: 108, n.29). From Rastelli’s work it would, then, appear that, in this kind of milieu, the rituals of the five times – Śaṃkara’s five practices – were limited to brahmins. Indeed her comparison with the other ‘jewels’ of Pāñcarātra, the Sātvata- and Pauṣkara-saṃhitās, shows that these earliest texts indicate that Pāñcarātra integrated smṛti-based brahminical daily practice with other ritual procedures: worshipping God in images and maṇḍalas, tantric mantras and mudrās, and yogic practices used to mentally purify the body with the cosmic elements (2000: 128). When Śaṃkara apparently accepts the pañcakāla practices (provided they are read in an Advaitin way as we shall see below), it is possible that he may be making a bid to a very specific group of Viṣṇu-worshipping Vedic brahmins amongst the Pāñcarātrins, or at least keeping the Advaita door open to them. Far from belonging to a non- or extra-Vedic system, they were perhaps ritualists among the many groups attracted by the new devotionalism, clearly with good Vedic grounding of their own, some of whose practices Śaṃkara saw could be aligned with Advaita, given the right instruction.

Transforming implied conversation partners Before any transformative encounter can be imagined with this group, however, there is the major stumbling-block of a rejected ritually-directed causality to be overcome. To this we turn first. Vyūhas and (psycho-)cosmology: reorienting a worldview to a shared source The notion of four key manifestations or vyūhas became a trademark of Pāñcarātra, although the vyūhas’ relation to the transcendent, the names used for each, and their identifications with different aspects of pure, primal, manifest and mantric creations were highly fluid and contested within Vaiṣṇava traditions themselves.15 In Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya 2.2.42–45, Śaṃkara rejects three different versions of vyūha theory. Here I show why and then argue that, nevertheless, he leaves a space for another reading of the vyūhas, which is neither foreign to some strands of Pāñcarātra nor finally incompatible with Advaita. This space, I hold, leaves open the potential for dialogue with those pañcakāla-practising brahmins. In his list of the Bhāgavatas’ three characteristics, Śaṃkara outlines what I name ‘Position A’. This holds that Vāsudeva divides into four manifestations, named Vāsudeva, Saṃkarṣaṇa, Pradyumna and Aniruddha,16 aligned respectively with different aspects of consciousness: supreme self (paramātman), embodied self (jīva), mind (manas) and ego or I-sense (ahaṃkāra). Underlying this is

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a pentadic model of a transcendent (Vāsudeva), plus four aligned forms (starting with Vāsudeva/supreme self), a pentad with parallels in some Pāñcarātrin texts.17 Later in 2.2.42, Śaṃkara presents this slightly differently. I designate this ‘Position B’: ‘the view that Saṃkarṣaṇa originates from Vāsudeva, and Pradyumna from Saṃkarṣaṇa, and Aniruddha from Pradyumna’.18 Following the Brahma-sūtra (2.2.42: utpatty-asaṃbhavāt, and 2.2.43: na ca kartuḥ karaṇam), Śaṃkara castigates this for faulty causality, while matching each vyūha with its level of consciousness from Position A.19 On an Advaitin view, the supreme self cannot give rise to the individual self nor the individual self to the mind, nor the mind to the ego, with each having independent causal status. Firstly, this would make the individual self impermanent, since, as an effect, it would necessarily come into being and have an end. It would thus be non-existent after liberation (Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya 2.2.42), undermining the whole point of both (Advaita) Vedānta and Bhāgavata practice itself. Secondly, Position B would mean that the individual self as agent would originate the mind which is an instrument, but this instrument would then have to become the agent to originate the ego in turn. Śaṃkara finds such a view bizarre, and lacking any supporting example (2.2.43), that is, not able to satisfy the conditions of rational debate (see Chapter 4 in this volume). In 2.2.44, in response, the opponent is given the opportunity to reformulate his understanding of the vyūhas. I refer to this as ‘Position C’. Rather than being identified with different aspects of consciousness, the vyūhas should all be seen as lords (īśvarāḥ) possessing the divine (aiśvara-) attributes of jñāna (knowledge), aiśvarya (sovereignty), bala (potentiality), śakti (active power), vīrya (might) and tejas (splendour). But then, Śaṃkara responds, this also suffers from an incoherent causality.20 Since on this view, each vyūha/Lord possesses the same attributes, what is there to distinguish them, one from another, and on what grounds could one of these Lords be the cause of others the same as him, since there must be a hierarchy of some kind between cause and effect? It is unsurprising that, as an Advaitin, Śaṃkara should find the causality embedded in both Position A/B and Position C problematic. Throughout his corpus, Śaṃkara holds that the individual self is nothing other than the supreme self, once all fictitious ‘embodying’ differences, including the manas and ahaṃkāra, are cleared away. These Bhāgavata views on Bhagavān as substantial and efficient cause are simply unacceptable, because, on Position B, they distribute forms of causality to other independent causes (the other vyūhas), and, on Position C, they make no distinctions between these vyūhas and therefore have no basis for a cause-effect relation at all. Nonetheless, Śaṃkara does leave space for our imagined partner in the implied dialogue. When refuting Position C, he claims that that position is actually incompatible with the pañcarātra-siddhāntins’ own view that the sole Vāsudeva, the Lord alone, is the ultimate reality21 and that there is no difference created by varying proportions of knowledge, sovereignty etc between any of the vyūhas.22 ‘For all the vyūhas without distinction (nirviśeṣa) are regarded as Vāsudeva’s alone’.23 He also intimates that these Pāñcarātra followers share the view that

58 J G Suthren Hirst everything from Brahmā down to a blade of grass is just a manifestation of the Lord (bhagavad-vyūha).24 This aligns with his comment in 2.2.42: Thus25 insofar as it may be said that this Nārāyaṇa, well-known as supreme because unmanifested, the supreme self, the self of all, remains as one, having divided (vyūhya) itself by itself, that is not denied. For the nature of the supreme self is understood to be one from śruti passages such as ‘It is onefold, it is threefold’. (Chāndogya-upaniṣad 7.23.2)26 Appealing here to what would be a common authority and subtly arrogating the Pāñcarātrins’ key term (vyūha) – a common strategy of interpretation in both truth- and victory-directed debates – Śaṃkara shows how the underlying view of the Supreme held by his imagined partner is precisely compatible with Advaita. The problem is not with the premise of Position A, a transcendent underlying all forms, but with the assumption that the vyūhas are limited to four or are causally related. Śaṃkara can move forward with someone who worships the transcendent supreme and recognises its plethora of manifestations.27 Worship: reorienting a practice to a shared focus Śaṃkara lists the Bhāgavata religious practices as: preparing for worship (abhigamana), getting material for offerings (upādāna), making offerings (ījya), studying important texts (svādhyāya) and mental control (yoga).28 These terms are precisely those used for the pañcakāla in the Pāñcarātra texts themselves (e.g. Jayākhya-saṃhitā 22.69–72). These are the practices that Śaṃkara specifically approved, if undertaken as perpetual worship to a Lord who is both substantial and efficient cause, and with the mind focused on none another (ananyacittatayā). In previous work, I have shown how Śaṃkara uses this notion of ananyacitta to move from one-pointed meditation on the Lord to a notion of total focus yielding the Advaitin understanding of brahman as none other than the self (1993: 122–124). For him, it is significant that this notion comes explicitly from the Gītā (8.22; 11.54 – equated with ananyabhakti) and is there by implication in Upaniṣadic texts. This partly explains his next comment in Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya 2.2.42 that the reason he does not disagree with such a notion is because ‘worship of the Lord’ (īśvara-praṇidhāna) is well-known in śruti and smṛti texts.29 Again, he appeals to a shared authority. This is quite unlike the way in which he treats the Īśvara of the Māheśvara Śaivas, addressed with the Naiyāyikas and Vaiśeṣikas in the previous adhikarāna. There, no grounds for agreement are cited nor recognition of their devotional practices given.30 Perhaps Śaṃkara is negotiating middle ground with some of the brahmin Bhāgavatas he addresses, indicating a readiness to engage that he does not have with adherents of Śaiva traditions. Czerniak-Drożdżowicz’s work, along with Rastelli’s, has shown rather precisely what the nature of that middle ground of ‘perpetual worship’ might be.

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The pañcakāla were each allocated to a segment of the day, such that the devotee’s time was totally involved in different aspects of worshipping the Lord, from the early morning preparation of the devotee’s ritually created body and daily obligations; through the gathering of materials needed for worship – flowers, fruits, grains, fuel and so forth; the making of that offering after bathing, incorporating household (gṛhya) rituals; then recitation and textual study; leading into night practice of yogic contemplation (2002: 51). In that sense, the Bhāgavatas share with Śaṃkara an understanding that the religious quest cannot be less than all-consuming, that the Lord/brahman is the sole end of life. This becomes particularly clear in the slightly later Pāñcarātra text, the Parama-saṃhitā (c.800), which presents a distinct but overlapping set of practices, collectively called the aṣṭadhāvidhi.31 These ‘eightfold forms of worship (or prescriptions)’ become explicitly understood as the total mapping of the Vaiṣṇava’s focus onto preparing for, inviting the presence within, and contemplation of, the Lord, as Czerniak-Drożdżowicz argues (2002: 52). It would seem, then, that Śaṃkara, equating the five practices to īśvara-praṇidhāna and perpetual worship, was fully conversant with the genre of Vaiṣṇava worship involved and, indeed, sanctioned such unifocal concentration, perhaps as a preparation and shared basis for further conversation. Yet the term (aṣṭadhā)-‘vidhi’ alerts us to that old niggle about ritual practice and prescription. In Śaṃkara’s work, ‘vidhi’ is usually associated with the rejected position of Pūrvamīmāṃsaka ritualists, for whom vidhis (prescriptions) were primarily Vedic injunctions to act in a particular way in order to receive a particular result. Indeed much of Pāñcarātra ritual, intimately linked with its cosmology as Rastelli emphasises throughout her work, is aimed at gaining particular results and worldly benefits of ‘enjoyment’ (bhukti) through ritual, whether as an alternative option to a search for liberation or in combination with it.32 However, there developed within Pāñcarātra an internal debate as to whether bhukti should accompany the search for liberation (mukti) or be entirely replaced by it (cf Rastelli 2007). It is possible that Śaṃkara was aware of early forms of this debate and was seeking to draw into conversation those brahmin practitioners of pañcakāla who saw their worship as a search for liberation through total dedication to the Lord as their single-pointed focus and end. Śaṃkara’s appeal to their shared grounding in śruti and smṛti consolidates the possibility of taking the conversation further, establishing the mutually acknowledged premises for debate required by Nyāya rules. The next phase of the conversation is not overt in Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya 2.2.42ff, where the opponent is not given a return voice. However, Upadeśasāhasrī Prose Section 1 shows explicitly how to draw an interested Viṣṇu-worshipping Vedicly-grounded brahmin towards a more thorough-going Advaitin understanding of his practice and its goal. Here, the teacher shows that the pupil’s desire to worship the transcendent Lord because He is ‘other’ is not appropriate, ‘because the notion of difference [has been] refuted’33 (Upadeśa-sāhasrī Gadya-bandha 1.26). Then he shows how the Chāndogya Upaniṣad embodies the process whereby the seeker is drawn to Advaitin realisation, first by saying,

60 J G Suthren Hirst ‘This is the self; you are that’ (6.8.7 et passim), then by emphasising the need for a teacher (6.14.2) and finally by saying, ‘Of this [notion of difference], only for the time [one is not freed] …’ (6.14.2).34 Finally the teacher cites one of the Chāndogya’s own illustrations: the branded thief is like the person marked by the misconception of difference who has to undergo transmigration; the person who is not a thief, unbranded, like the one who is liberated from it (6.16.2). A debate with a philosophical opponent does have to be distinguished from a directly transformative teacher-pupil dialogue. However, given Śaṃkara’s pedagogical concern throughout his commentaries (Suthren Hirst 2005), I suggest that there is potential to read the agreement signalled so particularly in Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya 2.2.42 (and 44) as an implied dialogue with a particular group of bhakti-orientated pañcakāla-performing brahmins (perhaps similar to the Jāyākhya-saṃhitā’s ‘Sātvatas’), and having transformative potential for the kind of brahmin pupil-seeker-reader modelled in Upadeśa-sāhasrī Gadyapada 1. Theology: reorienting divine qualities to the one beyond In 2.2.44 and 45, Śaṃkara mentions the six Vaiṣṇava divine qualities, namely, knowledge (jñāna), sovereignty (aiśvarya), potentiality (bala), power (śakti), might (vīrya) and splendour (tejas). In many of the Pāñcarātra-saṃhitās, all six are said to be attributes of Vāsudeva, with successive pairs being linked with the vyūhas of Saṃkarṣāṇa (jñāna and āiśvarya), Pradyumna (bala and śakti) and Aniruddha (vīrya and tejas) in various ways, and indeed with different cosmic directions.35 Śaṃkara, however, attributes all six to each ‘Lord’ in order to reject the opponent’s position on causality as incoherent. Nonetheless, he is not simply being mischievous, when he states that ‘the followers of Pañcarātra do not understand there to be any difference whatsoever created by the proportion of knowledge, sovereignty etc in one (of the four vyūhas), Vāsudeva etc, or in all’.36 The hierarchical association of different pairs of the qualities with each of the vyūhas, implicitly denied here, is not found in Jayākhya-saṃhitā either, as Rastelli notes (1999a: 52). We might, though, expect Śaṃkara to reject these qualities per se in conformity with his major theme: that brahman is nirguṇa, without any quality whatsoever. Śaṃkara’s own works, however, show that, far from rejecting the six divine qualities in their entirety, he introduced them in his commentaries where his root text did not require this to be the case. While I have demonstrated this at length elsewhere, here I focus on two specific examples, which, I argue, indicate how the possible conversation underlying parts of Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya 2.2.42–45 could be continued. The first occurs in his commentary on Bṛhadāraṇyaka-upaniṣad 3. Here, Śaṃkara explains that different names are given to the self, in and of itself, and to the self with different contingent attributes. In itself, it is designated only by ‘neti neti’, without any quality whatsoever. However, with ‘eternal pre-eminent knowledge and power’37 it is ‘the Inner Ruler, Īśvara’ (Bṛhadāraṇyaka-upani

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ṣad-bhāṣya 3.8.12), ‘called Nārāyaṇa’ (3.7.3); with body, organs, misconception, desire and action, it is ‘jīva’ (3.8.12). Here, Śaṃkara recognises: a transcendent beyond all qualities; Nārāyaṇa, attributed with jñāna and śakti, two of the six Vaiṣṇava qualities; and an embodied self, manifesting the features of one with manas and ahaṃkāra at an individual level. While this does not map exactly onto Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya 2.2.42 nor indeed onto the complex levels of Pāñcarātrin cosmology, it indicates how a conversation might progress with those who: hold the Supreme Vāsudeva to be the sole transcendent reality; use the name ‘Nārāyaṇa’; attribute the six divine qualities to the Supreme; call different forms of the Supreme by terms such as jīva; and might be drawn into the Advaitin understanding that these attributions are simply superimposed on the one without and beyond all qualities. This leads to my second example. In his Gītā-bhāṣya introduction, Śaṃkara unequivocally attributes the six qualities to the Lord who becomes embodied, as it were, as Kṛṣṇa.38 Gītā-bhāṣya 15.16–20 can be read to show how to proceed with transforming understanding of (five of) the six qualities into realisation of the one without qualities. Śaṃkara makes clear that 15.16 marks a crucial turn in the text from epitomising the splendour of ‘Bhagavān, the Lord called Nārāyaṇa’ through particular/wonderful contingent attributes (viśiṣṭopādhikṛta) (12.12–15) to wanting to pick out that very one (tasyaiva) as distinct from the perishable and imperishable (Bhagavad-gītā 15.16), indeed as the sole reality having no contingent attributes whatsoever.39 The impersonal construction of the Sanskrit allows Śaṃkara both to identify the subject of the two parts of the text as one and to keep all naming vocabulary on the side of the contingent attributes and cosmic processes. First, Śaṃkara emphasises that it is the inner consciousness of all beings (pratyakcetanaḥ), which is nityaśuddhabuddhamuktasvabhāvaḥ (his phrase for talking of brahman beyond attributes), that is called ‘supreme self’ in the Upaniṣads/Vedānta (15.17). When, however, this very one ‘“supports the three worlds” simply through its own nature …’, ‘it is specified as the “unchanging” Lord, the omniscient one, called Nārāyaṇa in its character as ruler’ (sa eva viśeṣyate … ‘avyaya’ īśvara sarvajño nārāyaṇākhya īśanaśīlaḥ). ‘“By entering” the three worlds’ ‘by his own power of potentiality which is consciousness’ (svakīyayā caitanyabalaśaktyā), Nārāyaṇa exercises lordship (15.17). Within that manifested world, Kṛṣṇa possesses Viṣṇu’s splendour (‘tejas …’ … mama viṣṇos taj jyotiḥ) (15.12) and sovereign power free from desire and attachment (yad balaṃ kāmarāgavivarjitam aiśvaram) (15.13). Śaṃkara’s glosses here evoke five of the six Vaiṣṇava qualities (as named or alluded to above) and allow us to imagine his conversation with a Vediclygrounded brahmin worshipper of Viṣṇu, perhaps one who had already taken vyūha initiation to develop the six qualities in himself while remaining open to liberation (cf Rastelli 2000: 113 n.51). The familiar six qualities – not paired, but clustered, not of the transcendent beyond, but of its grounding of the cosmos – point past the multiplicity of that changing cosmos with its seed in the māyāśakti or creative power of the Lord (15.16),40 first to the one omniscient Lord whose power is the potential within consciousness (15.17), then to the inner

62 J G Suthren Hirst consciousness called ‘the supreme self’ (15.17) and finally to that which is beyond all specification whatsoever. The Gītā then advocates worship of Kṛṣṇa with one’s whole being (sarvabhāvena) to know all through the self of all (Gītā-bhāṣya 15.19). Perhaps Śaṃkara’s imagined dialogue partner would recall his unswerving pañcakāla contemplation of Vāsudeva. Using Kṛṣṇa’s voice, Śaṃkara slips in that the one whose delusion is removed knows, ‘I am that’ (ayam aham asmīti), perhaps knows that Kṛṣṇa is the Supreme Person. The worshipper who identifies himself ritually with Viṣṇu could hear it in his own way. But surely too, Śaṃkara intends his interlocutor to progress to the Advaita Vedāntin interpretation of tat tvam asi, ‘You are that’: one’s own self is none other than the self which is the consciousness that grounds yet transcends the cosmos. Śaṃkara confirms in 15.20 that the whole teaching of the Veda has been summed up in this Chapter. For Śaṃkara, the ‘paramārthatattva’, the supreme reality and highest truth, heard from Kṛṣṇa Vāsudeva, and elaborated with Pāñcarātra undertones to draw pupils from such a context to the truth, is indeed the core of Advaita Vedānta: neti neti, you are that.

Conclusion Overall, Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya 2.2.42–45 is an unequivocal refutation of the various possible Bhāgavata/Pāñcarātra views of causality which Śaṃkara considers and controls. The case is strengthened by criticism of their apparent inconsistency in explaining the categorisation of the so-called ṣāḍgūṇya, and sealed with the observation that Śāṇḍilya found the Veda lacking. Nonetheless, the illocutionary force of the specific form and wording of his commentary suggests that this is not the whole story. Unlike in any other section of 2.2, Śaṃkara takes pains to elaborate on the nature of his agreement with his interlocutors. In this Chapter I have argued that this difference in form might indicate Śaṃkara’s readiness to engage with at least some of his Bhāgavata discussants. Recent scholarship on the Pāñcarātra traditions then provided a clue to their possible identity: Vedicly-trained brahmins, attracted by rising devotion to Viṣṇu and practising the rituals of the five times along with their usual smṛti rituals in a Pāñcarātra context. While Śaṃkara would not condone ritual as the means to liberation, I have suggested that the points of agreement he selects might have functioned as a basis for a further conversation. Such an interchange would certainly have Advaitin realisation as its long-term goal but would work from the partners’ own experience of identification with the Supreme through rituals designed to train the focus solely on that transcendent one in every part of their life, and with liberation as their end. While Śaṃkara is clear that following that practice embedded in a faulty causality and vyūha-based psycho-cosmology could not yield the desired end, he shows in other parts of his corpus how a worshipping seeker can be brought from a false view of difference to Advaitin realisation using methods based in the Upaniṣads themselves, texts he specifically adduces in Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya 2.2.42 as shared ground. This passage

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may therefore be read as containing an implied dialogue with a conversation partner, expected encounter with whom has transformation from Pāñcarātra practitioner to Advaitin realisation as its goal. If this is a plausible reading, then a reason for Śaṃkara’s composition of a commentary on the Bhagavad-gītā suggests itself. Developing a Vedāntagrounded Advaita in a South Indian context of intense competition and negotiation between different Vaiṣṇava groups, Śaṃkara takes the opportunity not just to relegate the theology and practice of such groups to Advaita as a positioning strategy, but uses a central text, the Gītā, to show how, rightly interpreted, aspects of Vaiṣṇava theology and practice can provide a stepping stone along the way to non-dual realisation. Whether or not this was a successful recruiting strategy would be difficult to tell. Unlike Rāmānuja, who approvingly quotes the Sātvataand the Pauṣkara-saṃhitās, reads 2.2.42 (Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya 2.2.44) as endorsing Pāñcarātra and incorporates Yāmuna’s Pāñcarātra-based Āgama-prāmāṇya into a fully Vedāntin framework,41 Śaṃkara would have no use for integrating Pāñcarātra itself into his Advaita. Any pañcakāla brahmin, drawn into dialogue through Śaṃkara’s anticipated encounter, would, in time, have been expected to abandon that ritual past like the devotionally-minded pupil in Thousand Teachings who, intent on realising the supreme, subsides – into silence.42

Notes 1 tasmād asaṃgataiṣā kalpaneti siddham. cf 2.2.36: ataś ca saugatavad arhatam api matam asaṅgatam ity upekṣitavyam; 2.2.41 on Nyāya, Vaiśeṣika, Māheśvara etc: tasmād apy asaṃgatas tārkikaparigṛhīta īśvarakāraṇavādaḥ. 2 Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya 2.2.42 ll.6–7: ucyate yadyapy evaṃjātīyako ‘ṃśaḥ samānatvān na visaṃvādagocaro bhavaty asti tv aṃśāntaraṃ visaṃvādasthānam ity atas tatpratyākhyānāyārambhaḥ. 3 yad api tasya bhagavato ‘bhigamanādilakṣaṇam ārādhanam ajasram ananyacittatayābhipreyate, tad api na pratiṣidhyate, p. 260, ll.5–7. 4 e.g. Gītā-bhāṣya 11.54 sā tvananyā bhaktiḥ sarvair api karaṇair vāsudevād anyan nopalabhyate … 5 2.2.44 begins, ‘athāpi syān na ca …’ in the opponent’s mouth as if the discussion were simply continuing, not involving a new party. Śaṃkara’s response merely starts, ‘atrocyate evaṃ api …’ (‘even so, …’). The Pāñcarātra position is not treated as that of a new group but as showing how the opponent’s reformulated position on vyūhas is incoherent (see below). Bhāskara introduces his whole discussion: idānīṃ pañcarātrasiddhāntaparīkṣyate – ‘The position of Pañcarātra is now examined’ (Śārīkamīmāṃsa-bhāṣya 2.2.40//Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya 2.2.42). Interestingly, he first expresses agreement with their forms of worship and view that Vāsudeva is both material and efficient cause. It is when he goes on to disagree with the view on sequential causality that he identifies it as what Bhāgavatas think. 6 Van Buitenen notes though that, already in the Mahābhārata, ‘The tradition in which the cosmology and individuation theory of puruṣa, jīva, manas, and ahaṃkāra was formulated with Kṛṣṇaite nomenclature, and which surely also involved a Kṛṣṇa devotion, is described as Sātvata, Bhāgavata, and Pañcarātra’, suggesting the equivalence of these terms at that stage (1962: 296). 7 The term ‘Sātvata’ is found in the Nārāyaṇīya in MBh 12.236.13–18. Bakker describes the Sātvatas as a ‘Bhāgavata organisation’ having its roots in western

64 J G Suthren Hirst

8 9 10 11 12

13

14 15 16

India, who worshipped Vāsudeva ‘and the four other members of the Vṛṣṇi clan’ (2010: 469). They gained royal patronage, e.g. under the Vākātaka king, Rudrasena II, a Bhāgavata (Mandhal Plates); cf. Tusam Rock Inscription. Shastri (1994) notes they were recognised as Vedic by fourth c. AD. Matsubara concludes on ‘Sāt(t)vata’: ‘the early Pāñcarātrikas’ close affiliation with Vāsudeva, the supreme God of the Bhāgavatas, is beyond doubt’ (1994: 62). e.g. Pāñcarātra identification of the Paramēccuraviṇṇagaram royal temple in Kāñcipuram, built by king Pallavamalla, after his adult initiation as Bhāgavata and victory over a Pāṇḍya alliance (Hudson 2007: 131ff). Colas argues that the later Vaikhānasa-śrautasūtra reveals an even stronger focus on devotion to Viṣṇu or Nārāyana (cf Gonda 1977b; Colas 1996: 63). Czerniak-Drożdżowicz (2002: 54). Young (2007: 281) notes that the Black Yajur Veda, widespread in the South, has material which permits śūdras to participate in Vedic rituals, suggesting that this feature of Pāñcarātra should not be seen as indicating non-Vedic status. Bock-Raming dates this tentatively to around 900 AD, accepting Vetter’s range of dates for Śaṃkara (650–850 AD), but considers Jayākhya-saṃhitā 4.1–19 to belong to the early layer of Pāñcarātra references and texts including MBh 12.326.35–39, 41–43 and Śaṃkara’s Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya 2.2.42–45 (2002: 221–247; 248 n.44). Rastelli seems to accept 650–800 but shows how late it is before Jayākhya-saṃhitā is quoted (1999a Introduction). She also rejects Bock-Raming’s view on origin and gives the text a mid-India rather than South Indian origin (2004), though this does not preclude its southern circulation. cf Colas (2005: 136) ‘The Jayākhya-saṃhitā illustrates a period when the Pāñcarātra group or part of it invited Vaikhānasas to participate in its rites [pace Bock-Raming (2002)]. On the other hand, the Vaikhānasa saṃhitās of around the tenth century often reflect rivalry with the Pāñcarātra tradition.’ adhyāpana (teaching Vedic texts), adhyayana (studying Vedic texts), yajana (making offerings), yājana (making offerings on behalf of others), dāna (giving), pratigraha (receiving gifts as a brahmin prerogative). See respectively Rastelli (1999a), Bock-Raming (2002), Rastelli (2004), Couture (2006). Originally members of Kṛṣṇa’s Vṛṣṇi clan, theologised variously e.g MBh 6.61.65–66: Having created the divine Saṃkarṣaṇa out of thy own Self by Thyself, thou didst then, O Kṛṣṇa, create Thyself as Pradyumna, born of Thyself. From Pradyumna thou didst then create Aniruddha who is known as the eternal Viṣṇu. And it was Aniruddha who created me as Brahmā, the upholder of the Universe. (cited in Couture 2006: 573)

17 e.g. Jayākhya-saṃhitā 6.184c-198 where Vāsudeva, Acyuta, Satya and Puruṣa are identified as upāṅgamantras, above which is a fifth (also Satya) (Rastelli 1999a: 52, cf 135ff). Sātvata-saṃhitā 4.1–20: To make brahman manifest the practitioner meditatively enters the sacrificial post, brahman, which unfolds itself as white-light Vāsudeva (East), red Saṃkarṣaṇa (South), surpassing-sun’s-rays Pradyumna (West), autumn-sky Aniruddha (North) (Sanskrit in Bock-Raming 2002: 71). 18 yat punar idam ucyate vāsudevāt saṃkarṣaṇa utpadyate saṃkarṣaṇāc ca pradyumnaḥ pradyumnāc cāniruddha iti. 19 Bock-Raming (1992) notes the parallels of this tetradic view with the sequential relation and similar identifications in Mahābhārata 12.326.39: yo vāsudevo bhagavān kṣetrajño nirguṇātmakaḥ / jñeyaḥ sa eva bhagavān jīvaḥ saṃkarṣaṇaḥ prabhuḥ // saṃkarṣaṇāc ca pradyumno manobhūtaḥ sa ucyate / pradyumnād yo ‘niruddhas tu so ‘haṃkāro maheśvaraḥ //

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20 Reading Brahma-sūtra 2.2.44: vijñānādibhāve vā tad-apratiṣedhaḥ to indicate that there is non-contradiction (apratiṣedha) of that (tad), the previous problem of faulty causality, even if the existence of divine qualites such as vijñāna = jñāna etc are posited. Bhāskara follows this reading on 2.2.42 (=Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya 2.2.44): tatrottaram – vijñānādibhāve’pi tadapratiṣedha utpattyasambhavadoṣasyāpratiṣedhaḥ syād evāsau doṣa iti. Rāmānuja (Śrī-bhāṣya 2.2.42 = Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya 2.2.44) takes a different (and perhaps more obvious) reading of tad-apratiṣedha, to argue that there is no objection to the Bhāgavata system here. Rāmānuja omits the final sūtra given in Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya 2.2.45 which is more obviously read as a refutation. 21 siddhāntahāniś ca. bhagavān evaiko vāsudevaḥ paramārthatattvam ityabhyupagamāt. 22 See n.36. 23 Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya 2.2.44: vāsudevā eva hi sarve vyūhā nirviśeṣā iṣyante. 24 cf e.g. Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya 1.3.30. 25 i.e.following on from the statement about the five practices. 26 tatra yat yāvad ucyeta yo’sau nārāyaṇaḥ paro’vyaktāt prasiddhaḥ paramātmā sarvātmā sa ātmanātmānam ekadhā vyūhyāvasthita iti, tan na nirākriyate, “sa ekadhā bhavati tridhā bhavati” ityādiśrutibhyaḥ paramātmano ‘nekadhābhāvasyādhigatatvāt, p. 260, ll.1–5. 27 Pāñcarātra, besides vyūhas, recognises vibhavas, avatāras etc, as well as the vyūhas’ manifestations in different cosmic levels. 28 Amending my translations from Suthren Hirst (1993); following Czerniak-Drożdżowicz (2002). 29 śrutismṛtyor īśvarapraṇidhānam prasiddhatvāt, p. 260, l.7. 30 To discuss possible contemporary rituals found in Śaiva Āgamas is beyond the scope of this paper. See Brunner-Lachaux (1977), Flood (2003). 31 General obligations (samaya), daily morning routine (samācāra), recitation and study of holy texts (svādhyāya), collection of substances (dravyasaṃgraha), purification (śuddhi), daily worship (yāga), praise (stuti) and meditation (dhyāna), citing Paramasaṃhitā 3.37 (Czerniak-Drożdżowicz 2002: 35; cf 2003: 185–220). 32 The Jayākhya-saṃhitā recognised three types of initiation: (i) for practices yielding worldly results and special powers (siddhi); (ii) vyūhadīkṣā, for developing either the six divine qualities or liberation; (iii) for liberation only (Rastelli 2000: 113 n.51). 33 Upadeśa-sāhasrī Gadya-bandha 1.26 pratiṣiddhatvād bhedapratipatteḥ. 34 Chāndogya-upaniṣad 6.14.2 … tāvad eva ciraṃ yāvan na vimokṣye … cf Śaṃkara’s commentary ad loc (Suthren Hirst 2016). 35 cf Sātvata-saṃhitā 3.1-15ab (Sanskrit and German translation, Bock-Raming 2002: 69) and the later Lakṣmī-tantra, ch.2 on the Pure Creation, where the ṣāḍguṇya are attributes of Lakṣmī as māyā (2.24–60; for translation, Gupta 1972: 10–14). 36 Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya 2.2.44, p. 261, ll.10–11 na ca pañcarātrasiddhāntibhir vāsudevādiṣv ekasmin sarveṣu vā jñānāiśvaryāditāratamyakṛtaḥ kaścid bhedo ‘bhyupagamyate. 37 nityaniratiśayajñānaśaktyupādhiḥ. 38 sa ca bhagavān jñānaiśvaryaśaktibalavīryatejobhiḥ sadā …, p. 4 l.5. 39 Gītā-bhāṣya 15.16, p. 627 l.2–4: bhagavata īśvarasya nārāyaṇākhyasya vibhūtisaṃkṣepa ukto viśiṣṭopādhikṛto yadādityagataṃ teja ityādinā, athādhunā tasyaiva kṣarākṣaropādhipravibhaktatayā nirupādhikasya kevalasya svarūpanirdidhārayiṣyottaraślokā ārabhyante. 40 cf the notion of the śakti of the nitya-śuddha Lord in Jayākhya-saṃhitā (Rastelli 1999a: 114–116). 41 cf Oberhammer (1971). 42 Upadeśa-sāhasrī Gadya-bandha 1.44 tasmād avidyākāryatvāt sarvakarmāṇāṃ tatsādhanānāṃ ca … paramārthadarśananiṣṭhena tyāgaḥ kartavyaḥ, to which the pupil makes no further reply. cf 2.111 ‘Om’.

4

We resort to reason The argumentative structure in Veṅkaṭanātha’s Seśvaramīmāṃsā Elisa Freschi1

We are not believers and resort to reason. (Yāmuna, Saṃvitsiddhi)

Veṅkaṭanātha (also known as Vedānta Deśika) was a Vaiṣṇava philosopher and polymath who lived in South India in the thirteenth to fourteenth century and systematised what we now know as Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta.2 His Seśvaramīmāṃsā, an original commentary on the Pūrva Mīmāṃsā Sūtra, is a thoroughly argumentative work: each conclusion is achieved in a dialectical way as arising from a discussion with opponents, and a discussion is adjudicated on the basis of the use of instruments of knowledge acknowledged by both sides. This study will examine this structure and compare discussions where different types of opponents figure. Next, it will examine the question of the reasons for the choice of an argumentative method by Veṅkaṭanātha. Is the argumentative style consistent with, or even constitutive of, the philosophical nature of the Seśvaramīmāṃsā? In order to answer this question, I will consider whether Veṅkaṭanātha’s style in the Seśvaramīmāṃsā was determined by: • • • •

(a) the genre the Seśvaramīmāṃsā belongs to (i.e., the śāstra style inaugurated by Patañjali’s Mahābhāṣya); (b) a common practice in Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta in general; (c) Veṅkaṭanātha’s approach as detected in all his works; (d) all the above.

My conclusion will be that Veṅkaṭanātha reinforced a tendency already present in Yāmuna and Rāmānuja and oriented Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta towards being primarily a philosophical school insofar as it complies with the conventions of dialogues as found in śāstra texts.

(Philosophical) dialogues What does ‘dialogue’ mean in classical India? It is an interaction with two or more interlocutors which entails an openness towards the possibility of change – although

We resort to reason 67 this possibility is only partly actualised (see Chapters 6–9). In philosophical texts, dialogues assume an argumentative form which often follows the example of Pūrva Mīmāṃsā texts, with a prima facie view (called pūrvapakṣa), one or more responses and a final concluding view (or siddhānta) (see Freschi, Coquereau and Muzaffar 2017, Section 4.1, for more details). The shared tools are in this case the epistemological means accepted by one’s school, or, even better, by all schools. The style of Veṅkaṭanātha’s dialogues Veṅkaṭanātha and his Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta predecessors do not diverge from the general śāstric attitude towards dialogues, insofar as these are represented in a manner which highlights their content rather than their form, so that the individuality of the speakers is hardly represented (see also Chapter 3). At times, the siddhāntin ‘upholder of the conclusive view’ may dare a bolder attack and accuse his opponents of being blind believers or gullible (see subsection on Yāmuna below), but these attacks conform to the general rhetoric about what counts as an epistemologically sound argumentation. Opponents are even less characterised as individual speakers.

Is the argumentative style typical of Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta in general? Rāmānuja’s and Yāmuna’s dialogues Yāmuna Yāmuna is not strictly speaking a Vedāntin, at least not in all his works.3 Nonetheless, the extant portion of his Saṃvitsiddhi starts with a typically Vedānta concern, namely the exegesis of some Upaniṣadic statements, and especially of the word advaita within them. The presence of an Upaniṣadic, and, therefore, authoritative, starting point does not mean that there is no space for argumentation. On the contrary, Yāmuna discusses at length various possible interpretations, so that the quotes open the discussion rather than closing it. In this sense, the Upaniṣadic quotes have the same role of controversial sacrificial issues in Pūrva Mīmāṃsā: the discussion is prompted by the problem they raise, and the only limitation of the dialogue is the very validity of this starting point. The structure of the first pages of the Saṃvitsiddhi is the same found at times in the Seśvaramīmāṃsā insofar as the opinions of several different schools are briefly examined and refuted. However, in these pages of the Saṃvitsiddhi the opponents have only one chance to speak out their opinion, the discussion does not involve a single speaker at length, and after one has been defeated, Yāmuna moves swiftly to the next one. The situation changes, even within the same Saṃvitsiddhi, once Yāmuna moves to a topic which has metaphysical and not only hermeneutical relevance, namely whether there is only one saṃvit ‘cognition’, or whether this is differentiated according to its various intentional contents. Here, the discussion turns into an engaging succession of objections and replies. As noted in subsection ‘The style of Veṅkaṭanātha’s dialogues’ above, Yāmuna at times allows some space for sarcasm. An interesting case contrasts Yāmuna’s

68 Elisa Freschi point of view to that of opponents censured for their being (sheer) ‘believers’. The opponents are identified as brahmavidaḥ ‘knowers of brahman’ and they speak at length denying the reality of difference (bheda) and stating that this is neither directly perceivable nor inferentially knowable. At a certain point, the siddhāntin seems to lose patience with them: ‘Enough! This teaching about brahman suits [only] believers. We are not believers and resort to reason’.4 The siddhāntin then replies that the difference is indeed perceivable in common experience, and the dialogue goes on at length with several arguments and counter-arguments. The siddhāntin appears to be a direct realist and rejects the consequences of the Advaitin’s arguments on what people agree to be valid cognition: ‘Alas! If it were so, [what we all recognise in common experience as being] knowledge would end up being ultimately nescience!’5 Rāmānuja Rāmānuja appears to accept the vāda ‘debate’ as the standard modality for a philosophical discussion. Who is not eligible to take part in a vāda? Only those who reject its basic elements: The one who says that everything is empty and the one who says that apart from the brahman everything is in reality false, since they do not acknowledge the ultimate reality of the [very] means of knowledge which would establish their own position, have been taught by learned people in our school to have no eligibility to [take part] in a debate aiming at the establishment of the truth (vāda): ‘The Śūnyavādin has no eligibility [to take part] in a debate aiming at the establishment of the truth, since he does not have the instruments [to debate] (given that he denies even the validity of the instruments of knowledge)’.6 The quote suggests that Rāmānuja may have been even more irritated than Yāmuna by the Advaita arguments and by their erosion of the possibility of (worldly) valid cognition and of the instruments thereof. At the same time, such statements suggest that Rāmānuja upheld the idea of vāda as based on the correct use of the instruments of knowledge and on shared assumptions. Nonetheless, it would be hard to say that all works by Rāmānuja are built primarily on the basis of an argumentative structure. Even leaving aside the three gadyas, whose authorship is controversial (see Lester 1966 and infra, Appendix) and which contain no argumentative structure at all, his other works are not thoroughly argumentative as well, at least not in the sense illustrated above, namely as a sequence of arguments and counterarguments attributed to the same speaker and opponent(s) engaging with each other.7 His magnum opus, the Śrī Bhāṣya is, in this sense, rather a work targeting a Vedānta audience. Although it engages in dialectical discussions and is structured along the lines of an extensive pūrvapakṣa and its response, it aims primarily at showing how each point is based on and supported by

We resort to reason 69 sacred texts (śruti) and traditional texts (smṛti). As much less concern with its being supported also argumentative devices. The vāda mainly aims at interpretation of a given Upaniṣadic passage. As typical of Vedānta, Rāmānuja inserts plenty of consider the role of quotes in the following passages:

a consequence, there is by inferences or other establishing the correct quotations. For example,

The word bhakti defines a constant memory [of God], since the word bhakti signifies devout contemplation. Therefore, sacred texts and traditional texts say: ‘Having known Him alone, one goes beyond death’, ‘The one who knows Him in this way, is immortal in this world. There is no other path to go’, ‘I cannot be experienced as such through the Vedas, nor through tapas, nor through (ritual) gifts, nor through sacrifices. You have seen me in this way: through exclusive bhakti I can be cognised and experienced as such, o Arjuna destroyer of foes, and I can be really reached’, ‘But the supreme spirit, o Arjuna, can be achieved through exclusive bhakti’.8 In other words, it seems that for Rāmānuja the main evidence he aims at achieving consists in the support of śruti and smṛti rather than in the possibility of convincing one’s opponent within a dialogue based on the use of the instruments of knowledge. Conclusions on the argumentative style in early Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta Summing up, Yāmuna and Rāmānuja continued in their śāstra works the argumentative structure typical of philosophical texts, starting from the Mahābhāṣya. However, they also inherited from Vedānta an overwhelming presence of quotations from the Upaniṣads and other authoritative texts.9 They are not necessarily used in order to close a discussion, but they nonetheless in all cases tend to limit the discussion to insiders, since, for example, Buddhist or Jain interlocutors would not be interested nor able to engage in this sort of exegetic discussions.

An inductive search for the principles of a sound dialogue What is a vāda? Unfortunately, Rāmānuja and Yāmuna do not appear to have dealt explicitly with the topic of vāda. Veṅkaṭanātha defines it briefly in the Nyāyapariśuddhi (see below, ‘Different dialogues with different discussants?’). All appear to share the idea that a debate needs to aim at the ascertainment of truth, not just at defeating in whatever way one’s opponents. More important is what they appear to presuppose regarding the fundamentals of a debate: In order to take part in a debate, one needs to share a belief in the possibility of worldly knowledge (therefore, Advaita Vedāntins and Buddhists, if they insist

70 Elisa Freschi on illusionism, are de facto excluded from the vāda, see above, section on ‘Rāmānuja’). Similarly, Veṅkaṭanātha too introduces the relevant quote by Rāmānuja with the following words: saugatānām iva pracchannasaugatānām api kathāyām anadhikāra iti (Śatadūṣaṇī 9, beginning) ‘Like the Buddhists, also the hidden Buddhists do not have the eligibility to participate in a discussion’. What does this exactly mean, given that most Buddhists and Advaitins do in fact comply with the use of epistemology in their texts? Veṅkaṭanātha seems to detect a fundamental dishonesty in their dialectic, since they might use the means of knowledge, but do not ultimately believe in their reality (since they do not believe in the ultimate reality of any element of worldly reality). Their lack of ultimate commitment in epistemology makes them not eligible to participate in a debate which should be rooted exactly in a shared epistemology (much more than in a shared ontology, as discussed also in the next paragraph). A further element is explicit at least in Veṅkaṭanātha: a debate needs to be based on shared presuppositions. For instance, in Seśvaramīmāṃsā ad Pūrva Mīmāṃsā Sūtra 1.1.5 (Viraraghavacharya and Nainaracarya 1971: 66, 82) Veṅkaṭanātha explains that a Vedic sentence which could refer to the body or to the ātman cannot be automatically attributed to the ātman (although this would solve some difficulties with the interpretation of the sentence), since not all schools agree about the existence of the ātman, so that this needs to be proved and cannot be presupposed. Similarly, the Naiyāyika syllogism ‘all cognitions which are caused are valid due to the absence of flaws in their cause’ is refuted because it has a contrary case (vipakṣa) which is not shared by all parts. In fact, the contrary case is the Lord’s uncaused cognitions – which are valid though not being caused – but the Cārvākas would not accept that there is a Lord at all and the contrary case cannot be accepted by them. Therefore, the whole syllogism needs to be reformulated without the specification ‘which are caused’ (Seśvaramīmāṃsā ad Pūrva Mīmāṃsā Sūtra 1.1.5, Viraraghavacharya and Nainaracarya 1971: 70). This principle reminds one of the principle named ‘General Acceptability of Inductive Examples’ by K K Chakrabarti in Chakrabarti (1999: 8–13), which, however, regards only the inductive examples of co-presence (anvaya) or co-absence (vyatireka) in syllogisms.10 How can one win an argument? How much of the definitions discussed above is just theory? In order to solve this issue, I will now focus on actual dialogues in the Seśvaramīmāṃsā. This will show how vādas actually take place in philosophical works and the reader will probably notice that the Seśvaramīmāṃsā is more or less consistent with the definition of vāda seen above. The dialogues in the Seśvaramīmāṃsā, as in most other texts, are staged by a single author, who likely reproduces what he and his audience considered to be good practices, so that the analysis of the Seśvaramīmāṃsā itself can offer an indirect glance into actual debates. An empirical check of how arguments are settled in the Seśvaramīmāṃsā delivers manifold results, which consistently point to an argumentative structure in which confrontations occur according to

We resort to reason 71 commonly shared rules, and victory is adjudicated to the party who has used conclusive arguments, such as: • •

•

•

•

Inner consistency with something known to be valid, e.g., the Veda (discussion of the Śyena case in Seśvaramīmāṃsā ad Pūrva Mīmāṃsā Sūtra 1.1.2). Logical check. For instance, there must be a proper vyāpti ‘invariable concomitance’ between probans and probandum, no avyāpti ‘insufficient concomitance’, and no ativyāpti ‘over-extended concomitance’, see the discussion on the meaning of dharma in Seśvaramīmāṃsā ad Pūrva Mīmāṃsā Sūtra 1.1.2 (Viraraghavacharya and Nainaracarya 1971: 36). Logical implication. For instance, if you cannot know X by means of Y, you need to use a different pramāṇa ‘instrument of knowledge’. Therefore, this other pramāṇa is needed (Seśvaramīmāṃsā). Similarly, Veṅkaṭanātha uses the argument by elimination (pariśeṣa): if all other options are examined and excluded, the only remaining one must be the right one (see Seśvaramīmāṃsā ad 1.1.5, Viraraghavacharya and Nainaracarya 1971: 74). This argument relies on an (unspoken) epistemic optimism regarding our sources of knowledge, according to which if something can be known (because it is real, vastu),11 there must be an instrument for knowing it. Case-based reasonings, i.e., reasonings not based on the exclusive use of a single instrument of knowledge and including the use of Mīmāṃsā nyāyas ‘hermeneutic rules’12 or common-sense procedures, e.g.: ‘For, it is not the case that once one says “Devadatta alone stays here”, one excludes [his] cloths and ornaments (ābharaṇa), rather [one excludes] another person similar to him’ (Seśvaramīmāṃsā ad 1.1.2). Linguistic arguments orienting the right understanding of an authoritative text (e.g., the use of the desiderative in Pūrva Mīmāṃsā Sūtra 1.1.1 shows that there is a role for desire; the use of the middle ending in Pūrva Mīmāṃsā Sūtra 1.1.1 shows that Bhāvanātha’s interpretation is wrong (Seśvaramīmāṃsā ad 1.1.1)).

This means that Veṅkaṭanātha clearly saw the topic he dealt with to be in continuity with logical analyses of language and of the world and liable to be approached with the same instruments of knowledge. He could also use (as in the last procedure mentioned) exegetical instruments, whenever dealing with exegetical problems, but always within an argumentative structure. Weak arguments are, instead: • • •

Sheer linguistic analysis (nirukti) alone does not tell one the meaning of a given linguistic expression (Seśvaramīmāṃsā ad 1.1.2). Sheer conventional usage (Seśvaramīmāṃsā ad 1.1.2) is not enough, since reality can be different than what people think (as shown by the example of silver vs mother-of-pearl). Although this is not explicitly said, Vedic or authoritative quotes alone are not enough, since they may seem to contradict each other so that their proper exegesis remains decisive, as shown in the case of the seemingly conflicting

72 Elisa Freschi quotes regarding the need of studying the Veda in Seśvaramīmāṃsā ad Pūrva Mīmāṃsā Sūtra 1.1.1 (see section on ‘Inner Mīmāṃsā discussions’). That is, debates are not won once and for all by claiming that a certain concept needs to be understood in a certain way, because this is what authorities (e.g., grammatical explanations of the suffixes involved) say. Nor by claiming that a certain concept needs to be understood in a certain way because this is what normal people say about it.13 In other words, Veṅkaṭanātha does not use arguments which are not liable to be examined within a debate based on rational arguments, and arguments are deemed to be final once they have been presented and discussed within a debate. Furthermore, the following ones are listed in Seśvaramīmāṃsā ad 1.1.5 (1971: 63) as internal (the first four) or external (the last one) reasons for losing a debate: • •

• • •

atiprasaṅga (ungrounded extension of an argument beyond its legitimate premises). inferential fallacies: anaikāntya ‘inconclusiveness’ (when the inferential reason may lead to different results), sopādhikatva ‘presence of additional conditions’ (when the validity of the syllogism depends on additional conditions and not on the inner characteristics of the probans and of the probandum), sādhyavikalatva ‘having a defective probans’ (Seśvaramīmāṃsā ad Pūrva Mīmāṃsā Sūtra 1.1.5, 1971: 63). self-contradiction (svavacanavirodha, Seśvaramīmāṃsā ad Pūrva Mīmāṃsā Sūtra 1.1.5: 63), also called contradiction (virodha, Seśvaramīmāṃsā ad Pūrva Mīmāṃsā Sūtra 1.1.5: 67, which depicts a case of self-contradiction). inconsistency with other tenets of one’s own (called apasiddhānta in the Sūkṣmārthaṭīkā ad Seśvaramīmāṃsā 1.1.5, Viraraghavacharya and Nainaracarya 1971: 73). invalidation by means of a subsequent invalidating cognition (bādha).

Different dialogues with different discussants? Veṅkaṭanātha’s way of approaching his interlocutors within the Seśvaramīmāṃsā As already noted, Veṅkaṭanātha is the main systematiser of the so-called Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta school. In order to systematise it, he engaged with a wide range of different philosophical and religious schools and attempted a new synthesis of them. This, in turn, implies that he had to devise and implement a strategy which enabled him to deal with different positions. Did he use different dialogical structures to deal with different types of discussants? What are his motivations for using the approaches he adopted? As a first step towards a possible answer, let me note that there are no visible distinctions among living discussants and ones which are no longer an actual challenge. Veṅkaṭanātha may dedicate more space to Mīmāṃsakas than to

We resort to reason 73 Buddhists, but there is nothing in his style which would make an external observer able to understand whether Veṅkaṭanātha is discussing with a discussant representing a living school or not. In this sense, Machiavelli’s example comes to mind, since just like the political author, Veṅkaṭanātha fully engages with his forerunners as if they were his own contemporaries.14 Out of different sources it is possible to restrict the range of philosophical schools which were active in South India at Veṅkaṭanātha’s time to the two Mīmāṃsā sub-schools, Grammar, Nyāya, Advaita Vedānta and various forms of theistic Vedānta, and Jainism. The voice of Advaita Vedānta is strikingly minimally prominent in the Seśvaramīmāṃsā, where the reaction to it seems to be mediated by Rāmānuja’s one. A comparably small space is dedicated to Sāṃkhya and Vaiśeṣika, but also to Jainism, whereas the discussion of Buddhist positions is more in-depth (for more details on Veṅkaṭanātha’s discussion of Buddhism, see Freschi 2017b). Summing up, staged dialogues are dependent on the author’s interest and curiosity, rather than on the social and political relevance of the discussants. Once again, this seems to comply with the definition of vāda as just aiming at the establishment of truth, independently of current reasons for highlighting other issues. Next, Veṅkaṭanātha defines vāda as a dialogue aiming at the establishment of the truth15 and throughout at least his śāstric texts, he remains faithful to the practice of vāda so defined, since he deeply engages in discussions, without ending them abruptly with ad hominem attacks, paralogisms and not even with ungrounded appeals to authority.16 This attitude is particularly evident in the case of his engaging with Mīmāṃsā authors, where he enters the Mīmāṃsā arena and argues using Mīmāṃsā principles in exactly the same style found in Mīmāṃsā texts, with the same alternation of pūrvapakṣas ‘prima facie view’ and various uttarapakṣas ‘counterposition’ until a siddhānta ‘established conclusion’ is reached. One is led to imagine that he was convinced of the ability to produce arguments palatable not only to Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedāntins, but to Mīmāṃsakas as well. Moreover, it appears that Veṅkaṭanātha considered debate as intrinsic to Mīmāṃsā, since, for instance, he analysed even the Pūrva Mīmāṃsā Sūtra as a text with an argumentative structure. Accordingly, he explained each part of each sūtra as an answer to an (often implicit) objection. This procedure is at times very artificial, since single words are interpreted as replying to complex arguments (see, especially, Seśvaramīmāṃsā ad Pūrva Mīmāṃsā Sūtra 1.1.5). Lastly, Veṅkaṭanātha used quotations from authoritative texts in order to support an independent argument, rather than as independent evidences on their own right. However, Veṅkaṭanātha saw his work as part of a broader system (as discussed in Freschi 2015), so that at times he referred his audience to arguments already extensively dealt with in other works by him or by others (e.g. Seśvaramīmāṃsā ad Pūrva Mīmāṃsā Sūtra 1.1.5: 63). Mīmāṃsā and Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta interlocutors Veṅkaṭanātha’s strategy is that of winning Mīmāṃsā (and Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta) interlocutors to his own field by showing that there are cogent reasons to join his

74 Elisa Freschi view. Within the Seśvaramīmāṃsā, this is achieved with logical arguments. Reference to authorities (e.g., Rāmānuja, in Seśvaramīmāṃsā (Seśvaramīmāṃsā, introduction); Parāśara Bhaṭṭa in Seśvaramīmāṃsā ad 1.1.1, and in Seśvaramīmāṃsā ad 1.1.2) are present, but only when shared by both sides. A striking example is that of the unitary nature of the Mīmāṃsā system encompassing the Pūrva Mīmāṃsā Sūtra, the Uttara Mīmāṃsā Sūtra and the so-called Saṅkarṣa Kāṇḍa.17 Pūrva Mīmāṃsā authors would not agree with it, but Veṅkaṭanātha attempts to convince them using mainly inner consistency, instead of having recourse to authoritative arguments in his favour to settle the issue. This does not mean that he could just ignore authoritative statements on this topic. In fact, Veṅkaṭanātha appears to recognise the validity of reliable statements and feels the need to account for seeming contradictions between his statements and authoritative ones through an exegetical analysis of what the seemingly contradictory statements actually mean. This is particularly evident in the case of a quote about the Saṅkarṣa Kāṇḍa mentioned by Rāmānuja and repeated by Veṅkaṭanātha and seemingly supporting Jaimini’s authorship of both the Pūrva Mīmāṃsā Sūtra and the Saṅkarṣa Kāṇḍa. This would run against Veṅkaṭanātha’s own agenda, since it would bring the Saṅkarṣa Kāṇḍa closer to the Pūrva Mīmāṃsā Sūtra only and Veṅkaṭanātha devises a clever interpretation of it, so that the Vṛttikāra’s quote is read as developing the following argument: no one denies the unity of the Pūrva Mīmāṃsā Sūtra and the Saṅkarṣa Kāṇḍa. Denying the unity of these two and the Brahma Sūtra would be like trying to split the Saṅkarṣa Kāṇḍa and the Pūrva Mīmāṃsā Sūtra. To show that these two cannot be divided, it is said that they were both composed by the same author: ‘And the passage of the Vṛttikāra: “This Uttara Mīmāṃsā Sūtra has been accorded with the Mīmāṃsā of Jaimini, which entails sixteen chapters. Thus, the unity of the teaching is established’ contains [reasonings] such as an argument per absurdum”.’18 Summing up, Veṅkaṭanātha goes his own way to find a path among statements which were already recognised as authoritative and develop his own arguments incorporating them (if they support his conclusions) or accounting for them (if they seem not to support his conclusions), but always on the basis of an argumentative structure. Inner Mīmāṃsā discussions The Seśvaramīmāṃsā ad Pūrva Mīmāṃsā Sūtra 1.1.1 figures long discussions among Bhāṭṭas, Prābhākaras and other Vedic exegetes, seemingly only on the basis of an argumentative structure. The disagreements often focus on the interpretation of a given Vedic passage, which both sides acknowledge as Vedic or as a valid traditional text. The arguments are not solved by referring to Vedic quotes (as it may happen to be the case in other Vedāntic texts), Vedic quotes are used within a discussion and most often to start it, as in Mīmāṃsā. The same occurs in the case of quotes by Rāmānuja, which can be shown to fit nicely within a given conclusion, but are not used as final evidence. It is also interesting to note that each speaker is allowed a longer space for developing his point.

We resort to reason 75 Typical examples in this sense are the discussion about whether one should study the entire Veda before starting the study of Mīmāṃsā and the way both Prābhākaras and Bhāṭṭas use Vedic quotes to claim opposite conclusions regarding the reasons why one needs to study the Veda. The discussion thus initiated is necessarily adjudicated on the basis of arguments other than the reference to the Veda. Consider the following fragment of a discussion about why one should study Mīmāṃsā, although studying is a tiring activity and is not in itself pleasant. The first speaker claims that the study of Mīmāṃsā is prescribed as part of the prescription which enjoins one to study the Veda, since otherwise this prescription would entail no independently desirable purpose, which is impossible for a prescription according to the Mīmāṃsā analysis of how deontic statements work. The second one claims that also the study of Mīmāṃsā, which is the study of the meaning of the Veda, is not an independently desirable purpose and that the injunction to study the Veda does not include the study of Mīmāṃsā. [PP/EKADEŚIN:]: It (grasping of Vedic phonemes) is fruitless, since it is not a human aim. (Hence, one needs the study of Mīmāṃsā in order to grasp the meaning of the Vedic phonemes one has learnt by heart). [UP:]: This cannot be said (it is not a good argument), since the same applies also to the cognition of the meaning [of the Veda] (which is also in itself not a human aim). [PP/EKADEŚIN:]: It (cognition of the meaning of the Veda) has a purpose (prayojana) indirectly, through the realisation of heaven, etc., since the performance [of the sacrifices leading to heaven] is based on it (cognition of the meaning). [UP:]: The same [considerations apply also to the grasping of the phonemes, which have indirectly a purpose, since they indirectly lead to the realisation of sacrifices leading to heaven] … Then that alone (heaven alone) is to be postulated [as the purpose], since that alone is an immediate purpose. [PP:] It is not so, due to intermediate steps (heaven cannot be postulated as the only purpose, since there are intermediate steps to reach it). [UP:]: You have already taken [this] path (of indirect causality, since also the knowledge of the meaning is only indirectly a purpose)! And in this way (i.e., if you want to avoid recognising as the purpose something which can only be achieved through intermediate steps) you should assent that only the grasping of the phonemes, which is non-mediated (insofar as it is directly prescribed by the injunction to study the Veda), is a purpose. Therefore, it is not the case that the Mīmāṃsā is implied for the sake of knowing the meaning, since the injunction about learning [the Vedas] reaches [only] until the grasp of the phonemes.19 Inner-Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta discussions The move to include Pūrva Mīmāṃsā on the same level as Vedānta within a unified teaching (aikaśāstrya) was surely controversial. In fact, only in this case Veṅkaṭanātha resorted to various quotations, all of which appear to have

76 Elisa Freschi the purpose to show to possible objectors that such a move was not only logically necessary, but also not unprecedented within Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta. In this sense, such quotes may appear to have more sociological than logical reasons, but they are functional to Veṅkaṭanātha’s point that the unity of Mīmāṃsā is an inner necessity of the system and not his whimsical innovation. Here are some examples: And the contradiction in the meaning (artha) is not of the sūtras [but rather of their commentaries, which misinterpret them], since the sūtras aim at something else. It has been said in [Yāmunācārya’s] Āgamaprāmāṇya: ‘The statement that the fruit [comes] out of the ritual action (karma) (and not out of God) by the Revered Jaimini has the purpose of promoting faith in ritual action’. And also in [Rāmānuja’s] Vedārthasaṅgraha: ‘In order to avoid the lack of faith in ritual action of people who have not heard the Upaniṣads (aśrutavedānta), some excessive statements (ativāda) have been used in the Devatādhikaraṇa, in order for one to have faith in the mere ritual actions. The definitive conclusion of those who know the Veda is that this all is a single treatise (śāstra)’ … Therefore, the fact that Nārāyaṇārya orders the [Pūrva Mīmāṃsā] sūtras in a different way only shows [his] proficiency (prauḍhi) [in Pūrva Mīmāṃsā Sūtra, and not the fact that Pūrva Mīmāṃsā needed to be changed in order to make it acceptable for Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta authors].20

The role of God within debates The Seśvaramīmāṃsā is a programmatically theistic text. Nonetheless, God never plays the active role of a pillar of the system Veṅkaṭanātha attempts to build.21 An extreme case is that of the validity of the Pañcarātra sacred texts, a topic which was controversial, insofar as Mīmāṃsakas generally refuted it and Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedāntins accepted it.22 The Pañcarātra Saṃhitās are not the Vedas, nor are they unanimously recognised as being directly based on the Vedas – unlike in the case of the Mānavadharmaśāstra and similar traditional texts. As a Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedāntin, Veṅkaṭanātha chose to vouch for their validity, but it is interesting to see how he did it. At first, he shortly mentioned the argument that they are valid because they have been authored by God, but he then continued to look for arguments which could be shared even by his opponents. The final conclusion of the discussion sees the acceptance of the validity of the Pañcarātra sacred texts insofar as their validity is stated in various traditional texts, such as the Mahābhārata, and is not contradicted by the Veda (which would overrule the verdict of traditional texts in case of contrast). Veṅkaṭanātha was then ready to accept the logical consequence of this position, namely the acceptance of other texts vouched for in the traditional texts and not contradicted by the Vedas, such as parts of Sāṃkhya texts (Seśvaramīmāṃsā ad 1.1.2).

We resort to reason 77 By contrast, the recollected texts and [the behaviour of the right people], are an instrument of knowledge in regard to the dharma, through the inference of the directly heard Sacred Texts upon which they are based. Therefore, also in their regard, there is not the fault of non-inclusion (i.e., they are also included in the definition of Pūrva Mīmāṃsā Sūtra 1.1.2 stating that dharma is known through a Vedic injunction) because they also have the condition of being characterised by the injunction. By contrast, the Pañcarātra dharmas, which are based on the direct perception of the Lord, are also characterised by the [Vedic] injunction, because they have the [same] meaning of the Veda (śruti). As has said the revered Vyāsa: This great secret teaching, including the four Vedas, along with the doctrine of Sāṃkhya and Yoga, is spoken of as Pañcarātra | … And, analogously the recollected text (smṛti) Or, if the Vedic mantras are not available23 [one should perform the required rituals] through the [mantras] uttered in the Pañcarātra24 being rooted in the Veda, must be accepted (and, through that, the Pañcarātras must be accepted, too). … By contrast, the dharmas said in other Sacred Texts are not said to be based on the direct Sacred Texts (Veda) by their performers, nor by those who know their conclusive views (i.e., neither by the practitioners nor by the theorists), nor by the great ṛṣis. This is the difference. The non-contradictory part in the dharmas of Sāṃkhya and [other similar systems] is indeed meant by the Vedic injunctions. Therefore, it is not the case that they are not included (avyāpti) [in the definition of dharma].25 In other words, although Veṅkaṭanātha mentioned the role of God as the author of the Pañcarātras, God is not used as the reason for the validity of them, possibly because His being the author of the Pañcarātras is a belief not shared by all parts. Similarly, God is not used in order to justify the fixedness of the word-meaning relation. The twentieth century Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta commentary on the Seśvaramīmāṃsā (Vīrarāghavācārya’s Sūkṣmārthaṭīkā) makes this choice explicit: ‘Since worldly communication can be accomplished in general, also in case there were no God, the connection of God’s will [within the communication process] is incorrect’.26

Veṅkaṭanātha’s other works Not all Indian authors have written in various genres and in some cases the authorship of one or another kind of work is disputed. Veṅkaṭanātha is an interesting case for scholars of the history of Indian philosophy in this respect, since he has authored dramas, commentaries, independent treatises and religious hymns. As for their argumentative structure, one would expect it to be more visible in commentaries and independent treatises and less so in dramas and hymns. However, this depends very much on the text commented upon. We have already examined the case of the Seśvaramīmāṃsā. Veṅkaṭanātha’s commentary on the Śaraṇāgatigadya, a devotional text attributed to Rāmānuja (about which see infra, Appendix), elaborates on the religious dimension of taking refuge at the feet of

78 Elisa Freschi God and uses quotations in support of this view. Other views are less extensively discussed, so that one gains the impression that the presence or absence of an argumentative structure is a sort of emic boundary between texts today’s readers would recognise as ‘philosophical’ and texts today’s readers would deem to be ‘theological’ (see fn. 9 for the use of ‘theological’ in this context). It is perhaps important to repeat that this distinction does not have to do with the presence or absence of quotations, but with their purpose (as opening or closing the discussion) and with the presence or absence of an overarching argumentative structure. Such a structure is generally present throughout each of Veṅkaṭanātha’s philosophical works, although smaller sections within them might be differently organised. Let me now present an example of a short passage commenting on Rāmānuja’s Śaraṇāgatigadya. Veṅkaṭanātha’s extensive commentary on this short text deals primarily with the exegesis of the text itself, but then Veṅkaṭanātha engages also in theological problems, such as the role of Lakṣmī, the spouse of Viṣṇu. In fact, if He is omnipotent, why does Rāmānuja first invoke Her and take refuge at Her feet? [OBJ.:]: But, in this way, the Blessed one, who gives all fruits, is the only one [tool] one should resort to for the sake of realising the taking refuge at Him. What is the purpose here of taking refuge in Lakṣmī? [R:]: It is not so. If one could ascertain whether it is possible to take now refuge in the Blessed one, then this (taking refuge) would be accepted only for the sake of liberation, but here it is not pronounced for this sake. If, by contrast, this were not ascertained, then it is even less the case [that one could resort directly to the Blessed one]. [OBJ.:]: But if one knows the purpose of the teaching (śāstra) to be taking refuge and this is easy to do, then should not one perform it for oneself for the sake of obtaining liberation? [R:]: It is not so. Even in regard to the easiness, which is due to the abandonment of rituals which are hard to perform, etc., consists in the taking refuge and has as auxiliaries a big faith, etc., it is said in the sacred texts … that, according to rules such as ‘Verily, through hundred obstacles’ (Viṣṇudharma 70.84) … it is difficult to be accomplished as it is possible that there are obstacles. And it has been said: ‘This means is easy to realise but it is considered to be difficult to be realised by me’ (Lakṣmī Tantra 17.104) … Therefore the prayer to Her is correct in this case.27 That is, here quotations from religious texts are present and heavily influential, but Veṅkaṭanātha still inserts them in an argumentative structure through which he hopes (or pretends to hope, given that the dialogue is only staged by Veṅkaṭanātha) to be able to rationally convince his opponent.

Appendix: the dialogical style in non-philosophical works I will now deal shortly with dialogues in non-philosophical works of the Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta school. These do not have an argumentative structure, but

We resort to reason 79 their dialogical structure may also play an important role in the construction of the text. The common element in both cases is the transformative potentiality inherent in dialogues, although in non-philosophical texts the transformation is existential rather than intellectual. In these cases one recognises a dialogical structure which is not argumentative (in the sense defined above), but has nonetheless important consequences on their contents. Yāmuna’s Stotraratna is a hymn to God written from a first-person perspective and featuring the literary persona of its author as a deeply troubled devout, who needs help from God. Probably elaborating on this motif, the Śaraṇāgatigadya (attributed to Rāmānuja) presents itself as an invocation to God by a similar kind of believer. The interesting innovation in this case is the fact that the author speaks first to the God’s spouse Śrī and then to Nārāyaṇa and, more importantly, that both answer him. Śrī is addressed with many attributes, elaborating on Her various aspects (v. 1), with the request of granting the author that he can take refuge in God. Śrī accords that with only a few words. Next come long invocations (vv. 5–17, especially v. 5) to Nārāyaṇa, containing the request to take refuge in God and then to become a bhakta ‘devotee’. In v. 5, God is addressed with a seemingly endless series of attributes, covering approximately 20 lines of Sanskrit (the Śaraṇāgatigadya verses have different length), before the crisp request of taking refuge. Similarly, the author describes at length his inadequateness (v. 16). Is this all just ornamental? Probably not. The long process of uttering God’s attributes and one’s shortcomings might be itself part of the salvific process of becoming aware of His greatness and of one’s inadequacy. In other words, by painfully listing one’s shortcomings the author (and, perhaps, his ideal audience) becomes aware of their all-pervasive faulty nature, and of the fact that they are not emendable. The author says, in fact, that he will continue performing evil acts even in the future and that he therefore desperately needs God’s help. Nārāyaṇa, unlike Śrī, answers at length (vv. 17–24). The answer is ultimately positive: the author’s desire will be fulfilled (v. 21), he should not doubt it (v. 22–23). Still, Nārāyaṇa comes to this positive result after having Himself enumerated the author’s shortcomings (in a list longer than the author’s one). That is, the wish is ultimately fulfilled, but not automatically and as the manifestation of a compassion that Nārāyaṇa shows to be even more necessary than the author had thought. The narrative and dialogical structure of the text appear, therefore, to have a profound impact on the doctrine propounded, namely, prapatti or ‘taking refuge [at God’s feet]’. Without this structure, the text would occupy only a few lines, stating that once one has obtained prapatti through God’s mercy, one can become a devout. Within the structure, however, the same content gets a different connotation, insofar as both the request(s) and the response are delayed enough to show the difficulty of what has just been requested and the wondrous nature of God’s compassion (for more on the Śaraṇāgatigadya’s structure, see Freschi 2017–2018).

Conclusions Let me now come back to the questions which opened this essay, namely, the relevance of the dialogic structure to:

80 Elisa Freschi (a) the genre the Seśvaramīmāṃsā belongs to (i.e., the śāstra style inaugurated by Patañjali’s Mahābhāṣya); (b) a common practice in Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta in general; (c) Veṅkaṭanātha’s approach as detected in all his works. As I hope to have shown, (a) and (c) are surely the case, whether (b) applies at least in part. Let me now allow a further question, namely: why do (some, if not all) Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta authors care for such an argumentative structure? Would it not be enough for them to use the authority of the Upaniṣads or of the Bhagavad Gītā to settle all arguments? Apparently not. It was not enough for them to settle the argument in a conclusive way, as could have been done through an appeal to the authority of the Upaniṣads, etc. They wanted to display convincing arguments and not just to settle an issue. As for Veṅkaṭanātha, he was himself particularly keen to give his philosophical works an argumentative structure. Why so, given that both interlocutors in his texts ultimately depend on Veṅkaṭanātha’s giving them voice and given that there was no real uncertainty about who was going to win these staged debates? The particular device which Sara McClintock calls the rhetoric of reason (McClintock 2010) may explain this. It consists in the rhetorical advantage of displaying one’s rationality. Was this use only rhetorical? Probably not, insofar as the sheer fact that it constituted a rhetorical advantage means that in Veṅkaṭanātha’s intellectual circles it was positively considered and that it was possibly considered the ideal praxis also in the concrete debates. However, the particular case of the Seśvaramīmāṃsā is also influenced by its Mīmāṃsā content, insofar as it imitates the Mīmāṃsā articulation of arguments in prima facie view and replies and the Pūrva Mīmāṃsā use of Vedic material as a way to open a discussion, but not as the ultimate argument to close it. This non-dogmatic approach to the Vedas is, possibly, intrinsically linked with the Pūrva Mīmāṃsā theory according to which the Vedas do not convey anything established and cannot be therefore used dogmatically. The authority of the Vedas is, in other words, only deontic and not epistemic28: the Vedas can convey a duty, but they do not communicate anything about the world as it is. Consequently, they cannot be used to settle a discussion about the world as it is. In conclusion, Veṅkaṭanātha and the Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta represent an interesting case for the use of dialogues. In philosophical texts, they stage dialogues which look rational and argumentative, i.e., potentially entailing the change of opinion of one of the two interlocutors. Even when such a change is not really possible, since the interlocutors are only characters in Veṅkaṭanātha’s texts, the appearance of such a possibility is kept. In devotional texts, dialogues keep this transformative potential in the form of acts of speech.

Notes 1 Research for this paper has been financed by the FWF project V 400. I am grateful to Brian Black and Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad for organising an extremely stimulating

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conference on this topic, to all the participants for their feedback and to Ram-Prasad and Jacqueline Suthren-Hirst for their additional comments. I am also grateful to Marco Lauri for improving the English form of this article. Within this article, I will not deal with the problem of the definition of Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta and will just use this label conventionally to cover Yāmuna, Rāmānuja and the Vaiṣṇava authors recognising themselves as connected to the teachings of Yāmuna and/or Rāmānuja. For more on the problematic background of this label, see Freschi Forthcoming[b]. For more on Veṅkaṭanātha’s life, works and contribution, see Freschi (2016). See Freschi Forthcoming[b] for a short discussion of this topic and for further bibliography on Yāmuna’s Nyāya side. hanta! brahmopadeśo ’yaṃ śraddadhāneṣu śobhate. vayam aśraddadhānās ’smo ye yuktiṃ prārthayāmahe. (Saṃvitsiddhi, Vīrarāghavācārya 1942: 131). hantaivaṃ saty avidyaiva vidyā syāt paramārthataḥ (Saṃvitsiddhi l. 215). sarvaśūnyavādino brahmavyatiriktasarvavastumithyātvavādinaś ca svapakṣasthāpakapramāṇapāramārthyānabhyupagamād abhiyuktair vādānadhikāra eva pratipāditaḥ— adhikāro ’nupāyatvān na vāde śūnyavādinaḥ | iti. (Vedārthasaṅgraha no. 64, Raghavachar 1978: 53). The latter specification is needed, since a minimal dialectical structure is present also in Rāmānuja, if by that it is only meant that Rāmānuja has other views in mind while articulating his own – see J Suthren Hirst’s contribution to this volume for the parallel case of Śaṅkara. dhruvānusmṛtir eva bhaktiśabdena abhidhīyate, upāsanaparyāyatvād bhaktiśabdasya. ata eva śrutismṛtibhir evam abhidhīyate, ‘tam eva viditvāti mṛtyum eti’ (Śvetāśvatara Upaniṣad 3.8), ‘tam evaṃ vidvān amṛta iha bhavati | nānyaḥ panthā ayanāya vidyate’ (Puruṣa Sūkta 17*), ‘nāhaṃ vedair na tapasā na dānena na cejyayā | śakya evaṃvidho draṣṭuṃ dṛṣṭavān asi māṃ yathā || bhaktyā tv ananyayā śakya aham evaṃvidho ’rjuna | jñātuṃ draṣṭuṃ ca tattvena praveṣṭuṃ ca parantapa ||’ [Bhagavad Gītā 11.53–54], ‘puruṣaḥ sa paraḥ pārtha bhaktyā labhyas tv ananyayā’ [Bhagavad Gītā 8.22] iti (Śrī Bhāṣya ad 1.1.1 Abhyankar 1914b: 10–11). *This is v. 17 in the version of the Puruṣa Sūkta (Ṛgveda 10.90) which is common among Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedāntins. It is not attested in the critical editions of the Ṛgveda and in general in non-Vaiṣṇava milieus. It has been recently claimed that Mīmāṃsā and Vedānta are in this sense more theological schools than they are philosophical (see Edelmann 2013). For a brief summary of the discussion by Jonathan Edelmann see: http://indianphilosophyblog. org/2014/03/07/philosophy-and-theology-lets-be-clearer/. Personally, I find Edelmann’s argument interesting, but not at all convincing if applied to Mīmāṃsā and only partly convincing if applied to Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta. For instance, Edelmann even goes so far as to include Kumārila Bhaṭṭa among theologians and not philosophers, something I do not think I can agree about, since Mīmāṃsā texts have, as discussed in the section on ‘The style of Veṅkaṭanātha’s dialogues’ above, an overarching argumentative structure and use quotations to open rather than to close a discussion. As for Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta, this article shows how Veṅkaṭanātha largely adopts the Mīmāṃsā argumentative framework. Chakrabarti starts with the Nyāya theory of induction and shows its significance for theories of induction in general: It may be pointed out that the evidence cited as observation (or awareness) of copresence or of co-absence or of a counterexample should be acceptable to both sides in a philosophical (or scientific) debate. This may be called the principle of general acceptability of inductive examples (abbreviated as GAIE) … It seems to work for empirical sciences where observations are checked and independently

82 Elisa Freschi rechecked before any claims based on them are accepted … The principle is useful to avoid partiality and prevent either party from gaining undue advantage over the other as also frivolous acceptance or rejection of an induction. Without this principle either party could be in a position to make claims about co-presence or co-absence or deviation (which gives a counterexample) that appears to the other party to be quite absurd … Since, in particular, a single counterexample suffices to refute a generalization confirmed by numerous examples, the counterexample should be a good one, be more than merely logically possible or plausible and should be generally acceptable or acceptable to both sides of an issue. At any rate, a counterexample should not be required to meet a standard level lower than that of a confirming example but rather the same standard. In other words, the epistemic burden of both the proponent and the opponent of a thesis should be the same; the burden should not be allowed to become different (i.e., lower or higher) merely by switching sides on some issue. (Chakrabarti 1999: 8–9) 11 See David (2017) for the Mīmāṃsā definition of existence as knowability and Dasti in Chakrabarti and Dasti Forthcoming for the similar Nyāya standpoint thereon. 12 On nyāyas in Mīmāṃsā see Freschi (2018). 13 One is reminded of the Nyāya Sūtra claim that a suitable syllogistic example should be acceptable to both experts and common people (laukikaparīkṣakāṇāṃ yasminn arthe buddhisāmyaṃ sa dṛṣṭāntaḥ, Nyāya Sūtra 1.2.25). 14 Venuta la sera, mi ritorno a casa ed entro nel mio scrittoio; e in sull’uscio mi spoglio quella veste cotidiana, piena di fango e di loto, e mi metto panni reali e curiali; e rivestito condecentemente, entro nelle antique corti delli antiqui huomini, dove, da loro ricevuto amorevolmente, mi pasco di quel cibo che solum è mio e ch’io nacqui per lui; dove io non mi vergogno parlare con loro e domandarli della ragione delle loro azioni; e quelli per loro humanità mi rispondono; e non sento per quattro hore di tempo alcuna noia, sdimentico ogni affanno, non temo la povertà, non mi sbigottisce la morte: tutto mi transferisco in loro. When evening comes, I return home and enter my study; on the threshold I take off my workday clothes, covered with mud and dirt, and put on the garments of court and palace. Fitted out appropriately, I step inside the venerable courts of the ancients, where, solicitously received by them, I nourish myself on that food that alone is mine and for which I was born; where I am unashamed to converse with them and to question them about the motives for their actions, and they, out of their human kindness, answer me. And for four hours at a time I feel no boredom, I forget all my troubles, I do not dread poverty, and I am not terrified by death. I absorb myself into them completely. (Letter to Francesco Vettori, 10.12.1513, transl. in Atkinson and Sices 2004) 15 vītarāgakathā vādaḥ ‘A debate is a discussion devoid of attachment [for one’s position]’ (Nyāyapariśuddhi 1.1.2). 16 I do not think that all appeals to authority are opposed to argumentation. A localised resort to authority can be the only way out as for topics which cannot be decided by argumentation, i.e., a person’s mental states or whether the Veda prescribes to sacrifice or not. With ‘ungrounded’ appeals to authority I refer to appeals to authorities which have not been previously established to be such and in cases which could have been decided within an argumentative structure, e.g., resorting to authority while debating about triangles, or rules of induction. 17 This text was interpreted by Veṅkaṭanātha as a text about God and as the intermediary text between Pūrva Mīmāṃsā Sūtra and Uttara Mīmāṃsā Sūtra. On it, and on the Vṛttikāra’s quote mentioned a few lines below, see Freschi (2017a).

We resort to reason 83 18 ‘saṃhitam etac chārīrakaṃ jaiminīyena ṣoḍaśalakṣaṇeneti śāstraikatvasiddhih’ iti vṛttigranthaś ca pratibandhyādiyuktigarbhaḥ. (Seśvaramīmāṃsā ad Pūrva Mīmāṃsā Sūtra 1.1.1). 19 na cāsyāpuruṣārthatvād aphalateti vācyam, arthajñāne ’pi tulyatvāt | | tanmūlānuṣṭhānataḥ svargādisiddhyā paramparayā tasya prayojanavattvam iti cet tulyam | | … iti tasyaiva kalpyatām; tasyaiva sākṣātprayojanatvāt | | vyavadhānān naivam iti cet, āgato ’si panthānam | evaṃ cāvyavahitam akṣaragrahaṇam eva prayojanam anumanyasva | (Seśvaramīmāṃsā ad 1.1.1, 1971: 15–16). 20 arthavirodhas tu na sauttraḥ, ānyaparyāt sūttrāṇām | uktaṃ hy āgamaprāmāṇye, ‘bhagavato jaimineḥ karmaṇaḥ phalopanyāsaḥ karmaśraddhāsaṃvardhanāya’ iti | vedārthasaṃgrahe ’pi, “aśrutavedāntānāṃ karmaṇyaśraddhā mā bhūd iti … tena nārāyaṇāryaiḥ sūttrāṇām anyathākaraṇaṃ prauḍhiprakāśanamāttram eva” (Seśvaramīmāṃsā, introduction, 1971: 4–5). 21 This refusal to imply God in the system might be a direct consequence of the fact that Veṅkaṭanātha revered a bhagavat- or a brahman-type of God, not an īśvara-like one. Īśvara-like conceptions of God are the ones of rational theology and Nyāya and easily accommodate God as the guarantor for the world’s reality or stability, etc. By contrast, a bhagavat-kind of God is one who one is personally related to, but He does not assume any ontological role (He is neither a primus movens nor an uncaused cause). For more on these different concepts of God, see Freschi Forthcoming[a]. 22 For more on Kumārila’s refusal of Pañcarātra and for the role of Pañcarātra in Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta, see Leach Forthcoming. 23 Because they are lost or because one does not have the adhikāra to use them. 24 Quoted also in Daśavidhahetunirūpaṇa (a Vaikhānasa Text): tathā viṣṇusmṛtau: ‘pauruṣaṃ sūktam āsthāya ye yajanti dvijottamāḥ | saṃhitājapamāsthāya te māṃ prāpsyanti vai dvijāḥ || alābhe vedamantrāṇāṃ pāñcarātroditena vā ||’ iti (e-version). But the attribution might refer to a generic Vaiṣṇava recollected text, rather than to the Viṣṇusmṛti. I am indebted to Marion Rastelli, who located the same passage in the Varāhapurāṇa 66.11ab and in the Śrutiprakāśikā ad Śrī Bhāṣya, 3.32.12ff. 25 smṛtyādikaṃ tu mūlaśrutyanumānena dharme pramāṇam iti tatrāpi codanālakṣaṇatvasattvān nāvyāptiḥ | ye punar īśvarapratyakṣamūlapañcarātradharmāḥ, te ’pi śrutyarthatayā codanālakṣaṇā eva | yathāha bhagavān vyāsaḥ—‘idaṃ mahopaniṣadaṃ caturvedasamanvitam | sāṃkhyayogakṛtāntena pañcarātrānuśabditam | … tathāca ‘alābhe vedamantrāṇāṃ pañcarātroditena vā’ iti smṛtiḥ śrutimūlaivābhyupagantavyā | … āgamāntaroktadharmās tu śrutimūlatayā na tatkartṛbhir ucyante, na tatsaiddhāntikaiḥ, nāpi maharṣibhir iti viśeṣaḥ | sāṃkhyādidharmeṣv apy aviruddhāṃśaḥ codanārtha eva | ato nāvyāpti (Seśvaramīmāṃsā ad 1.1.2, 1971: 38–39). 26 nirīśvarapakṣasādhāraṇyenaiva vyavahārasya nirvāhyatvād api īśvarecchāghaṭanam ayuktam. (ad Seśvaramīmāṃsā ad 1.1.5, 1971: 58). 27 nanv evaṃ sakalaphalaprado bhagavān eva tatprapattisiddhyartham apy āśrīyatām, kim iha lakṣmīprapadanena? maivam; yadi bhagavatprapadanam idānīṃ śakyam iti niścinuyāt, tadā mokṣārtham eva tad upādadīta, na punas tadarthaṃ tat prayuñjita; aniścite tu śakyatve natarām. nanu ca viditaś cet prapattiśāstrārthaḥ, sa ca sukaraḥ, tadā svayam eva mokṣārtham anuṣṭhīyatām? maivam. duṣkarakarmādyaṅgavirahāt saukarye ’pi mahāviśvāsādyaṅgakaprapattisvarūpe śrūyate kila … satyaṃ śatena vighnānām ityādinyāyena sambhavatpratibandhe [.;] dauṣkaryāt. uktaṃ ca upāyaḥ sukaraḥ so ’yaṃ duṣkaraś ca mato mama iti. ataḥ … iha tatprārthanaṃ yuktam. (Gadyatrayabhāṣya, Śaraṇāgatigadyabhāṣya ad 3: 127). 28 For this distinction, see Bocheński (1974), whom I came to know through Kiyotaka Yoshimizu’s work. Yoshimizu applied Bocheński’s distinction to the Mīmāṃsā in Yoshimizu (1994).

5

‘Speakers of highest truth’ Philosophical plurilogues about brahman in the early Upaniṣads Jessica Frazier

‘Dialogue’, as formulated by Amartya Sen and others, is taken to signal both the victory of reason over divisive social forces, and the egalitarian democracy that reason facilitates. It has become a trope of Western civilisation’s striving for liberties, equalities and their enshrinement in a democratic ideal that reaches from Athens to Washington DC, from New Delhi to Tahrir Square, and into an unknown future. If dialogue is the expression of reason-in-action, then the ultimate goal of reason as envisioned here is a utilitarian one, implementing the ideals of peaceful, egalitarian, engaged community with which Sen’s seminal work The Argumentative Indian is concerned. But for the philosopher, dialogue is still more: it is a method of moving towards truth. And many classical cultures took the sphere of truth – of philosophical ideas correctly framed and deeply comprehended – to be its own state in which only sincere and subtle thinkers can win citizenship, earning their equality through the earnest exercise of intellect. In this exploration of the goals and dynamics of Indian early classical conversation about brahman or the idea of a ‘highest truth’,1 we will seek to emphasise what theorists like Pierre Bourdieu (1993) and Randall Collins (2000) have sought to add to existing broadly Marxist models of dialogue: the idea that philosophical conversation can ‘reverse’ the forces of the economic world to create its own ‘economy of symbolic goods’ (or in the case of philosophy, conceptual goods) governed by its own autonomous hierarchy (Bourdieu 1993: 37–40). Driven by its own ideals, philosophical community – with its multi-partner contributive participation in reasoning toward ever-better truths – is a world where government is by the rules of thought itself. The brahmins of classical India’s Gangetic plain developed Vedāntic brahma-vāda, a culture of crafting ‘theories of everything’ (Frazier 2017: 121) that have passed across continents and ages to influence scholastic thought in India, Romanticism in Europe and America and political ontology in Modern India. Like the marginal philosophers of Asia Minor who carved out their own ‘intellectual’ citizenship in democratic Athens, so too classical Indian brahma-vādins of different classes, regions and cosmologies, claimed philosophical sovereignty through ati-vāda, or ‘out-talking’ their peers, abductively incorporating the insights of others, and offering superior theories about reality.

‘Speakers of highest truth’ 85 As Hadot puts it, ‘loftiness of vision’ was a concrete value in the conceptual economies of the classical world – whether in Greece or India (Hadot 2002: 13). But how did conversation give access to this lofty realm of ideas? Many tales of dialogue in ancient sources recount mere power-plays in which one person asserts their superiority; so how can we identify substantive philosophical exchanges in which a plurality of voices offering different theories work collectively, as equals, to advance thinking itself? Some of the earliest Upaniṣads revel in tales of masterly conversants for whom collaborative understanding is the pinnacle of any activity, the seal upon true ‘mastery’: There were once three men who had mastered the High Chant … They said to each other: ‘We have clearly mastered the High Chant. So come, let’s have a discussion about the High Chant’. They all agreed and sat down. Then Pravāhaṇa Jaivali said to the other two: ‘Gentlemen, why don’t the two of you talk first? I will listen to the conversation as the two Brahmins talk. (Chāndogya Upaniṣad 1.8.1–2)2 Here talking (vad-) is more than mere speech, it is discussion, debate, the search for greater knowledge and a display of skill; so too its setting is the activity of sitting down together (samupaviviś-) and giving way politely to others with the explicit goal of listening. In this Chapter we will focus on Upaniṣadic conversations that bring together a cast of lively characters – questioning and disputing, ridiculing as well as congratulating each other – in pursuit of brahma-vāda – the collaborative search for broad, over-spanning truths. In contrast to Plato’s notion of deductive dialogue which is focused on the logical construction of specific certain truths, this offers a distinctive Indian model of abductive plurilogue focused on creatively canvassing broad speculative explanations for the world. In this philosophical democracy of views where the increased explanatory power of an idea is what unites theories and wins the stage, it is collaboration rather than contestation that is most fruitful. In Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad chapter three’s story of King Janaka, we see plurilogical reasoning at work. This is not the kind of community we see in Chāndogya 1.8 above, in which open expression takes place without rules in a space free of competition. Rather, this is a community bound by a shared goal – by what, for Jürgen Habermas, is a public sphere in which citizenship by birth or institution is replaced by shared desire to better understand substantive issues, and in which socially-determined status is replaced by the ‘parity on whose basis alone the authority of the better argument could assert itself against that of social hierarchy and in the end can carry the day’ (Habermas 1989: 36). It dramatises a context in which the birth-group of brahmanas was replaced by brahma-vāda: it is ‘discussion of brahman’, the most encompassing truth, toward which each voice contributes, falling silent and ceding space to the next when it has completed its contribution, or returning to the spotlight if it sees that something is unresolved. Competition is resolved by debate rather than violence (there is bitter sarcasm in the dialogue we will explore, and the dramatic hyperbole of a threat that bad ideas can ‘shatter heads’, but no one expresses the intent to harm anyone).

86 Jessica Frazier Indeed, these tales offer a gentle critique of the ideal of dialogue as an arena for liberal self-expression, reminding us that in actuality dialogues are usually motivated by the desire to make progress in some areas, building a new idea around a shared concern. As we will see, this point is brought out with the help of Chāndogya Upaniṣad chapter six’s celebration of abductive inference. As a central mechanism by which theories are built, plurilogical abduction helps us to locate the Upaniṣadic ‘practice of reason’ (Ganeri 2001: 7) within its own distinctive epistemological framework; different from Nyāya’s critical reason, or Vaiśeṣika’s classificatory reason, we see this early Vedāntic speculation as rooted in explanatory reason which creatively posits equivalences, universals and grounds for the widest range of data.

In search of Indian dialogism The Upaniṣads are rich in tales of conversation – they celebrate it as a form of thinking, and a way of life in a culture that, as Sen puts it, ‘likes to speak’ (Sen 2005: 3). Indeed, one could argue that conversation is one of the most popular narrative tropes in Indian texts, from the intellectuals of the Upaniṣads, and the urgent battleground exchange between Arjuna and Kṛṣṇa (see Chapter 11 in this volume), to the deity-devotee frame narratives of the Tantras (for other examples of deity-devotee dialogues, see Chapters 8, 11 and 13) and the fervent exchanges of romantic literature. By the period in which the Upaniṣads first emerge, figures such as Pravāhana Jaivali, Uddālaka Āruṇi, Janaka, Ajātaśatru, Yājñavalkya and others had already gained fame within their communities not only for their ideas, but also for their conduct as skilful conversants – they are role models. Yet their dialogues are of many kinds, ranging from the peaceable group discussion that shapes the Praśna Upaniṣad, to the semi-monologue of Uddālaka Āruṇi and his overawed son Śvetaketu, the curious marital bond of learning between Yājñavalkya and Maitreyī, and the conversations by which Satyakāma Jābāla overcomes his ambivalent fatherless status. They are even interspersed with mythic and satirical conversations, from the interrogation of Death that gives the Kaṭha Upaniṣad its distinctive sense of risk and gravitas, to the discussion between vital elements like mind, hearing, semen and breath in Bṛhadāraṇyaka 6.1.7–14. They present mini-dramas of challenge and self-discovery grounded in a struggle for Brahmanic power (Black 2007), a setting that lends them their tensions and aspirations as they model the desired behaviour of their readers. These are usually philosophical conversations that lead protagonists and readers alike through a process of reasoning, to reveal a valuable conclusion. The beauty of narrated philosophical reason is that we too, as readers, share in the treasure (for the role of the reader in narrative dialogues, see Chapters 6 and 10). The dialogical consistency of such cases varies however; in some the communal aspect is essentially pedagogical, in that one protagonist teaches and the other invites and receives that knowledge. Maitreyī’s questioning of her husband in the Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad simply opens the space for him to rehearse the steps leading to his position. So too, in the Chāndogya Upaniṣad, Śvetaketu is not

‘Speakers of highest truth’ 87 a contributor to the content of the dialogue, but a grateful audience, magnifying the wisdom of his father. From a philosophical perspective, such cases are really treatises: narratively they pull us into the drama, but philosophically their conclusions do not rely on having other partners in conversation. But other dialogues require the existence of multiple ideas that may initially seem separate, yet through the conversation are assimilated into an overarching position that explains or grounds them. These are plurilogues in which different theories come together to collaboratively yield a new and better one. The valuing of dialogue in Plato emphasises deductive critical analysis: parsing ideas and seeking certainty in their logic. It is in this way that Socrates elicits knowledge from Meno, rather than telling him what is true. But as we will see, this is not the only or best form of reasoning when it comes to the metaphysical theorising with which texts about brahman are concerned; here creative communities that formulate and compare explanatory models – using abductive inference to generate theory rather than check logic – are more useful. In the Upaniṣads the community of thinkers that generated the ideas to which the text alludes, often loom in the background. But they form a crucial backdrop to the story: It was, indeed, this that they knew, those extremely wealthy and immensely learned householders of old, when they said: ‘now no one will be able to spring something upon us that we have not heard of or thought of or understood before’. (Chāndogya Upaniṣad 6.4.5)3 This community of actual thinkers are the basis for the trope of a Vedic intellectual elite in whose conversations the knowledge of unseen realities circulates; in a sense it is the precursor of the Naimiṣa forest’s sages to whom so much subsequent scripture was attributed. They form a kind of intellectual chorus that made ‘adaptive reuse’ (Freschi and Maas 2017) of material from the imaginaire of their time and recast it within the frame of Vedic narrative. This means that, in these dialogues, we must see the mark of diverse brahminical clans and teachers, as well as their kṣatriya neighbours, and even different intellectual centres and cultures. Much scholarship tries to tease out these strands. Olivelle acknowledges the presence of the schools that later emerged as distinct traditions separately of the Upaniṣads and their Vedāntic heritage (Buddhism, Jainism, Sāṃkhya, Yoga, Cārvāka ideas and renunciation more generally) as voices whispering within these texts. We can see cosmogonic myths of monogenesis from a deity or primal ‘being’ (‘sat’ as in Ṛgveda 10.129), or of genesis from ‘non-being’ (asat)4 or of genesis by dividing a pre-existing chaos. So too there are cosmologies of deities and ancestors, ritual-associated theories of a cosmos bound by ‘bandhu’ correspondences (tied to the verbal hymns of humanity as in Ṛgveda 10.130), deities which are vital forces or ‘elements’, bio-chemical speculation about the transformation of natural substances (concerned with ‘cooking and eating’, evolution and dissolution), a fascination with words as powerful entities that individuate and

88 Jessica Frazier connect the universe,5 an emerging belief in endless rebirth across worlds as well as ‘anti-cosmogonies’, as Brereton puts it, that question the very cogency of such ideas (see 1999: 249 on Ṛgveda 10.129). We still have a very fragmented picture of the views on which the earliest strata of Upaniṣadic composition drew, but a reader looking for a western analogy might imagine Ovid, but interlaced with episodes from Plato, and finding various meta-physico-poetic fragments from the Pre-Socratics crammed into the fabric of the text. As Fox says of Genesis, ‘the stories were heir to other stories, traces of which … show up like secret writing between the lines of what we now read’ (Fox 1991: 22). And as in the dialogues of Plato, we sometimes get to see the authors of those alternative theories dramatised within these texts, disputing and collaborating on ideas. One such text, in which multiple voices, proposing multiple perspectives, come together in a philosophically productive way, is the forum at King Janaka’s court (see also Chapter 1 for an analysis of a different, yet related, discussion at Janaka’s court). In this tale, rich in drama, replete with knowing irony about the competitive spirit of classical brahmin teachers, we see a microcosm of India’s early philosophical pluralism. In this dialogue diverse śakas and varṇas are brought together not for a practical purpose, but to display their knowledge and engage in the purest kind of theory the culture had yet devised – they must solve the puzzle of what constitutes brahman, the highest and most all-encompassing truth on which the world is founded, and how it is connected to immortality. The story is perhaps the Upaniṣads’ pre-eminent example of plurilogue – multiple parties collaborating in a shared discussion that builds collaboratively toward some new product of interest to all. Sen reads Indian argumentation as the side-effect of a long tradition of ‘accepted heterodoxy’ (Sen 2005: xii) that preserves free speech and belief. But Sen, whose main interest is socio-political, can sometimes downplay the theoretical purpose of allowing heterodoxy: it feeds the diversity of the intellectual sphere, seeding a curious culture with ever-proliferating new ideas. Part of what has attracted people to Greek dialogue is its moral character as a mark of democratic egalitarian participation in the polis. The conclusions of free-thinking citizens were seen to be valid precisely because the ‘hive-mind’ of human thinkers had traced the publicly verifiable lines of reasoning together, and dialogues preserved in textual form inducted the wider community of readers into that process. As Eric Sanday notes, we find in such dialogues ‘a clear emphasis on the interpersonal dimension of philosophical epiphany.’ They even draw the reader into the dialogical community because the ‘text appears to demand of the reader that she become a participant in the genesis of meaning through engagement in the difficult risk-laden activity of making philosophical decisions about the evidence and inquiry that is presented’ (Sanday 2015: 10). In his more detailed theoretical work on the way reason functions to build discursive equality (in The Idea of Justice 2010 [2009]: 89), Sen acknowledges that ‘the nature, robustness and reach of the theories’ is what shapes a meritocratic community of dialogue: it is not just showing up that bestows membership, but participation in constructive reasoning. So too here the participants in- and outside of the text share its epiphanies about brahman and have to make parallel decisions about the reasoning that generates new meaning.

‘Speakers of highest truth’ 89 We will see, however, that this goes beyond the merely epistemological goal of ‘checking evidence’ to affirm the more creative ‘genesis of meaning’ through new theories. Karin Preisendanz noted that inference from basic principles, followed by rational argument and logical disputation, defence and explication have been taken as the standards by which Indian Philosophy has been qualified to join Europe and China as truly ‘philosophical’ traditions (Preisendanz 2009: 262). This is a narrow idea of dialogical reason as critique and defence. But let us take a different type of conversation as a case-study, demonstrating the positive contribution that can be made by plurilogue entailing many examples, case-studies and theories.

Puzzles and plurilogues in the Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad The pluralistic background of these texts comes into its own when it provides multiple views as fodder for forming ‘umbrella’ theories. One of the most explicit question-based plurilogues is found in the Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad’s story of Yājñavalkya, and the Brahmins of the Kuru and Pañcāla regions of northern India who flock to King Janaka’s court in Videha to win the lavish gift of a thousand cows with gold tied to their horns (Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad 3.1.1). More established and confident brahmins familiar to the court challenge the newcomer Yājñavalkya who claims to be most learned (setting up a narrative tension). After much discussion, he does indeed reveal a superior knowledge under interrogation, eventually compelling them to acknowledge his superiority. Compositionally, the Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad is a collection of ideas, shown by Brereton (1997) to have been successively added and expanded into thematic ‘question-rings’ in which one question (here grounded in a tale from the Śatapatha Brāhmaṇa) provides the basis on which an editor has added other parallel questions and answers before returning to the original. Brereton, and following him Hock, have taken the main concern of the Yājñavalkya Cycle to be doctrines of rebirth of the self from an underlying root (see Hock 2002). This conception of rebirth ties into a broader metaphysics of ‘root’ existence from which things can emanate, and to which subsidiary beings can return. In this respect it also builds a doctrine of brahman. At this stage in Indian history, brahman seems to be a still-emerging conception of universal truth or ground, a Brahminic answer to Proto-Sāṃkhya ideas about the fundamental cohesive unity of the universe. It clearly means a range of things in the Vedas and continues to do so into the early Upaniṣads where it spans a range of meanings including both older ritual ideas of ritual efficacy, magical formula or symbolic equivalence, and also cosmological ideas of a linking principle, body or core, essence, vital energy, efficient cause, source material, ground of existence or essential identity. Clearly, early Vedic cosmogonic concerns to identify ‘the fundamental principle in the development of the world’ (Nakamura 1983: 104) developed through Vedic notions of sat (the cosmic order or ground), into Upaniṣadic ideas of ‘Being’ as exemplified by ‘permanence and self-sufficiency, of unity and identity’ (Halbfass 1978: 98). The

90 Jessica Frazier texts under the lens here allude to a family of ideas about unity, universality, grounding, core and essence – tempered by a special concern to find a universal and non-transitory truth, by allying oneself with which one may exceed the mortal limitations of the human body. The drama of the discussion is two-fold; it portrays reasoned dialogue (saṃvāda, or collective discussion) as a form of competitive verbal combat (ativāda, or out-talking) between the individual brahmins and also between the different types of priest (Hotṛ, Udgātṛ, Adhvaryu, etc.) so that contemporary brahmin readers must have seen their own affiliation to be implicated in the conversation. A female participant, Gārgī, speaks of defeat in theological debate and interestingly it is she who shifts the tone firmly into a martial mode by declaring ‘I rise to challenge you Yājñāvalkya, with two questions, much as a fierce warrior of Kāśi or Videha, stringing his unstrung bow or taking two deadly arrows in his hand, would rise to challenge an enemy’ (3.8.2). Unlike the six wise men of the Praśna Upaniṣad, or the three polite conversants cited above from the Chāndogya, these brahmins are irascible and competitive, and part of Yājñavalkya’s superiority lies in his willingness to call out the true motivation of his peers (Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad 3.1.2). As Lindquist notes (2005), Yājñavalkya’s superiority as a reasoner is flagged in the text through sarcasm toward others – far from the warmest attitude towards one’s surrounding demos. Tonally, this is not the peaceable dialogue associated with stoic Greek citizenry; the virtues it affirms are ‘the courage to challenge, the cunning to outwit, and the intelligence to outsmart these eminent Brahmins’ (Olivelle 1998b: 505). Yet this is because the personal and social dimensions are subservient to a strong level of conceptual drama; diverse spheres of knowledge are invoked, and as the hero explains his mastery of each, we gradually see that the sum of his knowledge is building toward a shared overarching umbrella theory. Brereton and Hock acknowledge the way that the text grapples with different theories of reincarnation, but neither note the way the cycle of questions builds to a more complete understanding of what is meant by ‘brahman’. Yet by reference to each different sphere of knowledge, with its associated way of trying to explain the world and mediate human interaction with it, the scope of brahman is increasingly expanded: In 4.1–4 Yājñavalkya goes on to introduce his own theoretical paradigms for discussing brahman; with his idea in 4.1 that it is the abode or resting place (āyatana) and the foundation or base (pratiṣṭhā) for other things, he touches on the growing interest in dependence by which classical cosmology would develop into a genuinely metaphysical inquiry. He draws on the biological model of breath, heart and veins in 4.2, in 4.3 he alludes to debates about the source of life (understood in terms of ‘the light for a person’) and develops an extended theory of the conscious self as an agent operating across the waking and dreaming worlds, and the unconscious state without a ‘second reality’ to perceive. Here what Brereton considers a ‘ring cycle’ now returns to the question of rebirth, aided by the theory of brahman with which Yājñavalkya now supports his argument, bestowing knowledge by which one undoubtedly becomes brahman (4.4.24).

‘Speakers of highest truth’ 91 Discussant

Theme

Implied qualities of brahman

Aśvala 3.1.3–6 3.1.7–9

Cosmological structure and means of freedom/liberation (atimokṣaḥ) What bestows complete freedom by enabling escape from temporal limits (death, days and nights, the waxing and waning moon) and from contingency (when the intermediate regions provide no support)? Ritual knowledge of equivalents (saṃpadaḥ) What ‘wins’ aspects of the cosmos (verses bestowing what supports life, oblations bestowing worlds of gods, ancestors and men, mind as equivalent of deities, breath as equivalent of hymns)?

transcends temporal conditions of transitory existence, arising and cessation, because it is not dependent on ‘supports’ brahman assimilates equivalences thus ‘winning’ other features, enabling it to describe the cosmos as a whole.

Jāratkārava Ārtabhāga 3.2

Epistemological theory of perceptual organs and objects What are graspers and overgraspers (grahā/atigrahā)? Theories of death and decomposition What is that into which the self can be transformed, that survives death?

brahman spans things by being composed of, or controlling them brahman is associated with that part which survives death, transforming the self into something immortal.

Bhujya Lāhyāyani 3.3

Cosmological mapping of karmic destinations; universality of wind To what cosmological region do the Pārikṣitas go?; what region is the highest cosmological goal, and what is the highest reality?

brahman is that which grants access to any part of the cosmos, and like the wind ‘is both individual things and the totality of things’ (tasmād vāyur eva vyaṣṭir vāyuḥ samaṣṭiḥ).

Uṣasta Cāk- Theories of a universal self; the rāyaṇa 3.4 idea of universal breath superseded by an inner seer What is the self in all?

brahman is the universal self, and is identified not only with the breath as a universal biological process, but also as the perceiver at the centre of consciousness.

Kahola Kau- Theories of a self beyond material brahman is the universal self that ṣītakeya 3.5 desires, associated with the mendi- stands beyond worldly human life cant life and its concerns. What is the self within all that is beyond traditional brahmin goals and lifestyles? Gārgī Vāca- Metaphysical theory of grounding knavī 3.6 in supporting ‘fabrics’ On what are things woven back and forth?

brahman is the supporting medium/ ontological-frame of things; by implication it has no support.

(Continued )

92 Jessica Frazier (Cont.) Discussant

Theme

Implied qualities of brahman

Uddālaka Āruṇi 3.7

Theories of a cosmic ‘string’, and of an inner controller What is the string on which things are strung, and what is the inner controller?

brahman is pervasive and underpins continuity across diversity and change; brahman underlies activity and agency.

Gārgī Vācaknavī 3.8 Vidagdha Śākalya 3.9

Theory of an imperishable foundation for ‘space’ On what is space woven back and forth? Theory of ‘the quarters together with their gods and foundations’ (3.8.19); and of deities (deva)/vital forces as being grounded in a single ‘person’ (puruṣa) How many gods are there; what is the one core god?

brahman is the imperishable (akṣara), providing a groundless framework that is beyond the qualities of worldly existence (3.8.8), the source of cosmic order (3.8.9) and brahminical authority (3.8.10) and the basis of perception (3.8.11) brahman is the true force uniting and underlying all individual forces.

Yājñavalkya Theory of grounding as a ‘root’ 3.9.27–8 from which new growth emanates What is the root out of which the body/world grows inexhaustibly, but which itself remains unchanged by subsidiary cessation?

brahman is the root that remains as the basis of new life even when the ‘root’ of body is ‘cut down by death’.

Brereton has described the Upaniṣadic notion of brahman as a ‘single, comprehensive and fundamental principle which shapes the world’ (Brereton 1990: 118). Taking the Yājñavalkya Cycle as our key, what emerges is a stillmore complex but concise picture of the early classical brahman as something replacing previous notions of the gods and the elements, by providing a symbolic, conceptual or causally efficient ‘equivalent’ to the world. It spans them through composition or control, serving as a supporting medium or ‘fabric’ of the world that is distinguished by its continuity through and across the most diverse range of phenomena. It is itself imperishable, but as the ‘root’ analogies emphasise, it possesses the ontological plenitude necessary to give rise repeatedly both to the world, and – by implication – the human self. Already here there is a suggestion of a cognitive or agentive element to this span, such that it may be something that spans all perception, or which perceives all. Further, these qualities mean that it is the key to human freedom within the cosmos: to transcending the usual social conditions of brahminic life, and escaping the limited character of embodied temporal existence, since one can assimilate the self to brahman and thereby survive death and achieve the highest region. This was an idea offering the tantalising possibility of something that gathers the whole of reality into a single highest truth

‘Speakers of highest truth’ 93 (causally, metaphysically, cognitively or semantically united), that can somehow assimilate us into its own sphere of Being – with the effect that death and all the petty restrictions of life lose their sting. Much could be said about each of the spheres of explanatory knowledge invoked by the characters, and speculated upon in other texts – scholarship across classical genres indicates that theories such as the analysis of natural forces in terms of elements (bhūtas) and gods (devas), of a hierarchy of energyconsumption imagined in terms of ‘eating’, of causal agency understood in terms of grasping and ‘over-grasping’, of ontological ground envisioned as a root, string or loom of the world and of ākāśa or prāṇa as etheric meta-elements, were independent proto-sciences in the culture of the time. Most of the ideas here receive their own separate development somewhere in the corpus of Upaniṣads, and some enjoy a long life as theologies of their own (as for instance the ‘inner controller’ of Uddālaka Āruṇi which is that by which we perceive, though it is unperceivable (as in the Kena Upaniṣad), and which later drives important formulations of brahman in the Bhagavad Gītā and the Viśiṣṭādvaita school of thought). This is a vibrant plurilogue not merely of brahmins, but of ancient philosophies. But in this complex literary text, written in ‘a highly sophisticated form of presentation full of skilful touches’ (Nakamura 1983: 35), they are woven together into an encompassing super-theory of brahman by the masterful and sometimes sarcastic voice of Yājñavalkya. Indeed, the whole conversation is driven by a desire to unite them into an over-arching theory. The interlocutors themselves sometimes synthesise multiple views, as when Uṣasta Cākrāyaṇa trivialises the self made of breath and demands a more sophisticated view of the universal self; similarly the idea of a binding thread (sūtra) is combined with the idea of an inner-controller (antaryāmin) by Uddālaka Āruṇi. So, too, 3.7 is an extended tying together of many different candidates for a most basic element all under the rubric of an equivalence to brahman by which those alternative theories are ‘gathered’ into brahman. Gārgī also serves to ‘gather’ theories together with her second question, as she synthesises the cosmologies of earth, intermediate and heavenly regions, and of past, present and future, with the oft-repeated theory (possible a precursor or competitor to brahman) that space is the true universal and imperishable fabric, and Śākalya is perhaps the most eager in his passion to form an integrated science of regions and natural forces, although it is precisely his failure to provide a uniting knowledge of the ‘link-breath’ that leads to his unfortunate demise.6 In each teaching the theme of unity that brahman represents, dictates the necessity for the speaker to concede any more encompassing idea and fall silent before it – not because they have been refuted or forcibly silenced, but because their idea has been assimilated into a fuller explanation. In this sense, brahman offers an ‘integrative vision’ for the diverse theories that were evidently being debated (Brereton 1990: 118). There is a progression from truths aimed at taking the self beyond death and worldly concerns, toward more abstract concerns to identify ‘deeper and deeper realities that serve as the foundation or basis for others’, using existing tropes (of

94 Jessica Frazier loom, thread, inner agent etc.); as Olivelle says, ‘this is possibly the idea that gives some unity to the diverse thoughts of the Upaniṣads’ (Olivelle 1998b: 26). It is this that can vouchsafe our soteriological continuation beyond death, for it is cited as the basis for our own personal persistence through change and destruction.7 Arguably, the Yājñavalkya-kaṇḍa’s themes are themselves developments of the Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad’s initial ritual image of the horse’s bodily correspondences, and the question of composite unity and dependence that runs through much of the text. Laurie Patton’s work on viniyoga (2005) as a thematic, associative, idea-assimilating structure of reflection is helpful for thinking about the form of reasoning here. The ‘powerful associative, metonymic properties’ associated with mantra as a kind of poetic evocation of a theme (here the theme of unity, ground, gathering, root) finds its expression in the almost poetic use of questions and theories to build an idea. As Patton puts it, the Upaniṣads illustrate the path of reasoning between poetic mantra and dialogical philosophy, using their heightened sensitivity to ‘mental power’ as a lens magnifying ‘the philosophical connections between individual mantras and cosmic processes’ (Patton 2005: 3–4). Thus as a philosophical viniyoga the Yājñavalkya cycle builds a theory of unity, ground, gathering, root and vital source out of the input from its plurilogical participants. Because this plurilogue takes the form of a set of questions, it does not tell us what brahman is, so much as set up a list of requirements for a theory. Much subsequent Vedāntic reflection would consist in trying to construct theories that meet such requirements. The range of discretely different metaphysical systems that unfolded out of these earliest Vedāntic sources fed from the diversity of models that were already embedded in them – this metaphysical multiplicity would allow philosophers to build many-facetted theories, ‘combining different categories of ontology within each other like Russian Dolls’, to create a new mode of ‘creative philosophising’ about complex cosmologies (Frazier 2014: 85, 87). Indeed, this section is helpful in looking at the way in which inquiry into brahman is undertaken in the period pre-Brahma Sūtras, when the form of discourse is not that of a structured commentary or a linear doctrinal exposition, but rather a multi-centred accumulation of ideas and arguments. Brahman is more like a Humean bundle-theory of properties and effects here, rather than a formal ‘doctrine’.

The philosophical value of dialogue The philosophical value of dialogism is that the conversations are philosophically productive precisely because of the multiplicity of minds; here we see each mind bringing a new paradigm for approaching the question of rebirth through brahman, and each paradigm is assimilated to a growing umbrella conception. This ‘bundle-theory-brahman’ may not seem concise, but in fact it builds in a very rational way: one begins with the known or desired effects of a certain reality, and theorises backward toward the various possible models that would make sense of it. In this respect, the forum at King Janaka’s court models quite

‘Speakers of highest truth’ 95 accurately the kind of abductive, speculative reasoning that, even today, produces physical and metaphysical theories. This kind of reasoning in the Upaniṣads is sometimes taken as a mark of their unsystematic, rattle-bag approach to philosophising, but it is important to recognise that it has quite a different value from the philosophical processes behind classic Platonic dialogue. On the Greek model, dialogues are philosophically useful because: a) The implicit structure of the logical reasoning is demonstrated by the explicit discussion of premises, deductions and conclusions. This is a model exemplified in Plato’s conversation with a slave in the Meno; they lead the reader to participate in a shared journey through algebra. The structure of the ideas are parsed and made publicly transparent. b) A critical voice refines the argument by spotting inappropriate leaps of reasoning, posing of alternative views, recursively reducing theories in order to reach increasingly basic levels of explanation, applying test-cases to be accounted for so that the account is broadened, or its limitations revealed. We see something like this in the Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad’s story of Prajāpati, Vīrocana and Indra in which a gradual process of critical reasoning pares away inadequate theories of self, ‘Occam’s razor’-like, until a correct view in gained. But the plurilogical approach is less about critique and reduction, than suggestion and expansion. The method of collecting instances to be explained, inductively generalising to their widest features, and suggesting underlying phenomena that might explain them, is a process that the philosopher Charles Peirce called abductive inference. ‘Abductive’ reasoning uses speculative imagination to suggest explanations that lie beyond our perception, but which would unite the data in a single comprehensive truth. It is this that generates theory in metaphysics (and in physics). But philosophically it is controversial because it is the only stage in logical reasoning at which any genuinely new data is introduced: observations about the world turn, magically, into broader theories. Certainty, the fascination of epistemology and much modern western philosophy, is not the priority for abductive projects – rather it is explanatory power that is of value. Eliot Deutsch noted that the exegetical style of reasoning in Vedānta actually feeds this creative ‘act of reason’ by which contributors to a tradition seek to bring ‘systematic coherence to its body of ideas’ (Deutsch in 1988: 170). He pointed to the unique form of philosophising that takes place through constructive exegesis: The exegetical material expands, refined, modified arguments and ideas, and presents new ones, usually with increasing precision (oftentimes, somewhat unfortunately, in terms of a multiplication of distinctions reminiscent of scholasticism), seeking to bring greater systematic coherence to its body of ideas … From the philosopher-commentator’s point of view, he is not remarking on a finished product, as a literary critic might do; he is contributing something to it through it through his creative appropriation of its very life and being. (1988: 170)

96 Jessica Frazier This is an important insight into the nature of real, successful plurilogue; ‘umbrella’ insights arise from a breadth of differing worldviews. As Daya Krishna puts it, Each available conceptual structure thus shows the limitations of the others and suggests an alternative possibility unexplored by them. Also they may be seen as drawing our attention to those facts of experience which have been neglected in other perspectives and to ways of organising and patterning experience that were not seen by them. (1988: 81) Although Plato’s philosophical dialogues are associated with critical deduction, Monique Dixsaut has argued that those dialogues too champion the value of digression via multiple parallel routes of reasoning: macrological (preferring longer explanations) and brachylogical (branching off in various directions) styles are central to Greek classical thought in which ‘thinking is not geometrical and linear, but astronomical and circular’ (Dixsaut 2013: 19). Abductive plurilogues thrive upon plurality of perspective, and here the search for forms of cosmic unity benefits from taking into account theories of cosmological structure, natural forces, biological growth, spatial pervasion, etc. Sanday’s observation on Plato’s Parmenides also applies to Uddālaka Āruṇi’s use of diverse examples to develop a theory of brahman in Chāndogya Upaniṣad 6: At the end of the discussion we will discover that our basic understanding of the most common and familiar phenomena contains important ontological interpretations … We are at each moment intimately familiar with the determinate intelligibility of spatio-temporal individuals. That is to say, in every object with which we have dealings, we tacitly understand the necessary aspects of complexity and individuality: part/whole relations, inside/outside relations … (Sanday 2015: 45) In this light, texts such as the Upaniṣads do not appear diffuse and ramshackle in comparison with their Western cousins: their multiplicity is a strength. Like the metaphysical reasoning of the later Plato when the soul is portrayed as lyre, form and pure vitality in the Phaedo, or love as movement, compliment or lack in the Symposium, abduction benefits from dialogicality because it ‘feeds’ upon alternative theories, transforming them into broader sovereign insights that expand the thinker himself.

Knowledge as sovereignty in the Chāndogya Upaniṣad One of the features that makes the Upaniṣads so profoundly fascinating is that they reflect on this very process of meta-theorising through the search for a formulation of brahman. Indeed, in a sense, brahman is not one Upaniṣadic

‘Speakers of highest truth’ 97 theme among many, but a meta-theme capturing the philosophical spirit of ‘explanation-in-terms-of-universalities-and-foundations’ that characterises much of the whole collection and guides much of its redaction. Thus, although in many of its earliest uses it signifies a particularly powerful ritual formula or a symbolic substitution for the cosmos, it comes to signify an ‘order-inducing totality’ (Ganeri 2018) that allows one to possess and even become the universe. It is this that unites most of the plurilogical communities of Upaniṣadic conversants, and it is what brings Janaka’s courtiers into debate: their shared desire to discover a brahman-like theory of everything by which professional and cosmological sovereignty are won. Here the notion of a community of desire can help to provide an interpretive framework for the communal dimension of conversation. Pierre Hadot has noted the way in which generalised abstract reasoning was valued in ancient Greece as a way to expand the self and transform the human mind through a mental ‘conquest of space’ (1995: 243). One can take the idea of brahman in the early Upaniṣads as functioning in a similar way. Elizabeth Belfiore’s analysis of classical Greek philosophising sees the schools of Athens as ‘erotic’ communities of desire for wisdom (2012), and – while desire for patronage and cows is also a powerful motivating force – this philosophical curiosity also unites the plurilogical community of the Upaniṣads. These wise men don’t simply find themselves in conversation in the forum; they choose to unite in their hungry desire for all-encompassing truths that bring the human self a little closer to the immortal level of reality. Plato frames this as the skill of desiring truth, the erôtikê technê (2012: xi) of hungrily thinking toward the good, which is itself participation in the spirit or daimon or Eros itself (defined in the Symposium as the attraction of any thing toward what it lacks). So too an equivalent argument could be made here about the pursuit of brahman. It is not merely that the Upaniṣads’ philosophers are studying different accounts – rather, their method of arriving at accounts of brahman is to practice brahman, that is, to collectively practice techniques of inductive universalisation of truths, encompassing case after case and abductively developing accounts designed to explain the widest possible range of knowledge. As Socrates’s community participates in the spirit called ‘Eros’ in order to understand Eros in the Symposium, so these philosophers participate in brahman when they think philosophically together in this way. The Chāndogya Upaniṣad is a particularly important locus for the explicit acknowledgement of the idea that brahman provides an over-arching theory, and thus a valuable source of knowledge that allows the meagre human mind to scan and span the world. While this is not a dialogue, insofar it is a locus classicus for the Vedāntic affirmation of inductive (and abductive) inference as a way to generate broad theoretical models, it provides the philosophical background to the dialogical element in this genre. The dangers and rewards of knowledge are significant: one can obtain boons likened to a ‘hidden treasure of gold’ (Chāndogya Upaniṣad 8.3.2), such as knowledge of what has not been heard, seen or perceived (6.1.1), freedom of movement in all the worlds (7.25.2) and beyond

98 Jessica Frazier darkness (7.26.2), gaining access to the heavenly world every single day (8.3.3). Alternatively, one can have one’s feet wither away (5.17.2), and one’s head shatter (3.9.26). Chapter six is a text that is particularly closely concerned with abstract knowledge and the methods of deriving it. The heroes of the Chāndogya are those brahmins who are the purveyors not of the instrumental knowledge of the ritual, but of abstract, speculative knowledge about brahman. The particular emphasis on conceptual abstraction seems to be derived from the chanters’ specialist attention to language as a form of representation able to reduce complex and limited phenomena (e.g. the world) to nominally simple and universal ones (e.g. the idea or word ‘world’). The heroes who possess such knowledge include professional brahmins such as Baka Dālbhya, Kauṣītaki, Pravāhaṇa Jaivali, Śaunaka Kāpeya, Uddālaka Āruṇi as well as sages such as Nārada and divine beings like Ghora Āṅgirasa and Prajāpati, as well as brahmins by-nature rather than by-birth such as Raikva, Satyakāma Jābāla and Indra. In fact, chapter eight depicts the whole text as devoted to those recipients of the stream of knowledge flowing from Brahmā through Prajāpati to Manu and ‘his children’. They are described here as in other Upaniṣads in literally glowing terms. They can be easily recognised because their ‘face glows like that of a man who knows brahman … gleams and glows with fame, glory, and the luster of sacred knowledge’ (3.18.3–4). For such a person who knows the secret teaching (upaniṣad) of brahman, the sun never rises or sets and it is always day (3.10.4), and they are accompanied by the pleasant sound of cheering (4.19.4). At one level, this is clearly part of a rhetorical take-over of brahminhood from those who specialised in practical ritual knowledge. In 6.1.1 Uddālaka Aruni warns his son not to become one of those who is a brahmin in name alone, and the poor brahmin Uṣasti Cākrāyaṇa is able to appropriate the rights of the king’s appointed brahmins – those who are higher in the knowledge economy – because he understands the significance of the sacrifice in a special, more abstract way that they do not comprehend (1.10.8–11.2). But above the competition between different types, families or regions of brahmins, it is important to see another level – the way in which knowledge as a whole is catalogued and thematised in order to propel the reflections on language developed by the chanters to new heights. Earlier in chapter three the Chāndogya depicts the existing sciences as different quarters of a whole likened to a honeycomb containing honey. It lists the Ṛg verses, the Yajus formulas, the Sāman chants, the Atharva and Āṅgirasa formulas and the histories (itihasa) and tales (purāṇa) as part of this coherent body. But they remain at the lower level: the top of the hive are the rules of substitution together with the brahman: these make up the essence of the Vedas as a whole (3.1–5). Brahmins with this knowledge protect the men of Kūru and the patron of the sacrifice, and can heal mistakes in the ritual (4.17.7–10), lead others to brahman (4.15) and are able through their knowledge to steal the power of sovereignty that normally belongs to kings (5.3.6) (for further discussion on sovereignty in the Upaniṣads see Chapter 12 in this book). But more than this status, the mind

‘Speakers of highest truth’ 99 operates ‘by the divine sight’ (etena daivena cakṣuṣā; 8.12.5), giving access to objects in the world of brahman. Scholars have recognised the importance of the theme of knowledge in the Upaniṣads, but it tends to be taken to reflect the professional rhetoric of brahmin communities rather than the specifically epistemological realisation that is taking place in these texts via the notion of brahman. Yet the Chāndogya Upaniṣad champions knowledge as a divine organ of perception, as a tool both of universal sovereignty and of essentialisation – the last being an idea supplied by the Udgītha Soma-pressing priest’s familiarity with ritual processes of distillation, and by these professional chanters’ extensive reflection on the nature of language. The very first chapter takes the sacred syllable Oṃ as the quintessential example of the kind of symbolic language that takes a specific form but refers to a broader and more abstract whole (1.1.2). It adds a dimension of progressive essentialisation to this process, using the image of rasa – distilled juice – to signal progression from the concrete world, through man, to speech and the Vedas and the High Chant which is the quintessence of all essences. ‘It is the highest, the ultimate, the eighth’ (rasānām rasatamaḥ paramaḥ parārdhyo ‘ṣṭamo yad udgīthaḥ, 1.1.2). But the text does not stop there; it conducts critical inquiry (vimṛṣṭaṃ; 1.1.4) into exactly what that notion of essence really entails in the Ṛg, Sāman and High Chants. There are those who use the syllable without knowing its ‘hidden correspondences’ (upaniṣad), but it is only those who use it with knowledge (vidyā) who benefit from its power (vīrya) (1.1.10). Interestingly, what follows immediately after in 1.2 is not a single essence but a series of correspondences of which the last is then taken up as the main essence: the gods venerate the chant as speech, sight, hearing and mind before the text then focuses on their veneration of it as breath. This structure is a standard template in the Upaniṣad as a whole – a list of possible correspondences is given, culminating in an approved overall highest and most comprehensive correspondence/essence/element/ deity/truth. There is not so much a dialogue of two minds in evidence here, as a chorus of suggestions offering partial solutions, culminating in a more comprehensive one. This method of reasoning progressively is also popular in the Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad which spends considerable time exploring the cosmological makeup of the world in terms of the elements. In the Chāndogya it recurs repeatedly in the form of lists explaining what ‘leads to’ (e.g. ‘kā sāmno gatir iti?’ ‘svara’ iti ha uvāca, 1.8.4) ‘goes into’ (e.g. vāyum eva apyeti, 4.3.1–3), and that of which is the gatherer (saṃvargaḥ, 4.3), or ‘the essence’ (e.g. eṣāṃ bhūtāṇāṃ pṛthivī rasaḥ, 1.1.2), or simply can be identified with (e.g. yat sāma sa udgīthaḥ, 1.3.4) what other thing. Another version of this is the structure by which elements or correspondences are listed, each with its (perfectly valid but limited) benefits; but the list culminates in something with unlimited benefits due to its wider scope. Thus rain, waters, seasons and animals each have their benefits, but it is breath, connected with sight, hearing and the mind, that has the most ‘extensive’ (parovariyas, 2.7) reach. Similarly, in chapter three, the Ṛg, Yajur, Sāman and Atharva sections of the Vedas are superseded by the rules of substitution which are the essence of the essences (rasānāṃ rasaḥ, vedā hi rasaḥ) and the nectar of nectars (amṛtānām amṛtāni).

100 Jessica Frazier So what is this knowledge and how is it hastened by the plurilogue collaboration of different voices? Bronkhorst picks up on this Upaniṣad’s investment in language as a guide to the ‘close connection between words and things’, linking it to broader cosmogonic reflections that took the idea of the separation (expressed through the Sanskrit verb ‘vyākṛ-’) of words/things from each other as a defining feature of phenomenal reality (Bronkhorst 6: 11).8 But the Chāndogya is particularly interested in the special pervasive, metaphysical truth that certain kinds of words can provide if they are able to span a sufficiently wide field of experience. The famous opening passage of chapter six presents a rough model of inference as the basis of generalised truths. Uddālaka Āruṇi explains that words like ‘clay’ function as context specific ‘word-handles’ for a general reality that allows us to reflect upon what has not yet been experienced directly (6.1.2–6). By digging down conceptually to the underlying reality, the satya beneath the vācārambhaṇa, we gain access to a much broader knowledge. The story of ‘gathering’ (saṃvargaḥ) that follows in the tale of Raikva adds to this definition: some sorts of things naturally entail the presence of, or are a prerequisite for others – as a higher dice roll ‘gathers’ the winnings of lower ones, as a charitable man ‘gathers’ the merit of those to whom he gives (4.1.4), as the wind gathers the more transient natural elements to itself and the breath gathers the dependent faculties of awareness (4.3). Thus ideas surrounding brahman or sat function as an invitation to universalising theories. Induction from a single case (a word or idea for a particular phenomenon) to broader phenomena (universals of increasingly wide scope) represent processes of distilling meaning and refining knowledge, so that ‘speech will yield for him the milk which is the very milk of speech’ (1.13.4; 2.8.3) – an analogy for the pressing of Soma’s potent milky liquid from its flesh. Thus the use of lists and levels is really about ‘gathering’ different examples or theories, and subjecting them to the conceptual essentialisation and broadening that facilitates abductive development of an umbrella theory. This power of unification, gathering and substitution is also an ability of one idea to ‘consume’ others. Chāndogya Upaniṣad 4.3 lauds this power in terms of that one god who pervades multiple things (bahudhā vasantam, 4.3.6), and is a ‘wise devourer with golden teeth … who eats what’s not food without being eaten’ (hiraṇyadaṣṭro babhaso ‘nasūriḥ … anadyamāno yad anannamati 4.3.7–8).9 Food here, as generally, means much more than literal foodstuffs. It is all transaction of fuel and energy, indicating anything that can be transformed through condensing processes (symbolised as eating or cooking) and assimilated to another being. So too theorising across multiple perspectives to reach more thoroughgoing formulations of truth is also a ‘cooking process’. If the food analogy emphasises the transformative process by which knowledge allows one to ‘become the world’ (Frazier 2017), then the concurrent analogies of travel and conquest emphasise the position of sovereignty and power that one thereby gains. In numerous key passages the knower of brahman is attributed a special capacity of governance over the world. 5.2 provides a ritual invocation for anyone ‘striving to achieve greatness’: making oblations to the

‘Speakers of highest truth’ 101 ‘best’, the ‘most excellent’, the ‘firm base’ and the ‘correspondence’, he recites: ‘he is the best, the greatest, the king and ruler. May he make me foremost! May he lead me to greatness! May he make me a king and ruler! May I become this whole world!’ (CU 5.2.6).10 Here is a brahminical knowledge that transforms its knower into the king; immediately following this the text narrates Uddālaka Āruṇi’s discussion with a king who is reluctant to delegate this worldsovereignty to a brahmin, noting that ‘in all the worlds, therefore, government has belonged exclusively to royalty’ (sarveṣu lokeṣu kṣatryaiva praśāsanam abhūd iti, 5.3.7). While this passage explicitly portrays knowledge as part of a tug-of-war between brahmins and kings, what is at stake is not actual temporal power but the more abstract capacity for conceptual sovereignty.

The plurilogical community of ‘highest-truth speakers’ The innumerable ‘theories of everything’ for which brahman provided a thematic viniyoga across the range of Upaniṣads, established a scholastic tradition that continued through Indian history – until only recently when Western-designed physics and philosophy departments have taken over. Brahma-vāda was a passion for this culture, providing the ‘philo-’ of its fascinated desire (Hadot 2002: 16) and the ‘autonomous’ criteria by which it judged its own self-value (Bourdieu 1993: 38) – despite being riddled with ‘heteronomous’ political motivations, personal egos and sectarian competition. Sociologists of philosophy have noted the way philosophical communities offer their own counterpoint to both the political and the public sphere, a realm that ‘cannot be reduced to sociopolitical conditions’ (Heidegren and Lundberg 2010: 3). Instead it observes the self-governing universal rules of reason, incorruptible rules that cannot be manipulated by rhetoric (which was, after all, Plato’s reason for rejecting the sophists). If the conversation King Janaka creates is of this kind, then it shows us plurilogue as an arena of equal right to speak; but the competition of ideas within that arena must also be recognised. The dynamic of assimilating ideas into broader, better theories create an ever-renewing meritocracy in which one’s position is based on the analytical quality of one’s insight. Through the collaborative conversation of the intellectuals in this text, isolated ideas merge, grow and branch outward, turning into over-arching theories. Competition is not all bad in this case; it is an expression of the shared desire for broad insights and a life beyond mortal human limits. At the court of King Janaka, plurality of conception appears as the very root of philosophical creativity, and sincere participation in the country of ideas. Embedded in this model is a critique of the standard modern narratives about the public sphere (see also Chapter 1). Dialogue is often celebrated because it is a performance of citizenship, a community-building exercise. For those whose priority is the democratic enfranchisement of individuals in society, or a Durkheimian model of cohesiveness community, what matters is more the fact that all speak together, than what is said. There is little Bildung in this ‘thin’

102 Jessica Frazier democratic idea, little progress upward to higher ideals. But this view does not express the points and passions of most philosophical communities for whom the important thing is that these are conceptually productive dialogues that elevate one’s understanding. The goal is to ‘out-talk’, assimilating other views to an encompassing sovereign position that is abductively derived from all of them together. Yet in many ways it seems timely to refocus dialogue on idea-building, rather than mere talk: we increasingly see that mere democracy can become the motor of media falsehoods made convincing and spread wide through an uncritical public. Indeed, media has an insidiously appropriative effect on the Public Sphere, anaesthetising its radicality, and using the natural chatter of communities for its own purposes. Here, at the limit of dialogue’s virtue – where talk becomes nothing but an echo chamber for ill-considered attitudes, we remember that content matters. Thus the plurilogical space of abductive philosophising contributes something essential to the utopian public sphere as conceived by Habermas and Sen. The philosophers of the Upaniṣads might point out that peaceful spaces of chatter aimed at no valuable goal, raised to no higher engagement with the world itself, privy to no secrets of the cosmos (for are humans the only thing that matters?), are not necessarily desirable spaces. The peaceful, ancient Vedic order where each brahmin knew his place in a neatly-interlocking functional community, was an order that grew inadequate over time. Talking needed to become productive, progressive and elevating, as exemplified by the insights provided by Yājñavalkya and Uddālaka Āruṇi. As a ‘theory of everything’, the idea of brahman offered a kind of assimilation to higher truths. Modern secular thinkers may not take such goals seriously. But brahma-vāda, lofty inquiry into the whole of things, was viscerally important to those who wondered, as India’s early classical brahmins did, what truths transcend the narrow limits of human life.

Notes 1 The concept of brahman is notoriously difficult to translate, not least because it is used in different ways in different periods and texts. I have regularly tried to paraphrase it here (as in the title of Chapter) in order to bring out the sense that the notion is not merely a provincial theological doctrine. Rather – in the early Upaniṣads at least – it is a broader kind of inquiry that seeks wide-ranging cosmological or metaphysical truths, truths that are ‘highest’ in the sense that they encompass other ideas about the fundamental nature of reality, and unify them into a highest theory. 2 All translations are adapted from Patrick Olivelle’s translation of the Upaniṣads (1998b). trayo hodgīthe kuśalā babhūvuḥ … | te hocur udgīthe vai kuśalāḥ smo hantodgīthe kathāṃ vadāma iti || tatheti ha samupaviviśuḥ | sa ha pravāhaṇo jaivalir uvāca | bhagavantāv agre vadatām | brāhmaṇayor vadator vācaṃ śroṣyāmīti ||. 3 Etaddha sma vai tad vidvāṃsa āhuḥ pūrve mahāśālā mahāśrotriyāḥ | na no ‘dya kaścanāśrutam amatam avijñātam udāhariṣyati |. 4 See Acharya (2015) on the versions of an asat doctrine in Vedic sources. 5 See Gonda (1970) and Bronkhorst (2011) on the origins and philosophical development of this widespread and much discussed Vedic idea. 6 Śākalya’s inquisition of Yājñavalkya is accompanied by a warning that his head will shatter if he oversteps his own conception and asks a question to which he himself

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does not know the answer. It is important to note that this is not a threat – Yājñavalkya does not cause this to happen, but rather (as we see in other instances where the same apparent danger is cited, e.g. Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad 1.3.24) he gives a warning that this will be the consequence of arrogance. Olivelle notes that this appears to have been a colloquialism (as in ‘this will blow your mind’, or ‘I’m wiped out’, drawing on a previous existing folk-tale about Śākalya’s arrogance (Olivelle 1998b: 491). There is danger in this dialogue, but not violence. Hock reads later Advaita ideas back into this section thanks in part to the famous ‘neti neti’ or ‘not thus, not thus’ mahāvākya ‘great saying’ that it contains. He therefore translates grahya as ‘comprehends’, making brahman sound ‘incomprehensible’, which seems odd in light of the preceding use of grahā in terms of dependence and enabling (Hock 2002: 208). But in contrast to suggesting there is a ‘basic Advaita message’ to the entire Yājñavalkya cycle as Hock claims (2002: 282), it seems more concise to note that the ‘Court cycle’ in chapter three is concerned with grounding, dependence and independence and develops these ideas in various directions, culminating in an umbrella notion of brahman and ātman. Bronkhorst draws on Thieme’s interpretation and is particularly concerned with whether name (nāma) and form (rūpa) are conceived in early Indian thought as existing together in a natural union, or whether they are driven apart into two separate realities; the implications here are epistemological, determining whether words can be taken as reliable guides to reality (Bronkhorst 2011: 11). It has been proposed that bitten here should be seen (dṛṣṭam); the meaning would not be significantly changed in either case, signifying a ‘taking in’ of the object (see Olivelle 1998b: 550, note to 3.8). sa hi jyeṣṭhaḥ śreṣṭho rājādhipatiḥ | sa mā jraiṣṭyaṃ śreṣṭyaṃ rājyamādhipatyaṃ gamayatu | aham evedaṃ sarvam asānīti ||.

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Part 2

Transformation

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6

Transformative dialogue in the Yogavāsiṣṭha James Madaio

Introduction Attributed to the famed hand of Vālmīki, the ‘Yogavāsiṣṭha’1 teaches a sophisticated non-dualistic philosophy that positions itself as revealing a critical episode in prince Rāma’s life before he embarked on the well-known ordeals attested in the Rāmāyaṇa. In the Yogavāsiṣṭha’s telling, the reader encounters a deeply troubled prince Rāma who is entangled in an existential crisis. Having understood the evanescent and illusory nature of the world, Rāma is depicted as suicidal and as having lost all interest in worldly life and, by extension, his royal duties. It is, then, in light of this crisis that Rāma is taught briefly by the sage Viśvāmitra and, principally, by Vasiṣṭha. Through dialogue (saṃvāda), or question-and-answer (praśnottara) discussions, Rāma is gradually awakened to the all-encompassing freedom of one who is liberated-while-living (jīvanmukta). Many of the dialogues featured in the Yogavāsiṣṭha can be characterised as gnoseological, wherein one character, of an omniscient nature, dialogically leads another to a higher understanding (see the other Chapters in this section for other examinations of the transformative power of dialogue). Important to the Yogavāsiṣṭha’s form of dramatic dialogue is the use of stories, which are repeatedly employed as illustrative examples. In this Chapter I argue that important characters in the stories told to Rāma mirror the prince’s condition, and that the character of Rāma can be productively understood as a mirror of the reader (for another, very different, dialogue with Rāma, see Chapter 13). In this way, the compelling stories of certain partially awakened characters draw the reader into inhabiting story-worlds, which are participatory examples featuring dialogues that simulate methods of self-inquiry (ātma-vicāra). These verbal exchanges, in turn, enact soteriologically driven deliberations about aporetic and fundamental questions, such as ‘who am I?’, in the reader. My approach, then, is particularly interested in the intersection of the reader (or ‘self’) and the text (or ‘storyworld’), and the ways by which the latter implicates and transforms the former. In light of this, and in accord with the radical non-dualism of the Yogavāsiṣṭha, I do not approach the reader as exclusively internal and dialogue as wholly external (or that which is between interlocutors); rather, I take an approach wherein ‘the

108 James Madaio between is interiorized into the within and reversibly, the within is exteriorized into the between’ (Hermans and Giser 2011: 2). In what follows I first sketch the philosophical position of the Yogavāsiṣṭha and its emphasis on modes of reasoning through dialogical inquiries. I then turn to the central frame of the Yogavāsiṣṭha, focusing on Rāma’s condition, and attempt to draw out a key pedagogical strategy of the work. Having made a case for this ‘mirroring’ method, I turn to one of the stories told to Rāma about a troubled king named Śikhidhvaja and the enlightened queen Cūḍālā. I follow the narrative sequence of this episode, analysing the gnoseological dialogue within it, while paying close attention to the way in which the ‘outer’ dialogues of the text spurn ‘inner’ reflection. While the dialogic encounters in the Yogavāsiṣṭha initially occur on a plane of reference that assumes a fundamental division between interlocutors, I show how dialogue works to subvert any sense of separateness whatsoever.

Situating the Yogavāsiṣṭha’s non-dual philosophy and method of inquiry Near the outset of the Yogavāsiṣṭha, Vālmīki is requested by Bharadvāja to tell him ‘how Rāma acted in the perilous condition of saṃsāra’.2 Vālmīki, who, importantly, recognises Bharadvāja as qualified (yogya) to hear this account, responds: ‘Listen, in order to extinguish old age and death, I will tell you how the great Rāma realised the state of liberation-while-living’.3 Before the narrative shifts to the central frame of the Vasiṣṭha-Rāma-saṃvāda, Vālmīki proffers a concise explanation of the general philosophical stance of the work, which is subsequently elaborated in multiple ways throughout the text.4 On this account, the appearance of an objective world (dṛśya) arises due to confusion or ignorance. Freedom hinges on the realisation of the absolute non-existence (atyantābhāva) of the apparently objective world – that is, the world understood as distinct from consciousness – and the subsequent ‘forgetting’ (vismaraṇa), or wiping away (mārjana), of the felt-belief that one is an enworlded self. The soteriological programme by which one realises the non-duality of appearances and the supernal consciousness is described as necessitating the renunciation, or abandonment, of latent tendencies (vāsanā-tyāga), or deeply rooted predilections toward being in the world as a separate entity. As the teaching of the Yogavāsiṣṭha unfurls, it becomes clear that a principal way by which ego and object-oriented tendencies are vanquished, or ‘renounced’, is through methods of reasoning (yukti) mediated through tradition.5 The key method of reasoning is (ātma-)vicāra, which entails a process of self-inquiry, reflection or investigation: ‘indeed, vicāra is the great medicine for the longlasting sickness that is saṃsāra … A deliberation occurring in this way – namely, “who am I?” [and] “how has this affliction called saṃsāra occurred?” – is called vicāra’.6 The practice of vicāra is modelled through dialogues depicted in stories of the Yogavāsiṣṭha, which simulate methods of dialogic selfinvestigation in the reader. ‘Oh royal seer’, Vasiṣṭha tells Rāma, ‘now listen to

Transformative dialogue in the Yogavāsiṣṭha 109 this extraordinary dialogue (saṃvāda) between the awakened [and] venerable Suraghu and Parṇāda’.7 After recounting this dialogue to Rāma, Vasiṣṭha characterises the conversation as an inquiry or investigation (vi√car) into the apparent development of the world (jagatkrama) (cf. Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 5.8.1). Vasiṣṭha then states that ‘having deliberated (parā√mṛś) with a friend, who is always present, although only in the mind, the self becomes elevated [from the saṃsāric condition]’.8 Key stories of the Yogavāsiṣṭha, in this way, feature dialogues that serve as prompts that instigate an internal, investigatory ‘dialogue’ in the reader. Later in this Chapter I will return to the nature of one such dialogue, namely, that between Śikhidhvaja and Cūḍālā. Before doing so, however, I want to explore in more detail the way in which the Yogavāsiṣṭha hooks the reader into a story-world that simulates dialogic self-inquiry. First, I turn to Rāma’s predicament at the opening of the Yogavāsiṣṭha. His condition, I will argue, mirrors the fit reader, or adhikārin, of the text. Likewise, key narratives that Vasiṣṭha tells Rāma, such as the story of Śikhidhvaja, reflect Rāma’s condition back to him – and, by extension, the condition of the reader back to the reader. That is important because it will help establish the way in which I approach the Yogavāsiṣṭha as a ‘mirror’ that inculcates a method of dialogic investigation that works to undermine the solidity of world and self and, ultimately, to foster the realisation of one’s identity as the infinite space of self-knowing consciousness.

Rāma and the reader At the beginning of the central frame of the text, Rāma is depicted as engaging in playful activities (līlā) associated with youth and royal life. In due course, however, the prince is seized by a longing (utkaṇṭhita) to embark on pilgrimages (tīrthayātra) and to visit hermitages (āśrama). He departs on this journey after obtaining permission from his father, king Daśaratha. However, after returning to the kingdom, Rāma falls into a deep sadness (durmanas). It is during this period of depression that Viśvāmitra unexpectedly arrives in Ayodhyā. The ṛṣi beseeches Daśaratha to dispatch Rāma to defeat unruly demons (rākṣasa) on his behalf. An interesting interaction between a resistant Daśaratha and resilient Viśvāmitra and, later, an interceding Vasiṣṭha, ensues. During this encounter the prince’s attendants report Rāma’s despondent state to the king. It is explained that since returning to the kingdom, Rāma is without joy – he is uninterested in mundane pleasures, carries out austerities and questions the fundamental value of worldly pursuits. Overhearing this account, Viśvāmitra declares that Rāma’s indifference to worldly affairs (vyavahāra) is not derived from a misguided foolishness but from genuine insight into the nature of reality: This confusion of Rāma has not arisen from a mishap, nor is it due to attachment (rāga). This knowledge is a great fortune that arises from

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James Madaio dispassion that is caused by discernment (viveka). When this confusion is wiped away through reasoning (yukti), Rāma will attain quiescence (viśrānti) in that highest standpoint, like us.9

Viśvāmitra ensures that once Rāma gains complete freedom he will be able to carry out the affairs of daily life. Having been summoned to the court, Rāma explains to the assembly that after returning to the kingdom ‘vicāra arose in my mind’ (prādur bhūto manasi me vicāraḥ). This, he explains, provoked reflection on the very possibility of happiness in a transient world where ‘people are born for dying, and die to be born’ (jāyate mṛtaye loko mriyate jananāya ca). Illustrating the discursive process of ātma-vicāra, Rāma continues by explaining how he posed a number of questions to himself: What is the worth of my kingship? What is the worth of enjoyments? Who am I? What is this that has come into existence? That which exists only fictionally, to whom does it fictionally belong? What has [really] come into being?10 Further, the prince laments that all objects in the world merely derive from the imagination of the mind (manas-kalpanā). For the remainder of the chapter on dispassion (vairāgya-prakaraṇa), Rāma is made to poetically ruminate on the ravages of time, the inevitability of old age and the alluring but anxiety-endemic traps of wealth, desire, women, youthfulness and even life itself. Convinced of the illusory nature of the world, he burns with the thought: ‘how is this suffering extinguished?’ (śāmyati idaṃ kathaṃ duḥkham). The desperation of the situation, and Rāma’s onepointed intent on the aim of liberation, is left in no uncertain terms: Rāma emphatically proclaims that he will stop eating, drinking and even breathing, and thus kill himself (or ‘renounce the body’), if he does not come to full awakening. Later, in the story about Śikhidhvaja, a king who is also pushed to desperate measures, we will turn to the nature of the appropriate ‘renunciation’ that the Yogavāsiṣṭha teaches and explore how this ‘abandonment’ is realised through dialogue. Reminiscent of a scene from a Mahāyāna sūtra, it is explained that after Rāma’s account, sky-inhabiting siddhas, far and wide, came to listen to the prince’s exposition on vairāgya. Despite exhibiting such profound insight, Rāma, however, remains in a liminal space: ‘All objects being left behind, [my] anxiety is [still] maintained. Having seized and having given up the self, the position of worldly life remains’.11 Ānandabodhendra Sarasvatī, in his commentary Tātparyaprakāśa, glosses the previous verse noting that Rāma is ‘half-awakened’ (ardha-prabodha) on account of his own discernment (sva-viveka).12 This, of course, is suggestive of Viśvāmitra’s earlier assessment that Rāma’s dispassion (vairāgya) did not arise from foolishness but as a result of genuine discernment (viveka). And, indeed, after listening to Rāma’s elegiac lamentation, Viśvāmitra reiterates his earlier pronouncement: Oh Rāghava, most excellent of gnostics, there is nothing else for you to know. With your own subtle intellect, you have come to know everything.

Transformative dialogue in the Yogavāsiṣṭha 111 Your mind, which has known what is to be known, now requires merely quiescence like in the case of Śuka, son of revered Vyāsa.13 Viśvāmitra then proceeds to teach Rāma by telling him the story of Śuka, who also came to an authentic understanding through his own inquiry but similarly lacked quiescence: Oh Rāma, listen to this story of Vyāsa’s son (i.e., Śuka), being told to you by me, which is the same as your own story.14 [This story] is the cause of the end of rebirth. Thus, thinking about worldly life, discernment arose in his [i.e., Śuka’s] heart, just as it did in your great intellect. Oh dear one, having inquired (vicārya), by means of his own discernment, on his own, that highminded one [i.e., Śuka], soon reached what is real. When he attained the ultimate reality on his own, he remained with a mind lacking quiescence.15 Viśvāmitra then conveys to Rāma the story of Śuka who gained repose in the highest reality through a poignant dialogue with Janaka. What is key for our present concern is how Viśvāmitra is made to signal an important pedagogical technique that engenders our own reading of the text; specifically, that certain stories are told to Rāma precisely because they reflect his own story. In doing so, it is useful to keep in mind the non-dualism of the Yogavāsiṣṭha, which, in one formulation, depicts all phenomenal appearances as mere reflections in the transparent ‘mirror of consciousness’.16 Before turning our attention to the dialogue in the story of Śikhidhvaja and Cūḍālā, it is worth pausing here to consider Rāma’s status as a prince. Rāma’s dharma is certainly not amenable to the kind of renunciation associated with ascetics (i.e., the physical or literal renunciation that the Yogavāsiṣṭha critiques). While not exhausting the existential issues involved, Rāma’s crisis at the beginning of the work explicitly includes the problem of how to be engaged in the world and yet remain lucid and unblemished. This would certainly be an issue important to kings (see also Chapters 1, 9 and 12). In this regard, it is interesting to note that the Yogavāsiṣṭha was historically recited to a number of kings (Hanneder 2006: 131), particularly as a kind of ‘mirror for princes’ (or ‘advice for princes’, i.e., naṣīḥat al-mulūk) during the Mughal period when the text was translated numerously into Persian.17 However, rather than indicating a specific audience for the Yogavāsiṣṭha,18 the literary character of Rāma can be profitably understood as paradigmatic. In other words, Rāma, as a king, is an exemplar for all of those within the (generic) kingdom, and the flaws he exhibits and the existential challenges he faces are certainly not unique to princes. On this account, the well-known story of Rāma provides the narrative context within which a reader comes to understand her own identity, just as Rāma comes to understand his through Vasiṣṭha’s stories. With regard to the appropriate reader of the Yogavāsiṣṭha, the work commences with an explicit declaration regarding the seeker who is considered qualified for studying the text; namely, ‘the one who has the conviction “I am

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in bondage; let me be free”, who is neither completely ignorant nor completely awakened, he is qualified (to study) this śāstra’.19 The similitude between the description of the adhikārin, who is poignantly aware of the reality of bondage and also not completely ignorant, parallels the ‘half-awakened’ condition of Rāma who, despite profound discernment, remains unenlightened, helplessly subjugated by the I-sense (ahaṃkāra) that is constituted by latent tendencies (vāsanā): ‘What will a feeble one such as I do? As the prior net of latent tendencies compels me, oh sage, so I remain’.20 In this sense, there is a kind of metaleptic pedagogy at work in the Yogavāsiṣṭha wherein homologous narrative frames, i.e., the story of Rāma and the stories told to him, which have the same ontological status as the ‘real world’ of the reader, instructively blur the world of the telling from that of the told.21 Disrupting the boundaries between self and other, real and unreal, the Yogavāsiṣṭha invites the reader to see her own soteriological journey in and through the struggles of half-awakened, humanely relatable characters, such as the dejected Rāma and the obstinate Śikhidhvaja. Further, and important to our interests here, a participatory engagement in and with the stories is critical to the way in which dialogic forms of inquiry (vicāra) are inculcated in the reader as ‘events to be lived’ (Heim, Chapter 10). In the end, I argue that certain question-and-answer discussions in the Yogavāsiṣṭha provoke ‘inner’ inquiries with and between oneself through the medium of another (while acknowledging that the dialogues ultimately work to disclose that there is no inherently existent ‘other’). In the following section I want to analyse this dialogic process by turning to one of the stories, or reflections, as it were, that is narrated to Rāma. The story features a king named Śikhidhvaja and a queen called Cūḍālā and it chronicles how Śikhidhvaja tragically rejected the enlightened guidance of his wife, failing to understand the true ‘renunciation’ that awakening requires. It is only through dialoguing with Cūḍālā, who assumes a disguise, that Śikhidhvaja is lured into a transformative, dialogic analysis of self and world that allows him to ‘let go’ of what is incidental, or that which has a middle, beginning and an end (ādi-antamadhya), and to recognise ever-present awareness, the oneness that is everywhere (sarvatra-aikya).

The story of Śikhidhvaja and Cūḍālā During his dialogue with Rāma, Vasiṣṭha mentions a king named Śikhidhvaja, who achieved renunciation and peace in the supernal Self. Having cited this example, Rāma immediately asks Vasiṣṭha to tell him about this king.22 Vasiṣṭha obliges: Śikhidhvaja, a king from Mālava, is celebrated for his good conduct and many virtuous qualities. With an interest in romance and the arts, he desires a partner and marries Cūḍālā, the daughter of a king from Surāṣṭra. The two fall deeply in love and engage in amorous play. As time passes, however, and as their youthfulness (yauvana) declines, the king and queen contemplate the inevitabilities of old age (jarā) and death (maraṇa). They come to look upon the world as an unreal, magical mirage (indrajāla). With a sense of dispassion (virāga) for

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worldly life (vyavahāra), the king and queen inquire (vi√car) into a cure (bheṣaja) for the sickness (vyādhi) of saṃsāra. In doing so, they associate with sages and study gnostical scriptures. Cūḍālā, notably, initiates an inward inquiry (vi√car) into the nature of her own self: ‘Now, on my own, I observe my own self. What could I be? To whom has this delusion appeared? How has it arisen and where?’23 Through this method of self-investigation, the queen calls into question the phenomenological structure of experience and the very nature of the self to whom that experience occurs. It is on account of the power of her own intense practice of discernment (sva-viveka-ghana-abhyāsa-vaśa) that Cūḍālā is depicted as ‘abandoning’ or ‘renouncing’ (parityāga) what is adventitious to her true self. Through this method of reflection Cūḍālā realises not only that the basis of all individualised selves (jīva) is pure consciousness (ātman) but that all appearances – ‘inner’ and ‘outer’ – are the effulgence (vilāsa) of that great consciousness (mahācit, mahāsattā). Noticing his wife’s unusual radiance, Śikhidhvaja asks Cūḍālā what has transpired. She responds as follows: Having abandoned all this, [as well as] everything that is different [from the phenomenal world], being and non-being, is encompassed by me. On account of this I remain radiant. I know that which is both something and nothing [i.e., what exists and what does not exist], the way it persists, the way it arises, the way it dissolves. On account of this I remain radiant. Thus I am lord over the world, not having the form of merely ‘something’ [i.e., not bound to the side of ‘being’]. I am satisfied in the Self alone. On account of this I remain radiant.24 Śikhidhvaja, however, does not recognise the authenticity of his wife’s awakening. Rather, he dismisses Cūḍālā’s paradoxical expression of enlightenment, marking the first in a number of critical but instructive missteps by the king: Oh gorgeous lady, you are childish and chatter incoherently. You delight, oh queen, in royal enjoyments in the same way that I [delight in royal enjoyments]. How is it that a chattering of lies shines? ‘What I see, I don’t see, but I see that differently’. Therefore, vivacious one, you are childish, silly, and fickle. With various alluring utterances, you are playing. Oh beautiful woman, do play.25 While Śikhidhvaja’s belittling response gives voice to the gendered cultural norms of the classical world, the reader, of course, knows they are tragically misplaced. The enlightened Cūḍālā, who is depicted as unaffected by desire and aversion, returns to her daily affairs (vyāpāra) cognisant of the fact her husband has neither understood her words nor reached repose in the Self (ātma-viśrānti). Although ever-contented (nitya-tṛptā) and without desire (niricchā), for play

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(līlā) she pursues yogic practices, mastering siddhis such as flying (khagamaāgama) and the ability to radically reduce the size of one’s body (aṇima).26 While keeping such powers concealed, Cūḍālā searches for an appropriate means (upāya) to awaken her husband to the elixir of self-knowledge (ātma-jñānaamṛta). Her husband, however, fails to understand her teaching, just as a child (bāla) is unable to appreciate wisdom (vidyā). Not unlike Rāma at the start of the Yogavāsiṣṭha,27 Śikhidhvaja soon falls into a great depression, finding no pleasure in royal life. As if on fire, he undertakes pilgrimages (tīrthayātra) and austere penances (tapas kṛcchra). Possessed by dispassion (virāga), he sees his kingship as a poison, and proclaims to his wife that he is renouncing his royal duties in favour of the forest: ‘Excellent lady, you must stay here ruling the kingdom. When a husband departs, it is the duty of women to bear the burden of the household’.28 While Śikhidvaja evidences a partial awakening, his dispassion is not informed by genuine discernment. Indeed, his renunciation is motivated by fear (bhīta, bhaya) of saṃsāric life, which is why he retreats from his kingdom and wife, valorising and objectifying the forest (kānana, vana) as a safe refuge.29 Denunciation of social-political life, no less than attachment to it, runs counter to the Yogavāsiṣṭha’s ultimate viewpoint, since such abandonment overlooks the equality of all empirical experiences as consciousness only. Despite this higher understanding, a suffering Śikhidhvaja does not pursue further inquiry but rather departs his kingdom in the night. At the base of the Mandara mountain, he builds a hut and performs disciplines such as sun worship and chanting. Taking up the life of an ascetic, he acquires ritual implements, including vessels, a garland of beads and a deer skin for a seat. Meanwhile, Cūḍālā goes to check on her husband in the forest through the yogic power of flying through the sky. Seeing him from above, she recognises what will inevitably come to pass and decides to return to the palace and wait until the appropriate time to engage Śikhidhvaja. After 18 years, Cūḍālā returns to the forest and sees that her husband has become feeble, blackened in colour and infirm. She says to herself: Alas, stupidity is painful! For even those who know all the scriptures come to such misfortune through misunderstanding. Certainly, right here and now, I will lead [my] husband to the understanding of that which must be known. Giving up this form, I will approach him in a different form to impart the unsurpassable awakening. He would not do what I tell him, [thinking] ‘This is my childish wife’. Therefore, at once, I will awaken my husband through the guise of an ascetic. My husband is now in a condition wherein his mind is ripened through the burning of impurities. In his pure mind there is the reflection of his inherent nature.30 After years of preparatory practice, Śikhidhvaja is deemed to have a pure mind, ripe for awakening, but certainly not one unshaped by culturally informed

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expectations. Indeed, in order to teach Śikhidhvaja, Cūḍālā decides, as a skilful means, to take the form of Kumbha, a celestial-born brahmin boy (dvija-suta), because she suspects Śikhidhvaja may again dismiss her teaching. The unknown author(s) of the Yogavāsiṣṭha are certainly lampooning here more than Śikhidhvaja’s failure to realise that appearances are non-dual to the all-constituting consciousness. The reader is consistently, and not always subtly, led to the broader implications of a non-dual understanding, which disrupts the sense of being a bounded self, let alone a gendered one. More important for our present concern, however, is Śikhidhvaja’s misplaced view regarding the nature of the ‘abandonment’ that must be carried out. As we will see shortly, Śikhidhvaja’s reifying sense of renunciation is exposed during his self-probing dialogue with Cūḍālā (who assumes the form of Kumbha). Returning to the story, Cūḍālā descends from the sky in the form of Kumbha. Having seen the celestial boy, Śikhidhvaja is awe-struck and offers obeisance. He queries (Cūḍālā-) Kumbha about ‘his’ origin and Kumbha, in reply, tells him a fictive story about his miraculous birth stemming from a moment of forgetful desire by the sage Nārada. In doing so, Kumbha explains to the king that ‘when one’s own nature, which is pure [and] true, is forgotten, even for a moment, the world-appearance emerges like a cloud in the rainy season’.31 Śikhidhvaja, who is still attached to the appearance of the world, not only fails to ‘remember’ his true self but is also unable to recognise that Kumbha is really his wife Cūḍālā.32 The Yogavāsiṣṭha frequently plays on the motif of ‘forgetting’, often referring to its teaching as leading to the non-remembering of an objective world. Echoing the Yogavāsiṣṭha’s refrain that saṃsāra is unborn and never really existed, Kumbha tells Śikhidhvaja that liberation is realised by developing the firm conviction (ghana-niścaya): ‘all of this is brahman, the space that is consciousness’.33 According to Kumbha, coming to such a liberated understanding requires the ‘abandonment of merely vāsanās’.34 This renunciation, of course, is in stark contrast to the one carried out by Śikhidhvaja, who renounced his royal duties and retreated to the forest but yet retained his sense of being a limited and temporal being. Pointing to the way in which one achieves such ‘abandonment’, Kumbha tells Śikhidhvaja that one should pose questions (praśna) to oneself: ‘Who am I? How has this world arisen? How is the world allayed? … How is there bondage? How is there liberation?’35 Kumbha then explains that ‘it is through dialoguing (paripraśna), serving and associating with sages who have the vision of equality that the [method of] reasoning (yukti) is obtained and, by which, (one) is liberated’.36 Indeed, the conversation that ensues between the king and (Cūḍālā-) Kumbha is precisely a dialogue between a not completely ignorant student and a guide who has the perfect vision of the nonduality of all things. The dialogues in the Yogavāsiṣṭha, in this way, extend the role of the enlightened teacher through the story-world of the text (which ontologically parallels the oneiric ‘real world’). By attending to the questionand-answer conversation depicted in the story, the reader, then, enacts a process of dialogic self-inquiry, which is, ultimately, a conversation with and between oneself.

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Having appreciated the sublimity of Kumbha’s words, Śikhidhvaja petitions the celestial boy to teach him.37 Before their question-and-answer dialogue commences, Kumbha begins by telling Śikhidhvaja two short stories (vṛttānta). The first is about ‘some man’ who is on a quest for the wish-fulfilling jewel (cintāmaṇi). Failing to realise that the jewel is right in front of him, he discards it, and later cherishes a mere facsimile. The second story is about an elephant who escapes from a vicious elephant-driver (hastipa). The elephant, however, neglects to kill the elephant-driver when the opportunity arises only to be later recaptured. After telling Śikhidhvaja both of these stories, Kumbha explains that both the man and the elephant symbolically depict his own situation. While deferring the details of (Cūḍālā-) Kumbha’s interesting auto-commentary, this drives home the way in which narratives in the Yogavāsiṣṭha often mirror the protagonist, in this case Śikhidhvaja, who features in a story being told to Rāma, who is in a story being told to Bharadvāja, etc., all of whom are characters in a story being read by the reader. This is important because while the Yogavāsiṣṭha is a narrative about Rāma, Śikhidhvaja and other sages, etc., to view the text exclusively in this manner is to fall victim to the objectifying tendency that the Yogavāsiṣṭha repeatedly works to undercut. The gnoseological dialogue Having told Śikhidhvaja two short stories that mirror his own condition, a gnoseological dialogue between the king and (Cūḍālā-) Kumbha commences when the latter throws into crisis the ‘renunciation’ of the former: when one has renounced [objectual-]experiences (bhoga), then the discerning one remains [within himself]. His ignorance then flees like a demon (piśāca) [flees] when a tree [within which it lives] is cut. In the same way, when you [i.e., Śikhidhvaja] set out for the forest, ignorance receded. Fallen [like the tree], it was not [however] destroyed by the sword that is the great abandonment of everything.38 It will be recalled here that the true renunciation, or abandonment, that the Yogavāsiṣṭha repeatedly teaches, is the abandonment of latent tendencies, or the affective predilections that constitute dualistic modes of being in the world. Not without a sense of irony, Cūḍālā, in the form of Kumbha, asks Śikhidhvaja why he did not follow the advice of his wife: why did you not adopt the wisdom spoken by the commendable Cūḍālā who has recognised what is to be known. Oh king, if you did not [choose to] carry out her instruction, why did you [still] not complete this abandonment of everything?39 Śikhidhvaja’s evasive response marks the first in a number of attempts to justify the completeness of his abandonment: ‘oh, the kingdom was given up, the home

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was given up, the country was given up. Likewise, wives were given up, children were given up. Isn’t the abandonment not accomplished?’40 Simulating through dialogue precisely the kind of inquiry instigated through asking oneself fundamental questions – such as, ‘who am I?’ – Kumbha responds by turning the dialogic investigation toward the nature of self that is assumed in any claim of possession (or, indeed, renunciation): Wealth, wives, home, kingdom, country, royal power and relatives—all of these are not yours. So, oh king, what really is your abandonment of everything? You still have the attachment (rāga) that is the greatest of all. Having completely given that up, you will reach the highest state, which is without sorrow.41 Contextually, the rāga (lit., ‘passion’) indicated here is a vāsanā or affective tendency toward relationships and objects (or objectification). As it will become clear shortly, the greatest attachment under question, and perhaps the one most easily overlooked, is the I-sense that undergirds the subject-object reification of experience. In response to Kumbha, and with characteristic obstinacy, Śikhidhvaja retorts: if this entire kingdom is not mine, then the forest, beginning with the first thicket of trees on the mountain, is mine. I will also renounce that. I give up the tendency (vāsanā) arising from the grove and gorge, along with the tree, mountain and forest. Assuredly I have [now] achieved the renunciation of everything.42 This will not be the first time in the conversation that Śikhidhvaja claims he is enlightened, or that he has realised the abandonment of everything, which signals not only his misplaced understanding but also the subtlety of the issues involved. Indeed, Śikhidhvaja makes plain the habituated manner in which our sense of self is extended through identification with objects, roles and relationships. Kumbha, enacting through dialogue the self-questioning method of vicāra, works to subvert Śikhidhvaja’s implicit self-as-owner perspective by redirecting his (and, indeed, the reader’s) attention to the nature of the assumed owner: ‘Mountain, slope, forest, gorge, water, tree, soil, and so forth – all of this is not yours. How can you have renounced everything? The attachment that is greatest of all is still un-renounced’.43 Śikhidhvaja, however, is persistent. While shifting his sense of the locus of abandonment, he still continues to overlook the very basis of his interpretative framework: ‘If these things are not mine, what is entirely mine are the ritual objects, etc. While remaining in a simple hut on a pond, all of this I quickly abandon’.44 Kumbha, however, again replies that ‘when this is abandoned your renunciation does not encompass everything. The attachment that is greatest is still un-renounced’.45 The question-and-answer exchange between Śikhidhvaja and Kumbha works to destabilise the sense of personal identity assumed by the king. By exhausting

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the objects implicated in Śikhidhvaja’s sense of ownership, Kumbha pushes him to a state of desperation. Convinced that his ritual-related objects must be the final sense of his lingering identification, Śikhidhvaja gathers them suddenly and burns them all.46 He then pronounces: ‘I am only clothed by the sky. I abide as this equality [i.e., that which is the same in all directions]. Oh, son of a god, tell me what else remains from the great renunciation?’47 Although resembling authentic expressions of enlightenment depicted in the Yogavāsiṣṭha, it becomes clear that Śikhidhvaja’s declaration is yet another episode in an egoic drama. ‘Oh king Śikhidhvaja’, Kumbha retorts, ‘you have not relinquished everything. Do not act in vain (mudhā abhinaya) with regard to the highest bliss that is the abandonment of everything’.48 Out of ‘external’ options, Śikhidhvaja turns his attention to the body: ‘Oh divinely born one, what remains in my relinquishment of all things is the body in the form consisting of flesh and blood, a conglomerate of mischievous sense faculties’.49 While still exhibiting the persistent sense of being an owner of objects, in this case, a body, Śikhidhvaja prepares to kill himself by jumping from a precipice.50 While this importantly signals Śikhidhvaja’s unbending commitment to giving up saṃsāric life, which mirrors the model of Rāma, who was likewise prepared to kill himself, it is quickly pointed out by Kumbha that it would be the wrong course of action. (Cūḍālā-) Kumbha, instead, re-directs the conversation to the mind, which entails the very conceptual framework within which the body is understood as ‘mine’ and the world as ‘other’. ‘The mind’, Kumbha explains, is called the seed of action and rebirth. Like a tree is moved by the wind, the body is moved by the mind … People, who are knowers of renunciation, consider the abandonment of the mind as the abandonment of everything. When the mind is abandoned, all (notions of) oneness and duality are dissolved.51 Mind, in the context of the Yogavāsiṣṭha, has been aptly described as ‘consciousness imagining itself to be something’ (Chenet 1999: 13). The mind, under the sway of the inherent tendency of consciousness toward objectification (cetyaunmukhatā), imagines or projects a world in the empty space of consciousness. The mind, on this account, is the basis of bondage if there is identification with it; ultimately, however, the virtual mind is nothing other than awareness. We will return shortly to this higher understanding, which purports that there is only consciousness – so that no phenomenal appearance could have an inherent nature other than awareness nor appear ‘outside’ of awareness. However, it is important to hone in on Kumbha’s explanation of the (apparent) empirical mind, the abandonment of which constitutes the ‘abandonment of everything’: Oh king, know that the nature of the mind is always just latent tendency (vāsanā). The word ‘mind’ is regarded as a synonym of latent tendency. This arising of the notion of ‘I’ (ahamartha) is the one receptacle of everything useless. Know this [i.e., the ‘I’] to be the seed of this tree that is mind.52

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Later in the dialogue, this seed is referred to both as the ‘state of I’ (ahaṃbhāva) and as I-ness (ahantva). Importantly, this I-sense is the ‘highest attachment’ that Śikhidhvaja has not yet renounced, a state that resembles Rāma’s condition at the start of the work.53 One does not, however, uproot latent tendencies by engaging them directly, as it were, but by undermining the (apparent) edifice that gives them power. Thus, comparing the mind to a tree, Kumbha explains to Śikhidhvaja that the vāsanās, which are likened to fruitbearing branches, are only cut through the power of understanding the self (i.e., consciousness).54 Śikhidhvaja then asks Kumbha about the means by which this is achieved: ‘Oh sage, what is the fire that would be capable of the action known as the burning of the seed of the tree of the mind consisting in the state of I (ahambhāva)’.55 Kumbha replies: ‘Oh king, it is this inquiry into one’s own self (svātmavicāra) of the form “who am I?” that is known as the fire for the burning of the seed of the wicked tree of the mind’.56 What is important to note here is that Śikhidhvaja, who had literally burned his ritual implements, has, in fact, already been engaged in a fiery inquiry on account of dialoguing with (Cūḍālā-) Kumbha who has repeatedly challenged the king’s habituated sense of understanding himself in and through objects (such as the ‘I’).57 Rāma, of course, the hearer of the dialogue, is also undergoing an inquiry into the nature of his own self, the self of all. Having progressed from his earlier view, Śikhidhvaja now replies to Kumbha as follows: Oh sage, with my own intellect I have repeatedly discerned that I am not the world nor the body nor the flesh, bones, blood, etc. I am neither the organs of action nor the organs of perception. I am also not the mind, nor the intellect, nor the egoity since they are all inanimate.58 Here Śikhidhvaja demonstrates that he has moved beyond viewing himself as an owner of objects. We will see, however, that Śikhidhvaja has not yet let go of I-ness. Kumbha pushes the dialogue further: ‘Oh king, if this mere aggregation is not you because it is inanimate, oh faultless one, tell me, on account of your great intelligence, what are you?’59 Demonstrating a sophisticated understanding, Śikhidhvaja asserts: ‘Oh highest of the learned, [I am] consciousness-only (cinmātra), which is unborn [and has a] transparent nature, which is the [empirical] knowing (vedana) where states are experienced and by which they are ascertained’.60 This response indicates the cinmātra, or consciousness-only, position taught in the Yogavāsiṣṭha; it is not, however, fully realised given the persistent obstacle that is the ‘I’: Certainly, that which is the causeless impurity, the seed of the tree of the mind in the heart, which has the nature of the ‘I’ state [and] is stuck in my heart, I, who am of such a nature [i.e., the empirical knowing], am unable to give that up.61

120 James Madaio Kumbha then asks Śikhidhvaja, who might be described as ‘half-awakened’, what is the cause of the I-state? The king replies that it is empirical knowing/ experience (vedana) and he then asks how it becomes quiescent (upaśamaṃ yāti).62 This, of course, is reminiscent of Rāma and Śuka who are both depicted earlier in the Yogavāsiṣṭha as lacking quiescence despite their advanced understanding. The intensity of the dialogue now picks up as (Cūḍālā-) Kumbha demands that the king’s responses are given ‘quickly’: ‘You are familiar with the cause [of the I-state]. Tell me, quickly, the cause of knowing (vedana). Then I will awaken you to the sequence by which the cause becomes non-cause’.63 It is interesting to note here that despite the fact this reality is causeless, dialogue, which proceeds on the basis of causal connections, may serve as a catalyst for its recognition. In our analysis of the remainder of the dialogue two key impasses in Śikhidhvaja’s understanding become evident: first, his sense of being embodied; second, his belief in a creator (which is closely related to the issue of causality). The conversation moves forward, then, sequentially, in a way to subvert both of these misplaced convictions. Returning to the dialogue, Śikhidhvaja responds to Kumbha’s urgent question regarding the cause of (empirical) knowing by asserting that it arises on account of the body (deha): ‘The [empirical] knowing arises because of the form of the body, etc., which [has] objective existence, though appearing as unreal. Just like motion occurs through something which does not appear to be a breeze but is in fact one’.64 Kumbha’s response, however, moves the conversation firmly in the direction of the Yogavāsiṣṭha’s cinmātra standpoint, which posits the unreality of all objects: ‘If there [really] is objective existence, which is the body, etc., then, for you, that [empirical knowing] exists. On account of the non-existence of real bodies, etc., what is the ground of your knowing?’65 Śikhidhvaja’s sense of embodiment, however, is not easily disrupted: ‘Oh sage, how could this body, which is always being experienced, which manifests the results of actions connected with hands, feet, etc., not exist?’66 Undermining Śikhidhvaja’s common-sensical, physicalist paradigm, Kumbha explains that the notion of separate objects (when understood as distinct from consciousness) arises only due to a misinterpretation of experience: Oh king, certainly, an effect, the cause of which does not exist, does not exist [either], and the awareness of that is an error. Discover that everything, which is not even existing, arose from confusion. That which is without a cause is an illusion like the snake which is the rope.67 Although earlier utilising the logic of causality, Kumbha now destabilises this apparently firm ground. Unable to understand how there could be phenomenality and yet no cause or effect, Śikhidhvaja appeals to the existence of a creator: ‘There must be primordial Brahmā by whom this world is created. Oh sage, tell me how he would not be not the cause of this’.68 Kumbha replies that there is only the peaceful or quiescent (śānta) brahman.69 Again confused, Śikhidhvaja does not

Transformative dialogue in the Yogavāsiṣṭha 121 understand why brahman would not be the cause. Kumbha answers by explaining that the creator, not unlike all other apparent objects, is nothing other than consciousness: ‘the creator, who is constructed (kalpita) through consciousness only (cinmātra), is just consciousness. The creation that arises from only that [creator, i.e. consciousness] consists of that [consciousness] – this is the way things are (sthiti)’.70 In other words, since there is only consciousness, there is nothing, or no two ontologically distinct things, which could be designated as a cause and an effect.71 This explanation triggers the enlightenment of Śikhidhvaja: ‘I am awakened’, he proclaims, ‘oh excellent lord, what you have said is endowed with reason (yukti). Since there is no creator, there is no world. Thus, the one who sees objects does not exist’.72 It is not surprising that Śikhidhvaja points out that what (Cūḍālā-)Kumbha has said is in accord with reason (yukti). As noted at the start of this Chapter, it is precisely by means of tradition-specific methods of deliberation, or dialogic forms of reasoning, that one comes to the unsurpassable awakening. Through a verbal exchange that prompts an ‘internal’ investigation into the nature of experience, Śikhidhvaja gradually moves beyond a limited and body-centric sense of identity that is invested in roles, relationships and objects. Further, his belief in a causally created world ‘out there’ is undermined through his gradual realisation of consciousness-only through an investigative dialogue with (Cūḍālā-) Kumbha. The stories of the Yogavāsiṣṭha thereby provide a compelling narrative context through which the hearer (e.g., Rāma and Bharadvāja in the story) and the reader are lured into a transformative, dialogic discipline that interrogates the fundamental nature of experience (other approaches to transformation through dialogue are discussed in this volume). The character of Cūḍālā, in that way, parallels Vasiṣṭha in the antecedent frame, dialogically leading Śikhidhvaja across impasses that are fixtures of a dualistic worldview.73 Despite the fact that Vasiṣṭha and (Cūḍālā-) Kumbha both declare that Śikhidhvaja is now awakened and liberated,74 Kumbha devises a number of ways of testing (pari√īkṣ) Śikhidhvaja in order to ensure that he is beyond any residual sense of identification with desire and aversion (rāga-dveṣa). Despite the provocative illusions manufactured by Cūḍālā through her yogic powers, Śikhidhvaja’s nondual vision remains unshaken.75 It is only after Śikhidhvaja successfully passes through these ordeals, demonstrating the quiescence (śānta) and equanimity (samatā, sāmya) of a ‘non-intentional’ (cf. Slaje 2000) mind, that Cūḍālā unveils her true (albeit relative) identity.76 Śikhidhvaja, who is immensely thankful, honours Cūḍālā and finally recognises her as his teacher (guru). The awakened couple, united again, return to the palace resuming ‘ordinary’ lives but now with the perfected vision of jīvanmuktas for whom the world is no longer a ‘false appearance’ but the ‘shining’ of consciousness (e.g., Timalsina 2015) and the body, no longer an ensnaring limitation, but the self-knowing space that ‘is the Brahman itself’.77

Conclusion By paying close attention to the way in which Rāma is described in the Yogavāsiṣṭha, and by picking up on cues throughout the text, I have argued that

122 James Madaio stories told to the prince feature characters that mirror his own condition (for other discussions about dialogue and hermeneutics, see Chapters 7, 10 and 13). In turn, the qualified reader of the Yogavāsiṣṭha, who is described in similar terms, is likewise reflected in the plight of Rāma (and so on). Viewing the text as fundamentally participatory, the dialogues featured in the stories rehearse and induce modes of investigatory reasoning into the nature of one’s self. The ‘outer’ dialogues between seekers and guides are mirrored by parallel question-based dialogues that they catalyse in the reader. Transformation, however, is not understood to come about through the affirmation of an interlocutor’s otherness but rather through a dialogic confrontation that challenges and skilfully undermines the supposed ground on which the construct of alterity is based. In the narratives discussed in this Chapter, the worldly enjoyments of Rāma, Cūḍālā and Śikhidhvaja (and the assumed reader) are interrupted through a discerning insight into the transient and imaginal nature of empirical life. This ‘inward turn’ is positioned as a preliminary step for enacting a prolonged inquiry into the dative of experience. Whereas Cūḍālā is depicted as coming to awakening through her own practice of vicāra, Rāma’s and Śikhidhvaja’s investigations are facilitated through verbal exchanges with enlightened guides, namely, Vasiṣṭha and Cūḍālā. In the dialogue between Śikhidhvaja and (Cūḍālā-)Kumbha, the fiery question-and-answer sequence disrupts Śikhidhvaja’s core conviction that he is an owner of experience. Eventually, through the skilful questions of (Cūḍālā-) Kumbha, Śikhidhvaja moves beyond the belief that knowing is dependent on a body and that the ‘outside world’ is created. The liberating insight that arises from this understanding undermines the sense that there is a seer of objects who is distinct from the seeing or the seen. In the all-encompassing view of cinmātra, all appearances arise in the transparent mirror or space that is luminous awareness. It is from this vantage point that the initial inward turn of vicāra culminates in an enlightened return to the ‘world’, which is now ‘enjoyed’ as consciousness-only, the pure cognisance that shines in the immediacy of self-awareness.

Notes 1 There is an important body of scholarship that has pursued the textual development of the ‘Yogavāsiṣṭha’, which is also known by the earlier title Mokṣopāya. In validation of the assessment of P C Divanji (1935 [1933], 1938, 1939), this stream of scholarship (e.g., Slaje 1994, 1996; Hanneder 2005, 2006) has argued that the well-known Yogavāsiṣṭha-Mahārāmāyaṇa of almost 30,000 verses, presupposes the almost ‘identical’ (Slaje 2000: 171; Timalsina 2015: 54) tenth century Mokṣopāya as well as the so-called Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha (both of which are of Kāśmīra origin). On this account, the Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha is an abridgement of the older Mokṣopāya. On the differences between Mokṣopāya, Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha and Yogavāsiṣṭha-Mahārāmāyaṇa see Hanneder (2005). In this Chapter I draw mainly on the printed Sanskrit edition of the Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha (Pansikar 1985) but also, in certain places, from the YogavāsiṣṭhaMahārāmāyaṇa (Pansikar 2008[1918]). When using the title ‘Yogavāsiṣṭha’ I do so in a generic way. While the errors and misunderstandings in this Chapter are certainly my own, I am grateful to Andrey Klebanov, Elisa Freschi, Lucian Wong, and Rembert Lutjeharms for their comments on earlier versions.

Transformative dialogue in the Yogavāsiṣṭha 123 2 kathaṃ saṃsārasaṃkaṭe rāmo vyavahṛtaḥ at Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 1.1.4. 3 jīvanmuktapadaṃ prāpto yathā rāmo mahāmanāḥ | tat te ‘haṃ śṛṇu vakṣyāmi jarāmaraṇaśāntaye || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 1.1.14. 4 For a review of key philosophical concepts in the Yogavāsiṣṭha, see T G Mainkar (1977 [1955]: 187–239) and the updated treatment by J Hanneder (2006: 157–220). Also see the helpful analysis of S Timalsina (2006: 83–93, 174–183). 5 Atreya (1936: 15) long ago noted: ‘From the time of Gauḍapāda and Śaṅkara the Śruti has been regarded as the supreme and unquestionable source of the doctrines of Vedānta, but we do not find this tenet in Yogavāsiṣṭha’. For example, the well-known verse at Yogavāsiṣṭha-Mahārāmāyaṇa 2.18.3 declares that even the words of a child should be accepted if they are in accord with reasoning, while all else should be abandoned, even if uttered by Brahmā. Despite statements of this nature, the Yogavāsiṣṭha should not be understood as wielding a kind of free-floating rationality that is divorced from teacher and text. It is, though, a reminder that the work operates outside the pramāṇa system of Vedānta, an underappreciated issue in the Yogavāsiṣṭha’s reception and influence among so-called Neo-Vedāntic thinkers during the colonial period (Madaio 2017: f.7, 21). 6 dīrghasaṃsārarogasya vicāro hi mahauṣadham || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 2.1.69b. ko’haṃ katham ayaṃ doṣaḥ saṃsārākhya upāgataḥ | nyāyeneti parāmarśo vicāra iti kathyate || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 2.1.72. On the nature and importance of vicāra in the Yogavāsiṣṭha see Slaje (2000). 7 śṛṇu tasyātha suraghoḥ prabuddhasya satas tadā | parṇādasya ca rājarṣe saṃvādam imam adbhutam || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 5.7.66. 8 manomātreṇa suhṛdā sadaiva sahavāsinā | saha kiṃcit parāmṛśya bhavaty ātmā samuddhṛtaḥ || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 5.8.9. 9 eṣa moho raghupater nāpadbhyo nāpi rāgataḥ | vivekavairāgyakṛto bodha eṣa mahodayaḥ || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 1.1.93. etasmin mārjite yuktyā mohe sa raghunandanaḥ | viśrāntim eṣyati pade tasmin vayam ivottame || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 1.1.94. On these verses see Slaje (2000). 10 kiṃ me rājyena kiṃ bhogaiḥ ko’haṃ kim idam āgatam | yan mithyaivāstu tan mithyā kasya nāma kim āgatam || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 1.2.9. Also see Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 1.1.105. 11 apahastitasarvārtham anavasthitir āsthitā | gṛhītvotsṛjya cātmānaṃ bhavasthitir avasthitā || Yogavāsiṣṭha-Mahārāmāyaṇa 1.30.8. 12 Compare ardhaśānta at Yogavāsiṣṭha-Mahārāmāyaṇa 3.21.14. 13 na rāghava tavāsty anyaj jñeyaṃ jñānavatāṃ vara | svayaiva sūkṣmayā buddhyā sarvaṃ vijñātavān asi || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 1.3.17. bhagavadvyāsaputrasya śukasyeva matis tava | viśrāntimātram evātra jñātajñeyāpy apekṣate || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 1.3.18. 14 Later, in the story of Cūḍālā and Śikhidvaja, we will encounter other examples of how a teacher tells stories that symbolically depict the condition of the student. 15 ātmodantasamaṃ rāma vakṣyamāṇam idaṃ mayā | śṛṇu vyāsātmajodantaṃ janmanām antakāraṇam || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 1.3.20. tasya cintayato lokayātrām evam imāṃ hṛdi | taveva kila sadbuddher viveka udabhūd ayam || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 1.3.21. tenāsau svavivekena svayam eva mahāmanāḥ | vicārya suciraṃ cāru yat satyaṃ tad avāptavān || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 1.3.22. svayaṃ prāpte pare vastuny aviśrāntamanāḥ sthitaḥ | Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 1.3.23a. There is the implication here that awakening may be achieved on one’s own through vicāra, etc., but that this may still require further instruction from a teacher. This is not only the case for Śuka, but also for Rāma.

124 James Madaio 16 ‘All phenomenal objects are reflected in that expansive mirror of consciousness like the trees on the shore in a lake’. tasmiṃś ciddarpaṇe sphāre samastā vastudṛṣṭayaḥ | imās tāḥ pratibimbanti sarasīva taṭadrumāḥ || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 5.10.97. 17 On the reception of the Yogavāsiṣṭha among medieval Islamic intellectuals and the recitation of didactic narratives to Islamic princes, which, in some instances, included works such as the Mahābhārata, see Sakaki (2004). 18 There are, of course, numerous stories in the work that feature protagonists who are neither kings nor kṣatriyas. 19 ahaṃ baddho vimuktaḥ syām iti yasyāsti niścayaḥ | nātyantam ajño no tajjñaḥ so ‘smiñ śāstre ‘dhikāravān || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 1.1.2. 20 prāktanaṃ vāsanājālaṃ niyojayati mām yathā | mune tathaiva tiṣṭhāmi kṛpaṇaḥ kiṃ karomy aham || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 2.1.4. Also see Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 1.2.34–65, 1.3.55–59. Indeed, following the description of the adhikārin, while imploring Viśvāmitra to teach him, Rāma declares ‘I am ignorant’ (aham ajñaḥ) (cf. Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 1.2.2). 21 Relevant here is W Doniger’s interesting exploration of the intersection between the Yogavāsiṣṭha’s nested narratives and the work’s comparison of the world to a dream (Doniger O’Flaherty 1984). 22 For a German translation of the Śikhidhvaja and Cūḍālā story, see Thomi (1980). 23 prekṣe tāvat svam ātmānaṃ kim ahaṃ syām iti svayam | kasyāyam āgato mohaḥ katham abhyuditaḥ kva vā || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.21. 24 idaṃ sarvaṃ parityajya sarvam anyan mayāśritam | yat tat satyam asatyaṃ ca tenāsmi śrīmatī sthitā || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.45. yat kiṃcid yan na kiṃcic ca taj jānāmi yathāsthitam | yathodayaṃ yathānāśaṃ tenāsmi śrīmatī sthitā || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.46. jagatāṃ prabhur evāsmi na kiṃcinmātrarūpiṇī | ity ātmany eva tuṣyāmi tenāhaṃ śrīmatī sthitā || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.49. 25 asaṃbaddhapralāpāsi bālāsi varavarṇini | ramase rājalīlābhir aham evaṃ nṛpātmaje || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.53. yat paśyāmi na paśyāmi tat paśyāmy anyad eva tu | pralāpa ity asatyasya sa kathaṃ kila śobhate || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.56. tasmād bālāsi mugdhāsi capalāsi vilāsini | nānālāpavilāsena krīḍase krīḍa sundari || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.57. 26 Instigated by a query put forth by Rāma, the story of Cūḍālā and Śikhidhvaja breaks off here (Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.64–125) while Vasiṣṭha expounds on ways of achieving siddhis. The discussion features a tantric inflected account of kuṇḍalinī and prāṇāyāma as well as an exposition on the interrelationship between subtle body physiology, disease and mental afflictions. These yogic methods are presented after Cūḍālā’s gnostical awakening, and in relation to her cultivation of siddhis, an issue that will serve an important role in how the story develops. It is worth recalling here S Bhattacharya’s (1951) positioning of the Yogavāsiṣṭha within an albeit broadly construed non-dual, Śaiva siddha context. More recently S Timalsina has analysed the yoga of prāṇa in the Yogavāsiṣṭha’s narrative about the liberated-while-living crow Bhuśuṇḍa, showing how that chapter places ‘the yoga of breathing in the same status as the contemplative techniques generally addressed as jñāna and jñānayoga’ (Timalsina 2012: 304). This, among other issues, is suggestive of why certain stanzas of the Yogavāsiṣṭha were reused in haṭha and rāja yogic works of the early modern period (Bouy 1994). 27 Indeed, Vasiṣṭha specifically tells Rāma that Śikhidhvaja is ‘like you’ (‘tvam iva’ at Yogavāsiṣṭha-Mahārāmāyaṇa 6(I).84.4). 28 bhavatyā pālayantyeha rājye sthātavyam uttame | kuṭumbabhārodvahanaṃ patyau yāte vrataṃ striyaḥ || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.158.

Transformative dialogue in the Yogavāsiṣṭha 125 29 See Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.147–152, 240–243. The Yogavāsiṣṭha plays on the deep divide between the liminality of the ascetical forest and the normativity of the socialpolitical world, ultimately exposing the division as merely another obfuscating construct. Indeed, the great renunciation taught in the work is not a literal or formal renunciation but rather the abandonment of all attachment, which culminates not in becoming a formal renouncer or mendicant but the ‘great enjoyer’ of cinmātra. This position is dramatically illustrated through later sequences in the story, such as Śikhidhvaja’s conjugal ‘embrace’ of Madanikā as well as his eventual return to Mālava with Cūḍālā (see infra note 75). In depicting Śikhidhvaja’s postenlightenment return to the ‘kingdom’, which, indeed, mirrors Rāma’s return to his princely duty, it is hard to imagine that the author(s) of the work was not working with and altering well-known themes from the story of the Buddha, who, of course, did not return to the kingdom (at least not in a ‘householder’ capacity). 30 aho nu viṣamaṃ maurkhyaṃ sarvaśāstrārthadarśinaḥ | evaṃvidhāḥ samāyānti durdaśā yat pramādataḥ || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.192. tad avaśyam ihādyaiva nāthaṃ viditavedyatām | Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.193a. nāyamīdaṃ rūpaṃ parityajya rūpeṇānyena kenacit | sakāśam asya gacchāmi bodhaṃ datum anuttamam || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.194. bāleyaṃ mama kānteti maduktaṃ na kariṣyati | tasmāt tāpasaveṣeṇa bodhayāmi patiṃ kṣaṇāt || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.195. bhartā kaṣāyapākena paripakvamatiḥ sthitaḥ | cetasy asyādya vimale svatattvaṃ pratibimbati || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.196. 31 svarūpe nirmale satye nimeṣam api vismṛte | dṛśyam ullāsam āyāti prāvṛṣīva payodharaḥ || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.220. 32 Not unlike consciousness, which appears as other than itself (i.e., as the world) and yet remains consciousness, Cūḍālā, relatively speaking, appears as Kumbha and yet is Cūḍālā. On memory, remembering and forgetting in the Yogavāsiṣṭha, see Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 3.2.92, 5.3.42, 5.4.115, 5.5.14, 5.9.122, etc. 33 ‘sarvam eva cidākāśaṃ brahmeti’ at Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.224. There are numerous examples of this type across the work (e.g., Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.249, etc.). 34 ‘vāsanāmātrasaṃtyāga’ at Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.249. Also see Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 1.1.9–13, 1.2.58, etc. 35 ko’haṃ katham idaṃ jātaṃ kathaṃ śāmyati … | Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.252a. kathaṃ bandhaḥ kathaṃ mokṣa … | Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.253a. 36 sādhūnāṃ samadṛṣṭīnāṃ paripraśnena sevayā | saṃgamena ca sā yuktir labhyate mucyate yayā || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.254. Compare Bhagavad-Gītā 4.34. 37 This indicates Śikhidhvaja’s acceptance of Kumbha as a teacher, not unlike how Rāma accepted Viśvāmitra and Vasiṣṭha, while also highlighting the fact that Śikhidhvaja, eighteen years prior, failed to acknowledge the awakened Cūḍālā as a preceptor. Rāma is therefore able to avoid ordeals that Śikhidhvaja was not. Interestingly, in this passage, Śikhidhvaja refers to Kumbha as a father (pitṛ) and friend (mitra) (cf. Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.258), perhaps signalling the more widespread assumption that teachers are male brahmins. Also, earlier in the work, after awakening, Cūḍālā said to herself that she would undertake to teach her husband as a father would a son (cf. Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.130). In assuming the form of Kumbha, Cūḍālā conforms to societal expectation, a kind of concession to convention. The very fact that she is enlightened, however, indirectly calls into question social norms that are based on a restrictive sense of personal identity. The reader, just like Rāma, is always privy to the fact that it is a woman, and a wife, who came to the highest realisation and led her husband to the same. 38 yadā vivekī puruṣo bhogān saṃtyajya tiṣṭhati || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.318b. tadā palāyate ‘jñānaṃ chinne vṛkṣe piśācavat |

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yadā vanaṃ prayātas tvaṃ tadājñānaṃ kṣataṃ tvayā | patitaṃ san na nihataṃ sarvatyāgamahāsinā || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.319. yad uktaṃ tava śālinyā tayā viditavedyayā | tadā cūḍālayā jñānaṃ tat kasmān norarīkṛtam || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.326. atha ced vacanaṃ tasyās tvayā nānuṣṭhitaṃ nṛpa | etat sarvaparityāgaḥ kasmān na nipuṇīkṛtaḥ || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.328. rājyaṃ tyaktaṃ gṛhaṃ tyaktaṃ deśas tyaktas tathāvidhaḥ | dārās tyaktāḥ sutās tyaktāḥ sarvatyāgo na kiṃ kṛtaḥ || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.329. Interestingly, shortly after his initial encounter with Kumbha, Śikhidhvaja announced that he had, out of stupidity, given up his trust in the wise and inhabited the forest (cf. Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.256). This preliminary, retroactive glimpse of true renunciation, and perhaps the enlightened status of Cūḍālā, is only a half-realised utterance at this point in the story. dhanaṃ dārā gṛhaṃ rājyaṃ bhūmiś chatraṃ ca bāndhavāḥ | iti sarvaṃ na te rājan sarvatyāgo hi kas tava || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.330. tavāsty evāparityaktaḥ sarvasmād rāga uttamaḥ | taṃ parityajya niḥśeṣaṃ paramāṃ yāsy aśokatām || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.331. rājyaṃ cen mama no sarvaṃ tat sarvaṃ vanam eva me | śailavṛkṣādigulmādyaṃ tad apy etat tyajāmy aham || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.332. savṛkṣādrivanaśvabhrād vipinād api vāsanā | parityaktā mayā nūnaṃ sarvatyāgaḥ sthito mama || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.335. adris taṭaṃ vanaṃ śvabhraṃ salilaṃ pādapāḥ sthalam | ityādi tava no sarvaṃ sarvatyāgaḥ kathaṃ tava | tavāsty evāparityaktaḥ sarvasmād rāga uttamaḥ || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.336. etac cen mama no sarvaṃ tat sarvaṃ bhājanādi me | vāpīsthaloṭajayutas tam evāśu tyajāmy aham || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.337. … tasmiṃs tyakte tyāgo na sarvagaḥ | tavāsty evāparityaktaḥ sarvasmād rāga uttamaḥ || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.338. ‘“If these things of mine are not ‘everything’, my ritual objects, etc., must be that everything.” Saying that, having risen, [and] gathered all of these things, the rosary beads, skin-seat, etc., in one place, he burned them with a mind focused on abandonment’. etac cen mama no sarvaṃ tat sarvaṃ bhājanādi me | Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.339a. ityuktvotthāya tat sarvam akṣamālājinādikam | ekatraiva samānīya dadāha tyāgabuddhitaḥ || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.340. digambaro bhavāmy eva diksamo ‘yam ahaṃ sthitaḥ | devaputra mahātyāgād yad anyad vada śiṣyate || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.346. . sarvam eva na saṃtyaktaṃ tvayā rājañ śikhidhvaja | sarvatyāgaparānande mā mudhābhinayaṃ kuru || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.347. indriyavyālasaṃghāto raktamāṃsamayākṛtiḥ | śiṣyate sarvasaṃtyāge deho me devatātmaja || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.349. ‘Standing up again, having brought my body to the state of annihilation, unimpeded from killing myself by jumping from a precipice or the like, I am the renouncer of everything’. tad utthāya punar dehaṃ bhṛgupātādyavighnataḥ | vināśātmakatāṃ nītvā sarvatyāgī bhavāmy aham || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.350. janmanāṃ karmaṇāṃ vāpi cittaṃ bījam udāhṛtam | pādapaḥ pavaneneva dehaś cittena cālyate || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.358. cittatyāgaṃ viduḥ sarvatyāgaṃ tyāgavido janāḥ | citte tyakte layaṃ yāti dvaitam aikyam ca sarvataḥ || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.359. Interestingly, at Yogavāsiṣṭha-Mahārāmāyaṇa 6(I).93.61, Kumbha mentions Śākyamuni (i.e., the Buddha) as an example of one who had achieved the renunciation of everything. vāsanaiva sadā rājan svarūpaṃ viddhi cetasaḥ | cittaśabdas tu paryāyo vāsanāyā udāhṛtaḥ || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.363.

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ahamarthodayo yo ‘yaṃ sarvānarthaikabhājanam | etac cittadrumasyāsya viddhi bījaṃ mahāmate || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.364. See Rāma’s woeful account of the ahaṃkāra, etc., at Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 1.2.34–65. ‘Latent tendencies are various branches producing various fruits. Vāsanās are cut within and become non-existent through the power of understanding [the self]’. vāsanā vividhāḥ śākhāḥ phalantyo vividhaṃ phalam | abhāvitā bhavanty antar lūnāḥ saṃvidbalena vai || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.368. Mummaḍideva’s commentary, the Saṃsārataraṇi, glosses saṃvidbala as ātmānusaṃdhānabala. ahaṃbhāvātmanaś cittadrumabījasya he mune | ko’nalo dahanākhyo ‘smin karmaṇy arthakaro bhavet || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.372. rājan svātmavicāro’yaṃ ko ‘haṃ syām iti rūpakaḥ | cittadurdrumabījasya dahane dahanaḥ smṛtaḥ || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.373. There is perhaps a pun here on the name ‘Śikhidhvaja’, which may mean not only one who has a ‘tuft of hair’ (perhaps meaning a peacock) but also one who has fire as his characteristic (or ‘on his flag’, as it were). mune mayā svayā buddhyā bahuśaḥ pravicāritam | nāhaṃ jagat tadā deho na māṃsāsthyasṛgādimān || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.374. karmendriyāṇy api na ca na ca buddhīndriyāṇy api | na mano nāpi ca matir nāhaṃkāraś ca jāḍyataḥ | Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.375a. This mirrors the investigative self-questioning Cūḍālā carried out that led to her realisation (cf. Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.21–27). etāvan mātrakaṃ vṛndaṃ yadi na tvaṃ mahīpate | jaḍatvāt tan mahābuddher yo ‘si taṃ vada me ‘nagha || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.376. cinmātram ajam acchātma vedanaṃ viduṣāṃ vara | yatra bhāvāḥ svadanty ete nirṇīyante ca yena vā || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.377. evaṃrūpasya me lagnaṃ nūnaṃ malam akāraṇam | cittadrumasya yad bījam ahaṃbhāvātmakaṃ hṛdi || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.378. tac ca tyaktuṃ na śaknomi … | Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.379a. ‘Oh sage, I realise that the knowing of that flaw, which is the “I”, is the cause. So tell me, oh lord of sages, how that becomes quiescent’. mune ‘ham iti doṣasya vedanaṃ vedmi kāraṇam | tad yathopaśamaṃ yāti tan me vada munīśvara || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.381. kāraṇaṃ kāraṇajño ‘si vedanasya vadāśu me | atas tvāṃ bodhayiṣyāmi kāraṇākāraṇakramam || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.383 I am following here Ānandabodhendra’s commentary on this verse at YogavāsiṣṭhaMahārāmāyaṇa 6(I).94.46. dehādirūpayodeti vedanaṃ vastusattayā | asatyābhāsayā spando yathā pavanalekhayā || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.384. vidyate yadi dehādivastusattā tad asti te | abhāvād dehasattādeḥ kiṃniṣṭhaṃ tava vedanam || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.386. hastapādādisaṃyuktakriyāphalavilāsavān | sadānubhūyamāno ‘yaṃ deho nāsti kathaṃ mune || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.387. kāraṇaṃ yasya kāryasya bhūmipāla na vidyate | vidyate na hi tat kāryaṃ tatsaṃvittis tu vibhramaḥ || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.388. avidyamānam eva tvaṃ viddhi sarvaṃ bhramoditam | akāraṇaṃ hi yad vastu tan mithyā rajjusarpavat || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.389. ādyaḥ pitāmaho yaḥ syāt tena sṛṣṭam idaṃ jagat | sa evāsya kathaṃ na syāt kāraṇaṃ vada me mune || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 3.9.390. On the Yogavāsiṣṭha’s positioning of consciousness as quiescent, B Lo Turco (2011: 13) points out the difficulty that Bhāskarakaṇṭha, the seventeenth-century Śaiva commentator, has ‘in glossing stanzas that speak of the absence of I-ness (ahantā) in the knower (jña or vivekin, i.e., the liberated one) or about the fundamental

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quiescence (śāntatā) of consciousness. In fact, according to non-dualist Śaivas, I-ness in itself is far from being a bond and “in no case can one speak of Śiva as quiescent”’. cinmātrakalpito vedhāś cid eveti viniścitaḥ | tanmātrajanitaḥ sargas tadātmaka iti sthitiḥ || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.395. As T G Mainkar (1977 [1955]: 198) has put it: ‘The dṛśya … does not exist; therefore, the problem of its cause does not arise … Since there is no duality, all talk of appearing, appearance, cause and effect is futile … It is the cit which perceives itself according to its various notions. It has no cause. Just as in dreams there arise different perceptions even when the objects perceived have no existence, in this world also perceptions are without the objects. All this external creation is only the perception of cit, of itself in diverse forms …’ buddho ‘smi bhagavan yuktiyuktam uktaṃ tvayottama | kartrabhāvāj jagan nāsti tena nāsti padārthadṛk || Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.400. Following Mummaḍideva’s commentary on the Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha, I have amended ‘kartṛbhāvāj’ in the printed edition to ‘kartrabhāvāj’. Not unlike Rāma in his dialogue with Vasiṣṭha, Śikhidhvaja asks (Cūḍālā-)Kumbha questions even after his awakening, indicating a kind of phronetic maturation that continues post-enlightenment. In particular, Śikhidhvaja queries how an awakened jīvanmukta carries on without a mind (which, it will be recalled, is nothing other than latent tendencies). Kumbha responds by explaining that for jīvanmuktas there is a śeṣa, or remainder, of sattva which apparently sustains the perpetuity of non-dual realisation despite apparent embodiment. The Yogavāsiṣṭha’s account of jīvanmukti was, in fact, deeply influential on the fourteenth century Advaita Vedāntin Vidyāraṇya, who systematises a post-gnosis programme of practice (Madaio 2018). Returning to the story at hand, Kumbha explains that a jīvanmukta abides in the oneness (aikya) which is beyond any movement or non-movement in the mind. Indeed, Kumbha affirms that the apparent separateness of the phenomenal world, which is a vibration of consciousness (citspanda), dissolves in the perfect vision (samyak-dṛṣti) of consciousness-only (cinmātra), which shines in the immediacy of self-awareness (svānubhūti) (cf. Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.432). In this kind of non-dual seeing, a pot is an awareness, a cloth is an awareness, the sky is an awareness, the forest is an awareness, a cart is an awareness, all is awareness [only] … What is meant is that, instead of objects arising in mind as external, they are in the form of awareness itself (Timalsina 2012: 320).

74 See bodhita- at Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.404; prabuddha- and vimukta- at Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.418. 75 Notably, Kumbha, who is really Cūḍālā, deceptively claims ‘he’ was cursed by Durvāsa and that, as a consequence, he must transform into a woman, called Madanikā, every evening. Śikhidhvaja reassures Kumbha, his apparently upset companion, that regardless of this daily transformation, the self (ātman) of the body (deha) cannot be tainted (√lip). Eventually Kumbha asks Śikhidhvaja if he would be the husband of Madanikā, and Śikhidhvaja obliges seeing nothing pure (śubha) or impure (aśubha) in it. Indeed, the two engage in the kind of relationship that Madanikā’s name evokes (i.e., ‘madana’, meaning ‘embrace’, ‘love’, ‘intoxicating’). Later, using her yogic powers, Cūḍālā (-Kumbha-Madanikā) tests whether Śikhidhvaja is agentially moved toward pleasure (rati) by conjuring an inviting scene in which Indra and alluring apsaras women invite the king to relish in the delights of heaven (svarga). Śikhidhvaja, however, is unmoved. He tells Indra he does not want to go to heaven since he sees heaven ‘everywhere’ and ‘nowhere’, while proclaiming ‘I am satisfied the same everywhere; I delight the same everywhere’ (sarvatraiva tu tuṣyāmi sarvatraiva rame). Cūḍālā then devises another test

Transformative dialogue in the Yogavāsiṣṭha 129 in which Śikhidhvaja sees Madanikā passionately engaged with another man. When Madanikā apologetically returns to Śikhidhvaja, he emerges from samādhi undisturbed: ‘Oh young lady, my anger does not even exist, like a tree [does not exist] in empty space’ (manyur mama na bāle hi vidyate kha iva drumaḥ). While I cannot do justice here to the rich elements of the story after Śikhidvaja’s awakening, Cūḍālā’s tests confirm that the king’s realisation is indeed beyond the sway of oppositional dualities (dvandvā) or the lingering sense that something should be rejected or procured (heya-ādeya) (cf. Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 6.9.37, 6.9.473–476). Indeed, the latter part of the narrative dramatises how perfect non-dual seeing embraces the complete spectrum of empirical life as the radiant display of consciousness alone. For a psychoanalytic engagement with the gender shifts of Cūḍālā, see Doniger (1999: 287–292). 76 In fact, when finally appearing to Śikhidhvaja as herself, Cūḍālā instructs the king to ‘see’ everything through meditation (dhyāna) that had really transpired. On account of the power of his samādhi, Śikhidhvaja then comes to see the events of the (so-called) past, realising that it was always Cūḍālā with whom he was interacting. Śikhidhvaja’s cultivation of this siddhi follows the model of Cūḍālā, who resembles a kind of vidyādharī, and suggests that the apotheosis of jīvanmukti is not merely the inner coolness of gnostical non-involvement but siddha-hood. That siddhis would be a ‘natural’ extension of the cinmātra position, rather than something ‘extraordinary’, is an issue that must be taken up elsewhere. 77 ‘My body, made of space, like the one of an imaginary city, is the Brahman itself …’ Mokṣopāya 3.21.39 [cf. Yogavāsiṣṭha-Mahārāmāyaṇa 3.21.40] in Lo Turco (2015: 45).

7

Being human, dialogically Lynn Thomas

This Chapter will analyse one of the ways in which the dialogical is used in Indian texts, and ask whether it is possible to forge a connection between this and some elements of the notion of a common humanity in human rights. It will do this primarily through the close reading of one particular dialogue, found in the Āraṇyakaparvan of the Mahābhārata, between the Pāṇḍava king, Yudhiṣṭhira, and an erstwhile king of the gods, Nahuṣa, cursed to take the form of a snake. Three other dialogues will be discussed more briefly. Two of these are also from the Mahābhārata – the dialogues between Agastya and Lopāmudrā at 3.94–97, and between the Brahmin and the hunter at 3.197–206 – while the third is from the Jātakas: the dialogue between the Boddhisatta Sāma and King Piliyakkha (Jātaka 540). The Mahābhārata is one of the most densely dialogical of Indian texts. The central narrative, of which the encounter between Yudhiṣṭhira and the snake is a part, is told in a dialogue between Vaiśaṃpāyana (the epic’s principal narrator) and Janamejaya, the grandson of the Pāṇḍavas, while he engages in a year-long sarpasattra: a sacrificial massacre of snakes. This, too, is framed within a dialogue between Ugraśravas, who had been present at the sarpasattra, and Śaunaka, undertaking the performance of an even longer ritual.1 Embedded within the central narrative are many upākhyānas: sub-stories related to characters in dialogues along the way. The epic’s system of dialogical ‘Russian dolls’ builds up a complex layering of people talking and people listening, which makes it a particularly fruitful place to examine some of the different ways that dialogue is used. Moreover, different functions of the dialogical may be seen within a single episode. The episode to be considered here, for example, as well as using dialogue for the purposes analysed below, also invites the reader to reflect upon the different levels of the text: how might a dialogue with a snake, who is really a king, be heard by a king, busy with the vengeful annihilation of snakes?2 Again, it could serve to prompt the kinds of internal dialogues and soteriological reflections discussed by Madaio and Heim elsewhere in this volume: what message might this dialogue concerning bondage and release hold for those who hear it, within the text and beyond it? Although these other functions of the dialogical are not the main concern of this particular study, it is important to bear them in mind in order to appreciate the richness of what is going on.

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If the Mahābhārata is a useful place to explore some of the different functions of the dialogical, the dialogue between Yudhiṣṭhira and the snake is an obvious one to choose to see which, if any, of these functions might facilitate a connection with the notion of a common humanity. This is a dialogue that effects change in a very dramatic way: it opens with Nahuṣa bound by a curse to take the form of a snake, and closes with him released and regaining his original, human, state.3 This immediately suggests two obvious questions of relevance to the issues at hand: what are the characteristics that differentiate between snake and man, and what is it about the dialogue that leads to the transformation from one to the other? These two relate, in turn, to questions raised in the theoretical literature concerning human rights: some to do with what distinguishes humans as the bearers of these rights; others to do with what many perceive to be the Eurocentric nature of the discourse within which their theoretical justifications are often framed. One of the latter is a question posed by Upendra Baxi. Arguing that the notion of a common humanity, as usually presented, is rooted too closely in ideas pertaining to the intellectual histories of Europe, Baxi suggests that rather than looking for ‘evidence’ of this idea in ‘other’ cultures (an endeavour which carries all of the implications those scare-quotes contain), it would be better to pose, instead, the more open-ended question: ‘How did [they] configure the notion of what it meant to be human?’ (2012: 47). If Baxi’s question most obviously relates to the first of those raised by the dialogue itself – what it is that distinguishes a human being – another relates more closely to the second: namely, is it possible, within a variety of cultural contexts, to find different ideas that serve to perform the work of the notion of a common humanity. This question, which I am grateful to Rajeev Bhargava for suggesting,4 again represents a more nuanced approach to the quest for historical antecedents for human rights than that normally taken; it opens up a broader range of possible crosscultural connections, and, like Baxi’s, serves to sidestep an inherently problematic comparison.5 The issues involved in these questions are complex, and they will be revisited in more detail below. Before that I would like to present an analysis of the dialogue itself, as this forms the basis for the arguments to be made concerning them. The dialogue between Yudhiṣṭhira and the snake occurs at Mahābhārata 3.175–8. I shall begin by briefly summarising the account, before considering some of the features that the dialogical format helps bring to our attention. The meeting takes place during the final year of the Pāṇḍavas’ exile, when Bhīma heads into the forest alone and chances upon a snake hidden in a mountain cave. As soon as the snake touches him, Bhīma’s strength disappears, and the snake wraps him in its coils ready to be eaten. Noticing Bhīma’s absence, Yudhiṣṭhira sets out with Dhaumya, his family priest, to look for him. When he finds his brother in the grasp of the snake, Yudhiṣṭhira asks what he must do to win his freedom. The snake reveals himself to be their ancestor Nahuṣa, cursed to take that form by the sage Agastya; a curse from which he says he will only be released when someone will answer his questions. Yudhiṣṭhira agrees to try and

132 Lynn Thomas the dialogue proper commences. The episode relates closely to the longer account of the circumstances leading to Nahuṣa’s curse, told at the start of the Udyogaparvan (5.9–18), and it also bears some resemblance to Yudhiṣṭhira’s more famous rescue of his brothers at the close of the Āraṇyakaparvan (3.295–8), where he replies to questions set by Dharma in the guise of a heron. I shall return to both of these briefly below.6 The question that the snake poses is ‘Who is a Brahmin and what may he know?’ (3.177.15). The discussion that follows is part of a broader debate, traced throughout the epic and beyond, as to whether it is birth or behaviour that determines a person’s varṇa; a debate that touches on the issue of a common humanity in a number of ways, although they will not be the focus here.7 Yudhiṣṭhira’s reply to the snake places him firmly on the side of behaviour. He begins by identifying a Brahmin as one who displays a set of moral virtues – truthfulness, generosity, patience, good conduct, kindness, self-control and compassion – and possesses the capacity to understand the transcendent: ‘supreme brahman, free from suffering or happiness, attaining which one grieves no more’ (3.177.17). The snake objects that these qualities are found in everyone – ‘Principle, truth and brahman belong equally to all four varṇas; even among śūdras may truthfulness, generosity, slowness to anger, [etc.] be found, Yudhiṣṭhira’ (3.177.18) – and denies the possibility of any such transcendent state existing. Yudhiṣṭhira replies with one of the epic’s strongest assertions on the behaviour side of the debate: ‘A śūdra may not be a śūdra, nor a Brahmin a Brahmin. In whomever this conduct is seen, Snake, he is said to be a Brahmin; in whomever it is not, he is called a śūdra’ (3.177.20–1).8 He reiterates the existence of the transcendent and finishes by repeating that it is people’s behaviour that determines who they are, not their parentage. The snake seems satisfied with this answer, responding ‘How now could I possibly devour your brother, the Wolf-Belly?’ (3.177.33), and the episode could logically finish there. However, it does not. Having answered the questions posed by the snake, Yudhiṣṭhira goes on to ask some of his own: which actions lead to the highest end; what are the relative merits of the different virtues; what are the inevitable results of actions; how does the embodied soul dwell among the senses; what is the nature of mind and perception? These questions, and the snake’s answers, pick up on some of the themes in the first part of the dialogue. The actions the snake says lead to heaven are similar to the moral virtues listed by Yudhiṣṭhira: giving, speaking kindly, speaking the truth, abstaining from injury, with their relative merits differing in any given situation according to their efficacy. Just as Yudhiṣṭhira had juxtaposed these moral virtues with the capability of knowing brahman, so too does the snake move on to a discussion of the embodied soul: how actions affect the course of transmigration; how the soul becomes embodied through the contact with the senses; how consciousness differs from perception. After relating one more time how he came to be cursed, the snake concludes with a statement reiterating the importance of behaviour over birth. He releases Bhīma, sheds his reptile form and, as Nahuṣa once again, ascends to heaven. The episode finishes with the brothers and

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Dhaumya returning to their dwelling, where Bhīma is chided for his rashness and everyone rejoices at his safe return. One of the first features of this account that ‘the lens of the dialogical’ (Black and Patton 2015: 19) draws attention to, is the fact that the conditions laid down for the snake’s release are modified each time they are presented in the different conversations taking place. In the initial conversation with Bhīma, the snake begins by reiterating the simple terms set out in the Udyogaparvan version of the curse: he will be freed ‘after some time has passed’ (176.19).9 Almost immediately, however, he amends this to ‘when someone can reply – pratibrūyād’ to the questions that he poses (176.21). Although Yudhiṣṭhira’s answers win a reprieve for Bhīma, however, Nahuṣa himself remains unchanged by them: still in snake form he continues to converse. It is only at the end of this longer engagement that the curse is finally lifted; although again with a subtle modification on the part of the snake, when he tells Yudhiṣṭhira that ‘joining together in conversation with you – tvayā saṃbhāṣya – has ended my curse’ (178.32). Clearly the straightforward question and answer session with which Yudhiṣṭhira will release his brothers from the heron’s curse, a little later on, is not going to cut it here; something more genuinely interactive is needed to turn a snake back into a human being. The extent to which the dialogue represents this interaction is thrown into relief by a comparison with those discussed by Brian Black, in an attempt to build on Sen’s suggestion that a foundation for pluralism might usefully be sought in the emphasis on dialogue in Indian traditions (Black 2015a). As my own analysis, to some extent, begins where Black’s breaks off, I shall briefly set out his arguments before proceeding further. Black examines three dialogues from a cross-section of texts in order to see how they go about ‘encountering and negotiating’ (2015a: 250) the ideological and social differences between the characters engaged in them. The ones he chooses share some common characteristics. They take place between interlocutors ‘embodied’ by their differences – a king and a Brahmin, the Buddha and a Brahmin, a karmayogin king and a female renouncer. They are competitive in tone and structure – the first speaker presents his understanding of the issue, with a certain amount of negativity in the way he is portrayed, and this is then followed by the superior arguments of the second speaker. All three dialogues are part of broader debates, with Black contending that they ‘reflect real examinations of tolerance and plurality’ (2015a: 251) between the dialogical communities engaging in them. Although the speakers disagree, Black argues that they do so in a manner that models how disagreement should be handled. Rather than rejecting the other’s position out of hand, the second speaker reinterprets it in a way that provides ‘a perspective that transcends the difference between the two conflicting views’ (2015a: 251). In the case of the first two dialogues, this is achieved by taking characteristics initially presented as exclusive to the group the first speaker represents, and redefining them in a way that makes them applicable to both; in the case of the third, by replacing polarities of gender, varṇa and āśrama with the understanding of underlying unity that comes with enlightenment.

134 Lynn Thomas The similarities between Black’s dialogues and the one between Yudhiṣṭhira and the snake are immediately obvious. Like them, it is part of what was clearly an ongoing debate; like them, its subject matter represents a subtle process of reinterpretation, in which a narrowly defined set of characteristics privileging one social group (Brahmins) is expanded in a way that makes them accessible to everyone. Moreover, like them, it juxtaposes this inclusive redefinition with further discussion of the nature of reality and the self; an aspect of ‘transcendence’ that Black leaves relatively unexplored. It is, however, the differences that are more important. Leaving aside for the moment the fact that the interlocutors do not appear to ‘embody’ their arguments in quite the same way, the most obvious distinction is that, in this dialogue, the relationship between the speakers is not agonistic: both parties are forwarding the same side of the debate, and there is no marked sense that one teaching is ‘superior’ to the other. In the third of the episodes Black discusses, Sulabhā, the ‘superior’ speaker, outlines what a proper dialogue should look like: She … talks about the interaction between speaker and hearer, explaining that when they agree, meaning arises; but when a speaker disrespects the hearer, then the speaker only speaks for his own sake, or the speech is simply useless to the other . (2015a: 253) ‘Yet,’ Black continues, ‘despite following her own guidelines for proper disputation, the agreement between the speakers – which she claims constitutes meaning – never happens.’ In contrast, the dialogue between Yudhiṣṭhira and the snake fulfils Sulabhā’s criteria rather well, in ways it will be useful to explore a little further. As was not the case in those discussed by Black, the structure of this dialogue is markedly symmetrical, suggesting the equal worth assigned to what each speaker has to say. This symmetry is reinforced by two sets of conjoined verses, placed at the start of each discourse, in which each speaker respectfully acknowledges the authority of the other. Yudhiṣṭhira opens his section with a compliment to the snake: ‘You, sir, know everything that a Brahmin may know’ (177.14), to which the snake immediately replies with one of his own to Yudhiṣṭhira: ‘We infer from your words that you are very wise’ (177.15). This complimentary exchange is then repeated at the start of the snake’s section: he closes one adhyāya with ‘you are recognized as learned’ (177.33), and Yudhiṣṭhira opens the following one with ‘You are profoundly knowledgeable of the Veda and its branches’ (178.1). As well as this mutual recognition of the other’s right to speak, there is a clear awareness that opinions may reasonably differ, thereby providing an emphasis on pluralism that is strongly supportive of the case being made by Sen and Black. Yudhiṣṭhira, acknowledging what the snake has said before proffering his own ideas, states: ‘that is your view Snake … this is my opinion, or what do you think?’ (177.23,24). The snake, similarly, qualifies the opening statement of his own discourse with, ‘that is my opinion, Bhārata’ (178.2). The dialogue also

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suggests the recognition of different possible positions within the broader debate it is part of. After putting forward his arguments in favour of behaviour, Yudhiṣṭhira cites a (false) verse from Manu as supporting him ‘in the difference of opinion – matidvaidhe – on this’ (177.30).10 The whole concludes with another set of conjoined verses that bring both of these features together: the snake finishes what he has to say with ‘Thus I have declared, my son … You also completely understand this matter, sir – what do you think?’ (178.27), to which Yudhiṣṭhira replies ‘O most excellent among the wise, this discernment of yours is splendid. You know everything there is to be known – why do you ask me?’ (178.28). Not only does the respectful manner with which the speakers engage make this a textbook example of the kind of dialogue Sulabhā is advocating, there is also a strong sense of the two working together, so that the ‘meaning’ she is seeking may arise. As mentioned earlier, both speakers take the same side in the debate as a whole – any differences of opinion they do have are not to do with the crucial point that it is behaviour which determines varṇa – and in each section, the listener prompts the speaker with further questions that help him to expand the points being made. Moreover, the snake as second speaker, rather than seeking to undermine what Yudhiṣṭhira has said, gives answers that build constructively on the arguments he had forwarded: the snake expands them from statements of principle to pathways for action, and extends the relevance of behaviour from the social to the metaphysical.11 Both speakers thus engage in a harmonious and respectful way that develops the argument and takes it to a greater depth. This carefully structured presentation of even-handed and courteous engagement is one of the dialogue’s strongest features. However, the narrative also contains other elements relevant to the questions being addressed. One of the aspects of the dialogical that scholarly interest has focused on in recent years is the notion of the dialogical self: an analysis of identity as composite and mutable, which has proved useful to a number of different disciplines. In the field of textual analysis, it has drawn attention to the way characters may be constructed, polyphonically, through the different dialogical relationships they engage in; an analytical tool that Patton has used to good effect to uncover a complex of relationships in two Mahābhārata dialogues involving Draupadī (Patton 2007). When a similar spotlight is turned on this particular episode, it immediately highlights the exceptionally strong role relationships play in Bhīma’s lengthy lament for his fate at the point where he is captured: It is not for my own destruction that I grieve, but for my brothers … For Arjuna, who will fall into despair … for my wretched mother, yearning for her son … For the twins Nakula and Sahadeva, who followed me around, thinking they were men because they had the strength of my arms to always support them . (176.29–37)12

136 Lynn Thomas This network of relationships surrounding Bhīma stands in marked contrast to the snake: living alone concealed within a cave, so blind to relationships and the obligations they bring that he can only see his descendent, whom he should protect, as something to be eaten (176.15).13 This contrast between solitary snake and relational human is echoed in the closing frame, where it is Yudhiṣṭhira who is set within a circle of relationships: to his wife, his brothers and his entourage of followers; a list that extends the circle beyond the familial to the social, as is fitting for a king.14 Indeed, Yudhiṣṭhira acts with others at every stage of the narrative; even in his dialogue with the snake, Dhaumya, his purohita, is beside him. The snake, meanwhile, in relating the circumstances of his curse a final time, says of himself as Nahuṣa: ‘Intoxicated by my arrogance, I did not think of anybody else’ (178.33). When he forgets the circle of relationships so profoundly that he touches the head of the sage Agastya with his foot, a celestial voice calls out ‘Perish, you Snake’ (178.37), effectively naming him for what his behaviour has shown him to be.15 It is hard not to interpret the way in which the outer sections of the narrative wrap the normative Pāṇḍavas in a network of relationships and obligations as a frame for reading the dialogue it encloses. The behaviour that makes one ‘a Brahmin’ (a designation which, on this side of the birth or behaviour debate, essentially stands for normative human being) – generosity, speaking kindly, telling the truth and practising non-injury – can only be practised in relation to others. In this respect, Nahuṣa as snake does, indeed, embody the position he is forwarding: in his fall from king to serpent, he was a perfect example of behaviour as determinant for what one really is. But what about his elevation from snake to human being? This is where a sense of the potentially transformative quality of dialogue is at its strongest, and where some tentative answers to the opening questions start to coalesce. So far the conduct of the dialogue has modelled the recognition of a plurality of views, as well as a manner of engagement that is collaborative and respectful. This is useful, particularly in support of arguments concerning pluralism, but it is not yet directly relevant to the issues being explored. Similarly, the dichotomy between relational Pāṇḍavas and solitary snake has started to suggest, but nothing more, that one of the features that distinguishes a human being from a snake might lie in the nature of their relationships with others: whether they are viewed as objects to be exploited, or as coexistent beings with whom we interact. However, if these two points can be brought together, and the transformation from snake to human be mapped more closely onto the manner in which the dialogue is conducted, it becomes possible to forward a stronger claim: namely, that it is precisely this acquisition of the recognition of the other as coexistent being, through the process of genuine and mutual dialogical encounter, which has brought about that transformation. This lays a rather firmer foundation for some of the broader arguments I shall go on to make, so it is worth investigating in more detail. The changing nature of the conditions for the snake’s release from the curse over the course of the narrative has already been discussed. There is, however,

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another parallel modification taking place which has not yet been remarked: that concerning what it is the snake wants. The snake is at his most reptilian at the start, both in form: Vast as a mountain, with coils covered in circles that looked like the moon and the sun, his body was lurid and speckled, his skin the colour of turmeric. With cavernous four-fanged mouth gleaming, blazing dark-red eyes, tongue forever flickering to the corners of his mouth, he caused terror to all creatures (175.13–15) and also in his attitude to others, at this point represented by Bhīma: ‘What good luck that the gods have sent you, Mighty-armed, as food to one who is starving. What good luck, after such a long time, for life is dear to those with bodies’ (176.10). At the start of the episode, then, the snake’s wants are straightforward: food in order to survive. Instead of just eating his prey, however, as one would expect from a starving animal (a detail mentioned more than once), the snake immediately begins to distance himself from his outward form, telling Bhīma ‘You are not in the grasp of a mere snake, existing like any other animal’ (176.17).16 When Yudhiṣṭhira appears and asks the snake what food he can offer in place of his brother, this distancing from the simple wants of an animal goes a step further. After setting up another nice contrast between the relational human and objectifying reptile – ‘At the sixth hour your younger brother became my food … I do not want any other’ (177.11, my emphasis), the snake goes on to say that he will release Bhīma if Yudhiṣṭhira will answer the questions he sets him. While he may have progressed from seeing the other as food, however, the snake’s attitude to the other (now Yudhiṣṭhira) is still one-sided. The encounter he proposes is solely for the furtherance of selfish ends: his own release from the curse, the conditions for which, at this stage of the narrative, are the same as those stipulated for Bhīma’s release from him.17 Although the snake’s request may have been for an interaction that is purely instrumental, Yudhiṣṭhira will provide more than this, as we have seen. Having modelled the relational in his attitude to Bhīma, the Pāṇḍava goes on to model a two-way encounter with the other in his engagement with the snake: ‘when I have heard you, I will reply’ (177.14); ‘this is my opinion, what do you think?’ (177.24). This modelling initiates the first real shift in the snake’s perception: ‘I have heard you … How now could I possibly devour your brother?’ (177.33 – my emphasis throughout). When this exchange is compared to the superficially similar encounter between Yudhiṣṭhira and the heron later on in the Āraṇyakaparvan, the sense that the snake’s words are indicative of a fundamental change, rather than the simple acknowledgement of a condition fulfilled, is reinforced. In the later episode, when Yudhiṣṭhira effects his brothers’ release by answering the questions set, the heron’s response is perfunctory: ‘You have answered my questions correctly … the brother you choose will live’ (297.62, 65).

138 Lynn Thomas As we have also seen, however, the transformation is not yet completed, nor the curse lifted. Unasked, and with his own wants met (Bhīma is now safe), Yudhiṣṭhira continues to engage the snake in dialogue. It is only after the snake, himself, shows a recognition of the other as subject, at the end of his own discourse – ‘what do you think?’ (178.27) – that the process is accomplished. This is where the third modification of the conditions of the snake’s release occurs: it is this ‘joining together in conversation’ – saṃbhāṣya (178.32) – that has ended the curse. By engaging in this respectful encounter, which acknowledges the worth and difference of the other, Nahuṣa regains his previous form. Returning to Sulabhā’s criteria, this is not just a dialogue that has ‘created meaning’; it is a dialogue that has created a human being. This argument, that the snake’s transformation has been effected by learning to see the other as coexistent subject of their own experience, is considerably strengthened by returning to the circumstances which led to the curse in the first place. Although only briefly alluded to in this account, the ‘venomous, splendour-stealing glance’ of ‘terrible-eyed Nahuṣa’ (5.16.26,31), is a much more prominent feature of the longer version of his story in the Udyogaparvan; the result of an ill-advised boon which enabled him to take the power of anyone he looked at, including the gods and seers. These ‘poison eyes’ stand as a perfect metaphor for the objectifying gaze, using the term here in its broadest sense. Bestowed to give this human king the power he needed to rule the gods, they instead befuddle him, making him so ‘drunk with power’ (5.14.13) and ‘stupefied by lust’ (5.12.5) that he thinks he can take anything he wants for his own pleasure. Unable to conceive of anything or anyone having a meaningful existence beyond his own, with the text supplying another apt metaphor for this state of mind – ‘When I am angry the world no longer is; everything rests in me’ (5.15.17) – he proceeds to use the seers as beasts of burden, with the consequences we have seen. As Nahuṣa, it is this ‘gaze that takes’ which causes his curse and downfall; as snake, it is the commutation of the boon into the loss of strength for anything he touches (3.176.22) which leads to the dialogue that will reverse it. I am not, of course, contending that the type of transformative encounter being presented here is the only function of the dialogical in Indian texts, or even the most prevalent: the kind of agonistic or teacher/pupil interactions Black presents are much more common. However, there is hopefully enough in the preceding analysis to suggest that providing a model for learning how to see through the eyes of the other – the kind of two-way engagement which, in contrast to Nahuṣa’s, could be called the gaze returned – might constitute at least one of the ways in which the dynamism of encounter that the dialogical affords is put to use. Before considering how this might relate to the notion of a common humanity in human rights, I would like to sketch out, very briefly, three other episodes that appear to be using dialogue in a rather similar way. Not only do they indicate that the kind of transformation seen in this dialogue is not an isolated phenomenon, they also serve to reinforce several of the points being made.

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The first of these dialogues is the one between Agastya and Lopāmudrā, related close to start of the Pāṇḍavas’ period of exile in the same parvan of the Mahābhārata (3.94–97).18 This is a saṃvāda with a long history, and the changes it has undergone over the course of this have been discussed by Patton (1996). In its epic formulation, however, it can be read, at least in part, as another dialogue that creates a human being; this time through encounter across gender. Needing a wife for offspring but unable to find any woman his equal, the sage Agastya constructs one for himself, gathering together the choicest parts of different animals to form her; an image of objectification it would be hard to better. However, the resulting fabrication, Lopāmudrā, refuses to remain an object. When Agastya summons her to fulfil his purpose, in a coupling that is purely instrumental, Lopāmudrā instead asks for a genuine two-way encounter. Accepting her husband’s need for offspring, she continues: ‘But please produce [for me], sage, the same pleasure that I produce for you. Please come to me … garlanded and bedecked with jewels. And I want to come to you adorned with divine ornaments of my own choosing’ (3.95.16–18). Lopāmudrā’s request fulfils a number of different functions in the account, but the emphasis on mutual adornment for the pleasure of the other also carries a strong sense of the gaze returned. The theme of mutual recognition of the worth of the other is continued into the resulting consummation: ‘The sage, full of trust, at the proper time, united sexually with his trusting [wife], who equalled him in virtue’ (97.21). By demanding to be recognised as a subject, Lopāmudrā makes the move from artificial construct to human agent; by fulfilling that demand, Agastya finally succeeds in finding a wife his equal. Another dialogue, also in the Āraṇyakaparvan (3.197–206), while documenting a less radical transformation, usefully explores the theme of encounter across social strata. This dialogue, between a Brahmin and a hunter, is also part of the birth or behaviour debate, again forwarding the argument for behaviour as the determinant of varṇa. This time, however, the interlocutors more obviously embody their differences in the way Black discusses, with the hunter, who stands at the very bottom of the social spectrum, acting as both example and teacher to the Brahmin, Kauśika, who has come to him for instruction (with the subaltern emphasis intensified by the fact that he had done so on the advice of a woman in a preceding dialogue). Although the Brahmin undergoes no ontological change, such as occurs with the snake and Lopāmudrā, he does learn that others exist within their own circles of relationship and experience, and this lesson effects a number of changes in the way he behaves. Once more, the sense of really seeing the other is used to express this. When the Brahmin, arrogant in his status and gender, enters the home of the woman at the start of the episode, the exchange is perfunctory – ‘“Give!” he brusquely asked’ (3.197.8); when he enters the home of the hunter towards the end, an act already rather striking in its implications, ‘he saw that is was very lovely … and highly honoured by the gods’ (3.204.5–6).19 Beyond the Mahābhārata, and moving into a different strand of the Indian textual tradition, the story of the Bodhisatta Sāma in Jātaka 540, which I am

140 Lynn Thomas grateful to Maria Heim for bringing to my attention, provides a very clear example of a series of dialogical encounters being used to teach a king how he should behave towards others. Again, the growing understanding that those around him are subjective human beings is key to this lesson. At the start of the encounter, King Piliyakkha is as monstrous in his attitude to others as the snake. Greedy for venison and neglecting his royal duties, he has been hunting in the forest for some considerable time when he comes across the ascetic Sāma on the banks of a river.20 Wondering what kind of creature he might be, Piliyakkha decides to wound and disable him in order to find out; he wants to be able to brag about the wonders he has encountered when he eventually returns to his kingdom.21 Starting from this initial vision of Sāma as a curio to be ‘bagged’, rather than, as he is, a human being like himself, Piliyakkha is systematically taught to appreciate the subjective existence of others over the remainder of the narrative. In his initial dialogues with Sāma, and chastened by the dying Bodhisatta’s attitude to him, Piliyakka progresses from boasting, to lying, to confessing. Curiosity about Sāma’s own experiential existence follows this, with the king now wondering where his victim comes from and who depends on him. When Sāma dies, the force with which the realisation of his independent existence hits Piliyakka is striking: ‘The king exclaimed, “Till just this moment he was talking to me, what has suddenly stopped his inhaling and exhaling his breath?”’ (Cowell and Rouse 1907: 46). The episode concludes with Sāma, miraculously revived, teaching Piliyakka that the core of a king’s duty lies in his network of relationships; the brief mention of the Buddhist precepts that follows this appears almost as an afterthought. Much more could be said about all of these accounts; the evidence is richer, and the issues more complex, than can adequately be presented here. Even these brief summaries, however, along with the more detailed analysis of the encounter between Yudhiṣṭhira and the snake, begin to suggest some ways in which a connection with the notion of a common humanity might be sought. It may be useful, at this point, to briefly indicate why this is a worthwhile thing to do. The notion of a common humanity – the idea that, as Donnelly puts it, ‘all members of Homo sapiens are in some important sense equally human beings’ (2013: 70) – is seen as a cornerstone of human rights. However, as mentioned earlier, it is also an idea largely associated with ‘Western’ thought: either implicitly, by virtue of the antecedents most often cited; or explicitly, as for example in the claims by some that it is an idea which is uniquely ‘Western’.22 It is therefore helpful for those seeking to pluralise historical narratives for human rights if something similar to this idea can be found across a range of cultures. Establishing a connection in the Mahābhārata is also helpful for another reason: it serves to counter the claim that any such notion is fundamentally incompatible with Hinduism. These are all issues I have discussed in greater depth elsewhere (Thomas 2018). At the same time, as also mentioned earlier, there has been a move to seek ways of broadening what Baxi calls human rights’ ‘originary meta-narratives’ (2012: 46) in a manner that does not simply serve to reinforce Eurocentric norms. Hence the more nuanced questions being brought to the task

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here: Baxi’s concerning what it is to be human, and Bhargava’s focus on the work that the notion of a common humanity performs. Baxi’s question is the one the narratives most obviously address. The contrast between Yudhiṣṭhira and the snake, alongside the transformation that the latter undergoes, suggest that the ability to recognise oneself as one existence amongst many is key to the distinction being drawn. Thus, the snake becomes human when he meaningfully engages with Yudhiṣṭhira and learns that others are as much subjects of their own experience as he is. Lopāmudrā becomes human by finding her voice and using it to demand recognition as coexistent partner, with the emphasis on her growing agency injecting a useful subaltern dimension into the process. The changes undergone by Kauśika the Brahmin and Piliyakkha the king, do not address the issue quite so starkly, but the recognition of Sāma as another human being, along with the growing understanding of what this means, is certainly an important feature of the latter. Kauśika’s willingness to learn from the hunter, meanwhile, to enter his home and find it lovely, along with the logic of the arguments being forwarded regarding behaviour as the sole determinant of varṇa, seriously call into question the claim that those at the bottom of society were seen as less than human.23 The narratives also answer Baxi’s question in another way. Before considering that, however, I would like to turn to the second question posed, and ask whether there is anything in this particular use of the dialogical that might perform a similar function to the notion of a common humanity? What this notion involves, and the work it does in theorising and furthering human rights, is much debated. Most would agree, however, that one of its primary functions is to universalise. This is most obviously the case in terms of the bearers of rights – the benefits and safeguards set out in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights are held by all ‘without distinction of any kind’ (Article 2) – but it also works more generally to universalise a common human identity and experience. The recognition of a common humanity across all differences of ethnicity, class, gender or sexual orientation, makes it difficult for us to look at another human being without acknowledging that they are fundamentally the same as ourselves; it fosters the empathy that has to underpin the legal frameworks for human rights if their norms are to ‘become objects of deep commitment’ (Taylor 1999: 136)24 on the ground, rather than an imposition from above. Indeed, the suppression of this empathy, through the objectification of the other, is almost a prerequisite for the worst types of human rights abuse: the labelling of Tutsis as ‘cockroaches’ in the Rwandan genocide is an often-cited example of this. It should be immediately apparent how this might connect with the use of the dialogical in the narratives presented here. The overlap in function is most obvious in the cases of Nahuṣa and Piliyakkha, whose participation in dialogical encounter helps them find a path from objectification and abuse to recognition of the other as coexistent human agent, worthy of respect. By modelling the transformative nature of their realisation that others, too, have ‘an equivalent centre of self, whence the lights and shadows must always fall with a certain difference’ (Eliot 1994 [1871–1872]: 211),25 these dialogues serve to foster the

142 Lynn Thomas empathy of commonality, thereby echoing the broadest aspect of the universalising work that the notion of a common humanity performs. Clearly, this connection needs to be worked out in far more detail than is possible here. However, even this very brief discussion suggests that it is an avenue worth exploring. I would like to finish by returning briefly to another way the narratives might answer Baxi’s question, not least because it illustrates some of the concerns that underpin it. One of the motivations for Baxi’s more open-ended formulation of the issue is to ensure that a greater diversity of voices can engage in the global dialogue concerning human rights. Again, these textual dialogues provide something of a model for this; the ‘interlocution of “non-Western” traditions’ (2012: 47) that Baxi hopes to further, demands that these cross-cultural voices should engage in a similarly constructive manner. As was the case with Lopāmudrā, this moves the paradigm from conformity to two-way interaction; in doing so, it takes up the question posed by Arvind Sharma: what contribution can Indian voices bring to the conversation?26 The notion of a common humanity is a case in point. Although it works to universalise ‘all members of the species homo sapiens’, in a way that no-one seeking to enter the debate can legitimately find a problem, it also works to separate them from other species, in a way that some cultural and philosophical perspectives might, more admissibly, want to call into question.27 This is particularly true for those cultures with their roots in Indian thought, where the kind of absolute distinction between humans and animals found, for example, in the Genesis cosmogony, is rather alien. The dialogues help bring these perspectives to the table. By answering Baxi’s question ‘what is it to be human?’ with ‘in some respects, not a particularly big deal’, they serve to make the case that a rigid, categorical distinction between animals and humans is neither self-evident, as it is often presented, nor culturally neutral. Nahuṣa is himself a good illustration of the greater fluidity between categories of beings that exists in much of Indian thought: a human king of the gods, he participates in dialogue as a snake. Moreover, his reply to Yudhiṣṭhira shows that, in this, he is just an extreme example of all transmigrating beings. When Yudhiṣṭhira asks about the results of actions, the snake responds with a teaching on karma: Three courses are determined by one’s own actions, King: the human state, a stay in heaven, or an animal birth. From the world of men, heaven can be attained by endless generosity and actions motivated by non-injury. By the contrary motivations – lust, anger, cruelty or greed – a man may be born an animal . (178.9–12) Although arguments concerning karma and human rights are complex, some have contended that karma, along with dharma, represents an ‘interconnectedness, idealistic and altruistic in principle’ (Menski 2012: 83) that might constitute the kind of ‘alternative justification’ for the norms of human rights, which Taylor argues would help them ‘“travel” better’ (1999: 126). Certainly, any such

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extension of the empathy of commonality from the human to the sentient resonates strongly with some of the more recent debates in the theoretical literature, and these dialogues point to ways in which drawing on a greater cultural diversity of voices could enrich them.

Notes 1 On the significance of this, see: Minkowski (1989) and Hiltebeitel (2001). Earl (2011) also provides a good discussion of this framing and lists some of the other secondary literature. 2 An invitation made stronger by the fact that this is one of comparatively few episodes prompted by a direct question from Janamejaya. 3 Although Nahuṣa was king of the gods, he was a human king elected to this role: mānuṣo nahuṣo rājā (5.16.21). I shall return to this below. 4 In response to an earlier version of this Chapter. 5 For a discussion of some of the problems involved, see Thomas (2018): 119–121. 6 The story of Nahuṣa’s curse in the Udyogaparvan is part of one of the epic’s two main accounts of the battle between Indra and Vr̥ tra, and more could be said about aspects of this episode in relation to that. The snake filling, or blocking, the mountain cave with his body – kāyena āvr̥ tya (175.12) – for example, is strongly reminiscent of Vr̥ tra in the Ṛgveda. 7 The idea that varṇa is a status fixed at birth is more problematic from the perspective of a common humanity than the argument that it is something descriptive and mutable, such as is found on the behaviour side of the debate. By asserting that someone can be designated either a śūdra or a Brahmin according to behaviour, śūdras and Brahmins must be essentially the same in other regards. In other words, it challenges any argument that some within the hierarchy of varṇa were seen as less than human, or should be treated as such. The epic’s most categorical statement on the ‘behaviour’ side of the argument – ‘There is no difference among the varṇas – na viśeṣo ‘sti varṇānām’ (12.181.10) – is frequently cited in this regard. Black attests to the presence of a form of this debate in the Upaniṣads as a backdrop to one of the dialogues he discusses (2015a: 250). 8 A very similar statement is also found in the continuation of the Śāntiparvan passage mentioned above, at 12.182.8. The reason that these statements are so significant is that while it is fairly common for a Brahmin who behaves badly to be said to be a śūdra, which only suggests that Brahmins can be demoted from their status, it is very rare for śūdra who behaves in a certain manner to be called a Brahmin, which suggests mobility across the whole system. When the snake responds that this must mean that birth has no meaning, Yudhiṣṭhira replies that birth is hard to ascertain, following this with the statement that ‘language, intercourse, birth and death are the same for all men’ (3.177.27). For a discussion of this, and the episode as a whole, see: Sharma (2003: 67–69). The epic also, of course, contains plenty of voices putting the other side of the argument. In the Anuśāsanaparvan (13.28–30), a story is told to illustrate the fact that it is impossible for anyone to become a Brahmin who is not born one: it is easier for Matanga, a caṇḍāla, to become a minor deity than a Brahmin, despite the best efforts of Indra to bring this about. 9 A time the Udyogaparvan specifies to be ‘ten thousand years’ (5.17.15). 10 On this not being a genuine verse from Manu, see van Buitenen (1975: 830), note to 177.25. 11 So, for example where Yudhiṣṭhira talks of moral virtues, the snake translates this into ethical actions; where Yudhiṣṭhira talks of brahman as a potential goal, the snake speaks of karma, transmigration and the processes by which the soul becomes embodied.

144 Lynn Thomas 12 It is worth noting that these relationships are also couched in terms of the coming battle: the lament for ‘my brothers’ continues, ‘for it is I, hungry for the kingdom, who goads them on’ (176.31), and similar references to their situation is made in relation to the others, too. The battle and issues relating to kingship are never far beneath the surface in these Āraṇyakaparvan narratives; indeed, Nahuṣa’s regaining of this former state could, like many of the other stories told there, be seen as a foreshadowing of the fact that Yudhiṣṭhira will regain his. I am also grateful to Maria Heim for pointing out that Bhīma’s lament has some similarities to those often found in Buddhist texts. Although the primary purpose of these laments in texts such as the Jātakas appears to be to emphasise the sacrifice that the Bodhisatta is making (as, for example, in the Vessantara Jātaka), I shall argue below that, in at least one of these, they also fulfill a rather similar role to that being presented here. 13 With the text making a nice inversion in which Bhīma the eater (Wolf-Belly) has now become food (177.11–12). 14 An emphasis that also occurs when Yudhiṣṭhira notices Bhīma’s absence, as indicated in the summary of the account, above. 15 The contact between the kṣatriya Nahuṣa’s foot and the Brahmin Agastya’s head is, of course, another nice inversion of the relationship they should have. It is the Udyogaparvan account that specifies that it is Agastya’s head he touches (5.17.11): this account simply has ‘touched him with his foot’. 16 Again, rather neatly blurring the distinction between animal and human that Bhīma had set up at the start of their encounter: ‘The prowess of men is a lie … if my great strength can be struck down by you, snake’ (176.7). 17 Although, it should be pointed out, not exactly the same: the wording is slightly different. 18 This is the same Agastya who cursed Nahuṣa to take the form of a snake. 19 The hunter belongs to one of the social groups that came to be seen as ‘untouchable’. Clearly slightly uncomfortable with this, the epic tries to fudge the issue somewhat by having the hunter declare at its close that he was a Brahmin in a previous birth. 20 Sāma, although an ascetic by behaviour and inclination, is a hunter by birth. 21 More specifically, because he has not encountered another human being all the time he has been in the forest, Piliyakkha wonders if Sāma is a god or a nāga – a word that can either refer to a snake or a snake-like semi-divine being. 22 For a discussion of this claim, made by John Headley (2008), see Thomas (2018: 107). 23 This claim, originally made by Donnelly (2003: 83) and subsequently repeated elsewhere in the theoretical literature, is what the charge of fundamental incompatibility rests on. For ways in which the birth or behaviour debate relates to it, see footnotes 7 and 8 above. 24 Taylor is using this phrase, which I am quoting slightly out of context, as part of his broader argument that in order to achieve an ‘unforced world consensus’ on the norms of human rights, they need to be grounded in ‘ideals, … notions of human excellence, … rhetorical tropes and reference points’ (1999: 136) that are drawn from a broader range of cultural backgrounds. 25 Eliot is describing the profound shift in perception, when Dorothea, the heroine of Middlemarch, comes to ‘conceive with that directness which is no longer reflection but feeling’ that her husband exists at the centre of his own experience, rather than just at the periphery of hers. Although written long before these ideas came to be theorised, it still stands as a startling description of the subject-hood of the other. 26 Sharma poses the question more specifically in relation to Hinduism, suggesting a number of different answers: 2003, chapter 8. 27 As would, indeed, some theoretical perspectives. The distinction between legitimate and non-legitimate critiques is to do with the ‘common’ or ‘overlapping’ consensus on ethical principles that are a necessary precursor to meaningful debate on human rights. What these might constitute is rather more contentious than this simple statement suggests.

8

Dialoguing the Vārkari tradition Monika Kirloskar-Steinbach

Introduction In different ways, bhakti traditions seem to be antithetical to circumscribing fixed boundaries of a community. For one, their inclusionary impetus would render most boundaries potentially fuzzy. In principle, any other human being (or rather living being) can become a practitioner, a devotee of god. For another, traditional beliefs, be they religious, social and/or political, have to be tested on the basis of direct individual experience. This experience, furthermore, cannot be studied by academic or textual analysis. Rather, fellow sojourners, who seek to understand and interpret their own experiences with the divine, are called upon to actively engage with and interpret such claims. In this Chapter, I will briefly dwell on three santakaviyatrīs of the Maharashtrian Vārkarī tradition and analyse how they attempt to negotiate boundary crossing. This tradition, which thrives in Maharashtra, Karnataka and Andhra Pradesh, traces its lineage back to the thirteenth century. I will attempt to shed light upon the manner in which Muktābaī, Janābāī and Bahiṇābāī1 ‘relate to contexts of gendered constructions’ (Pechilis 2014: 102). If the reading offered in this Chapter is plausible, it would allow feminist scholarship in India to broaden its scope and dock onto indigenous sources which are hitherto understudied. In the following pages, the term ‘feminist’ will be simply taken to mean ‘thinking philosophically with the concerns of women in mind’ (Patton 2011: 150). The Chapter will proceed as follows: the next section will briefly introduce the santakaviyatrīs mentioned above. The following section will explore why contemporary feminist scholarship in India fails to thoroughly engage with the lives and works of these female santakaviyatrīs. In an attempt at bridging this gap, the next part will work out a viable entry-point into the lives of these women. This section will argue that women like Muktābaī, Janābāī and Bahiṇābāī can be meaningfully approached by studying their gendered roles and the manner in which these roles are performed. This focus will allow us to perceive the ways in which they exercise their agency, be it to withstand social deprivation and oppression, as also sisterly concern. The discussion in the following section will attempt to draw out the santakaviyatrīs’ relevance for feminist scholarship in

146 Monika Kirloskar-Steinbach India. The conclusion in the final section will draw together several strands of the argumentation. With its focus on the santakaviyatrīs, the Chapter follows scholarship which attempts to show how the life-worlds of typical women (including those in premodern India) can have positive epistemic import even on those who perceive their standpoint as having progressed away from these life-worlds.2 In this respect, I will adopt a philosophy-of-practice perspective in my analysis. Briefly, a philosophy of practice attributes, in general, a certain primacy to the very act of philosophising. It closely attends to the context in which this practice is carried out as well as to the impact this practice could, and does, have on the lives of those affected by it. It does not seek to develop one single, abstract and true, theoretical model which alone can capture the panoply of differing practices. Arguably, a philosophy-of-practice perspective can be used to reflect upon what is being practised under the guise of theory. However, an analysis informed by this perspective would not necessarily move away from current, conventional channels of knowledge production. Another way of developing, perhaps even supplementing, such a perspective would be that the thoughts of certain personalities are systematised such that they can be brought closer to our scholarly inquiry. This is the line of inquiry I would like to follow here.

The santakaviyatrīs trio Who were these santakaviyatrīs? Muktābaī was the younger sister of Jñāndev (1275–1296). The latter composed the Jñāneswarī, which is a rendition of the Gītā in simple Marathi. According to hagiographic accounts, Muktābaī and her siblings were orphaned at a very young age because their ostracised Brahmin father took his life. (His wife accompanied him too.) As narrated by the famous hagiographer Mahīpatibuwa Taharabadkar (1715–1790) in his Bhaktavijaya, the children tried to regain their social status by getting a śuddhipatra issued by the Brahmins of Paiṭhaṇ. Being impressed by the siblings’ learning and spiritual powers, the priests issued the document.3 Although Muktābaī is portrayed by Mahīpati as an avatāra of adimāyā, in this text she is overshadowed by the spiritual prowess of her brothers. Later hagiographic accounts continue to disagree as to whether Muktābaī was a guru in her own capacity or simply a śiṣya of her brothers (see Abbott and Godbole 1988 [1933]: 146). Nevertheless, Mahīpati’s respect for her is hard to oversee. In his Bhaktavijaya, he relates how a yogi called Cāṅgadev comes over to visit and debate with her brother Jñāndev. When Cāṅgadev reaches their abode, Muktābaī is taking her ritual bath (maṅgaḷasnāna). Embarrassed, Cāṅgadev retreats hurriedly. This does not escape her attention. If he, despite his long years of experience, continues to have ‘unworthy thoughts’ at the prospect of seeing a female bathing, Muktābaī points out, he is ignorant.4 In her analysis, his state probably has to do with the fact that he has yet to be initiated by a guru. Cāṅgadev is so moved by this simple analysis that he becomes a disciple.5

Dialoguing the Vārkari tradition 147 Let us move on to Janābāī. The Vārkari hagiography interlinks the lives and spiritual experiences of Nāmā, the tailor, and Janābāī. Being an orphan, Janābāī lived in Nāmā’s household. As her self-description of being Nāmā’s only dāsi6 will have it, she worked as a maid in his household, although the word dāsī could be taken to mean that she was his ultimate disciple as well. Many of Janābāī’s poems deal with her life as a maid entrusted with strenuous household chores, like grinding, pounding, fetching water, sweeping etc. Remarkably, she has a secret ally in these chores: Viṭṭal himself.7 In one such incident, Viṭṭal wakes her up to let her know that he has already prepared the grinding mill for her and is waiting to help her. After the exhausting grinding, he lays down in her hut and falls asleep. Worried that he could be found missing from the local temple, Janī wakes him up. In his rush to get back to his accustomed abode, he forgets his jewels and blanket in her hut. The priests find an unadorned Viṭṭal covered with Janībaī’s threadbare blanket. They suspect that this maid has confused Viṭṭal’s mind and deceived him. Unfortunately for her, they locate his belongings in her hut and decide to publicly impale her. Viṭṭal comes to her rescue again; the sword, with which she is to be impaled, turns into water. She remains unscathed (cf. Pandharipande 2000: 163–164). Bahiṇābāī is the last in our trio.8 As a young girl of three to four years, Bahiṇābāī was married to the widowed temple priest and astrologer, Gaṅgādhar Pāṭhak, who was 30 years old. Her husband did not fancy her own predilection for bhakti, given that it seemed to be premised on the absence of a Brahmin intermediary. For all social purposes, Bahiṇābāī in some ways continues to fulfil her duties as the wife of a Brahmin. In fact, she dutifully attends to the cattle presented to them by her husband’s patron. A calf is her first fellow bhaktā and is embroiled in one of her first fallouts as a bhaktā. Her first guru, Jayarām, rescues both; the calf does not survive. Bahiṇābāī (approximately 11 years old then) is rescued from this deeply disturbing experience by the sant Tukārām. In a vision, he convinces her that this is the path she must follow and gives her, a female girl-child, a mantra which will help her face further trials (BG: 10–11, 21).

The santakaviyatrīs and feminist scholarship in contemporary India Arguably, our bhaktās could, in different ways, provide ‘indigenous roots’ for feminist projects in India, despite the subtle differences between the individual bhaktās. Although Muktābāī cares for her brothers’ physical welfare (by cooking for them), she has already transcended worldly life. As a female ascetic, she defies the ideal of strīdharma. In her spiritual poetry, she articulates her spiritual union with the divine. It should be difficult to place Janībāī in this path of direct defiance, although she too does not follow strīdharma. She may use her ‘special’ relationship with Viṭṭal to transform him into her (see Pandharipande 2000: 166), but she clearly would have been unable to overcome her lower social status without Viṭṭal’s direct intervention. For her part, Bahiṇābāī carefully works out a compromise between her wifely duties and her devotion to Viṭṭal. Her studied attempts at integration are in stark contrast to the paths of both Muktābāī and Janībāī.

148 Monika Kirloskar-Steinbach The very ordinariness of biographies like those of Janībāī and Bahiṇābāī could be useful in showing that structural and/or male oppression do not have to be tolerated. Even ordinary, premodern Indian women (like maids and housewives) used the spaces available to them to question oppression. Relatedly, it could be pointed out that women and people from all castes have ‘contributed to the knowledge building process on equal terms’ in the Vārkarī sampradāya (Bhagwat 2005: 167). And yet, although our female saints were identified as salient sources more than two decades ago (see: Vanita 1989 and also A K Ramanujan 1982), a sustained engagement with these texts has yet to take place. Why? Bhagwat (2005: 171ff.) persuasively argues that the women’s movement in India initially tended to treat the santakaviyatrīs as ‘add-ons to the list of male sants’, which we may add, continues the narrative set out in the hagiography (see above). Moreover, the general denigration of bhakti movements in mainstream scholarship led scholars to search for the Gārgīs and Maitreyīs, who could take on a one-to-one battle for knowledge with their male peers. The vernacular devotionalism and emotional attachment of a Muktābāī, a Janībāī or a Bahīṇābāī seemed misplaced here. Only after the second wave in Indian feminism (around the mid-1980s) did scholars begin to analyse colonial representations of Indian women and deal with the ‘messy implications of colonialism’ (Suthren Hirst 1998: 22). They realised how supposed cultural differences between the ‘West’ and postcolonial India were defined using the figure of a traditional, ‘authentic’ Indian woman. Women became ‘emblematic of what was uniquely Indian’ (Niranjana 2007: 212). Such research results forced these scholars to abandon myths of a purported Golden Age and search for women’s voices across the whole of India. But santakaviyatrīs failed to make it across the academic threshold even in this phase. They were perceived as merely developing individual strategies of escape from the narrow confines of domesticity. They failed to provide a radical questioning of ‘patriarchal controls’ (Bhagwat 2005: 175). Furthermore, they were unable to offer general, ‘secular’, pan-Indian solutions to the female problem (Bhagwat 1995: ws 26). If Bhagwat’s analysis is plausible, feminist consciousness in India began with an awareness of casteist oppression. The first generation of scholars and activists in the nineteenth century fought for their rights as females having directly experienced the narrowness of caste-based regulations on their behaviour. Although fully aware of the deep imbrication of caste with religion, they were unable to open up the debate to include women from castes, which were traditionally placed on the lower rungs of the social hierarchy. One reason was that they themselves were too embroiled in their own confrontations with patriarchal authority (see Anagol 2010). Only after developments in scholarship brought to the forefront the construed nature of the image of an Indian nārī, did a new generation of feminist scholars widen their search for female voices. Extant patriarchal, national and conventional narratives however, seem to have occluded this search, as Susie Tharu and Tejaswani Niranjana (1994: 114) noted:

Dialoguing the Vārkari tradition 149 The ‘Indian’ subject who lays sole claim to secularism and is the figure addressed by our democracy … is shaped historically through a process of differentiation as Hindu and upper class/caste. Feminist politics and theory today needs to help make this formation from the perspective of those it necessarily excludes, and reveal its complicity with that which claims to be both naturally Indian and truly international. This is not to deny that there have been no attempts at all which squarely faced this problem. Scholars have consciously sought to rewrite history from a gendersensitive perspective so that women can be re-inserted into Indian history. Yet, this has proved to be no easy task. One crucial problem seems to be the choice of pertinent, authentic sources. For example: how can a scholar ascertain the authenticity of her sources given that history has been rife with attempts of males to appropriate such sources (see Chakravarti 2005: 215–216)?

Creating a dialogical space to engage with the santakaviyatrīs This lacuna between feminist scholarship in India and indigenous non-upper class/caste could perhaps be bridged if a dialogical space was created such that it enabled a more thorough engagement with the lives, thoughts and texts of these santakaviyatrīs and similar figures. In order to create this space, one first step could involve exploring what Frederick Smith calls the ‘sense of separateness within immersion’. Smith argues that this separateness between the bhakta and her deity arises due to her own ahaṃkāra.9 Following Smith’s insight, one could for the purposes of our analysis concentrate on the ahaṃkāra’s location within a specific body. This focus would allow us to study the specific societal roles ascribed to the particular bodies of the bhaktās. This, in turn, would help us tease out the bhaktas’ sense of agency in playing out the specific societal roles attributed to them, or in which they found themselves. We would be able to reenvision them as ‘subjects-in-process’ (Suthren Hirst 1998: 21). Let us begin with Janībāī. If we direct our attention to how Janībāī receives Viṭṭal’s preman as an embodied person, as Nāmā’s dāsi, we can explain why she often seeks out Viṭṭal in his divine male form in a host of mundane situations. As a housemaid, Janī has several arduous tasks which had to be accomplished on a daily basis. Her intense longing and suffering for Viṭṭal terminate periodically when he appears to help her with her daily chores. Janī describes her uneasiness, her pain (duḥkha vāṭatase), when she does not worship him or meditate about him given that he toils with her and does not shirk away from her hard work (like grinding and pounding, etc. – daḷū̃ kāṇḍū̃ lāgalāsī).10 In fact, his love for this dāsi is such that he is ready to undergo physical discomfort while helping her. He pounds the grain with her, for example, until a boil appears on his hand; it is left up to her to take away the pestle to stop him from pounding further.11 Thus, while her caring, her sevā, for him is indeed grounded in the obligation of a devotee to her god, it also seems to stand in relation to his help in her daily housemaid duties too.12 Janī’s role as a tailor’s maid, as we see,

150 Monika Kirloskar-Steinbach does not allow her much time to approach Viṭṭal through śṛṅgāra. She cannot always engage in amorous or illicit encounters with him. In her own specific role as a maid, seeking him out as a sakhyā seems a more viable option. Such a friend could indeed make a concrete difference in her performance of this role. This focus on Janī’s role as a devotee-maid is not only useful in understanding why Viṭṭal is approached as a sakhyā. It also, furthermore, allows us – her readers – to retrieve and ‘flavour’ the specific registers this maid employs in appealing to him to appear again. Fully confident of her sakhyā’s love for her, Janī cajoles, reprimands and even insults him when he fails to make his presence felt. This ‘naughty boy’ (kāraṭyā), she swears, refuses to appear because he is probably dead. She grounds her claim by observing that his abandoned wife (Rukmiṇī) has become a prostitute (tujhī rāṇḍa raṇḍkī jhālī) and forced to wear Sāvitrī’s bangles. In fact, even time has begun crying on seeing his corpse (kāḷa raḍe).13 Moreover, she astutely, and pithily, observes how even his strength, depends upon her (tujhẽ baḷ āmhā̃ pāśı̄ ̃ ).14 To quote from Rajeshwari Pandharipande’s (2000: 174–175)15 translation: I have no fascination for you, God! I am not going to serve you anymore! You are not magnanimous Why do you carry this false pride of greatness? What will you gain by getting angry with me? We the devotees are the source of your strength. You have no power on your own. Hari, haven’t I understood your secret? For his part, the divine sakhyā apparently does not take offence at this subaltern, female, human being cursing him. Equally, he, at least in her poems, seems to operate with a similar understanding of friendship. He expects loyalty from her, an equal commitment to their friendship (even if she has to bear with bodily discomfort to prove this commitment), attentiveness to his needs16 and benign tolerance (when he is not punctual, for example), etc. Janī’s sakhyā is helpful in other ways too. He uses his status to signal to the community that this young, orphaned, housemaid, who by way of her low social status does not have access to learning, does have spiritual insights which merit emulation. To this end, Viṭṭal himself pens Janī’s own verses when she begins singing.17 This act of private camaraderie between two friends (see below) takes on a public twist when Jñāndev himself chances upon the scene. Jñāndev reminds Viṭṭal that it is wholly unbecoming of a god to take up the role of a poet and/or scribe. Viṭṭal explains his behaviour by saying that writing down Janī’s verses will not diminish his divine significance in any way:

Dialoguing the Vārkari tradition 151 I wrote down Jani’s words as she uttered them Jnānadeva! Let it be known to you, this has not made me any less divine! The absolute truth is the paper, and with the ink of eternity Viṭṭal writes on it Incessantly with Jani […] (Pandharipande 2000: 173–174) Moreover, he promises that any person emulating Janī’s path of bhakti would be personally led by him (Viṭṭal) into absorption in the Divine (sāyujyā). Further on in the story, he allocates scribes to write down the thoughts of the other sants, choosing to take on the role of Janī’s scribe himself. Jñāndev realises that this is Viṭṭal’s way of helping the servant girl join the community of the learned.18 As Bahiṇābāī’s vivid depiction of her marital problems in some of her autobiographical verses make clear, her role as the wife of a Brahmin priest does not seem to allow for much time to indulge in śṛṅgāra too.19 These problems force her to appeal directly to her friend (sakhā sahodhar) and ally Pāṇḍuraṅg (aka Viṭṭal). She flays him to understand that her love for him will have to be shared with devotion to her husband. She attempts to persuade Pāṇḍuraṅg to think about her specific situation (BG: 23, 62.3 and 25, 68). Leaving a husband, she tells him, cannot be reconciled with the Vedas. Given that this is not a viable option for her as a wife who seeks to live by the ideal of a pativratā, she places the burden for finding a neat solution to her conundrum on him. Harī should quickly find a way to make both happen.20 But why this urgency? People flocked to see Bahiṇā because of the visions she had; her husband perceived this adulation as a threat to his Brahminhood. As a Brahmin, he states, he had to study the Vedas (BG: 14, 32). The household in which this study took place was ‘ruined’ by the fact that his wife had visions of a Śūdra saint (Tukārām). As her husband, this Brahmin could not even imagine bhakti being true in his dreams. His life as a householder, he worries, is mostly likely to be literally ‘defeated’.21 If he prematurely abandoned his varnāśrama and became a sanyāsin, he contends, he could, having abandoned these roles, escape social disapproval. One can palpably sense this Brahmin priest’s and astrologer’s desperation, which was compounded by Bahiṇābāī’s pregnancy. Bahiṇābāī narrates how the prospect of being abandoned as a pregnant wife of a Brahmin priest and astrologer appalled her. She recalls the rewards promised to a pativratā and the list of punishments looming over any female who dares to stray away from this ideal. Her husband’s anger and jealousy push her into perceiving the stark incongruence between this ideal and her own life: she must

152 Monika Kirloskar-Steinbach either face the pain of social ostracism or accept the socially-inscribed ideal of a pativratā. Bahiṇābāī chooses the latter.22 This means, firstly, accepting the husband’s path to divine realisation as hers, despite having contrary, direct experience. Secondly, she must accept him as the personified Brahman,23 while not heeding the demands of Tukāram and Viṭṭal. Only service to him would lead her to salvation, she reasons: Why should the stone god Viṭṭhal and the dream saint Tukā deprive me of the happiness I know? (BG: 16, 38.1; Feldhaus 1982: 597) As the next dramatic episodes unfold, the husband realises that his true religious path is, in fact, hers. In a vision, he is asked to become more like her, at least in his devotion to god. The husband decides to abandon his roles of a priest and astrologer. This partial change in his social identity is effectuated by the couple’s relocation from Kolhapur to Dehu, which is Tukāram’s village too. As a result of his decision, Bahiṇābāī is now the wife of a fellow bhaktā. At least their spiritual paths converge now, and she can reconcile her wifely duties with her devotion to Viṭṭal more easily. As we see, Bahiṇābāī approaches her Harī as a Brahmin’s wife, who feels boxed in by hegemonic force of tradition, which neatly circumscribes her role as such a wife. One could speculate that this role itself, with which she seems to self-identify, would refrain her from insulting, cursing or threatening her Harī with a withdrawal of her devotion. Given that her own status as a pativratā seems to be in jeopardy, Bahiṇābāī uses her dialogues with her male confidant, her sakhā sahodhar, to take stock of the situation and imagine what abandoning her husband would entail for her person. As a wife seeking to materialise the ideal of pativratā, Bahiṇābāī is, at first glance, far removed from the socially-downtrodden Janībāī. Nevertheless, we can discern certain common features between both when we take a closer look at their gendered identities. Although their social roles as females demand subservience to male needs and interests in their daily lives, these santakaviyatrīs seem to have a mutual relationship of deep trust and companionship with their male god. Through their dialogue, they cement their relationship with him. He has no qualms in bridging the gender and/or caste gulf between them and him. Their relationship with Viṭṭal brings to light the egalitarian nature of this friendship. The main advantage of seeking him out as a sakhyā seems to be that he in this male form can, and does, stand up and protect these santakaviyatrīs from societal dominance. This sakhyā is set in stark contrast to the casteist and gender hierarchy these sants faced in their daily lives. As Jayant Lele (1981: 12) puts it, Viṭṭal in these renditions becomes a ‘determinate negation’ of the male, casteist hegemony they are confronted with. Nevertheless, their playful, and yet deeply caring, reciprocal relationship points out to other, non-oppressive ways of pursuing intimate relationships. If domination is absent in a relationship between a divine being

Dialoguing the Vārkari tradition 153 and a human being, why should it play any salient role in interpersonal relationships between human beings? (for other dialogues exploring the relationship between humans and divine beings, see Chapters 11 and 13). If Viṭṭal does not heed contingent, caste and gender differences, how can conventional attributions of superiority or inferiority (which are based on precisely such differences) be anything other than mere appearances? With divine help, a female (but not only her) has the power to look through these supposed trappings and break across such bondage. Experiencing this egalitarian relationship with her male god allows a devotee to, potentially at least, develop other such relationships, which are not based on such flimsy hierarchies.24 Our analysis so far has attempted to bring to light how Janībāī and Bahiṇābāī used the spaces available to them to exercise their agency in questioning social oppression. In this regard, we have focused on the dialogical relationship they maintain with Viṭṭal, a relationship in which they self-identify as a housemaid and Brahmin’s wife respectively. The social existences of these bhaktās does not vanish in their union with their deity. Rather, depending on the situation, their god can be persuaded, cajoled, cursed and insulted to help them sort out the existential problems they face in these specific roles. Viṭṭal discloses himself to these bhaktās as a ‘dialogical presence’ (Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad, this volume, p. 241). His liminal presence comes alive to us through the way in which he intervenes in the performance of their roles. Importantly, these interventions are not accidental and arbitrary; they help the bhaktās to continue to perform the roles ascribed to them. However, his intervention makes a remarkable difference to the performance of this role. For example, when Janībāī’s situation demands it, he shares in her role as a dāsi. In the process, he, as a male god, seem to overturn the valorisation of male ways of being in the world. This divine being, which this intervention seems to symbolise, actively engages with his bhaktā in her performance of a maid. While Bahiṇābāī’s Harī does not seem to confront male ways of being in the world directly, his intervention helps her continue to perform the role of a wife of a Brahmin and simultaneously follow her spiritual persuasion. Surrounded by her sant brothers, Muktābāī, the last in our trio, is in some ways more removed from the drudgery of daily life than her counterparts Janībāī and Bahiṇābāī. In many ways, she stands in a relatively indirect relation to gṛhastha. Her poems neither thematise social deprivation nor oppression directly. In them, she posits herself as a guide to those seeking to overcome this world. Given her own positionality, how can Muktābāī further our analysis? Let us attempt to retrieve her agency through her role as a Jñāndev’s younger sister in one specific situation. As young orphans, the siblings were ridiculed for being the children of an ostracised Brahmin, who had to take his life to escape social disapproval. In one incident, Jñāndev is insulted by someone who begs for alms. The latter claims that he cannot procure enough alms during the day because he sees Jñāndev every morning; Jñāndev, thus, is an inauspicious omen to him. Being deeply insulted by this jibe, Jñāndev locks himself up in a hut. He is determined to leave

154 Monika Kirloskar-Steinbach his body through his yogic powers. Muktā, his younger female sibling, stands outside the hut’s door and tries to convince him not to leave this world. Given that Muktā is engaging with a spiritual peer, one could expect her to deliver an abstract, perhaps even scholarly, argument about life and death. Remarkably, in her attempts at persuading her brother, Muktā repeatedly underscores the mores that a sanyāsin like him should follow. In one of the verses attributed to her,25 Muktā asks her brother how he, as a liberated soul, can be afflicted by anger at all. She seems to use a two-pronged strategy to persuade him not to leave this world. For one, she argues, their santfamily has taken a pledge to serve society; they are obliged to abide by this pledge, which entails that they must perceive people as god (jana teci janārdana). For another, Jñāndev as a sant should know that when the creeper of anger grows (veḷa krodhācā ugavalā), all yoga is wasted (avaghā yoga phola jhālā). Aho krodhẽ yāve koṭhẽ / avaghe āpaṇa nighoṭẽ // Aisẽ kaḷẽ uttama / jana teci janārdana // Brīda bandhilẽ carṇı̄ ̃ / na ye dāvitā̃ karaṇī // Veḷa krodhācā ugavalā / avaghā yoga phola jhālā // Aisī thora dṛṣṭī gharā / tāṭī ughaḍā jñāneśvarā // We see how Muktābāī seems to foreground Jñāneśvar social identity in her attempt at persuading him to come out of the hut (she eventually succeeds). Jñāndev is a sant, she says, who has taken a pledge to serve his community. As a sant, he is at a particular stage in his moral and spiritual development too. If he left this world, he would fail to fulfil his obligations, and in the process, reverse, to some extent, his moral and spiritual progress. He must give his social identity due consideration before he implements his wish of leaving this world, she seems to say. To sum up this section: we have focused on the roles attributed to the specific bodies of our female santakaviyatrīs and their performance of these roles. This perspective promises to prepare the ground for creating a common dialogical space between us and the santakaviyatrīs. A standard analysis would probably note that Janībāī posits Viṭṭal as her mother, father, sibling, child, male (and sometimes even female) friend etc. Viṭṭal participates in her intimate activities (like bathing, grooming etc.),26 and even eats the leftovers of this housemaid in the presence of others.27 This analysis would further interpret Janībāī’s relationship with Viṭṭal as being yet another case of viraha-bhakti. She implores her god not to desert her;28 he is her solace,29 she pines for him,30 and begs him not to, literally, put a great distance between them.31 Her words: Tujavīṇa sakhe koṇa/ mājhẽ karīla saṃrakṣaṇa//‘Without you my friend, who will protect me?’ (SSG 2 1983: 709, 61) could be then taken as typifying the longing and suffering of yet another Indian bhakta. Such a conventional analysis would, furthermore, rest satisfied noting how Bahiṇābāī’s adherence to social authority forced her to fall in line with the social role of a pativratā attributed to her. It would probably overlook how Bahiṇābāī herself thematises the obstructive role her female body places on her own path to

Dialoguing the Vārkari tradition 155 renunciation. At least in her own social environment, the agency of a female body, she seems to say, is limited. External forces ascribe roles to this female body. Caught up in such a body, she, for example, could not embark upon renunciation (śtriyecẽ śarīra parādhīna deha/na cāle upāva viraktīcā//; BG: 23, 60). Relatedly, she worries that the Vedas and Puranas do not seem to believe that anything good comes from women (śtriyecā saṅgati hita nāhī ̃ ), thus leaving women like her with hardly any options to achieve spiritual liberation (BG: 23–24, 63). However, Bahiṇābāī does not reconcile herself with this fate. If old age, death and fear are alike for everyone, she asks in another verse-couplet, why are some called Brahmins? In fact, when a Brahmin burns his parents, is he not a Brahmin-killer (BG: 108, 414)?32 Indeed, Bahiṇābāī’s voice may seem to ‘wobble … between elite purpose and recalcitrant alterity’ (Chakravarthi RamPrasad, this volume, p. 234) in these verses. Nevertheless, we can still catch its remarkably clear tone in questioning this very purpose. A conventional take on Muktā, for instance, would not make room for the possibility that the famous Jñāneśvar could have been made to change the course of his action by his younger sister. Remarkably, he, the spiritually-accomplished yogi, is brought to reason in this particular situation by a sister who reminds him of his social positionality and how a hurried escape from this world would impact his own spiritual development. Our perspective has moved beyond such a standard interpretation in all three cases. By focusing on some of the roles these women performed, we have been able to retrieve how they were able to relate to, and address, gender and caste/ class constructions. At least in some ways, we can say, we have been able to prepare the ground for creating a dialogical space with the santakaviyatrīs (for another way of preparing the ground, see Chapter 10 in this volume). For this purpose, we have foregrounded the ordinariness of their roles, which recur in our own social relations. Undeniably, our own performance of our social roles will possess features characteristic of our own context. And yet, there are some strong resemblances between the performance of their roles and our own.

The sants’ relevance today Approaching the sants through their specific social roles has allowed us to see how Janībāī and Bahiṇābāī withstood social deprivation and oppression. This entry-point has placed us in a common dialogical space, which can help us to perceive their verses as sources ‘that challenge patriarchal formulations through a questioning of perceived difference’ (Pechilis 2014: 112). Although Janī and Bahiṇābāī’s questioning plays out more in their thought, it does seem to concretely impact the performance of their roles as a maid and wife respectively. The manner in which they approach Viṭṭal as a confidant and ally, does not seem to be very remote from the way many of us choose to engage with our (perhaps even better-placed) confidants and allies. If this can be considered to be one potential contribution to our contemporary debate in Indian feminism, the Vārkarī’s medium of communication could be another.

156 Monika Kirloskar-Steinbach This medium of communication is easily accessible – not only because it does not necessitate a translation from a highly academic idiom to an earthier one. Its easy accessibility can be traced to how communication is grounded in social experiences. Jayant Lele (1995: 70) writes: [I]n their case, anubhav implies the experience of and reflection on the daily involvement in normal social life. Sants unite spirituality with daily life experience and open up possibilities for critical reflection on life that has inherent in it, a transformative potential. Anybody else, who is placed in a similar situation, can immediately grasp the issues at play here. The exchange between Muktābāī and her brother is a good case in point. Muktābāī, it seems, is neither overpowered by the spiritual prowess nor by the seniority or sex of her older brother even though she grounds her spiritually-liberated brother in this world of social roles, while persuading him to overcome his anger. In this exchange, she is a dialogical peer who can convince him. As this discussion indicates, a thorough examination of these santakaviyatrīs and similar figures would be rewarding. It would allow us to strike up what Laurie L Patton (2011: 166) in another context calls ‘ritual alliances’. These alliances would enable us to strategically marshal indigenous resources along with concern for feminist issues. A sceptic, however, could possibly challenge one view underpinning this paper: that the gap between the modern standpoint of scholars working on Indian feminism and the ‘premodern’ worldview of the sants can be bridged (easily). This person could hold that the conceptual apparatus deployed by contemporary scholars is specific to our own context. This apparatus is deeply interwoven with the normative presuppositions of modernity like individualism, human rights and progress. As a result, a deep epistemic cleavage separates these two worlds. This gulf makes it difficult for a contemporary scholar to easily relate to the santakaviyatrīs, whose worldview is largely community-centred, deeply patriarchal, religious, etc. This challenge is easy to counter in the light of our discussion so far. Indeed, the santakaviyatrīs we sketched, for example, do not use a rightsbased discourse to undergird their claims to deviate from the social norms they were expected to follow. And yet, in their dialogues with Viṭṭal, Janībāī and Bahiṇābāī, for example, they clearly articulate their dissatisfaction, their dissent, from their gendered roles. Furthermore, they use the leeway they obtain (through Viṭṭal’s help) to manoeuvre through conventional understandings of their roles. While the performance of these roles is improved through his intervention, his very intervention brings to light the fault-lines running through them. The (conceptual) wedge separating the worlds of contemporary Indian ‘moderns’ and ‘premoderns’ is untenable for another reason. Current scholarship is divided on how to understand ‘modern’ and ‘modernity’ in the cross-cultural context. This current disagreement, in my view, spills on to the term ‘premodern’

Dialoguing the Vārkari tradition 157 too. In the geopolitical intellectual imagery, the term ‘premodern’ is not innocent, as Naoki Sakai (2010) warns us.33 In addition, some scholarship seems to believe that the ‘premodern’ was not influenced by colonial power and is thus in some way more ‘authentic’ than the hybridisation which took place after colonisation, which had modernisation in its tow. If there is reason to be sceptical about delineating the ‘modern’ in colonised societies, can we uncritically presume that an understanding of the term ‘premodern’ is uncontentious? Furthermore, should this disagreement not give us pause to question our point of departure, namely, the adequacy of the standard narrative of modernity in prising open that which we call the ‘premodern’?

Concluding remarks This Chapter used certain aspects of the relationship between three female santakaviyatrīs of the Maharashtrian Vārkarī tradition with Viṭṭalā and their contemporary male peers to work out the manner in which these santakaviyatrīs approach issues of social deprivation and oppression, and also how they ground their argumentation in concrete social experiences. Presumably, both these issues should, one would think, overlap with concerns voiced in scholarship on Indian feminism. Yet as we saw, the writings and works of these santakaviyatrīs do not seem to be informing relevant debates across the board. Setting up both these dialogues in relation with each other can, nevertheless, shed light on some crucial aspects of dialogical activity, especially when we engage with premodern sources. Although Janībāī and Bahiṇābāī consider themselves to be mortals and Viṭṭal to be a divine being, they are able to directly interact with him in a face-to-face dialogue, which takes place in the devotees’ mind. For them, Viṭṭal is a mere thought away. Through her devotion and friendship, the devotee is able to establish a level playing field for her interaction with this divine being. The dialogue is initiated by the female bhakta to discuss existential issues with him; sometimes, she seeks his help in solving some of these issues. Despite the uneven status of this relationship between a divine being and a human, the relationship itself, and the ensuing dialogue, are deeply reciprocal (see above). Although the dialogue between the santakaviyatrīs and modern scholars is between human beings, it is more difficult to initiate right from the start. For one, the two parties interact indirectly: contemporary scholars use the thoughts and works of the santakaviyatrīs to get a sense of their worldviews. The santakaviyatrīs cannot intervene and take a stand on how they, or their thoughts, are being interpreted. Interpretations of their thoughts are wholly dependent on readers and hearers, who are separated through a spatiotemporal gulf. This gulf is accentuated through the latter’s tendency to, in general, use a conceptual apparatus, which does not wholly match those of the santakaviyatrīs. An interpretative, one-to-one exchange does not always ensue. One reason seems to be that some contemporary scholars (perhaps inadvertently) tend to operate with moral standards, without ascertaining whether they

158 Monika Kirloskar-Steinbach are present in the moral frameworks of the santakaviyatrīs (agency, individual rights, etc.). A conceptual hiatus (or rather dissonance) results, which leads some scholars to presume that the santakaviyatrīs’ rebellion from patriarchal and casteist hegemony is merely an individual escapist strategy. The worry is that since the santakaviyatrīs worked within the structures they found themselves in, their constrained attempts at rebellion helped in a way to reinforce the very patriarchal structures they sought to overcome. As a result, it is often believed that the santakaviyatrīs cannot provide a radical way of overhauling these structures. Their efforts, thus, fall short of the goal pursued by contemporary scholarship on Indian feminism: overcoming these oppressive structures themselves. But if we become more sensitive to our own positioning, to the embodied and place-based dimensions of a dialogue and the ways in which the background assumptions of our own purportedly unique, modern worldview can intervene, even if inadvertently, in our investigation with premodern sources, we can move forward. For this purpose, we must move away from the belief that, as Sally Talbot concisely puts it, the ‘knowable world is external to the relations of knowing’ (quoted in Dalmiya 2016: 23). One such attempt has been undertaken in these pages using a philosophy-of-practice perspective.

Notes 1 While Muktābaī is said to have lived between c.1279 and 1297, Janābāī is said to have been born between c.1263 to 1298 and taken samādhi in 1350. Presumably, Bahiṇābāī lived between 1628–1700. 2 For a recent fascinating study which shares this goal, see Dalmiya (2016). 3 To prove his point to the priests that there was no difference between the buffalo and him, Jñāndev is said to have made a buffalo recite the Vedas (Abbott and Godbole 1988 [1933]: 144–146). 4 Cows too, she reasons, walk amongst men and in the jungle without any clothes. So why, she seems to suggest, should she be expected to wear some given that there is no difference between a cow and her? Notice the similarity between Jñāndev’s argumentation (see note 1) and hers. 5 In Mahīpati’s narrative he becomes Jñāndev’s disciple, while public memory today remembers him as Muktā’s śiṣya. See Abbott and Godbole (1988 [1933]: 375); Daukes (2014: 136). 6 Daukes cites the Bhaktavijaya: mī nāmayācī ananya dāsī See Daukes (2014: 150, 396). 7 Janī describes how Viṭṭal, entranced by her devotion, begins performing lowly chores (nīca kāmẽ), like bringing away the garbage she collects when sweeping. Jhāḍaloṭa kārī janī / kera bharī cakrapāṇī /1/ Pāṭī gheūniyā śirī̃ / neūniyā̃ ṭākī durī /2/ Aisā bhaktisī bhūlalā / nīca kāmẽ karū̃ lāgalā /3/ Janī mhaṇe viṭhobālā / kaya utarāī hoī̃ tulā /4/ (SSG 2 1983: 713, 83). Here and below the verse-couplet’s (abhaṅga) number will be mentioned after the page number. In this case, the verse referenced (verse number 83), is found on page 713 of the SSG. 8 Sant Bahiṇābāī is not be confused with Bahiṇābāī Caudharī (c.1879–1951). 9 Smith uses rasā-literature to make this point about the ahaṃkarā.

Dialoguing the Vārkari tradition 159 10 Nāhī̃ kelī tujhī sevā / duḥkha vāṭatase mājhe jivā /1/ Naṣṭa pāpīṇa mī hīna /nāhī̃̃ kele tujhẽ dhyāna /2/ Jẽje duḥkha jhālẽ malā / tẽ tvā̃ sosilẽ viṭṭhalā /3/ Rātrandivasa majapāśī̃ / daḷū̃ kāṇḍū̃ lāgalāsī /4/Kṣmā karāvī devarāyā / dāsī janī lāge pāyā̃ (SSG 2 1983: 707, 43, also see SSG 2 1983: 707, 49). 11 See (SSG 2:714, 90). 12 (SSG 2 1983: 719, 129, 130, also SSG 2 1983: 720, 135). 13 ‘Are viṭhyā viṭhyā / mūḷa māyecyā kāraṭyā /1/ Tujhī rāṇḍa raṇḍkī jhālī / janmasāvitrī cuḍā lyālī /2/ Tujhẽ gelẽ maḍhẽ /tulā pāhūna kāḷa raḍe /3/ Ubhī rāhūnī āṅgaṇı̄ ̃ / śivyā deta dāsī janī /4/ (SSG 1983: 703, 19). As Daukes (2014: 200) points out, the diminutive ‘Viṭhyā’ also means a tom-cat. 14 Tujhā lobha nāhī̃ devā/ Tujhī kari na me sevā/1/ Nāhī̃ aṅgi thorpan/mithyā dharisī gumān/2/ rāga gheūni kāy karisī/tujhẽ baḷ āmhā̃ pāśı̄ ̃ /3/ Nāhī ̃ sāmtharya tuj hari/Jani mahṇe dharala corī/4/ (SSG 2 1983: 733, 215). 15 Pandharipande uses the Nāmadevā Gāthā for her translation of Janī’s abhaṅgas. 16 He turns to her, for example, when he wants to eat something (SSG 2 1983: 718, 121). As we saw above, he can rely on Janī to look after his bodily comfort (see the example of the pestle). 17 Janīnẽ bolilẽ taisenca lihilẽ / sādha parisalẽ tumhı̄ ̃ santī /1/ Āho jñānadevā asāvẽ tujhā ṭhāvẽ / yeṇẽ kāya lahāṇīva āṇilī āmhā̃ /2/Mājhī maja āṇa sāṅgatẽ pramāṇa / sevitẽ caraṇa tujhe svāmī /3/ Janīce ho bola svānandāce ḍola / svāthma mukhı̄ ̃ bola duṇāvatī /4/ Śuddhā sattva kāgada nitya karī śāī / akhaṇḍitha lihī janīpāśı̄ ̃ /5/ Hā̃ soni jñānadevẽ piṭiyelı̄ ̃ ṭāḷī / jayajayakāra sakaḷī kela thora /6/ (SSG 2 1983: 722, 145). 18 Abbott and Godbole (1988 [1933]: 354). 19 For Bahiṇābāī’s own account, see (BG: 14–15, 32–37). 20 Bahiṇā mhaṇe donhī ghaḍthil Harī/ Heta hā̃ jhaḍakarī vicāravā //4 (BG: 24, 68). 21 Mājhā jhālā bhaṅga āśramacha// (BG: 14, 32.3.) 22 After having met Tukaram in person, Bahiṇābāī, however, is able to flout social convention, as she notes in one of her verses, see (BG: 165, 602). 23 Bhratārācī sevā toci āmhā̃ deva / bhratāra svayameva parabrahmana// (BG: 15, 35.4). 24 Pandharipande (2000: 146) argues that in transforming Viṭṭal into her, Janī is able to liberate the divine from its male form too. 25 Public memory attributes these so-called tāṭīce abhaṅga to Muktābāī. 26 See: Janī in (SSG 2 1983: 713, 86,3) and (SSG 2 1983: 713–714, 88, 89). 27 See for example: Janī in (SSG 2 1983: 717, 113, SSG 2 1983: 741, 268). Cf. Abbott and Godbole (1988 [1933]: 345). 28 SSG 2 (1983: 711, 73, 75). 29 SSG 2 (1983: 706, 39.3). 30 SSG 2 (1983: 706, 39.3) and SSG 2 (1983: 711, 71). 31 SSG 2 (1983: 706, 37.1). Appealing to god’s female form, she asks the latter to explain what weaknesses she has which could explain this absence (aisā koṇa doṣa malā SSG 2 707, 41.1). 32 Jarā mṛtyu bhaya sarvā̃ śı̄ ̃ samāna / tarīte brāhmaṇa mhaṇõ kaise /1/ Mātāpitayācyā jāḷilẽ śarīrā / brahmahatyā narā kevı̄ ̃ nohe /3/ This observation makes her reason that the Brahmin cannot be identified with the body. 33 ‘Historically, modernity has primarily been opposed to its historical precedent; geopolitically, it has been contrasted with the non-modern, or more specifically, with the non-West’ (Sakai 2010: 449).

9

Convincing the king Jain ministers and religious persuasion through dialogue Jonathan Geen

Introduction Jain authors have produced a vast array of narrative texts, from epic tales of kings, villains and saints, all the way down to brief didactic stories of common rogues and everyday folk trying to eke out a living. Doctrinally speaking, however, all Jain stories share one common feature: they are stories of souls coursing through saṃsāra, sometimes moving towards liberation and sometimes away from it. Frequently, Jain narratives depict a momentous event that steered a wandering soul in the right direction, such as experiencing a profoundly disillusioning incident through which the horrors of saṃsāra were laid bare, or listening to a stirring sermon delivered by a Jain sage, or engaging in a lifealtering dialogue with a Jain sage or pious layperson. Here, we will focus on the last of these: a dialogue through which the wayward soul of Lord Ṛṣabha,1 the first jina of the current epoch, was directed onto the path to liberation during his past-life as a vidyādhara king named Mahābala. What makes this dialogue particularly interesting is the various ways it was used by Jain authors over time, illustrated here by examining versions of this dialogue as found in three important Jain texts: Saṅghadāsa’s circa fifth century Prākrit Vasudevahiṇḍi,2 Jinasena’s ninth century Sanskrit Ādipurāṇa,3 and Hemacandra’s twelfth century Sanskrit Triṣaṣṭiśalākāpuruṣacarita.4 In Jain tradition, the biographies of the jinas or Jain Saviours tend to be highly standardised and idealised, making the lives of the jinas somewhat remote from the workaday world of average lay people. Tales of the jinas’ past lives, however, are often quite different.5 The past-life stories of the jinas are no mere catalogue of pious and virtuous deeds that transformed an almost-perfect soul into a perfect one; rather, they include many confrontations with the same challenges experienced by everyone: doubt, lust, greed, attachment, anger, resentment, jealousy and so on. In this sense, the past-life stories of a jina collectively describe how a rather imperfect soul moved towards perfection (for similar dialogues of transformation, see Madaio’s Chapter in this book). This is certainly true for the jina Ṛṣabha, who was, according to the mythological Jain Universal History, the first of 63 Great Beings, the lives of whom provide the ‘historical’ framework for our current epoch.6 According to the Universal History,

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nine lifetimes before his soul was born as the jina Ṛṣabha, it was born as a vidyādhara king named Mahābala, and it was, during that lifetime, a dialogue with his Jain minister Svayambuddha that launched his path to jina-hood. 7

The account of Mahābala and Svayambuddha in the Vasudevahiṇḍi The account of Mahābala found in the Śvetāmbara Jain Vasudevahiṇḍi 8 appears to be the earliest extant version of the story, and also to have been the direct or indirect basis for the later two accounts examined here. As an early Jain version of Gunāḍhya’s famous though no-longer-extant Bṛhatkathā,9 the Vasudevahiṇḍi is, on the whole, quite distinct from the Ādipurāṇa and Triṣaṣṭiśalākāpuruṣacarita, which are formal and chronologically oriented presentations of the Jain Universal History.10 In the Vasudevahiṇḍi, the story of Ṛṣabha and his pastlives occurs at a seemingly random place in the story for a relatively mundane reason: it was used to establish the kṣatriya lineage of a potential bride for Vasudeva, who refused to marry outside his social class.11 Aside from a few details as to the geographical region12 in which Mahābala lived and his family line,13 the Vasudevahiṇḍi’s story of Mahābala is largely one continuous dialogue between Mahābala and his pious Jain minister Svayambuddha. This dialogue occurred on the very day that Svayambuddha had learned an alarming fact: King Mahābala, though still youthful, had only one month to live. Although Svayambuddha does not reveal this fact until the end of the dialogue, it is safe to assume that the entire dialogue was ultimately motivated and informed by it. Instead of opening with this distressing news, Svayambuddha skilfully worked up to it, step by step, showing the special utility of dialogue. On the day in question, the young King Mahābala, entirely unaware of his impending fate, was enjoying himself as usual by watching performances of elegant singing and dancing together with members of his court, including Svayambuddha, who was a prince and friend of Mahābala’s since childhood, and another minister named Sambhinnaśoka, who Mahābala consulted on many matters. Svayambuddha opened the dialogue by making a rather inflammatory comment on the performance they were watching. He said to Mahābala: ‘O Lord, you should know that, for a man, music is weeping, dance is deceit, ornaments are a burden, and sensual pleasures bring misery’.14 Moreover, he suggested that obsession with sense objects ought to be restrained by thoughts for one’s next life. Mahābala, responding ‘with passion’ (rāga), demanded he explain that statement, which, in typical Jain fashion, Svayambuddha did: he explained how sense pleasures ultimately lead to sorrow, and that because there is another world after this one, a person ought to do what is best for one’s future. Mahābala seemed unconvinced that one should forego happiness now out of a desire to attain happiness in the next life. At this point, without being asked, the minister Sambhinnaśoka rose to the king’s defence by stating that now was not the time to worry about one’s next life: youth was the time for sensual enjoyment, and thoughts of the next life

162 Jonathan Geen could wait until death approached. Svayambuddha immediately refuted this notion, employing a couple of folk-tale illustrations to drive home his point. Turning his attention back to the king, Svayambuddha reminded Mahābala of an event from their childhood days, when, in the Nandana grove, Mahābala’s grandfather Śatabala, now a god in Brahmaloka, appeared to them and implored Mahābala to faithfully practise the words of the jinas, and assured them that there certainly was a ‘next life’. In response, Mahābala admitted that he did, indeed, remember the encounter. Next, Svayambuddha recounted a story about a former king named Haricandra, who was steered onto the true Jain path by his friend and advisor Subuddhi, a story that ends with both attaining liberation. Svayambuddha then revealed that Mahābala was a descendent of Haricandra, and Svayambuddha himself a descendent of Subuddhi. Thus, their current dialogue was, as it were, a reenactment of family history. Finally, Svayambuddha confessed that, earlier on that very day, he had met two Jain sages in the Nandana grove who informed him that Mahābala had but a month of life remaining. Mahābala, stunned by this news, asked in despair what he could possibly do in a month’s time that could be for the welfare of his next life. Svayambuddha declared: ‘Master! Even a single day of abandoning all sinful activities is more than enough, to say nothing about a whole month!’15 Agreeing to be instructed by Svayambuddha, Mahābala passed the kingdom to his son, renounced the world and devoted himself to Jain practice. Dying with his mind on the teachings of the jinas, he was reborn as the god Lalitāṅga in his next life, which was the first step in his ascent to jina-hood. As Lalitāṅga, he had a brief encounter with Svayambuddha, also now a god, after which their relationship was brought to an end. In summary, then, the Vasudevahiṇḍi’s dialogue between Mahābala and Svayambuddha was motivated by Svayambuddha’s concern for his friend’s future life, which was coming much sooner than Mahābala knew, and which would be adversely affected by Mahābala’s current pleasure-oriented lifestyle. But rather than opening with the distressing news, Svayambuddha approached Mahābala strategically. He first undermined Mahābala’s unexamined passion for sensual pleasure, reminding him that one’s conduct should be guided by (Jain) dharma, and that one needs to be concerned for one’s future life. In the process, he fended off the hedonistic idea proposed by the minister Sambhinnaśoka that pleasures are appropriate for a young king, and preparing for one’s next life should be the concern of the aged. He reminded Mahābala of their childhood encounter with the god Śatabala, which provided actual evidence that a next life was surely coming, and that one’s next life was determined by one’s current conduct. He then, with the story of Haricandra and Subuddhi, established the hereditary goodwill between Mahābala’s family and his own, inspiring trust. Only then, having steered Mahābala’s mind in the right direction, did Svayambuddha finally drive in the last nail: the king had only a month to live, but if he used that month wisely, he could assure a good rebirth.

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Amongst other things, this tale reiterated a well-known Jain principle: death is always lurking, and one should never put off following the words of the jinas with the notion that it can be done later. In this sense, the minister Sambhinnaśoka was at least partly correct: worrying about one’s future right before one dies is sound advice, but as one never knows when one will die, there is no time to waste.16

The account of Mahābala and Svayambuddha in the Ādipurāṇa Unlike the Vasudevahiṇḍi, the Ādipurāṇa was intended by its author Jinasena to be the first complete version of the Jain Universal History, laid out from beginning to end.17 As Ṛṣabha was the first of the 63 Great Beings of the current epoch, and his wider biography began with past-life stories, the tale of King Mahābala became the first complete narrative told in the Ādipurāṇa. As a Digambara Jain monk, Jinasena was not strictly bound to the account of Mahābala in the Śvetāmbara Vasudevahiṇḍi, though he appears to have been greatly influenced by it;18 in fact, at first blush, the Ādipurāṇa’s version of Mahābala’s story appears to be a mildly variant retelling of the account from the Vasudevahiṇḍi.19 As we will see, however, Jinasena actually took what was one continuous dialogue in the Vasudevahiṇḍi and split it into two separate parts, thereby altering the context in which much of the dialogue occurs. He also greatly amplified the role of the Jain minister Svayambuddha in Ṛṣabha’s ascent to jina-hood. As a text focused on narrating the biographies of the Great Beings, the Ādipurāṇa understandably provides greater context for the story of Mahābala, such as the fact that the region where he lived was dotted by Jain temples, that worship of the jinas occurred at every public festival, and that he inherited the kingdom when his father Atibala, becoming highly disenchanted with worldly life and the burdens of kingship, renounced and took Jain dīkṣā.20 The upshot of these details seems to be that Mahābala would have been thoroughly familiar with Jainism even before assuming the throne. When the scene of the dialogue opens, King Mahābala was enjoying his own birthday celebrations, surrounded by four royal ministers, his general, chaplain, companions and other administrators. Here, Svayambuddha was not a childhood friend with hereditary connections to Mahābala’s family, but rather one of four highly devoted and efficient ministers, all of whom assisted Mahābala in the running of the kingdom and were always in perfect agreement on all matters of state. What differentiated the ministers was their religious views, with Svayambuddha being a follower of the jinas and possessing samyagdarśana, and the others (Mahāmati, Sambhinna and Śatamati) being aligned with false views (mithyādṛś).21 On this festive occasion, Svayambuddha, who in this version had no foreknowledge of Mahābala’s impending demise, decided to say something for the king’s general welfare (śreyas). Unlike the account in the Vasudevahiṇḍi, he did not open with a pointed critique of indulging in sense pleasures.

164 Jonathan Geen Rather, he began by pointing out the inextricable link between karma and dharma: nothing, he said, arises in the world without a cause, and the cause of all good things comes from the practice of dharma. Nothing good or pleasant can ever arise from the practice of adharma. The fact that Mahābala was a powerful king born into a good vidyādhara family, was beautiful, healthy and wealthy, and was surrounded by all manner of sensual pleasure was a result of his prior practice of the dharma. This being the case, Svayambuddha felt called upon to say a few words on the (Jain) dharma, summing up by stating: ‘Therefore, having experienced the fruits of dharma – kingship and all the rest – those who seek (further) good fortune should make their minds unwavering in the dharma, O Most Fortune One!’22 When Svayambuddha finished speaking, a second minister (Mahāmati), identified as a Bhūtavādin and representing the materialist (laukāyatika) doctrine, rose up to speak. While addressing the king directly, he poked fun at Svayambuddha: While being ‘pious’ (dharmin), O Lord, [Svayambuddha] nevertheless concerns himself with anxiety about dharma; but given the fact that the soul (ātman) doesn’t exist, how shall he enjoy the rewards of dharma? Here, the so-called ‘soul’ (cetanā) becomes manifest from the combination of earth, water, wind and fire, like the power of intoxication becomes manifest from the coming together of a body with wine. Hence, we have no soul (cetanā) separate from the body, and with the exception of it, no soul can be perceived, like flowers growing in the sky. There is no dharma, no sin, nor some ‘other world’ somewhere; like bubbles in water, souls disappear at the death of the body. Therefore, having abandoned existing happiness, seekers after the happiness of another world suffer useless pains; they are deprived of happiness in both worlds!23 When the Bhūtavādin had finished speaking, a third minister (Sambhinna), ‘who had been scratching and yawning and wearing a smile throughout the discussion’,24 arose to speak his piece. He favoured the Yogācāra doctrine of consciousness-only (vijñānamātra; vijñaptimātra), though his main intent, like that of the Bhūtavādin, was to deny the existence of the soul: O Advocate for the Soul! As it cannot be perceived, clearly you do not have a soul; since everything changes every instant, there is indeed consciousness-only. This consciousness, without continuity and being ephemeral, is without parts, yet it appears as if split into [three] parts: the known, the knower and the knowing. Things such as memory and so on should be explained by the abiding of the continuous flow of consciousness, and by the concealing of the fact that the flow of consciousness is not separate from any ‘possessor’ of consciousness. Things such as ‘recognition’ and so on confuse something that vanishes in a moment as being a stable object, just as things such as ‘nails’ and ‘hair’ regenerate when cut off. Thus, beyond the flow of

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consciousness, there is no factual object that correlates to the term jīva, which enjoys the fruits of existence in the afterlife.25 When he was done speaking, the fourth and final minister (Śatamati), a Śūnyavādin, arose to likewise deny the existence of the soul, promoting the doctrine of selflessness (nairātmyavāda): Empty indeed is the world! All of this falsely appears from confusion, like the appearance of an elephant and so on in the illusion of a dream. Thus, whence is our soul? And whence is this other world? All this is unreal, like the City of Gandharvas and other fantasies. Hence those who are intent upon performing tapas for the sake of the next world do so uselessly; not understanding the highest truth, they are reduced to ignorance. Those who undertake to perform the (Jain) dharma are just like pleasure-seekers who, having seen desert mirages, chase after illusory pools of water.26 When all four ministers had expressed their views, Svayambuddha took it upon himself to refute the three naysayers, one at a time, in the same order in which they spoke. His refutation of the Bhūtavādin27 focused on the notion that material elements lack consciousness, whether found separately or combined into a body, and thus a material body on its own would lack consciousness.28 Rather, the locus of consciousness (i.e. the soul) and the material body are separate and distinct, though they arise together so long as liberation has not been achieved. And it is the soul (and its attending karma) that determines the type of material body formed. The illustration cited by the Bhūtavādin, i.e. intoxication resulting from the combination of body and wine, was invalid, because neither the body nor wine, as material elements, possess consciousness, nor could their combination do so. Ridiculing his opponent, Svayambuddha declared: ‘In truth, this Bhūtavādin must be afflicted by ghouls (bhūtas); how else could he present that which is not a material element (i.e. the soul) as being nothing more than the elements?’29 In his refutation of the Consciousness-Only advocate,30 Svayambuddha attacked the idea of there being no underlying basis for consciousness while at the same time an on-going continuity of consciousness.31 The argument seemed so weak to him that he declared, ‘this doctrine of consciousness (vijñapti-vāda) is too thin even for the prattle of children’.32 Finally, Svayambuddha raised and quickly dismissed the nairātmyavāda position as absurd, suggesting that if all is empty, so too are the words of a Śūnyavādin: Therefore, the empty prattling of that one (i.e. the Śūnyavādin) resembles the gibberish of drunkards, and thus, the jīva is real, as is the dharma characterised by compassion and restraint. That is the reliable truth hit upon by the omniscient ones, and the doctrine of those who truly know reality; other doctrines that can be dreamed up are abandoned by the wise.33

166 Jonathan Geen Following this exchange, which amounted to an impromptu religious debate in the presence of the king but without any explicit criticism of the king, the text declares: As a result of [Svayambuddha’s] speech, that entire assembly became absolutely convinced regarding the true existence of the ‘soul’ (ātman), and the King was delighted. The ‘trees’ of those who said otherwise, having met with a harsh strike from the lightning-bolt-like words of Svayambuddha, instantly faded away.34 While those in attendance were quietly pondering the debate, Svayambuddha again addressed the king, asking him to listen to four stories about former kings who had ruled in the same line as Mahābala. The four former kings were Aravinda (father of Haricandra from the Vasudevahiṇḍi account),35 Daṇḍa,36 Śatabala37 (Mahābala’s grandfather) and Sahasrabala38 (Mahābala’s great-grandfather). Each one of these kings followed a different path, and arrived at quite different ends. King Aravinda was cruel and practiced raudradhyāna, and thereby suffered from terrible pains while alive and fell into hell at death. King Daṇḍa was obsessed with sensual pleasures and, practising ārtadhyāna, was reborn as a snake. King Śatabala, becoming weary of the world, handed the kingdom over to his son (i.e. Mahābala’s father), took the Jain lay-vows, fasted, attained samyagdarśana and died in samādhi; he was reborn as a god in heaven. At this juncture, Svayambuddha pointed out Mahābala should already know that his grandfather had become a god, as this god actually appeared to Mahābala and Svayambuddha one time when they were relaxing in the Nandana grove! In fact, the god had delivered a discourse to them on Jain dharma, telling Mahābala that the Jain dharma was the best dharma, and not to forget it. Before Mahābala could comment on whether or not he remembered that event,39 Svayambuddha moved on to his final example, King Sahasrabala, who renounced the kingdom, took Jain dīkṣā, practiced śukladhyāna and achieved mokṣa. When Svayambuddha had completed his stories and the morals to be gained by them, the entire assembly was thoroughly convinced that the Jain dharma was the only true dharma,40 and they all, including King Mahābala himself, praised Svayambuddha. And this brought the public discussion to a close. But it seems that Svayambuddha was still not fully confident that he had gotten through to Mahābala. On a separate occasion, at an unspecified time after the public debate, Svayambuddha went to Mount Meru in order to worship at the Jain temples there. While at a particular temple, Svayambuddha met two Jain ascetics;41 approaching them, he asked about the fate of his master Mahābala, whose future he continued to worry about. The senior of the two ascetics reassured Svayambuddha: As a result of your words, he will become a tīrthakṛt in his tenth birth from now. Right here on Jambūdvīpa, in the region known as Bharata, at the start of the yuga he will be born as the Blessed First Tīrthaṅkara (i.e. Ṛṣabha).42

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The ascetic then briefly related to Svayambuddha the story of Mahābala’s past life, which explained his passion for sensual pleasures. In this life, the jīva of Mahābala had been the elder son of the King Śrīṣeṇa, named Jayavarman.43 Out of preferential affection, the king handed the kingdom down to his younger son, passing over Jayavarman, who thence turned his back on the world and took Jain dīkṣā. Shortly thereafter, however, Jayavarman saw a magnificent vidyādhara and formed in his mind the desire to experience all of the worldly pleasures of a vidyādhara in a future birth. Just as he was forming this sinful resolution (nidāna), he was bitten by a snake and died, after which he was born as King Mahābala. Thus, Mahābala’s inclination towards sensual indulgence, which was a continued source of concern to Svayambuddha, was merely due to this prior nidāna. But the ascetic also assured Svayambuddha that Mahābala would very soon become detached from worldly pleasures, as a direct result of the counsel of Svayambuddha himself. The ascetic told Svayambuddha about two strange dreams that Mahābala was having that very night, the second of which indicated that Mahābala had only one month to live.44 Even now, the ascetic said, Mahābala was waiting for Svayambuddha to return and explain the dreams. Returning to his king, Svayambuddha explained the rather shocking truth that the second dream revealed. Upon receiving the sobering news, Mahābala’s attraction to sensual pleasures vanished, he handed the kingdom over to his own son, took saṃnyāsa and conducted sallekhanā (ritual fasting unto death) for 22 days, with his mind set on the parameṣṭhins, thereby achieving a pious Jain death. And loyal Svayambuddha provided him with support and guidance right up to the very end. As mentioned above, there was, in the Vasudevahiṇḍi, a brief and relatively inconsequential contact between the souls of Mahābala and Svayambuddha when they had both been reborn as the gods,45 but on the whole, their relationship was restricted to one lifetime together. In the Ādipurāṇa, the ongoing relationship between Mahābala and Svayambuddha is greatly expanded. In fact, Mahābala and Svayambuddha met again several lifetimes later, when the jīva of Mahābala had taken birth as a twin in the Uttarakurus. There, he met two flying sages, and the senior of the two sages, named Prītiṅkara, introduced himself as follows: ‘Know me to be the same as wise Svayambuddha, who in your birth as Mahābala, awakened you to the Jain dharma that destroys karma’.46 After the death of Mahābala, he said, he (as Svayambuddha) took Jain dīkṣā, died and became a god. Following that, he was born again on earth as Prītiṅkara, son to King Priyasena. He and his younger brother (i.e. the sage accompanying him) both took dīkṣā and gained avadhijñāna and the power to fly. Seeing that the jīva of Mahābala was currently a twin in the Uttarakurus, they came there specially to see him. Prītiṅkara then delivered a targeted sermon to the twin,47 due to the fact that the twin (i.e. jīva of Mahābala) had still not acquired samyagdarśana on account of his attachment to sensual pleasures.48 Having heard this sermon, the twin finally achieved samyagdarśana, which he had

168 Jonathan Geen failed to do when he was King Mahābala. After marvelling about this meeting where Prītiṅkara had actually sought him out, the twin pondered: In my past-life as Mahābala, Svayambuddha was my guru, and even now, he (as the sage Prītiṅkara) has specifically conferred on me samyagdarśana. Without contact with gurus, there would be no cultivation of virtue, and without the cultivation of virtue, how could a living being attain a superior birth? Though both family and gurus bring men joy, family brings joy in this world only, while gurus bring joy both here and beyond.49 But this was still not the end of their connection. At the death of the twin, Mahābala’s soul was reborn as a god named Śrīdhara, and using his avadhijñāna, he realised that his former guru Prītiṅkara had just achieved kaivalya;50 thus, Śrīdhara went to pay him homage. While there, Śrīdhara asked him what had become of the three ministers of false views (durdṛśas trayaḥ) from back in the time of Mahābala.51 Prītiṅkara said that those ministers suffered miserable rebirths: two of them, the Bhūtavādin and the Vijñānavādin, had attained the state of nigodas, where all is blind darkness and suffering; the other, the Śūnyavādin, was reborn in the second hell. After listening to a very long lecture on dharma, the god Śrīdhara went to the second hell at the instruction of his guru, where he enlightened the former Śūnyavādin minister. Having identified himself as the jīva of Mahābala, he told the hell-being that his position in hell was due to embracing a false (mithyā) path.52 Enlightened by Śrīdhara, the hell-dwelling minister adopted a pure view, died and was reborn on earth. Having taken dīkṣā at the feet of a guru, and having practised austerities for a long time, he was thence reborn as an Indra in Brahmaloka.53 Only now did the relationship between Mahābala and Svayambuddha come to an end.

The account of Mahābala and Svayambuddha in the Triṣaṣṭiśalākāpuruṣacarita Before comparing the accounts of Mahābala’s story from the Vasudevahiṇḍi and Ādipurāṇa, we will briefly consider one last version from the Triṣaṣṭiśalākāpuruṣacarita. Here, unlike the Vasudevahiṇḍi and Ādipurāṇa, the story of Mahābala is not the first past-life story of Ṛṣabha narrated; rather, Hemacandra included three past lives of Ṛṣabha prior to Mahābala, raising the total number of past-life stories from nine to 12. Thus, the story of how the soul of Ṛṣabha got onto the ‘right path’ begins not with Mahābala, but during a previous life as a merchant named Dhana, who made a charitable gift to a Jain sādhu and in return was given a sermon on Jain dharma, in which he was, somewhat prophetically, told that: As a result of following dharma, a living being can become a king, a rāma [i.e. baladeva], and even an ardhacakrin; from dharma one might become a cakravartin, a god, or an Indra; from dharma one might attain the state of

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an ‘Ahamindra’ among the Graiveyaks or Anuttaras; and from dharma one obtains Arhatship. What is there that cannot be achieved through dharma?54 Following this lifetime, and a rebirth as a twin in Uttarakuru and thence as a god, the soul of Dhana was born as Mahābala. As is well known, Hemacandra was devoted to using prior Śvetāmbara sources for his Triṣaṣṭiśalākāpuruṣacarita whenever available, and thus it is not surprising that his account of Mahābala’s life mirrors, in part, that found in the Vasudevahiṇḍi; for example, in the Triṣaṣṭiśalākāpuruṣacarita the minister Svayambuddha was informed about Mahābala’s impending death before the dialogue began. But Hemacandra also incorporated, either directly or indirectly, aspects of the story as found in the Ādipurāṇa. That is, the version of Mahābala’s story in the Triṣaṣṭiśalākāpuruṣacarita is an interesting admixture of the previous two versions, and will be quickly summarised below. The events take place in the same location as described in the Vasudevahiṇḍi, though the father of Mahābala is here listed as Śatabala (rather than Atibala). As in the Ādipurāṇa, we learn that Mahābala acquired the kingdom when his father grew tired of wasting life in saṃsāra and took dīkṣā. Taking the reins of kingship, Mahābala constantly indulged in the pleasures of the senses.55 In a scene more reminiscent of the Ādipurāṇa than the Vasudevahiṇḍi, one day Mahābala sat in his assembly surrounded by his vassals and his four ministers Svayambuddha, Sambhinnamati, Śatamati and Mahāmati. Svayambuddha suddenly had the thought that the ministers, including himself, were letting the king down by remaining silent rather than guiding him away from his vain, sensuous life towards dharma.56 Thus, Svayambuddha began to speak to the king at length about Jain notions of karma, dharma and saṃsāra, reminding the king that it was his prior practice of dharma that resulted in him becoming king of the vidyādharas.57 Following the pattern of the Ādipurāṇa, the other three ministers each advocated for other traditions (though Svayambuddha refuted each of them immediately after their speech, rather than all at the end). These ‘false’ ministers represented the materialist (Cārvāka) position,58 the doctrine of momentariness (Kṣaṇikavāda)59 and finally the doctrine of illusion (Māyāvāda).60 Although the names of the latter two doctrines differ from those used in the Ādipurāṇa (i.e. vijñaptivāda and śūnyavāda), in fact the basic arguments and refutations are much the same. Following the debate, Mahābala commented that Svayambuddha was wise and was right about following the dharma, but that he was raising the issue at the ‘wrong time’ (an-avasare);61 youth is for pleasure, and dharma comes later. Moreover, it was, for Mahābala, still questionable whether or not one’s state in the next world was truly the fruit of dharma.62 In response to this last comment, Svayambuddha reminded the king of the incident of meeting his grandfather,63 now a god, in the Nandana grove. Being thus reminded, Mahābala acknowledged that he remembered the event and stated: ‘I do believe the next world rests upon dharma and adharma’.64 As in the Vasudevahiṇḍi, Svayambuddha then launched into the story of the former King Haricandra and his advisor Subuddhi, but like

170 Jonathan Geen the Ādipurāṇa, he also added the story of king Daṇḍa. Reverting back to the Vasudevahiṇḍi version, Mahābala is said to have been in the family lineage of Haricandra, and Svayambuddha in the family lineage of Subuddhi, and it was due to this inherited affection (kramāgatāptabhāvena)65 that he had instructed Mahābala in dharma. Finally, addressing Mahābala’s comment that this emphasis on dharma was coming at the wrong time (a-kāṇḍe),66 Svayambuddha told Mahābala about what he had heard, that very day, from two Jain ascetics about the king’s impending death. He convinced the king that even a short time as a Jain ascetic was worthwhile, and the king agreed, taking up Jain ascetic practice and attaining death by fasting after 22 days, whereby he was reborn as the god Lalitāṅga. As in the Vasudevahiṇḍi, there is brief and relatively inconsequential contact between the souls of Mahābala and Svayambuddha in the next life, after which Svayambuddha disappears from the story.

Discussion As illustrated above, the dialogue between Mahābala and Svayambuddha exhibits a remarkable malleability in Jain tradition. Both the Vasudevahiṇḍi and Ādipurāṇa use the dialogue as marking the beginning of Ṛṣabha’s ascent to perfection, while the Triṣaṣṭiśalākāpuruṣacarita does not. In both the Vasudevahiṇḍi and Triṣaṣṭiśalākāpuruṣacarita, Svayambuddha opens the dialogue with full knowledge of Mahābala’s impending death, but in the Ādipurāṇa he does not. The Ādipurāṇa and Triṣaṣṭiśalākāpuruṣacarita both include what is clearly a religious debate among four ministers, while the Vasudevahiṇḍi does not. And the Ādipurāṇa extends the dialogue over the course of a number of lifetimes, while the Vasudevahiṇḍi and Triṣaṣṭiśalākāpuruṣacarita do not. In what follows, I shall attempt to make sense of the variations found across our three versions. The reason why the story of Mahābala was repeatedly retold in Jain texts is that his soul was destined to become the jina Ṛṣabha, one of the 63 Great Beings, and the immediate focus of the story was how Mahābala first began to move towards this illustrious status. According to a Śvetāmbara Jain canonical text, the jina Mahāvīra declared that there were four things which are difficult to achieve but of supreme value to a soul: a human birth, hearing the Jain dharma, having faith in the dharma and vigorously practising the dharma.67 In the story of Mahābala, we see all four of these in play,68 making Mahābala’s dialogue with Svayambuddha a perfect archetype of Jain persuasion. In the Vasudevahiṇḍi, Svayambuddha recognised that Mahābala had already acquired a good birth, and he thus used his dialogue with the king, step by step, to ensure that Mahābala heard (or perhaps re-heard) the dharma, then came to fully accept it, and finally to energetically embrace its ascetic practices. The fact that he knew from the start that Mahābala was soon to die was the obvious motivating factor for the dialogue, but he skilfully prepared Mahābala so that when the surprising news was announced, Mahābala would be willing to pursue the Jain dharma with vigour. Having steered the soul of Mahābala in the right

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direction, one that would eventually lead to liberation, Svayambuddha’s task was complete. But, of course, the dialogue in the Vasudevahiṇḍi is as prescriptive as it is descriptive, and from the author’s perspective, it would be hoped that the dialogue would be as effective on the audience of the text as it was on Mahābala: after all, if death can arrive unannounced at the doorstep of a young, wealthy and powerful king, it could do so for any of us. In the Ādipurāṇa, the circumstances of the dialogue are quite different. When Svayambuddha opens the dialogue, he is still ignorant of Mahābala’s fate, and thus his motivation is merely to provide his king with wise advice. Moreover, Svayambuddha is now faced with three other ministers of equal rank but false views, each trying to sway the king in the opposite direction on the basis of a denial of the soul and/or of a next life. Svayambuddha’s refutation of these opponents injected into the dialogue a level of explicit inter-religious dispute, absent in the Vasudevahiṇḍi. The Ādipurāṇa also omitted the hereditary family connection between Mahābala and Svayambuddha,69 and replaced it with the stories of four former kings in the line of Mahābala, and how their actions determined their futures. Embedded within the third story was the reminder of the encounter with Mahābala’s grandfather, in the form of a god, in the Nandana grove. Despite the divergences from the Vasudevahiṇḍi’s version, however, the final result of this section of the dialogue was much the same: everyone present, including Mahābala, both heard and acquired faith in the Jain dharma. But as mentioned above, it is the assiduous practice of Jainism, rather than mere faith in the Jain dharma, that is the final step in the right direction, and in the Ādipurāṇa, it is clear that, following the dialogue, Svayambuddha still lacked confidence that Mahābala would take this final step on his own. For this reason, Svayambuddha later actively sought out the prediction of Mahābala’s fate from Jain ascetics he encountered, leading to a transformative dialogue of his own. Whereas Svayambuddha had passively received the prediction of Mahābala’s death in the Vasudevahiṇḍi and Triṣaṣṭiśalākāpuruṣacarita, here he not only sought it out but was informed that he would be the one to finally set Mahābala on the right course, including explicit reference to the fact that Mahābala was destined to become the jina Ṛṣabha. This foreknowledge of Mahābala’s eventual jina-hood brought Svayambuddha into a wider context than in the Vasudevahiṇḍi, thereby explicitly enhancing his own role in cosmic history. Despite Mahābala’s month-long success at Jain ascetic practice, leading to his rebirth in heaven, it is clear in the Ādipurāṇa that Svayambuddha’s job was still not complete, as Mahābala’s soul was still too attached to sensual pleasures and had not yet accepted samyagdarśana. Thus, Svayambuddha continued his dialogical campaign in future lives as the guru Prītiṅkara, who at last brought Mahābala’s soul to samyagdarśana. Moreover, he encouraged his pupil to go to hell and rehabilitate one of the false ministers from the earlier debate in Mahābala’s court, prefiguring Mahābala’s future role as a Jain Saviour. Can the differences between the versions of the dialogue found in the Vasudevahiṇḍi and Ādipurāṇa be explained beyond a generic appeal to poetic licence? I think so. While little is known about Saṅghadāsa, author of the

172 Jonathan Geen Vasudevahiṇḍi, including whether or not he had a specific patron for his text, the Vasudevahiṇḍi was explicitly intended to be a Jain version of the Bṛhatkathā. While some stories relating to the Great Beings from the Jain Universal History are found in his text, supplying their biographies was not Saṅghadāsa’s primary aim. Jinasena, on the other hand, was attempting to write the first ever complete version of the Jain Universal History, and was well known to have been a spiritual preceptor for the ninth century Rāṣṭrakūṭa king Amoghavarṣa I (c.808–880 CE), and to have enjoyed closer access to a major Indian ruler than any Jain before him.70 In his version of the Mahābala story, I believe Jinasena was attempting to inject two novel elements into the pre-existing story: (1) the notion that Jains can be, and in fact should be, viewed as legitimate royal ministers; and (2) the mythologisation of the close relationship between himself and his royal patron Amoghavarṣa, here cast in the roles of Svayambuddha and Mahābala, respectively.71 First, Jinasena seems to have viewed the Vasudevahiṇḍi’s dialogue between the ministers Svayambuddha and Sambhinnaśoka as an opportunity to insert an interreligious debate between four royal ministers in Mahābala’s court (for other inter-religious and intra-religious debates, see Chapter 1). This likely reflects the fact that Jinasena himself, while not a minister per se, was a close advisor to Jinasena and likely had to fend off religious rivals in Amoghavarṣa’s court. In his version of the story, Svayambuddha was no longer a childhood friend of Mahābala with a close family connection, but rather one of four ministers of equal rank and political competency, and it was as such that he was unanimously declared the winner of the debate on the basis of his arguments alone. Not only does this demonstrate the normality and benefit of having a Jain royal minister, itself an unusual thing in Indian history, but it also represents a victory of Jainism over its rivals at a king’s court, and is, in the Ādipurāṇa, sharply separated from the issue of Mahābala’s impending demise. In this sense, Jinasena appears to have taken a portion of the dialogue from the Vasudevahiṇḍi and transformed it into a dialogue between Jainism and its opponents, a dialogue that may have been, in his time, more real than mythological! Second, in the remainder of the dialogue, Jinasena greatly enhanced the role of the Jain minister in Ṛṣabha’s ascent to jina-hood, witnessed by the fact that Svayambuddha actively sought out information about the fate of Mahābala, and was, in the process, informed not only that Mahābala was soon to die but also that he was destined to become the jina Ṛṣabha as a direct result of Svayambuddha’s own words. No longer is Svayambuddha’s wise guidance restricted to one lifetime; it becomes an indispensable, on-going dialogue with Mahābala over the course of multiple lives: he introduced Mahābala to Jain dharma and practice in one lifetime, and brought him to samyagdarśana in another. It is difficult to believe that Jinasena, who once described himself as the paramaguru of Amoghavarṣa,72 was not, at least in part, mythologising his own close relationship with Amoghavarṣa in this close and on-going relationship between King Mahābala and Svayambuddha. Moreover, he did so in the first complete narrative supplied in his Ādipurāṇa. Just as the wise advice of a Jain minister led King

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Mahābala, in future rebirths, to Ṛṣabha’s illustrious status, so too could Amoghavarṣa one day achieve perfection, but only if he were able to discern the true dharma advocated by Jinasena from within a cacophony of competing voices (for other dialogues with kings, see Chapters 1 and 12). Finally, the close relationship between Jinasena and Amoghavarṣa was not really paralleled again until the time of the Jain monk Hemacandra and King Kumārapāla in Gujarat, three centuries later. As far as I have been able to determine, Jinasena’s Ādipurāṇa and Hemacandra’s Triṣaṣṭiśalākāpuruṣacarita are the only two Jain texts to include, in their biographies of Mahābala, an interreligious debate between Mahābala’s ministers, wherein different religious views are espoused and the king must discern the true (Jain) dharma from among competing voices. This might suggest that the inter-religious debate, in which Jainism triumphs in the court of a king, was most appealing, or useful, to a Jain author who actually had the ear of a king, as both Jinasena and Hemacandra did. And this might explain why Hemacandra, in his Triṣaṣṭiśalākāpuruṣacarita, blended elements of the Ādipurāṇa’s version with the more traditional Śvetāmbara Jain account found in the Vasudevahiṇḍi. 73

Notes 1 I would like to thank Eva De Clercq for generously sharing a copy of her forthcoming paper, ‘Biographies of Ṛṣabha and the Rise of Śatruñjaya’. Many important Jain texts provide at least some biographical detail or narrative on the life of Ṛṣabha, although not all of these texts include stories of his past-lives, and even when they do, they do not always include the story of his past-life as King Mahābala. Śvetāmbara sources for the biography of Ṛṣabha include the canonical Kalpa Sūtra and Jambūdvīpa Prajñapti Sūtra; the so-called ‘Āvaśyaka-literature’ (i.e. Bhadrabāhu’s circa second– third century Āvaśyakaniryukti, together with its circa sixth–seventh century Cūrṇi of Jinadāsa, the circa eighth century Ṭīkā of Haribhadra, and the circa twelfth century Vivaraṇa of Malayagiri); Vimalasūri’s circa fifth century Paümacariya, Saṅghadāsa’s circa fifth century Vasudevahiṇḍi; and two complete mahāpurāṇas, Śīlāṅka’s ninth century Caüppaṇṇamahāpurisacariya and Hemacandra’s twelfth century Triṣaṣṭiśalākāpuruṣacarita. Digambara sources include Raviṣeṇa’s seventh century Padmapurāṇa, Punnāṭa Jinasena’s eighth century Harivaṃśapurāṇa, Jinasena’s ninth century Ādipurāṇa, Svayambhūdeva’s ninth–tenth century Paümacariü, and Śubhacandra’s sixteenth century Pāṇḍavapurāṇa. When Jain literature is considered as a whole, one can find 13 past-life stories of Ṛṣabha, though no single text includes them all. 2 Located in Śarīra 4 of the Vasudevahiṇḍī of Saṅghadāsagaṇi: 157–178. 3 Ādipurāṇa 4.133–5.296. 4 Triṣaṣṭiśalākāpuruṣacarita 1.1.239–459. 5 Past-life stories of the Great Beings seem to have two basic functions in the Jain Universal History: (1) they allow many more biographies to be added to the basic 63; and (2) they allow the author to lay out specific paths by which people in the past have worked their way into their illustrious status, and, by implication, illustrate the sorts of things that a person must do if they too wish to attain such a status. 6 By the early medieval period, both Śvetāmbara and Digambara Jains came to view the historical framework of each and every world epoch as being provided by the biographies (including past lives) of 63 Great (mahā-) or Illustrious (śalākā-) Beings (puruṣas), which collectively formed the Jain Universal History. As the Jain Universal History began to take shape, in terms of detailed geographical divisions of the world,

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clearly delineated divisions of time and epochs, and the identification of 63 Great or Illustrious Beings that appear in each epoch (i.e. 24 jinas, 12 cakravartins and nine baladeva-vāsudeva-prativāsudeva triads), a wide variety of Jain texts, both Śvetāmbara and Digambara, began recording biographies of at least some of these Great Beings. For an overview of the Jain Universal History, see e.g. Glasenapp (1999: 271–346). While biographies of these Great Beings can be found scattered throughout a wide variety of Jain texts, Jains also attempted to produce complete histories or mahāpurāṇas, beginning with Jinasena’s Ādipurāṇa (and including Hemacandra’s Triṣaṣṭiśalākāpuruṣacarita), which laid out the biographies of all 63 Great Beings in chronological order. In the Vasudevahiṇḍi and Ādipurāṇa, nine past-life stories are given, beginning with the tale of King Mahābala: these past-lives were: (1) the vidyādhara king Mahābala; (2) the god Lalitāṅga; (3) the king Vajrajaṅgha; (4) a nameless twin in Uttarakuru; (5) the god named Śrīdhara; (6) the prince Suvidhi; (7) a nameless god; (8) the king Vajranābha; and (9) a nameless god. Technically, ten past-lives were referred to by the Ādipurāṇa; during the story of Mahābala, a brief reference to his past-life as Jayavarman is mentioned (see below). The Triṣaṣṭiśalākāpuruṣacarita includes a total of 12 past lives in which Mahābala is the fourth. According to its author, Saṅghadāsa, the Vasudevahiṇḍi was ‘a compilation (saṅgaha) which has been handed down through a succession of teachers’ and was narrated by the great Jain teacher Sudhamma to his disciple Jambūsvāmin (Jain 1977: 11). In fact, the story opens with a story about Jambūsvāmin, set at Rājagṛha during the time of King Śreṇika. Jain (1977). The Digambara Jain monk Jinasena, head of the Sena Saṅgha and a highly accomplished poet, set out to compose for his royal patron, the Rāṣṭrakūṭa king Amoghavarṣa I (c.808–880 CE), a complete account of the 63 Great-Beings (mahā-puruṣas) around whom Jain mythology had been progressively developing for centuries. Jinasena’s primary goal with this unprecedented project was to institute an all-encompassing and universal Jain mythology that would establish Jainism as the one, true and original doctrine from which all other Indian traditions of his day, including Hinduism, Buddhism and Materialism, were regrettable deviations. Jinasena was not able to complete his task; having composed just over 9600 verses in 43 chapters, he was unable to continue. At this time, he had yet to complete the biographies of the first two mahāpuruṣas, i.e. the first jina Ṛṣabha and his son, the first cakravartin Bharata. His disciple Guṇabhadra took over, completing the final four chapters of what became known as the Ādipurāṇa, and thereafter, completed Jinasena’s original mission by composing the biographies of the remaining 61 mahāpuruṣas in the Uttarapurāṇa. Combined, these two texts became known as the Triṣaṣṭi-lakṣaṇa-mahāpurāṇa-saṃgraha, which represented the earliest complete version of the so-called Jain Universal History. In the text, Vasudeva, the father of Kṛṣṇa Vāsudeva, was busy roaming about India meeting and marrying one woman after the other. On one occasion, he spied a beautiful dancing girl (mātāṅgī) at a public performance together with an old mātāṅgī woman. The next morning, the old mātāṅgī woman visited Vasudeva and offered him the young mātāṅgī girl in marriage. Vasudeva objected that marriage must be suitable from the point of view of varṇa (social class), implying that a kṣatriya such as himself ought not marry a mere dancing girl. But the old woman then revealed that both she and the young girl (her granddaughter) were in the same lineage (vaṃśa) as the first jina Ṛṣabha, and that it was only by employing a magical art that she appeared as a mātāṅgī. This is what occasions the telling of the biography of Ṛṣabha, including some of his past-lives. A version of this tale about Vasudeva and

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the dancing girl is found in Punnāṭa Jinasena’s eighth century Harivaṃśapurāṇa 22, but there it is divorced from any mention of Ṛṣabha or his past-lives. Mahābala was born in the city of Gandhasamṛddha, in the country called Gandhāra, which was situated on Mount Vaitāḍhya to the west of the vikkhāra mountain ‘Gandhamādana’, in the territory known as Gandhilāvatī in the West Videhas on Jambūdvīpa. The vidyādhara King Mahābala (mahabbala) was the son of Atibala (aïbala) and grandson of Śatabala (sayabala). Vasudevahiṇḍī of Saṅghadāsagaṇi: 166. Vasudevahiṇḍī of Saṅghadāsagaṇi: 170. For Śvetāmbara Jain canonical citations expressing the uncertainty of life, and thus the importance of immediate attention to Jain practice regardless of age, see Āyāraṃga-sutta 1.2.1.5; Sūyagaḍaṃga 1.2.1.1–2; 1.7.10–11; Uttarādhyananasūtra 4.1; 4.8–9; 10.28–30. Though, as mentioned above, its author Jinasena died before it was completed. The only other ninth century or earlier Jain texts that mention Mahābala as a past life of Ṛṣabha seem to be Punnāṭa Jinasena’s eighth century Harivaṃśapurāṇa (9.58–59), where ‘Mahābala’ is merely given as one in a list of names of previous lives, and the eighth century Āvaśyaka-niryukti-ṭīkā of Haribhadra. It appears that the Āvaśyakaniryukti stanza that includes the bare mention of the name Mahābala as a past-life of Ṛṣabha was not original to the Niryukti, as Jinadāsa takes no notice of it in his sixth– seventh century Cūrṇi, and even Haribhadra, who does briefly comment on it, states: ‘This verse was composed and inserted by another author’ between verses 171 and 172. Nevertheless, Haribhadra did devote a couple of sentences to glossing the story; having described the geographical location of Mahābala’s birth, he states: [Mahābala], whose mind was obsessed with public shows of dancing, was informed by a wise companion, who was a Jain believer and a dear friend, that he had only a month to live, and having conducted a fast for 22 days, and having died, he was born as a god named Lalitāṅgaka in the Śrīprabha vimāna in the Īśāna kalpa.

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This appears to be a summary of the episode from the Vasudevahiṇḍi. Thus, on the basis of extant texts, it appears that Jinasena began with the version in the Vasudevahiṇḍi, and the many divergent features of his version were original to him. For example, his geographical description differs from that found in the Vasudevahiṇḍi: in his version, Mahābala was born into city called Alakā on the northern row of Mt. Vijayārdha, in country Gandhila, in West Videhas on Jambūdvīpa. His father, Atibala, was king of Alakā. 4.141–152. 4.192; Mahāmati was a Bhūtavādin, Sambhinna was a Vijñaptivādin, and Śatamati was a Śūnyavādin. 5.21–24. 5.29–33. 5.37. 5.38–42. 5.45–48. 5.50–73. Moreover, he asks why, if consciousness simply arises out of material combinations, there is not separate consciousness for each part of the body? Or, why one material body produces a human consciousness and a similar material body an animal consciousness? 5.66.

176 Jonathan Geen 30 5.74–81. 31 He also criticised the methodology used, especially the idea that consciousness alone was used as the sole method for determining that there is only consciousness (i.e. it is both the means and the end). 32 5.81. 33 5.84–85. 34 5.86–87. 35 5.89–116. 36 5.117–137. 37 5.138–145. 38 5.146–149. 39 In the Vasudevahiṇḍi, Svayambuddha suggested that this incident proved there was such a thing as a ‘next-life’, and King Mahābala admitted that he did, in fact, remember the incident. 40 5.156–157. 41 Named Ādityagati and Ariñjaya; it was Ādityagati who spoke with Svayambuddha. 42 5.200–201. 43 It is worth noting that this life was presented as a brief flashback, rather than constituting Ṛṣabha’s first official past-life story. This may have been because it did not, unlike the story of Mahābala, include a wise Jain minister. 44 The first dream involved the king being mired in deep mud, but then, having rejected the teachings of the three bad ministers, being raised out of the mud by Svayambuddha. This appears to be a brief variant of the parable of ‘The Lotus’, found in the Śvetāmbara canonical Sūyagaḍaṃga (2.1). The second dream was about a lamp whose flame was flickering and dying out by the moment. For references to dreams being the provoking cause of renunciation, see Ṭhāṇaṃga-sutta (Sthānāṅgasūtra) 712. 45 See Vasudevahiṇḍī of Saṅghadāsagaṇi: 171. 46 9.105. 47 9.112–142. 48 The importance given here to achieving samyagdarśana (or samyagdṛṣṭi) is likely due to the fact that, according to the Jain doctrine of the 14 guṇasthānas or stages a soul passes through on its way from complete ignorance to full liberation, the fourth stage of samyagdarśana marks a significant milestone. According to Tatia (1997: 282), ‘it is the beginning of spirituality. To the soul that has reached this stage, liberation is assured’. 49 9.172–173; 177. 50 10.1. 51 10.4. 52 10.111–112. 53 10.113–118. Here, Jinasena allows himself to express a little sectarian fire when he condemns two of the false ministers to the level of nigodas, and the third to hell, while at the same time demonstrating Jain compassion by having Śrīdhara, i.e. the soul of Mahābala, descend into hell and reclaim the poor Śūnyavādin through a sermon on Jain dharma, just as he himself had been set right by his wise Jain minister Svayambuddha. 54 1.1.150–151. 55 1.1.284. 56 The motivation here to open the dialogue seems closer to that in the Ādipurāṇa, where Svayambuddha was still ignorant of Mahābala’s impending death. 57 As in the Ādipurāṇa; but here, also harkening back to the sermon heard by Mahābala in his past life as the merchant Dhana. 58 1.1.325–345; refuted by Svayambuddha at 1.1.346–374.

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1.1.375–376; refuted by Svayambuddha at 1.1.377–383. 1.1.384–389; refuted by Svayambuddha at 1.1. 390–392. 1.1.398. paraloko hi dharmasya phalaṃ sandigdhameva tat | 1.1.399ab. Here named Atibala. 1.1.407cd. 1.1.442. 1.1.443 Uttarādhyayanasūtra 3.1. Being a mythological tale, however, Mahābala is here described as a vidyādhara rather than a normal human being. Which, in the Vasudevahiṇḍi, had been established through the story of Haricandra and Subuddhi. For the relationship between Jinasena and Amoghavarṣa, see, e.g. Altekar (1934) and Sharma (1940). The relationship forged between Jinasena and his patron Amoghavarṣa I was unusually close, at least for a Jain ascetic and a king. Sharma (1940): 31. Jain doctrine holds that attaining this sort of exulted position in Universal History is the result of acquiring the requisite karma.

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Part 3

Interpretation

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10 Careful attention and the voice of another Maria Heim

In this Chapter I consider reflections on dialogue in the Pāli commentarial tradition as it is represented by the fifth century Pāli commentator Buddhaghosa. I take two approaches. First, I consider Buddhaghosa’s theory of scripture and its implications for interpretative practice. Embedded within Buddhaghosa’s thinking on buddhavacana and exegesis is a substantial body of programmatic reflection on many of the very questions about dialogue prompting our workshop. I argue that Buddhaghosa’s commentarial practice emphasises suttas not only as discursive renderings of doctrinal meaning, but as events to be lived. Once I have sketched out Buddhaghosa’s ideas about scripture, it will be useful to consider them in light of an actual case, and so in the second half we consider Buddhaghosa’s application of some of his interpretative principles in the Sāmaññaphala Sutta to show how he develops the philosophical and literary potency of dialogue. This is a sutta about the rewards of renunciation addressed to the patricidal king Ajātasattu in the throes of his disordered and anxious life. In Buddhaghosa’s reading the sutta is not only about the doctrinal teachings on benefits of renunciation; it is also about how this encounter radically transforms Ajātasattu. It is, I will show, the enactment of the very doctrinal teachings it espouses. In the space that we have I cannot go through all of the features of buddhavacana that Buddhaghosa deems important for the task of interpretation (elsewhere I have sought to outline with systematic detail Buddhaghosa’s theory of scripture and hermeneutics).1 Here I wish only to point out several features of his understanding of the Buddha’s word that are particularly relevant to his interpretation of the Sāmaññaphala Sutta. Most salient is his treatment of scripture as the immeasurable words of an omniscient teacher – texts with limitless meanings – that has significant implications for exegesis. Buddhaghosa is also very systematically occupied with the dialogical features of the sutta – where, when and to whom it was spoken, what prompted it, what was asked, how it is to be heard, what its impact on the hearer should be. I aim to show how reading suttas with Buddhaghosa heightens their power: we come to see how a sutta can be an intervention not only for the people involved in the narrative in which the sutta is embedded, but also for the ideal reader as trained by Buddhaghosa.

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Features of Buddhavacana and the implications for reading practice The limitlessness of text It is striking that two doctrines only incipiently present in the canonical texts develop simultaneously at the commentarial level, namely, a full-fledged theory of the Buddha’s omniscience and the idea of scripture’s immeasurability. The commentarial theory of the Buddha’s omniscience was quite specific: for Buddhaghosa it refers to the way that the Buddha could turn to any particular field of knowledge and know it unconstrained by any obstacle in understanding it. The omniscience of the Buddha was for him not a claim to be argued epistemologically (as it was in certain Mahāyāna philosophical formulations), but rather an assertion demonstrated by reading the texts. For example, when one encounters the Buddha teaching one comes to glimpse the way the Buddha’s omniscient mind penetrates, without any limitation, his interlocutors and the needs of the moment: he knows, without limit, ‘beings’ various inclinations, biases, practices, and dispositions’.2 And the Buddha is said, frequently, to be ‘Knower of Worlds’: because for all beings he knows their inclinations, he knows their latent tendencies, he knows their doings, he knows their intentions, he knows beings who have little dust in their eyes and much dust in their eyes, who have keen faculties and dull faculties, with good attributes and with bad attributes, teachable and difficult to teach, capable and incapable, and so this very world of beings is known to him in all ways.3 This knowledge of particular beings is said to be illustrated specifically by the genre of canonical teachings captured in the suttas. The suttas are said to be ‘well-spoken in that the meanings are spoken in accordance with the inclinations of those being taught right here’.4 Even as the doctrine of omniscience was being developed, the commentators were also expanding claims made in the canonical sources about the ‘immeasurability’ of the Buddha’s teachings (e.g., ‘the Tathāgata has immeasurable teachings of the Dhamma about this, with immeasurable words and immeasurable phrasings’).5 Buddhaghosa strongly emphasises that buddhavacana is measureless in meaning. He makes frequent use of oceanic imagery: we are told that both scripture and the Buddha’s knowledge from which it issues are oceans.6 The oceanic enormity is to be felt by one beholding these two oceans who will find them even more ‘incalculable and immeasurable’7 than the great briny sea itself. Part of this sense of immeasurability must surely refer to the sheer enormity of the corpus of texts we now refer to as the Pāli Canon. But Buddhaghosa also sees buddhavacana as highly generative because the Buddha’s pedagogical practices can produce, in a limitless way, new meaning and application. The piṭakas themselves are conceived as ‘methods’ (naya) that produce further understanding: scripture is ‘an ocean of methods’,8 a bottomless sea of methods that find ever deeper application.

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I find it productive to consider the possibility that these ideas developed in tandem, specifically that the commentarial project itself facilitated the idea that the Buddha was omniscient. Perhaps Buddhaghosa came to emphasise omniscience because it gave a name to features of the textual corpus that he found immeasurably and infinitely generative. In his reading of scripture, he also came increasingly to wonder at how the Buddha’s words were evocative across time: they spoke to their own context and continue to speak to readers in the present and future. The Dhamma is said to be ‘visible here and now’ and ‘timeless’, that is, immediately fruitful.9 It can become immanent as it speaks to the ‘here and now’, but it is of course always transcendent (lokuttara), speaking well beyond it; in both cases it becomes evident and immediate. The practices prompted by buddhavacana live on in that they find application today; present and future readers find meaning and resonance with the stories of the past whose dialogues are rendered immediate by both canon and commentary. In these ways, the infinity of scripture comes to the fore as a central hermeneutic challenge. This challenge can be put in a series of questions all of which, in various ways, Buddhaghosa articulates in his commentaries: how can texts convey the Buddha’s omniscient and immeasurable knowledge? How can words – finite utterances, recitations, suttas, books – deliver this unlimited, immeasurable and omniscient knowledge? How might we, with our limited understandings, receive and grasp it? Such observations about scripture’s infinity are hardly unique to Buddhaghosa. Other interpreters have also seen how the written text may be read and reread in an infinite number of ways as it encounters ever new readers and opens up new lines of thought for them. The ever-changing contexts in which a text is received expand its meaning, an infinity of the written text that Paul Ricoeur calls its ‘surplus of meaning’, and Jacques Derrida calls its ‘plenitude’.10 But for Buddhaghosa it is not just because a text has an infinite number of potential readers that its meaning may develop infinitely, but also, at least in the case of scripture, because of the omniscience of its author. The idea of an infinitely potent text spoken by an omniscient author is a connection of ideas shared by medieval interpreters in other scriptural and exegetical traditions, including commentarial masters in the Abrahamic traditions. For example, Ibn ‘Arabi and Meister Eckhart share with Buddhaghosa the idea of divinely-inspired scripture as the ‘shoreless sea’; as Eckhart puts it, ‘there is none so wise that when he tries to fathom it, he will not find it deeper yet and discover more in it’.11 Kabbalah exegetes also found an infinity in scripture authored and anticipated by the omniscient deity, where the number of readings of the Torah is equal to the number of Israelites who come in front of it.12 We cannot pursue any of these comparative possibilities here, but I raise them to suggest that Buddhaghosa was wise to hermeneutical questions about written texts that many others have also wondered about: once a text is written down it will have future readers, presumably unknown to the original ‘author’, to whom it may speak and evoke new meaning. Even a single reader can find new meaning in a text each time she encounters it. For medieval commentators the

184 Maria Heim infinite readings made possible by the written text are in some important way known or anticipated by their omniscient authors. As the text gets universalised, so too does its author’s knowledge (although in the medieval conceptions it is the reverse of this, that is, it is the omniscience of its author that makes a text immeasurable). Pushing discourse back into speech: the message is the event As others have helpfully suggested, and following Ricoeur’s formulations of these ideas, texts have both sense and reference, with the sense as the meaning immanent in the text, and the reference as the transcendent or externalised meaning ‘where thought is directed through the sense towards different kinds of extralinguistic entities such as objects, states of affairs, things, facts, etc.’13 In a spoken text, there is a grounding of reference in the shared dialogical situation of speaker and listener (the speaker can point to the harvest moon in the night sky above them and it will be the same harvest moon experienced by both parties). But this ‘grounding of reference in the dialogical situation’ gets ‘shattered by writing’, because of the spatial and temporal distance between writer and reader in written texts (the reader must make an association with a harvest moon that she has known).14 References ‘opened up’ by the written text are untethered from the original dialogical situation and can create ‘worlds’ for us far and removed from that situation.15 For example, the sutta we consider below describes a moment in which King Ajātasattu is suddenly hit with a powerful love for his newborn son. We can speak of how the sutta is about these specific experiences of Ajātasattu, where both sense and reference are grounded in Ajātasattu’s dialogical situation with the Buddha. But reading the dialogue now we may find that Ajātasattu’s experiences can refer to something we also might know – the sudden joyful and vulnerable love one can have for one’s own children. But even as the gap opened up by the written text (where the reader no longer shares the same references) renders possible new and rich possibilities for meaning (the text becomes ‘immeasurable’ in its references), it also introduces an ‘estrangement’, as Ricoeur puts it, from the original dialogical situation. Interpreters reflective about the hermeneutic situation have to make sense of that estrangement or distance even as they also strive to discover and explain the modes of appropriation of the text whereby one can make it ‘one’s own’.16 These considerations may be useful for appreciating some of the things Buddhaghosa emphasises in reading suttas. He is fascinated with dialogue and draws the notice of his readers to features of the living speech of a sutta. Like us, he finds himself distanced from the original dialogue and event of the Buddha teaching even while he is at pains to articulate scripture’s claim on its distant readers. I think that one of the ways he does this is to identify the meaning within the event of the sutta (the dialectic of meaning and event is noted by Ricoeur). To understand the meaning of the sutta is to know and experience, often with the aid of considerable exegetical and literary

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supplement, the event of the sutta. We might say that Buddhaghosa attempts to push discourse back into speech, as it were. In a paradoxical way, texts can speak richly and powerfully to us in our distant locations precisely by bringing us back to the moment of the original dialogical situation. Buddhaghosa is explicit about how suttas do this and his commentarial practices attempt to make it so. Buddhaghosa has much to say about the dialogical situation of a sutta, and I will briefly discuss some of this here. First of all, he is very interested in the narrative particulars of suttas. Readers familiar with Buddhist suttas will recognise the opening line of every sutta: ‘thus have I heard’. These are Ānanda’s words as he recited the suttas at the First Council where he was required to report (and thereby construct) the nidāna, the origin or narrative context of the sermon that follows. In an important sense the First Council is an account of the reception of the Buddha’s teachings; and from the first moment of redaction what must be remembered is not just the doctrinal content but the event of the teaching as it was experienced and recalled by Ānanda. The nidāna reports the time (kāla), place (desa), teacher (desaka), story (vatthu), assembly (parisā) and region (padesa) in which the sermon was given.17 While some readers might wish to zip through these contextual details to get to the doctrinal gist of the teachings, for Buddhaghosa such haste would be ill-conceived. For it is in the nidāna that one comes to see the dialogical encounter that comprises the sutta as a whole.18 The nidāna captures the living speech of Buddha’s encounter with the many different types of interlocutors he met, ranging from devoted disciples, hostile rivals, sceptical merchants, arrogant Brahmins and, as we will see shortly, anguished kings. This contextual narrative provides not only the setting of the doctrinal teaching, but situates the reader in the moment of the sutta wherein the nidāna enacts, demonstrates and performs the very philosophical or psychological core of its teachings. Buddhaghosa writes of the nidāna in lavishly poetic terms, likening it to a tīrtha by which one enters a holy bathing place, or a radiant stairway to a great palace, or a gorgeous threshold to a great mansion; the ‘nidāna is spoken for the sake of pleasure of entering the sutta, which is perfect in meaning and phrasing and indicates the power of the Buddha’s qualities’.19 It is through the nidāna that one, quite literally, enters the sutta. The idea that the nidāna ‘indicates the power of the Buddha’s qualities’ is his way of saying that the nidāna allows the ideal reader to encounter the Buddha. The nidāna of a sutta indicates the nine qualities (guṇas) in the itipiso gāthā, a formula present in many nidānas (including in the Sāmaññaphala Sutta); the nine qualities are ‘the Bhagavan is an Arahat, Perfectly Awakened, Accomplished in Knowledge and Conduct, Well-gone, Knower of Worlds, Highest Coachman of Men to be Tamed, Teacher of Deities and Humans, the Buddha, the Bhagavan’.20 Buddhaghosa mentions an expansive commentarial treatment of these qualities also present in the ‘Recollection of the Buddha’ contemplation given in the Visuddhimagga.21 The encounter with the Buddha’s guṇas is said to be radically transformative (as we shall see in its impact on King Ajātasattu).

186 Maria Heim A sutta is in this way an encounter with the Buddha in which he becomes narratively present. Before we can meet the message of the Dhamma, we must meet the Buddha. Buddhaghosa often reads a nidāna as demonstrating how the Buddha is speaking to the inclinations and dispositions of his audience, giving an impromptu sermon that addresses their particular needs. This style of reading attends to what we might call the emotional preconditions for dialogue preparing the ground for the immediacy of its impact, as will be amply demonstrated in Buddhaghosa’s reading of the sutta discussed below. The importance of the event of a sutta is also evident in Buddhaghosa’s reflections on genre (taking ‘genre’ to refer to the three piṭakas), where Suttanta discourse is said to be largely ‘transactional’ (vohāra) and ‘conventional’ (sammuti) based on the ordinary conventions of give-and-take of conversation (in contrast to paramattha discourse which delivers meaning acquired from further analysis). The didactic content of a sutta is to be understood precisely in terms of its dialogical context, and the richness of its meaning is to be understood, at least in part, by how it was prompted by and speaks to its context. Of course the tradition also provides abstract or decontextualised formulations of the teachings – these are called the Abhidhamma. When the teachings are presented in the Abhidhamma they are stripped of such contexts and can speak in a manner unrestricted to any single instance, unlike Suttanta teachings which are embedded within and speak to a specific context or instance. Buddhaghosa is explicit on this: teachings in the Suttanta are generally described as pariyāya (contextual, figurative or in a qualified sense) in contrast to the teachings delivered in the Abhidhamma register which are said to be nippariyāya (categorical, not by reference to a single instance).22 It may in fact be the very presence of the abstract and decontextualised presentation of the teachings in Abhidhamma discourse that leads the Pāli commentarial tradition to be particularly attentive to the contextual nature of the adjacent Suttanta discourse. While our interest here is in the ‘contextuality’ of the Suttanta, both forms of buddhavacana are equally valued, the first getting at the contextual and dialogic teachings of the suttas embedded in an encounter through which the teachings are to be interpreted, and the second giving a more abstract formulation of these same teachings. Buddhaghosa is highly attentive to and explicit about the dialogic qualities of Suttanta discourse: what prompts the Buddha’s teaching, how questions work, what it means to listen, the impact on the audience, etc. For example, it seems that the Buddha did not just wander around giving teachings unprompted. Rather, according to Buddhaghosa, he taught only when prompted by an occasion, and then he taught extemporaneously. His teachings are the unfolding of his omniscient understanding, which is understood not so much as an encyclopaedic grasp on all things simultaneously but an unhindered expansion of his understanding upon turning his attention to something or someone. Buddhaghosa describes four ‘promptings of a sutta’: from one’s own inclination, from the inclination of another, because a question is asked, or because of a special incident.23 Buddhaghosa’s commentarial services often require specifying the reason prompting

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the particular sutta in question; the Sāmaññaphala Sutta, for example, is said to be a sutta prompted by a question.24 As an interpretative matter, identifying and elaborating the prompting of a sermon becomes a way that the reader can see the workings of the Buddha’s omniscience in real time, as it unfolds. We have been told that the Sāmaññaphala Sutta was prompted by a question, and as we turn to Buddhaghosa’s exegesis of it, we will see that he is intrigued with the artfulness and power of putting questions, both by the Buddha and by King Ajātasattu. Elsewhere, Buddhaghosa draws notice to (and attempts to systematise) this feature of living dialogue by offering a list (lists are, of course, a chief tool for attending to and managing text in this kind of scholasticism). He says that there are five types of questions: (1) questions that illuminate something unseen; (2) questions that discuss views; (3) questions that cut through doubts; (4) questions (to discover) opinion; (5) questions based on a desire to explain.25 The Buddha, because he is omniscient, does not use the first three, but uses only the latter two to draw out the opinions of others when teaching, or to explain something.26 Buddhaghosa is also attentive to the nature of listening and hearing. My title comes from the Pāli canonical sources which specify two conditions for right view: ‘careful attention’ and listening to the ‘voice of another’.27 Buddhaghosa insists that without the voice of another – ideally that of the Buddha, but that of any teacher well trained by the Buddha or his scripture – one is unable to make spiritual progress. Only Perfectly Awakened Buddhas and paccekabuddhas can achieve awakening solely with careful attention (for dialogues with paccekabuddhas see Chapter 2 in this book); all others will require the voice of another.28 The voice of another is to be heard: it involves ‘listening to the beneficial Dhamma’.29 The Sāmaññaphala Sutta makes explicit reference to listening and attending to the Buddha’s words, and Buddhaghosa expands on what this means by invoking a two-fold distinction very dear to his heart and ever at hand in his commentarial practice, which is to consider the way the Buddha’s words come ‘with meaning (attha) and phrasing (byañjana)’30 (we also saw meaning and phrasing above, for example, in his praise of the nidāna). Both meaning and phrasing – what a text means and the linguistic forms in which meaning is put – are conceived as highly generative. This distinction is discussed and deployed extensively in other commentaries by Buddhaghosa, and we cannot do much more here than invoke it and mention one way that he discusses it. ‘With meaning is putting together word and sense via showing, making evident, opening up, distinguishing, making clear, and denoting’.31 It is connected to practices of analysis (paṭisambhidā) that involve taking meaning further in comprehension and application. ‘With phrasing is excellence in syllables, words, phrasing, mode, language, and description’,32 and refers to ‘analytic practices associated with language and the [spoken] Dhamma’.33 The analyses of the spoken teaching and language often involve a highly generative commentarial service that uses the phonoaesthetics of spoken language to generate meaning through nirutti analysis (a practice widespread in Sanskrit commentaries too and often baffling to modern readers encountering

188 Maria Heim niruttis in translation – hence the unfortunate misunderstanding that would call these ‘false etymologies’).34 Buddhaghosa manages to generate a great deal of meaning from analysing alliteration and other formal properties of buddhavacana. Thus we see that the repeated emphasis of meaning and phrasing indicate qualities of buddhavacana that generate analytic and narrative practices for the interpreter expanding meaning through ideas and the aural forms of the text. But it is time to turn to an example of the way Buddhaghosa reads a sutta and how he notes and expands features of it that work discourse back into a speech and collapse meaning and event.

The Sāmaññaphala and Buddhaghosa’s commentary35 The canonical Sāmaññaphala, ‘the fruits of renunciation’ This long sutta, the second sutta in the Dīgha Nikāya, describes the ‘fruits’ (phala) of monastic renunciation (sāmañña). We cannot hope to cover all of its nuances in this brief foray into it, and I focus here on its nidāna – the story or context in which it occurs and to which it speaks. This may be summarised briefly. The story begins on a gorgeous full moon night when King Ajātasattu is in his palace, and the Buddha is staying nearby with 1,250 of his followers in a mango grove given to him by Jīvaka, Ajātasattu’s physician. From the upper terrace of his palace Ajātasattu exclaims on the loveliness of the moonlit night and asks his ministers if they might recommend any recluse or Brahmin whom he might visit who could bring him peace of mind. His various ministers mention five famed recluses (Makkhali Gosāla, Ajita Kesakambala, etc.), but the king is not inspired. He finally turns to his physician Jīvaka and asks him who he might recommend, and Jīvaka suggests they go to the Buddha. Ajātasattu is animated by the idea and orders Jīvaka to ready 500 female elephants and the king’s own bull elephant; he orders 500 court women to ride the elephants, and with attendants carrying torches they process in royal splendour to the mango grove. At one point, spooked by the quiet stillness of the monastic inhabitants of the mango grove, Ajātasattu becomes gripped by fear, trepidation and terror, suspecting ambush. But Jīvaka reassures him and they proceed. They arrive and the King asks to see the Buddha, who is sitting before him; again, noting the calm silence and peaceful composure of the Buddha’s assembly, the King blurts out ‘May my son, the prince Udāyibhadda, enjoy such peace as the company of bhikkhus now enjoys’.36 Ajātasattu pays homage to the Buddha and asks if he may ask a question. The Buddha says yes, and the King asks if there are any fruits of the renunciatory life that are visible in the ‘here and now’ (as opposed to waiting for the afterlife). The Buddha asks in turn whether this is a question he has asked other teachers and how they responded, and Ajātasattu describes other teachers’ answers (which he has found unsatisfying). He then puts the question to the Buddha again. The bulk of the sermon is the Buddha’s response given at certain junctures in a Socratic style of questioning to

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the King and leading to a discovery of how moral discipline yields peace and security; how restraint of the sense faculties, mindfulness and clear comprehension bring freedom, happiness and contentment; how one rid of the hindrances can experience gladness, rapture, a calm body and happiness; the pleasure and equanimity of the jhānas; and insight and the various super knowledges all the way up the sublime and excellent freedom and awakening promised as the highest aim of the Buddhist path. Upon hearing this sermon, Ajātasattu takes refuge and asks the Buddha to accept him as a lay follower. He also confesses his patricide (here mentioned for the first time in the sutta), and the Buddha encourages him since Ajātasattu ‘sees his transgression as a transgression’ and has attempted to ‘counteract it according to the Dhamma’.37 Once Ajātasattu, ‘rejoicing and delighting at the Buddha’s words’, has taken leave, however, the Buddha points out to his disciples that Ajātasattu is ‘ruined’; had he not killed his father, he would have achieved the ‘dust-free, stainless eye of the Dhamma’. The monks rejoice at having heard the word of the Buddha which is the typical ending of a sutta. Buddhaghosa’s commentary Buddhaghosa’s commentary substantially embellishes this story, making it richly complex and pregnant with literary impact (and forcing us to be selective here on what we can describe). No detail is too small to escape considerable dramatic enhancement. Buddhaghosa first gives substantial background on Jīvaka, the King’s physician and the Buddha’s devout follower, who cleverly understood from the start that Ajātasattu was hinting around to be taken to the Buddha even when he asked his ministers about other teachers.38 And Jīvaka also knew the value of holding back until the King specifically addressed him whereupon he could lead the willing king to the Buddha. As for the King himself, Buddhaghosa supplies a story which builds up considerable dramatic tension. It seems that Ajātasattu was from the womb forecasted to someday kill his father (and so he is called ‘unborn [ajāta] enemy [sattu])’.39 As a prince he befriended the schismatic monk Devadatta and conspired with him to make several botched attempts on the Buddha’s life. Devadatta convinces Ajātasattu to assassinate his own father, the good King Bimbasāra, a follower of the Buddha. The story of the assassination is grim, involving imprisonment, torture and starvation before Bimbasāra finally succumbs. On the same day that Bimbasāra dies, a son is born to Ajātasattu, and his ministers approach Ajātasattu with both pieces of news (which Buddhaghosa anachronistically puts in two letters, lekha): first they give him the letter with news of his son’s birth: At that very instant affectionate love for his son arose in the King and shook his entire body and cut to the very marrow of his bones. At that moment he grasped the qualities of a father: ‘when I was born, such affectionate love arose in my father too’. And so he said: ‘Go, men, and release my father’. ‘How can we release him, Sire?’ – they handed him the other letter.40

190 Maria Heim The drama continues. Learning that his father is now dead, Ajātasattu goes weeping to his mother to verify that in fact his father had felt the same affectionate love toward him. She replies: Foolish son, what are saying? Once when you were a child, there was a boil on your finger. Not able to calm the crying we took you to your father sitting in the judgment hall. Your father took your finger in his mouth, and the boil popped right in his mouth. Not able to spit out the pus mixed with blood your father swallowed it because of his affectionate love. Such was the affectionate love of your father. Weeping and lamenting, he performed the duties for his father’s body.41 These events give proper context for the evening of the sutta, when Ajātasattu is sleepless on the moonlit night. ‘From the day he killed his father, whenever he said he would fall asleep he had only to close his eyes and it was as though he was assailed with a hundred spears, and he would wake up, weeping’.42 Yet even as he sat sleepless and anguished, he is so moved by the beauty of the night that he cannot help making a joyous exclamation: just like how a flood is described as water that cannot be contained in a lake that rushes out, spilling over it, so too an exclamation is described as the heart unable to contain a joyful word, and it becomes too much, it cannot be held back, and it bursts out.43 Such is Ajātasattu’s condition: he is struck simultaneously with immense pain and immense joy. The juxtaposition parallels – and is made possible by – the day he received the two letters: first he is suffused with the overwhelming joy of discovering parental love, and then dashed to the depth of grief and horror at having killed his own father. Now he is tormented with remorse even as the beauty of the moon-filled night overwhelms him, itself perhaps a newfound feeling of love for the world made poignant by the experience of having a child. In each juxtaposition the acuteness of the pain magnifies the exquisite joy, and vice versa. It is this man, in this state, who seeks the wisdom of the Buddha and the peaceful and blissful life he is said to make possible. The toggling between anguish and joy only heightens as the sutta develops. Buddhaghosa also identifies and amplifies the juxtapositions of silence and speaking throughout the text. For example, at the start of the narrative, Jīvaka stays silent while the other ministers praise their teachers, a discussion that the King himself dislikes and through which stays silent. But then noticing that Jīvaka is silent he says (to himself) I don’t want to hear the words of these who have spoken. Rather I want to hear the words of the one who stays silent like the Supaṇṇa bird stays having sipped from the Lake of the Serpent Dwellers, for this [other talk] is useless to me.44

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(In Indian mythology the serpent and the raptor are arch enemies as in Western mythology, so Jīvaka has vanquished his rivals and remains quietly above the fray.) So the King asks Jīvaka about his teacher and Jīvaka realises that now is the time to not stay silent, and he rises to praise the nine itipiso qualities of the Buddha and invite the King to visit him. The impact of hearing the qualities (guṇas) of the Buddha is striking: ‘the entire body of the King hearing the report of the Bhagavan’s qualities was pervaded continuously with the five kinds of happiness’.45 The theme of questioning also develops. Jīvaka promises that the Buddha can answer every question: Mahārāja, even when questioned by a hundred, or a thousand, or a hundred thousand like yourself, my Teacher grasps the minds of all of them and has the strength and power to answer. Mahārāja, trusting [him], approach and ask your question.46 The Buddha answers questions by grasping the minds of his interlocutors, no matter who they may be or how many. Buddhaghosa explains that they take 500 elephants because elephants are the most excellent of vehicles, and their feet move softly, whereas horses and chariots are noisy. Jīvaka has the female elephants mounted with 500 women, disguised as men with swords and spears. Why is this? Intriguingly, ‘when supported by women, men do not become afraid’.47 Jīvaka further thinks that having such a large audience present will allow the Buddha to teach fully: This king does not have the supporting conditions for the Path and its fruit in this life, and buddhas will only explain the Dhamma when they have seen the supporting conditions. So let me assemble a crowd, for then the Teacher, seeing the supporting conditions in someone there will teach the Dhamma and that will be helpful for the crowd.48 All of these details are dialogical: the Teacher speaks when asked, and then with the knowledge of the mind of his interlocutor; further he speaks in a way that is appropriate to his audience and what will emerge from him is conditioned by what people present can hear and understand. To continue the story. The King’s pain manifests as fear as they approach the mango grove, the very silence of which unnerves him. Again, a list is provided to achieve precision: of the four kinds of fear (mental anxiety, the fear that is knowledge, fear from a particular object and moral apprehension),49 he has mental anxiety, an objectless fear and unease. He has this fear, we are told, because of the extreme stillness of the ashram. But he is reassured by Jīvaka and eventually they arrive. The King is unable to face the Buddha at first, and so gets a tour of the grounds by Jīvaka. But finally he gains confidence in the presence of such peace, and when finally placed in front of the Buddha, with silence all around, his thoughts race to his son and he blurts out a joyful utterance wishing

192 Maria Heim his son to enjoy such peace. Buddhaghosa clarifies: it is not that he wants his son to renounce the world like these monks, but rather that ‘it is natural for people who see something rare and wonderful to call to mind their beloved relatives and friends’.50 Sadly, this only occasions anxiety and torment with a further thought: will his son someday kill him as he has his own father? (Buddhaghosa of course knows the hideous answer: Ajātasattu is the first of a series of five royal patricides lasting until the people finally overthrow the last of that lineage.) While the King had been speechless, the Buddha read his mind51 even before his exclamation, and so asks him about his thoughts going to his son. Ajātasattu, feeling the weight of his crimes (listed as killing Bimbasāra and his assassination attempts on the Buddha himself), is astonished at the Buddha’s kind response. We get at last to the questions; the Buddha invites him to ask whatever he wishes (and we are told that only a buddha, not a paccekabuddha, advanced disciple, or anyone else can make such an offer). The King asks about the present-life rewards of renunciation. The Buddha turns it right around to ask Ajātasattu what he has heard, inviting the King to describe the doctrines of other teachers, and, Buddhaghosa adds, thereby gracefully allowing the King to describe rival views and their shortcomings rather than have such words in the mouth of the Buddha. When the King has finished describing the shortcomings of the other teachers, he asks the Buddha again to teach him the fruits of renunciation and how they might benefit him in this very life. The Buddha urges him to listen and attend, explaining what is meant in the sutta when the Buddha says ‘Mahārāja, please listen and pay careful attention, and I will speak’ (emphases added).52 Buddhaghosa seizes the opportunity to map the distinction between phrasing and meaning on to listening (to the voice of another) and paying careful attention: by listening one does not muddle phrasing, by attending carefully one does not muddle meaning; by listening there is the hearing of the Dhamma, by attending carefully there is investigating and retaining the Dhamma; and by listening one finds that the Dhamma has phrasing that should be heard, and by paying careful attention one finds that the Dhamma should be thoroughly worked over with the mind.53 Again, we are drawn to the power of the spoken Dhamma and the meaning the careful listener can make of it in one’s mind. What follows is the bulk of the sutta about how the monastic life entails benefits in this life, with Buddhaghosa supplying details about the emotional shifts and transformations to be gained from a life of monastic moral discipline and contemplation. Read with an eye on psychological preconditions – ‘beings’ various inclinations, biases, practices, and dispositions’ – we see the doctrinal message enacted in Ajātasattu’s particular circumstances and transformation. By getting a highly textured and immediate sense of Ajātasattu’s experience through the literary detail in which it is conveyed, we (the distant readers trained by Buddhaghosa) come very close to sharing the same references as those present in the original sutta. The sutta ends of course with Ajātasattu’s conversion, citing again the impact of the Buddha’s qualities: ‘His body, pervaded with the five types of happiness

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arisen from recollecting the qualities of the Buddha, made evident his own calmness, and he declared himself a lay person’.54 He makes another exclamation out of confidence and praise, confesses his patricide, pays homage and departs. The Buddha notes his destruction of his previous wholesome roots, which Buddhaghosa elaborates to specify that the murder of a parent has earned him the copper cauldron hell for 60,000 years. Still, Ajātasattu benefits enormously from the teachings: he comes to be able to sleep, he attains faith and curiously enough, he will in the distant future become a paccekabuddha. So while his afterlife is highly unfortunate, he has achieved sleep – no small benefit in the here and now.55

Conclusion As far as I know, Buddhaghosa never thematises writing or the written text and how it changes the experience of the Buddha’s words. But his focus on the spoken and immediate quality of the dialogue suggests a nostalgic longing to hear, see and converse with the Buddha. For him the existential and devotional impact of the Buddha’s teachings is found in the encounter as much as the message. And so he trains his ideal reader in styles of interpretation that make the event the message. His reading of suttas continues the tradition begun at the First Council’s redaction that casts a sutta as a dialogical event – a performance and demonstration of the doctrinal teachings it espouses. Redaction and commentary add layers and supplements that push discourse back into spoken dialogue to interweave content and context, doctrine and its environment, ideas and the people between whom they are exchanged. The process continues into our present; as James Madaio also suggests in his Chapter in this volume, the reader, no matter how distant in time, is invited into the story world and the dialogical inquiry prompted by scripture. It is worth noting how Buddhaghosa’s supplements and commentarial interventions reveal a literary sensibility perhaps unexpected in this particular scholastic pedant, who is more often noted for his management of doctrine. Buddhaghosa is aware of how (what we would call) literature can collapse time and make us feel like we are there, and he draws skilfully on the large corpus of traditional lore that had grown up around the canonical sources to embellish the story with dramatic tension and poignant literary detail. He is also highly sensitive to and explicit about the generative qualities of texts and how they might continue to work in human experience. As we allow ourselves to be guided by Buddhaghosa’s commentarial theory and practice, we gain new ways of reading both suttas and commentary as literature. Of course, Buddhaghosa’s reading of Ajātasattu’s story is not the only way to read it. We find another reading of it in Brian Black’s contribution in this volume for example, where the story is contextualised entirely differently and in terms of contemporary political concerns. As Buddhaghosa predicts, we can enjoy a plurality of interpretations as the text speaks in new ways to present and future audiences. In this, we may find that Buddhaghosa’s explicit choices about

194 Maria Heim reading practice can help us be more attentive to our own as we bring contexts and questions to the texts we read, and discover the new ways the texts manage to speak to them. To sum up, reading with Buddhaghosa has allowed us to see that a sutta does not just deliver conceptual meaning but is an event to be lived, and for Buddhaghosa the event is an encounter with infinity (in the form of the Buddha’s ken and his words). We learn from Buddhaghosa a hermeneutics of embeddedness or contextuality that requires us to look to context and how the sermon speaks to its interlocutors in their singular circumstances. It is through the particularities of the moment on the moonlit night in the mango grove that we, even as distant readers, are drawn into the power of the sutta and can glimpse the immeasurable.

Notes 1 Heim (2018). 2 Atthasālinī (hereafter: As) 21; Samantapāsādikā (Sp) i.21; Sumaṅgalavilāsinī (Sv) i.19: anekajjhāsayānusayacariyādhimuttikā sattā. On commentarial theories of the Buddha’s omniscience see also Endo (1997); ch 2. All translations are my own, using the Chaṭṭha Saṅgāyana editions (Igatpuri: Vipassana Research Institute, 1995). 3 Visuddhimagga (Vism) VII.39 (cf. Sp i.117): Yasmā panesa sabbesampi sattānaṃ āsayaṃ jānāti, anusayaṃ jānāti, caritaṃ jānāti, adhimuttiṃ jānāti, apparajakkhe mahārajakkhe tikkhindriye mudindriye svākāre dvākāre suviññāpaye duviññāpaye bhabbe abhabbe satte jānāti, tasmāssa sattalokopi sabbathā vidito. This passage is a commentary on the frequently mentioned ninefold list of the Buddha’s qualities, one of which is that he is ‘Knower of Worlds’, listed in the Sāmaññaphala Sutta (Dīgha Nikāya [D] i.49) and referenced in its commentary (Sv i.146). 4 As 19; Sp i.19; Sv i.17: Suvuttā cettha atthā veneyyajjhāsayānulomena vuttattā. This passage is glossing ‘sutta’. 5 Aṅguttara Nikāya (A) ii.181: Tattha aparimāṇā padā aparimāṇā byañjanā aparimāṇā tathāgatassa dhammadesanā. 6 There are four oceans: ‘the ocean of saṃsāra, the ocean of water, the ocean of methods, and the ocean of knowledge’ (saṃsārasāgaro, jalasāgaro, nayasāgaro, ñāṇasāgaroti, As 10). 7 As 11: asaṅkhyeyyo appameyyo. This metaphor gets extensive development in the Atthasālinī. 8 ‘What is the ocean of methods? The tipiṭaka that is the Buddha’s words’ (Katamo nayasāgaro? Tepiṭakaṃ buddhavacanaṃ, As 11). 9 Majjhima Nikāya (M) i.37; A iii.285: ‘The Dhamma is well-spoken by the Bhagavan, visible here and now, timeless, inviting one to come and see, leading forward, and to be experienced by the wise for themselves’ (svākkhāto bhagavatā dhammo sandiṭṭhiko akāliko ehipassiko opaneyyiko paccattaṃ veditabbo viññūhī’ti). Buddhaghosa says that ‘timeless’ means that ‘there is no time between the [spoken Dhamma] and the bearing of fruit’ (Vism VII.80; Sāratthappakāsinī [Spk] i.43). 10 On Derrida, see Almond (2004: 104). Ricoeur (1976: 92). 11 Almond (2004: 106) (citing Walshe 250). As Almond suggests, for Ibn ‘Arabi, the Quran, as the “inexhaustible words”’ of God, ‘has no single message but, rather, a variety of messages, each one gauged to the competence and situation of its reader’. To interpret the Quran is ‘to participate in its expansion’, as understanding the text draws out the meaning anticipated by God. In Ibn ‘Arabi’s own words: ‘on God’s part there are perpetual turnings of attentiveness and inexhaustible words’; thus ‘the situation is new forever’ (Almond 2004: 103, 108).

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12 Gershom Scholem notes the widespread belief ‘that the number of possible readings of the Torah was equal to the number of the 600,000 children of Israel who were present at Mount Sinai – in other words, that each single Jew approached the Torah by a path that he alone could follow’ (Scholem 1974: 172). 13 Ricoeur (1976: 34). 14 Ricoeur (1976: 35). 15 Ricoeur (1976: 37). 16 Ricoeur (1976: 43). 17 Sv i.50. 18 Jonathan Walters (1999: 266–268) notes the ‘fractured text’ that is the product of scholars focusing on the doctrinal core, ignoring the literary qualities of ‘the textual whole that has its own integrity, its own beauty, and its own meanings’. 19 Sv i.50: atthabyañjanasampannassa buddhaguṇānubhāvasaṃsūcakassa imassa suttassa sukhāvagahaṇatthaṃ … nidānaṃ bhāsitaṃ. The similes of the bathing place, palace and mansion are elaborated in poetic terms at Sv i.50, his commentary on the purpose and function of nidāna as it is given in the first sutta of the first book of the Suttanta. 20 D i.49: itipi so bhagavā arahaṃ sammāsambuddho vijjācaraṇasampanno sugato lokavidū anuttaro purisadammasārathi satthā devamanussānaṃ buddho bhagavā’ti. 21 He gives the abbreviated commentary on this at Sv i.146, and refers to the detailed treatment at Vism VII.2–67. 22 Manorathapūraṇi (Mp) iv.205–206. 23 Sv i.50: Cattāro hi suttanikkhepā – attajjhāsayo, parajjhāsayo, pucchāvasiko, aṭṭhuppattikoti. 24 Sv i.50–51. 25 As 55: Pañcavidhāhi pucchā – adiṭṭhajotanāpucchā, diṭṭhasaṃsandanāpucchā, vimaticchedanāpucchā, anumatipucchā, kathetukamyatāpucchāti. 26 As 56. 27 A i.87; M i.294: yoniso manasikāra and parato ghosa. 28 Papañcasūdanī (Ps) ii.346. 29 Ps ii.346 has sappāyadhammassavanaṃ (listening to the beneficial Dhamma) and Mp ii.157 has saddhammasavanaṃ (listening to the good Dhamma). A i.87; Mp i.157. It is noteworthy that the voice of another can also be a condition for wrong view: lack of careful attention and listening to those who do not teach the Good Dhamma results in wrong view (A i.87). 30 Sv i.176. 31 Vism 214 (VII.72): sankāsaṇa-pakāsana-vivaraṇa-vibhajana-uttānīkaraṇa-paññattiatthapadasamāyogato sātthaṃ. Note that this follows very closely Nettipakaraṇa 8. 32 Vism 214 (VII.72): akkhara-pada-byañjanākāra-nirutti-niddesa-sampattiyā sabyañjanaṃ. 33 Vism 214 (VII.72): dhammaniruttipaṭisambhidāvisayato sabyañjanaṃ. 34 Consider, for example, part of his long gloss on ‘Bhagavan’: ‘he is auspicious, fortunate, connected with blessings, full of analytic detail, adored, and his going to further births has been expelled, thus he is “Blessed” (Bhagavan)’ (Bhāgyavā bhaggavā yutto, bhagehi ca vibhattavā; Bhattavā vantagamano, bhavesu bhagavā tatoti [Sv i.34; Vism VII.57]). This must be read or spoken in Pāli to see how the alliteration with the sounds bha, ga and va is generating these meanings which in turn will be further elaborated; the sounds produce further meaning. For more on nirukti analysis in Sanskrit, see Kahrs (1998); ch. 3, where he offers a structurally quite similar example of a gloss on ‘Bhairava’ by Abhinavagupta. 35 D i.46–86; for a wonderful translation of the sutta and several of its commentarial layers, see Bhikkhu Bodhi (2008). Note that all translations in the paper are my own, however. 36 D i.50, Bodhi (2008: 18).

196 Maria Heim 37 D i.85: accayaṃ accayato disvā yathādhammaṃ paṭikarosi. Attwood (2008); is likely correct that the best way to translate paṭikarosi is ‘counteract’. For Buddhaghosa there is a sense that there is ‘begging pardon’ (khamāpesi) in this (Sv i.236). 38 Sv i.140. 39 Sv i.133. 40 Sv i.138: Rañño taṅkhaṇeyeva puttasineho uppajjitvā sakalasarīraṃ khobhetvā aṭṭhimiñjaṃ āhacca aṭṭhāsi. Tasmiṃ khaṇe pituguṇamaññāsi – ‘mayi jātepi mayhaṃ pitu evameva sineho uppanno’ti. So – ‘gacchatha, bhaṇe, mayhaṃ pitaraṃ vissajjethā’ti āha. ‘Kiṃ vissajjāpetha, devā’ti itaraṃ lekhaṃ hatthe ṭhapayiṃsu. 41 Sv i.138: ‘bālaputta, kiṃ vadesi, tava daharakāle aṅguliyā pīḷakā uṭṭhahi. Atha taṃ rodamānaṃ saññāpetuṃ asakkontā taṃ gahetvā vinicchayaṭṭhāne nisinnassa tava pitu santikaṃ agamaṃsu. Pitā te aṅguliṃ mukhe ṭhapesi. Pīḷakā mukheyeva bhijji. Atha kho pitā tava sinehena taṃ lohitamissakaṃ pubbaṃ aniṭṭhubhitvāva ajjhohari. Evarūpo te pitu sineho’ti. So roditvā paridevitvā pitu sarīrakiccaṃ akāsi. 42 Sv i.140: Ayañhi rājā pitari upakkantadivasato paṭṭhāya – ‘niddaṃ okkamissāmī’ti nimīlitamattesuyeva akkhīsu sattisataabbhāhato viya kandamānoyeva pabujjhi. 43 Sv i.140–141: Yañca jalaṃ taḷākaṃ gahetuṃ na sakkoti, ajjhottharitvā gacchati, taṃ oghoti vuccati; evameva yaṃ pītivacanaṃ hadayaṃ gahetuṃ na sakkoti, adhikaṃ hutvā anto asaṇṭhahitvā bahinikkhamati, taṃ udānanti vuccati. 44 Sv i.145: ‘ahaṃ yassa yassa vacanaṃ na sotukāmo, so so eva kathesi. Yassa panamhi vacanaṃ sotukāmo, esa nāgavasaṃ pivitvā ṭhito supaṇṇo viya tuṇhībhūto, anattho vata me’ti. 45 Sv i.146: Raññopi bhagavato guṇakathaṃ suṇantassa sakalasarīraṃ pañcavaṇṇāya pītiyā nirantaraṃ phuṭaṃ ahosi. The five types of happiness are described in Vism IV.94–99. 46 Sv i.146: ‘mahārāja, tumhādisānañhi satenapi sahassenapi satasahassenapi puṭṭhassa mayhaṃ satthuno sabbesaṃ cittaṃ gahetvā kathetuṃ thāmo ca balañca atthi, vissattho upasaṅkamitvā puccheyyāsi mahārājā’. 47 Sv i.148: Tato itthiyo nissāya purisānaṃ bhayaṃ nāma natthi. 48 Sv i.148: ‘imassa rañño imasmiṃ attabhāve maggaphalānaṃ upanissayo natthi, buddhā ca nāma upanissayaṃ disvāva dhammaṃ kathenti. Handāhaṃ, mahājanaṃ sannipātāpemi, evañhi sati satthā kassacideva upanissayena dhammaṃ desessati, sā mahājanassa upakārāya bhavissatī’ti. 49 Sv i.149: cittutrāsabhayaṃ, ñāṇabhayaṃ, ārammaṇabhayaṃ, ottappabhayanti catubbidhaṃ bhayaṃ. Buddhaghosa goes on to say that the ‘fear that is knowledge’ is the fear one has when one realises that the Buddha’s teachings about saṃsāra are correct. 50 Sv i.153: Dullabhañhi laddhā acchariyaṃ vā disvā piyānaṃ ñātimittādīnaṃ anussaraṇaṃ nāma lokassa pakatiyeva. 51 Sv i.154: assa cittaṃ ñatvā. 52 Sv i.171: Tena hi, mahārāja, suṇohi, sādhukaṃ manasi karohi, bhāsissāmī’ti. 53 Sv i.171–172. 54 Sv i.227: buddhaguṇānussaraṇasambhūtāya pañcavidhāya pītiyā phuṭasarīro attano pasādaṃ āvikaronto upāsakattaṃ paṭivedesi. 55 Sv i.237–238.

11 Mahābhārata dialogues on dharma and devotion with Kṛṣṇa and Hanumān Bruce M Sullivan

The most well-known, frequently memorised, and arguably most important dialogue in the Hindu religious tradition is to be found in the Bhagavad Gītā (Mahābhārata 6.23–40).1 In this Chapter, I compare this dialogue with another with which it has many parallels and thematic resonances, the dialogue between Hanūmat (Hanūmān) and Bhīma from the Āraṇyakaparvan (Mahābhārata 3.146–53).2 The critical edition of the Mahābhārata shows both passages to be represented throughout the manuscript tradition, and to have relatively few variant readings. Themes shared by these two dialogues include their presentations of Time as determining the quality of human life, Time’s manifestation in the four eons (yugas), the importance of following one’s dharma and devotional worship (bhakti) of the divine. These two dialogues are parallel not only with regard to their themes but also their structure: each is an encounter of a Pāṇḍava warrior with a divine elder relative who instructs his junior as a guru instructs a disciple. That the disciple in both cases is a kṣatriya means that the admonition to follow his dharma refers specifically to the warrior’s dharma. But the passages also repeatedly use the expression svadharma (one’s own dharma), which will be significant as we shall see; kṣatriyadharma and svadharma (even for a warrior) are not necessarily synonymous. Kṛṣṇa and Hanūmat both deliver their discourses in dazzling divine forms that overwhelm their Pāṇḍava disciples, who soon request in each case that the deity resume his prior form. The revelation of divinity is also a secret: Kṛṣṇa displays his divine form only to Arjuna despite the presence of many other warriors on the battlefield, while Hanūmat’s revelation occurs privately and he tells Bhīma to keep it a secret. Indeed, the parallels between these two dialogues are sufficiently numerous and close as to suggest to me that the Hanūmat-Bhīma dialogue is likely to have been patterned on the Bhagavad Gītā.

Time and yuga In the Bhagavad Gītā, Arjuna is stunned by the vision of Kṛṣṇa’s Viśvarūpa form, which he associates with the eon-ending cataclysm: Arjuna tells Kṛṣṇa that he is ‘Seeing your mouths that bristle with fangs and resemble the fire at the end of the yuga …’ (Bhagavad Gītā 11.25). Kṛṣṇa’s immediate response to Arjuna

198 Bruce M Sullivan confirms his perception: ‘I am Time grown old to destroy the world, embarked on the course of world destruction …’ (Bhagavad Gītā 11.32). This exchange follows shortly after the previous chapter’s statements by Kṛṣṇa that also identify him as Time, even before he reveals his Viśvarūpa form. In Kṛṣṇa’s recitation of entities with which he is identified, he states ‘I am Time among those that count …’ (Bhagavad Gītā 10.30). Kṛṣṇa goes on to say, ‘I alone am imperishable Time, the Placer who faces all directions. I am Death who seizes all, and the source of what will come to be …’ (Bhagavad Gītā 10.33–34). One of the most widely known verses in the Bhagavad Gītā is Kṛṣṇa’s statement on his repeated births: ‘I come into being from yuga to yuga, for the rescue of the good and the destruction of the evil, in order to restore dharma’ (Bhagavad Gītā 4.8). The context for this statement to Arjuna is Kṛṣṇa’s presentation of his many births, all of which he remembers, and while he is unborn and eternal, he takes birth whenever dharma is threatened. Similarly, Kṛṣṇa states that he is imperishable, beyond time and the rebirth cycle, a process he describes as follows: ‘the Day of Brahmā lasts thousands of yugas, the Night of Brahmā ends after thousands of yugas’ (Bhagavad Gītā 8.17). But those who practise exclusive devotion to the Supreme Person Kṛṣṇa go to him at death and, on reaching him, their souls are not reborn again. This statement will be considered again with other statements about devotion (bhakti). Kṛṣṇa presents himself in the Bhagavad Gītā as Time, the divine force that determines the limit of existence for the world and every human being. He also presents himself as beyond the controlling influence of time, as beyond death and rebirth, of which he is the master. Presiding over creation and destruction, he takes birth on earth to protect dharma and those who follow dharma. In the Hanumad-Bhīma-Samāgama, the theme of time conceived as four yugas is prominent. Once Bhīma realises that the old monkey before him is his brother Hanūmat, both being sons of Vāyu the Wind God, Bhīma bows to him and asks to see the ‘incomparable form’ (rūpam apratimaṃ) in which Hanūmat jumped over the ocean to reach Sītā in captivity, on Rāma’s behalf (Mahābhārata 3.148.3). Hanūmat says in response that the form from an earlier yuga cannot now be seen again since all beings comply with the yuga in which they live, and that even for him Time is inescapable. Bhīma, however, is curious about the four yugas to which his brother has referred, and asks for a description. The remainder of chapter 148 is dedicated to that description, key features of which are summarised here: KṚTA YUGA:

White Nārāyaṇa is the soul of all beings; the four social classes are well-defined and perform their own tasks (svakarmaniratāḥ prajāḥ, Mahābhārata 3.148.17). Dharma is complete in four quarters. TRETĀ YUGA: Acutya (Kṛṣṇa) becomes red, and dharma is diminished by a quarter. Sacrifice and ascetic practices are engaged in, and people adhere to dharma, following their svadharma and performing rites. DVĀPARA YUGA: Viṣṇu becomes yellow, and dharma lives on only half-strength. With the Veda separated into four, truthfulness and morality decline.

Mahābhārata dialogues on dharma and devotion 199 KALI YUGA:

Keśava (Kṛṣṇa) becomes black in this age of darkness, and only a quarter of dharma survives. Ordered social life, dharma, and rituals all fail.

Having stated that beings conform to the yuga in which they live, Hanūmat nevertheless grants his brother the favour of viewing his form from the earlier yuga, and expands to mountainous size, thereby demonstrating that he is not bound by constraints of time. Delighted yet awestruck, Bhīma asks Hanūmat to reduce his overwhelming magnitude (Mahābhārata 3.149.1–16). Hanūmat displays knowledge of time as measured out in four yugas, each with its own distinctive qualities. He also displays mastery of time and freedom from the restrictions time and the yugas impose. As he informed Bhīma, Hanūmat had asked Rāma, ‘May I live as long as the story of Rāma (rāmakathā) lives on in the worlds’ (3.147.37), which Rāma granted, thereby making Hanūmat practically immortal. Most of the rest of Hanūmat’s discourse concerns dharma, and will be discussed below. The four-yuga system, and Time as a divine force determining human limitations, are not unknown elsewhere in the Mahābhārata. The four-yuga system is presented in a discourse to Yudhiṣṭhira by Mārkaṇḍeya (Mahābhārata 3.187). While it differs somewhat from Hanūmat’s description, there are many similarities.3 Another passage (12.70) presents the idea of four yugas associated with a decline in the power and efficacy of dharma. Clearly, the yuga idea is important to the Mahābhārata, even if expressed with variations, since it is presented to the two eldest Pāṇḍava brothers, in each instance by an immortal spokesman revealing extraordinary knowledge about how the universe functions. As context for understanding the ideas of Time and yugas in the Bhagavad Gītā and Hanumad-Bhīma-Samāgama, I cite three other places in the Mahābhārata where these topics are presented. In the first chapter of the text (1.1.187–190), Dhṛtarāṣṭra laments the outcome, highlighting a series of events at which he had lost hope of victory, and Saṃjaya addresses him as follows: No one steps beyond the path the Ordainer has ordained. All this is rooted in Time, to be or not to be, to be happy or not to be happy. Time ripens the creatures. Time rots them. And Time again puts out the Time that burns down the creatures. Time unfolds all beings in the world, holy and unholy. Time shrinks them and expands them again. Time walks in all creatures, unaverted, impartial. Whatever beings there were in the past will be in the future, whatever are busy now, they are all the creatures of Time – know it, and do not lose your sense.4 The text here depicts Time as controlling all beings, governing the length and quality of life itself, and as a force that creates and destroys. After the battle has apparently ended, Śiva tells Aśvatthāman that his enemies ‘have fallen under the power of Time’ and will die that very night (Mahābhārata 10.7.63). Aśvatthāman offers himself to and is possessed by Śiva, then attacks

200 Bruce M Sullivan the sleeping warriors in their camp at night, describing his plan to ‘careen around like Time’ (kālavat) in his death-dealing ferocity (Mahābhārata 10.8.8). As he kills his enemies, a female manifestation of death appears before them: the Night of Time (kālarātriṃ), a black-skinned woman bearing a noose, whose eyes and mouth are blood-red, as are her garlands and ornaments, a dreadful goddess wearing a single garment covered in blood (Mahābhārata 10.8.64–67). Aśvatthāman himself, exiting the site of the massacre, is said to blaze like the fire at the end of the yuga that has reduced all beings to ashes (Mahābhārata 10.8.137). Finally, years after the battle, Kṛṣṇa’s clan has largely survived the fighting but Time is stalking them. In the form of a fierce, monstrous bald-headed man with black and orange skin, Time peers in their windows and haunts them (Mahābhārata 16.3.1–2). Soon the warriors are killing each other in a drunken brawl. These passages show that the Mahābhārata includes a recurrent theme of Time as a divine force, sometimes embodied in frightful forms and associated with death. The text describes the author Vyāsa himself as kālavādin, one who espouses this understanding of Time (Mahābhārata 6.4.2). As W J Johnson has observed, in the Mahābhārata, Time is an expression of the ‘cosmic crisis’ of transition from one yuga to the next.5 Though Time as a controlling force is prominent in the text, the concept of four yugas as a measure of the passage of time and the declining quality of life through time is expressed relatively rarely in the Mahābhārata. In my view, references to the fire at the end of the yuga (such as in Bhagavad Gītā 11.25 and Mahābhārata 10.8.137) reflect a developing concept of the cyclical destruction of the world (pralaya), later understood (and articulated clearly in Purāṇa texts) as occurring not at the end of each yuga but at the end of the fourth and final eon, Kali Yuga. GonzálezReimann (2010: 65) has argued that ‘when the Mahābhārata was composed the yuga theory was at a formative stage and was most likely being shaped within the later strata of the Epic itself.’ That the moral decline and departures from dharma are not explained in the Mahābhārata’s final books as deriving from the onset of Kali Yuga is claimed by González-Reimann as a key point for interpreting the Mahābhārata and for understanding the yuga idea.6 I acknowledge the relevance of his observations, but see no reason to assume that composition occurred in strata or layers over centuries, something for which we have no definitive evidence. It is important to notice that the text does contain a clear articulation of the idea that reaching the fourth and final yuga in the series is responsible for violations of dharma. Below I discuss a very direct statement of this point of view from none other than Kṛṣṇa, who justifies Bhīma’s apparent violations of dharma by referring to the decline of dharma through four yugas (Mahābhārata 9.59). González-Reimann argues that the scarcity of indications that the outcome of the narrative, with its apparent violations of dharma, is due to the onset of the final yuga because the idea was only becoming clear to the text’s composers as it reached the form we find in the critical edition. But it may also be that other meanings are to be found in the text as well, such as the view of Ānandavardhana and Abhinavagupta that the aesthetic purpose of the Mahābhārata is to produce in the audience a disenchantment with worldly values

Mahābhārata dialogues on dharma and devotion 201 and a turn to spiritual aspirations.7 Since the defining qualities of poetry are traditionally understood to include multiplicity of meanings and poetry’s power to suggest meanings, I propose that we regard the text as suggesting and allowing such a diversity of interpretations, even including some that are rarely stated explicitly. In other words, I suggest that we see the text as the product of poetic creativity in which pralaya and yuga imagery may be deployed in a variety of ways to achieve aesthetic purposes for its audience. Dharma The Mahābhārata is widely acknowledged to be a text in which exploring the meanings and applications of dharma is central to its purpose and is one of its great accomplishments as a scripture. As James Fitzgerald observed, ‘The word dharma signifies a concept that is one of the most central and important topics of thought and debate in the Mahābhārata’ yet also the most difficult for him to translate.8 The text says of itself that Vyāsa composed it ‘for the sake of dharma’ (dharmakāmyayā, Mahābhārata 18.5.41), and we see throughout the text the preoccupation with discussing the subtleties of dharma. The very first word of the Bhagavad Gītā is dharma: its setting is on the field of dharma. Indeed, the very first word spoken by Kṛṣṇa in the Mahābhārata is his pronouncement that Draupadī has been won by Arjuna according to dharma (dharmeṇa labdhā, Mahābhārata 1.181.32), so Kṛṣṇa’s introduction to the text’s action (and to the text’s audience) is as an authority on dharma. The two dialogues here under consideration feature discourses on dharma delivered by deities, each of whom functions as guru to a disciple who is a warrior. The discourses focus on kṣatriyadharma, the way of life incumbent on all warriors, and also include admonitions that the warrior should follow his svadharma, his own dharma. As the latter is more specific, svadharma will be the focus of comparison. Famously, Kṛṣṇa instructs Arjuna as follows: ‘It is better to perform one’s own dharma (svadharmo) poorly than another’s dharma well; it is better to die in one’s own dharma than to thrive in another’s’ (Bhagavad Gītā 3.35). Similarly at the end of the text Kṛṣṇa states: ‘It is better to do one’s svadharma poorly than another’s well; action performed in accord with one’s own nature incurs no fault’ (Bhagavad Gītā 18.47). Such general statements are applied more specifically to being a warrior in Kṛṣṇa’s instruction (Bhagavad Gītā 2.31–33): Recognising your svadharma, do not waver, for there is nothing better for a warrior than a war that accords with dharma. It is an open door to heaven, happily found; and warriors who find a war like that are fortunate, Pārtha. If you will not engage in this war according with dharma, then you give up svadharma and honour, and take on sin. Hanūmat’s instructions to Bhīma are similar. He tells the warrior ‘Do not commit violence, my friend: guard your svadharma. Abiding by your svadharma, you

202 Bruce M Sullivan must learn and discover highest dharma’ (Mahābhārata 3.149.25). After expounding on aspects of dharma shared by all (sacrifice, study and donation), and the practices unique to each of the four social classes, Hanūmat addresses Bhīma’s particular situation: ‘Kaunteya, yours is the warrior’s dharma: protection by dharma. Practice your svadharma, with senses and conduct controlled’ (Mahābhārata 3.149.37). As James Hegarty’s Chapter in this volume demonstrates, Vidura’s advice on kingship in the Mahābhārata similarly emphasises the importance of equanimity in a ruler, so it echoes the teaching of Hanūmat to Bhīma here (see also Chapters 1 and 6). Hanūmat describes the dharma of a king, including the use of spies and diplomacy, and the important duty of administering punishment and reward. He ends his discourse on dharma by stating that ‘This is the severe and difficult dharma that is imposed upon you, Pārtha; guard it humbly in accord with performing your svadharma’ (Mahābhārata 3.149.50). The surprising feature of Hanūmat’s instruction on dharma is the emphasis on a king’s dharma since Bhīma is not becoming a king. The closing statement from Hanūmat, however, generalises the application of punishment and protection as the means by which the kṣatriya attains heaven (Mahābhārata 3.149.51–52). As context for understanding how svadharma relates to kṣatriyadharma, I call attention to two passages; each one concerns a Pāṇḍava warrior who is being encouraged to attend to his svadharma. The passage concerning Arjuna occurs on the battlefield as he, Kṛṣṇa, and others are watching a duel between Bhūriśravas and Sātyaki. Kṛṣṇa observes that his clansman Sātyaki, an ally of Arjuna, is fighting without his chariot, is weary and is losing the duel against Bhūriśravas. Kṛṣṇa pronounces the encounter unfair and urges Arjuna to protect his follower (Mahābhārata 7.117.42–49). Seizing Sātyaki by the hair and kicking him in the chest, Bhūriśravas raises his sword to kill Sātyaki, but Arjuna shoots an arrow that cuts off the arm of Bhūriśravas (Mahābhārata 7.117.60–62). Bhūriśravas berates Arjuna for attacking him while he was engaged in combat with Sātyaki, citing the warrior code of conduct on which they had agreed before fighting, and accuses Arjuna of abandoning kṣatriyadharma. According to Bhūriśravas, this action is uncharacteristic of Arjuna, who knows svadharma better than anyone in this world; the act, he says, surely must have been inspired by Kṛṣṇa (Mahābhārata 7.118.1–15). Others observing Arjuna’s action condemn it as well. Arjuna responds to this critique by declaring, ‘Every king here knows my great vow that no ally of mine can be killed within bowshot of me. Remembering this, Bhūriśravas, you ought not to condemn me, for it is improper to condemn someone without knowing his dharma’ (Mahābhārata 7.118.23–24). Arjuna proclaims that his action was not prohibited by dharma. While Arjuna indicates that all know of his vow, clearly others on the battlefield either did not or had forgotten about it since they denounce his action as inappropriate for a warrior. When Sātyaki beheads the dying Bhūriśravas and is widely censured for doing so, he too cites a vow of his own that he would kill any opponent who treats him abusively and kicks him. In fact, Sātyaki is angry at Arjuna for interfering with the fulfilment of his own vow! He also insists that his action

Mahābhārata dialogues on dharma and devotion 203 was proper (Mahābhārata 7.118.31–48). This episode thus has two interesting instances of vows overriding the general principles of kṣatriyadharma. Bhīma also takes vows that modify his dharma as a warrior. As Draupadī is being treated abusively, Bhīma vows that if he does not rip open the chest of Duḥśāsana and drink his blood, he will not after death attain the worlds of his ancestors, a vow widely applauded in the hall (Mahābhārata 2.61.44–46). When Duryodhana lewdly shows Draupadī his left thigh, Bhīma similarly vows that if he fails to break that thigh in battle he would not attain the worlds of his ancestors (Mahābhārata 2.63.14). As a climactic moment at the end of the battle, Bhīma kills Duḥśāsana and drinks his blood, reminding him and astonished onlookers of the many Kaurava misdeeds that caused Bhīma to make such a ferocious vow (Mahābhārata 8.61). In killing Duryodhana, not only does Bhīma strike below the belt with his club, he also presses the head of Duryodhana into the earth with his left foot, taunting him (Mahābhārata 9.58.1–13). Warriors even on the Pāṇḍava side are scandalised by this, and Yudhiṣṭhira speaks to Bhīma, telling him not to let his dharma falter (Mahābhārata 9.58.14–18). A stronger response comes from Kṛṣṇa’s brother Balarāma, who curses Bhīma and rushes toward him. Kṛṣṇa intervenes, saying, ‘You know that a warrior’s dharma is to accomplish what he has vowed to do’ (Mahābhārata 9.59.14). Since Bhīma had vowed in the assembly hall to break Duryodhana’s thighs, he has done nothing wrong, according to Kṛṣṇa. He urges his brother to remember Bhīma’s vow and to remember that the Kali Yuga is beginning (Mahābhārata 9.59.21), but Balarāma remains furious and leaves. Kṛṣṇa queries Yudhiṣṭhira about how he can condone Bhīma’s act of adharma, stepping on Duryodhana’s head (and does not mention striking below the waist). Yudhiṣṭhira refers to being cheated, insulted and exiled by Duryodhana, whom he describes as a greedy and unwise man, and that he tolerates Bhīma’s action, whether it is dharma or adharma. Kṛṣṇa acquiesces, and Yudhiṣṭhira announces his approval of all Bhīma has done on the battlefield (Mahābhārata 9.59.28–36). Bhīma salutes Yudhiṣṭhira, announces that their enemies are eliminated and that Yudhiṣṭhira should rule the earth according to his svadharma. Yudhiṣṭhira congratulates Bhīma on his victory, and for fulfilling his promises to his mother and his anger (Mahābhārata 9.59.39–44). These warriors have taken vows that obligate them to perform certain actions. As is clearly stated, a warrior is expected to act to fulfil his vows; to do otherwise would be a violation of that warrior’s dharma. His kṣatriyadharma has been modified by the addition of the vow he is now obliged to fulfil; completion of that vow is now included in his svadharma. Accused by Bhūriśravas of abandoning kṣatriyadharma, Arjuna replies by citing his vow and states that ‘it is improper to condemn someone without knowing his dharma’. Sātyaki’s widely condemned action was proper, according to him, because it was performed in fulfilment of a vow and therefore not a violation of dharma. The warriors on the battlefield who hear their justifications for their actions, justifications based on having taken vows to perform such actions, have no argument with the view that fulfilling those vows is in accord with dharma. Both of

204 Bruce M Sullivan Bhīma’s extraordinary actions that contradict the general principles of kṣatriyadharma are also presented as in accord with dharma due to his vows. Stepping on Duryodhana’s head is generally condemned, but that was not part of his vow. Nonetheless, Bhīma’s actions are sanctioned by Kṛṣṇa and Yudhiṣṭhira, who agree that vow fulfilment is obligatory. And in Bhīma’s case we also have an appeal to the onset of Kali Yuga as justification for less stringent adherence to dharma. James Fitzgerald (2004: 679) has observed as follows: Everyone has a svadharma, a proper dharma, a pattern of life incumbent upon him or her that will ensure his or her welfare after death. But though ancient Indian karman is highly individualistic, one’s svadharma is not individual or personal: It varies according to one’s sex, one’s varṇa, and one’s āśrama, etc. To his list of svadharma variables, clearly we need to add vows. In light of the examples here cited, in which the vows taken are specific to an individual person’s circumstances (being kicked in the chest; breaking a certain person’s thigh with a club in battle), Fitzgerald’s comment that ‘one’s svadharma is not individual or personal’ is difficult to reconcile with these passages. Bhakti Each of the texts under consideration here, the Bhagavad Gītā and HanumadBhīma-Samāgama, features a deity encouraging a devotee to worship with devotion (bhakti) (for other dialogues with deities, see Chapters 8 and 13). In the context of discourses on dharma, they present bhakti as the way to be religious, though they differ in an interesting manner. The Bhagavad Gītā uses the term bhakti 33 times, in a variety of compound expressions and case endings. For example, after Kṛṣṇa reveals his divine form to Arjuna, then resumes his human form at Arjuna’s request, Kṛṣṇa says, Arjuna, I can only be known by bhakti having no other object; this is how I can be seen, and known truly, and entered into, enemy-burner. Only one who acts for me, who regards me as highest, who is my devotee (madbhaktaḥ), who is free of attachment and hatred for any being, comes to me, Pāṇḍava. (Bhagavad Gītā 11.54–55) Kṛṣṇa’s final words on bhakti in the Gītā (18.65–68) sum up how to be religious on the path of devotion. Fix your mind on me, be devoted to me, sacrifice to me, honour me: this way truly you will come to me. I promise you: you are dear to me. Abandoning all dharmas, take me alone as your refuge. Do not agonise;

Mahābhārata dialogues on dharma and devotion 205 I will release you from all evils. This should never be told to one who neglects asceticism, or who is not devoted to me, or who does not want to hear it, or to one who disparages me. One who expounds this supreme secret to my devotees and has shown the highest devotion to me will come to me, without a doubt. Kṛṣṇa is very clear that bhakti is to be directed to him exclusively, though he also indicates that whatever divine form is worshiped with faith, he makes that worship effective (Bhagavad Gītā 7.22–24). Hanūmat’s discourse to Bhīma refers only once to bhakti (Mahābhārata 3.149.24): ‘Bull of the Bhāratas, the Gods give their grace when worshiped with offerings, sacrifices, mantras, and with bhakti, O Bhārata.’ This statement is made by Hanūmat in his divine form that Bhīma had asked to see, and in the context of his discourse on dharma. In contrast to the discourse by Kṛṣṇa, the briefer discourse by Hanūmat does not direct the warrior to offer exclusive devotion to him, nor indicate that such devotion would after death bring the devotee to Hanūmat himself. Rather, multiple ways of being religious are stated to induce the Gods (plural) to show grace to the worshiper. That these discourses in which bhakti is advocated are delivered by deities is clear. Twice Kṛṣṇa is addressed as Viṣṇu by Arjuna (Bhagavad Gītā 11.24 and 30). Though the term avatāra is not used in relation to Kṛṣṇa, the idea is clearly articulated when Kṛṣṇa states that he is eternal, has had many births and remembers them all, and that he takes birth to support dharma in yuga after yuga. To Bhīma, Hanūmat articulates the avatāra idea by referring to Rāma as ‘Viṣṇu in human form’ (viṣṇur mānuṣarūpeṇa, Mahābhārata 3.147.28). In fact, this episode includes the only use of the term avatāra in the whole Mahābhārata! The word is not used in reference to Hanūmat or Rāma, and in the narrative context of this episode it is not primarily about divinity either; it refers to Bhīma, crashing through the forest on his way to the mountaintop, being regarded by the female consorts of Yakṣas and Gandharvas as if he were ‘a new incarnation of beauty’.9 Here we see subtle suggestions of the erotic mood (śṛṅgāra rasa) in the fact that Bhīma goes on a quest for flowers in this idyllic setting due to Draupadī’s demand, ‘if you love me, bring me many more’ (Mahābhārata 3.146.11). Repeated references in the text to her desire for these flowers, and his intention of pleasing her by gaining possession of them through heroic acts, establish a mood of śṛṅgāra rasa.10 This erotic motif is striking in its narrative context, as Draupadī and her husbands the Pāṇḍavas are in exile, living much as ascetic renouncers would have lived and with hints of celibacy. Despite repeated references just before this passage to their asceticism (e.g., tapas twice in 3.141.22), they are not renounced ascetics, so the erotic mood is not jarring. Subtle suggestion is also apparent in the use of the term avatāra, which has other, very significant connotations that have nothing to do with the erotic, but with attitudes of devotion to God. Just as the erotic rasa is being suggested by the setting, Draupadī’s demand, Bhīma’s beauty, etc., the presence here of the term avatāra may be taken as suggesting an attitude of bhakti, a subtle cue to the

206 Bruce M Sullivan audience just before Bhīma meets Hanūmat and hears about devotion. I credit the poet with full awareness of the meanings of the word avatāra, and with intentional deployment of the religiously significant term at the beginning of this passage in which the divinity of Hanūmat is about to be revealed; again, meaning is communicated subtly through suggestion. Both passages, then, can be seen as disclosing an underlying Vaiṣṇava ideology concerning avatāra manifestations.

Conclusions To amplify the three themes presented in this Chapter, I will comment on two more parallel features of these discourses. Both Arjuna and Bhīma ask to be shown a divine form, and receive teachings on Time, dharma and bhakti from God in that form. In the Gītā, Kṛṣṇa complies with Arjuna’s request to see his supreme form (rūpam aiśvaraṃ, Bhagavad Gītā 11.3), and dazzles the warrior with his infinite form on which all the Gods are represented. As chapter 11 of the Gītā ends (Bhagavad Gītā 11.46), Arjuna asks that Kṛṣṇa again assume the form with which he is familiar, Kṛṣṇa’s four-armed form. This request is odd, however, in that the text contains no indication that Arjuna has ever before seen Kṛṣṇa with four arms, nor does the text state that Kṛṣṇa reverts to his conventional two-armed form at any subsequent moment. Neither traditional commentaries nor modern translators seem to take note of this anomaly in the text.11 Perhaps the ‘familiar form’ to which the text here refers is the form of icons of Kṛṣṇa/Viṣṇu, familiar to the text’s audience if not to Arjuna in the narrative. In a parallel with the Bhagavad Gītā, Bhīma requests to see the ‘incomparable form’ (rūpam apratimaṃ 3.148.3) in which Hanūmat leaped over the ocean in the prior yuga and Hanūmat, after some hesitation, grants his request. Thrilled but stunned by his magnitude, Bhīma asks that Hanūmat resume his smaller form (Mahābhārata 3.149.10–15). Hanūmat discourses on dharma and bhakti for the rest of the chapter before shrinking his body to smaller compass (Mahābhārata 3.150.1–2). To end their encounter, Hanūmat disappears before Bhīma’s eyes (ity uktvāntaradhīyata, Mahābhārata 3.150.15), a further indication of his divinity. That his forest fare consists of the roots and fruit of banana trees that taste like the elixir of immortality (amṛta) suggests that Hanūmat’s diet (plus Rāma’s boon) contribute to lengthening his lifespan, perhaps to eternity. Not only are the discourses between these Pāṇḍava warriors with divine beings on similar topics, they are also private and secret discussions. Kṛṣṇa gives Arjuna the ‘divine eye’ to see his supreme form, and tells him that it is a form that no one but Arjuna has ever seen (Bhagavad Gītā 11.47). The teaching presented in the Gītā is described by Kṛṣṇa as the ultimate secret (rahasyaṃ hy etad uttamam, Bhagavad Gītā 4.3). At the end of the text (Bhagavad Gītā 18.63–68), Kṛṣṇa again describes his teaching as the supreme mystery (paramaṃ guhyaṃ) and not to be shared with any but devotees. Hanūmat, after completing his discourse, vanished with the request his location not be revealed. Both teachings are transmitted in secret, even if Hanūmat’s mountainside location includes Yakṣas

Mahābhārata dialogues on dharma and devotion 207 and Gandharvas who might be inclined to eavesdrop, and even if Arjuna’s chariot is surrounded by many thousands of warriors who may wonder what they are discussing. Scriptures are provided with written commentaries in India, and the Bhagavad Gītā is a text with a particularly rich tradition of commentary authorship. Hundreds of formal commentaries in Sanskrit on the Bhagavad Gītā are extant, from Śaṅkara’s in the eighth century to the present.12 Indeed, V S Sukthankar (2016 [1957]: 119) broadens the concept of ‘commentary’ in the following statement: ‘The Gītā is in fact the heart’s heart of the Mahābhārata, and the Mahābhārata is a sort of a necessary commentary on the Gītā.’ While I will not adopt this expansive view of commentary, it is certainly the case that the Mahābhārata is a text that refers to and comments on itself with great regularity. The many parallels between the two dialogues in the Mahābhārata, the Hanumad-Bhīma-Samāgama and the Bhagavad Gītā, are too numerous to be accidental, and suggest to me that these two dialogues stand in intertextual relationship to one another. Within the Mahābhārata, such a relationship between passages is not unknown: the Anugītā (Mahābhārata 14.16–50) is a passage that refers to and was clearly inspired by the Bhagavad Gītā. Despite the evident disparity in meaning between the two passages, the Anugītā clearly responds to the prominent place of the Bhagavad Gītā in the Mahābhārata. Indeed, as observed by Arvind Sharma (1986: 2), the Anugītā is ‘the first comment, if not commentary’ on the Bhagavad Gītā.13 The Hanumad-Bhīma-Samāgama, while not a commentary on the Bhagavad Gītā since it does not present a line-by-line explication of the Gītā’s meaning, is a kind of comment, but I maintain that the relationship between the two passages is a strong one. So how does the Hanumad-Bhīma-Samāgama help an audience read (or hear) the Bhagavad Gītā? By providing a much more extensive account of the functioning of time in four yugas, the Hanumad-Bhīma-Samāgama gives meaningful context to the statement by Kṛṣṇa that he comes into being in yuga after yuga to support dharma. By also specifying the form in which Viṣṇu/Kṛṣṇa appears in each yuga, Hanūmat articulates the Vaiṣṇava idea of the manifestation of the divine as an avatāra. And while that term appears in neither passage’s discussion of divine manifestations, Hanūmat provides support and context for Kṛṣṇa’s explicit statements of his divinity, and his Viśvarūpa revelation. How does the Bhagavad Gītā help an audience read (or hear) the Hanumad-BhīmaSamāgama? By having Hanūmat fulfil the same function in the text, as the revealer of cosmic truths to a Pāṇḍava warrior who is his relative, the text invites us to see Hanūmat as divine. The two passages reinforce each other’s messages. Not only are these two passages in dialogue with one another, but perhaps as well with another passage in the Mahābhārata. I refer to the revelation of Kṛṣṇa’s divine form in the Kaurava assembly hall (Mahābhārata 5.129). Kṛṣṇa goes to the Kauravas as an envoy but his peace overture is rebuffed; Duryodhana plots to capture him but Kṛṣṇa, with a laugh, reveals his (four-armed) form that displays the Gods, the Pāṇḍavas, his weapons, flames and dazzling rays of light.

208 Bruce M Sullivan Most present are astonished at this dreadful, awe-inspiring form (Mahābhārata 5.129.12a, ghoram ātmānaṃ) and close their eyes, but Droṇa, Bhīṣma, Vidura, Saṃjaya and the ascetics and sages in the room had been granted divine sight and beheld this vision. After resuming his usual two-armed form,14 Kṛṣṇa departs and confers with the mother of the Pāṇḍavas, Kuntī, to see what message he could convey from her to her sons (Mahābhārata 5.130). Interestingly, she gives her sons (via Kṛṣṇa) a discourse similar to Hanūmat’s on the four yugas and dharma, including a king’s dharma! The striking echo of Hanūmat’s discourse raises the question whether this passage stands in intertextual relationship with both the Hanumad-Bhīma-Samāgama and the Bhagavad Gītā.15 Certainly the revelation of Kṛṣṇa’s divine form in the assembly hall foreshadows in the narrative his similar revelation to Arjuna alone on the battlefield. Kuntī’s discourse on dharma, intended for all her sons, reinforces the similar but private discourse to Bhīma by Hanūmat. Moreover, as we consider Kṛṣṇa’s own description of his discourse in the Bhagavad Gītā as ‘the royal wisdom, the royal mystery’,16 we can see that all these passages share themes concerning the role in society of the king, and the kṣatriya class in general. The Mahābhārata presents Hanūmat without introduction or explanation in the Hanumad-Bhīma-Samāgama. From the text, it is evident that the audience is expected to know and recognise Hanūmat, and the fact that Bhīma does not recognise him, instead responding with boasting and bravado, is clearly intended to be humorous. The Mahābhārata’s own version of the story of Rāma, Sītā and Hanūmat is found later in the text (Mahābhārata 3.258–75), there called the ‘Rāmopākhyāna’. The Hanumad-Bhīma-Samāgama is drawing on an already established tradition about the nature and personality of Hanūmat, so this episode stands in intertextual relationship to another work. It could be Vālmīki’s Rāmāyaṇa, though we do not know whether it was composed before the Hanumad-Bhīma-Samāgama. The work with which the Hanumad-BhīmaSamāgama is in dialogue could be the Mahābhārata’s ‘Rāmopākhyāna’ subtale, called ‘the Rāmāyaṇa subtale’ in the Mahābhārata’s table of contents.17 Perhaps both textual versions of Rāma’s story, and the Hanumad-Bhīma-Samāgama itself, all draw on earlier oral traditions about Hanūmat, but these are unknown to us. In any case, the Hanumad-Bhīma-Samāgama provides a perspective on Hanūmat that adds to the audience’s understanding of him, particularly with regard to his divinity and his teachings. In this Chapter, I have sought to show the intertextual relationship between several dialogues in the Mahābhārata, particularly the Hanumad-BhīmaSamāgama and the Bhagavad Gītā (for intertextuality in the Mahābhārata, see also Chapter 12). Certainly the Gītā has made a greater impact on the Mahābhārata as a whole than has the Hanumad-Bhīma-Samāgama, but I believe that I have demonstrated how the latter has been in part inspired by the former and is responding to it. The parallelism of the Bhagavad Gītā and Hanumad-BhīmaSamāgama calls for an explanation, and it seems evident that the influence flows from the former to the latter, with the Hanumad-Bhīma-Samāgama patterned on the more famous and profoundly significant Gītā.

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Notes 1 All citations of the Mahābhārata are to the Critical Edition: V S Sukthankar, et al. (1933–70). Bhagavad Gītā citations will be to Bhagavad Gītā chapters and verses. Translations are by the author except where noted otherwise. Recent works by Vishwa Adluri and Joydeep Bagchee (2014a, 2014b, 2016) on the history of interpretation of these texts, and the shortcomings of approaching the texts as consisting of layers from diverse authors and times, have contributed significantly to the understanding of the Bhagavad Gītā and the Mahābhārata as a whole. 2 It is conventional to use as his name either Hanūmān or Hanumān, and as noted by John Brockington (2004b: 134, note 1), the spelling with long u is more frequent in the Mahābhārata (though he does not use that spelling in his title). However, for the sake of consistency with other names cited in the stem form, I will use Hanūmat in this article (apart from the title for the sake of recognition). This episode’s name is somewhat variable. Ādhyāya colophons in the manuscripts consulted for the Critical Edition have a variety of titles, including both long and short u, the word samāgama (‘meeting’) replaced by saṃvāda (‘dialogue’), and some that omit reference to Bhīma: Hanumad-Vākyaṃ (‘Hanūmat’s Speech’) and Hanūmad-Darśanaṃ (‘The Vision of Hanūmat’). I call this passage Hanumad-Bhīma-Samāgama because of the prevalence of this title in devanāgarī and Kaśmīrī manuscripts of this episode (with short u here even though the long u is more prevalent in the Mahābhārata as a whole). This episode is discussed in greater detail in Sullivan (2016). 3 Hence I do not entirely agree with the view that the yuga teaching is neither consistently presented in the Mahābhārata nor integral to the text, as argued by Luis González-Reimann (2002; see especially pp. 102–106). See also the insightful chapter by González-Reimann (2010), where he argues for the dice match as inspiration for the four-yuga concept. Alf Hiltebeitel (2011) extensively discusses the terms yuga and kalpa, and Hindu and Buddhist uses of them, in chapters 6 and 7 of his monumental work Dharma. 4 Van Buitenen (1973: 30). I do not feel that I can improve upon his translation, except perhaps in regard to his rendering of avidhr̥ taḥ as ‘unaverted’; the word is perhaps best understood as meaning that Time is unavoidable. 5 W J Johnson (1999: xxviii–xxxv), in his excellent introduction, discusses the views of Dumézil, Biardeau and Hiltebeitel on the ‘cosmic crisis’ of the Mahābhārata. See also on this topic the first article published by Alf Hiltebeitel (1972). 6 González-Reimann (2011: 101–110). 7 See, for example, discussions in Sullivan (2011), the introductory essay to a special issue of the International Journal of Hindu Studies. 8 Fitzgerald (2004: 671). His article describes three different meanings that he translates as (1) Law or Lawful Deeds; (2) Rightness; (3) Virtue. 9 Quoting the translation of Van Buitenen (1975, vol. 2: 500): navāvatāraṃ rūpasya (Mahābhārata 3.146.33). Sutton (2000: 156) missed this subtle use of avatāra, stating that the Mahābhārata ‘has a more limited understanding of the concept and in fact never once in the Critical Edition uses the term avatāra.’ 10 As discussed by David Gitomer (1991) in his ‘Rākṣasa Bhīma.’ 11 Traditional commentators and modern translators alike ignore what seems an anomaly in the Bhagavad Gītā. Arjuna asks Kṛṣṇa to resume his familiar four-armed form, though such a form was never previously displayed or mentioned in the Mahābhārata. For example, Śaṅkara, in the earliest extant commentary on the text, comments neither on the oddity of assuming the four-armed form purportedly seen previously, nor on the absence of a resumption of his two-armed form anywhere in the text (Sastry, 1977 [1897]: 297); Rāmānuja is similarly silent (Ādidevānanda, 1991: 388).

210 Bruce M Sullivan 12 As observed by Richard Davis (2015: 55), referring to Callewaert and Hemraj (1982: 98–110), who listed 227 commentaries. Subsequent decades will have increased the total. 13 And as Brian Black observes (in an unpublished manuscript quoted with kind permission, p. 18), ‘Thus, in contrast to the Bhagavad Gītā which is a call to arms and justification for war, the Anu Gītā is a discourse which emphasises renunciation and non-violence. In contrast to Arjuna’s initial dilemma of whether to fight or not, the Anu Gītā is delivered within the context of Arjuna’s remorse after the war.’ Arjuna’s remorse not only offers a reason for the Anugītā’s emphasis on renunciation but supports the interpretation that the Mahābhārata leads its audience to embrace spiritual, not worldly, values. In the Bhagavad Gītā, Kṛṣṇa’s teachings go far beyond encouraging Arjuna to do his duty as a warrior, and include the mutual love between God and devotee as a practice that transcends even dharma. 14 Mahābhārata 5.129.16b reads saṃjahāra vapuḥ svakam. While Van Buitenen (1978: 428) translates this as ‘withdrew his real form’, a more literal translation could be ‘withdrew his own (beautiful) form.’ 15 The perspective on royal dharma in all three Mahābhārata passages contrasts markedly with the Jain approach to royalty, as discussed by Jonathan Geen in his Chapter in this volume. While the Jains envision a king immediately abdicating the throne to become a Jain monk as the only way to fulfil his spiritual needs, the Mahābhārata advocates that a king remain on the throne to rule society. As Kṛṣṇa teaches in the Bhagavad Gītā, one can remain in society, renouncing neither dharma nor one’s social role, while also attaining the highest spiritual ends. In a somewhat parallel pattern, Brian Black, in his Chapter in this volume, draws attention to how the Upaniṣads tend to emphasise complementarity between the king and the religious leader, while the Buddhist Nikāya texts are more likely to emphasise their distinct roles. See also Chapters 2, 6 and 12. 16 Bhagavad Gītā 9.2a: rājavidyā rājaguhyaṃ. 17 The table of contents in the Ādiparvan, the Parvasaṃgraha, terms its long Vanaparvan subtale rāmāyaṇam upākhyānam (Mbh 1.2.126c), but it is obviously not Vālmīki’s text. Van Buitenen (1975: 180) comments: ‘The ones responsible for the inclusion of the story of Rāma in The Book of the Forest either did not know of Vālmīki’s poem, or knew that the story of Rāma was different from it.’ Brockington demonstrated close correspondences between the Northeast recension of the Rāmāyaṇa and the ‘Rāmopakhyāna’ but also acknowledges the latter’s influence on the former, indicating that the two constitute a literary feedback loop, or stand in intertextual relationship; see Brockington (1998: 473–477); and in greater detail, Bailey and Brockington (2000: 288–325).

12 Models of royal piety in the Mahābhārata The case of Vidura, Sanatsujāta and Vidurā James M Hegarty Vidura’s life and conversations are of considerable importance in exploring both the major themes of the Mahābhārata and the society in which it arose and was transmitted. Vidura, I will argue, offers us a distinctive and powerful vision of life and its purpose. Vidura also offers us a politics that is distinctly philosophical; his teachings present a model of royal piety, in which there is an attempt to fuse political and emancipatory ideologies. In this regard, he is part of a range of attempts both within and beyond the Mahābhārata to harmonise religious and political values, institutions and goals. In the present paper, I will explore what Vidura can tell us about early Indian conceptions of kingship. As I do this, I will also consider en passant the role that a broader consideration of the manuscripts used in the Critical Edition of the Mahābhārata can have in our understanding of its reception. The Mahābhārata’s complex stance with regard to its own characters hardly needs introducing any longer. Yet, we still lack studies of the majority of its characters.1 John Smith has offered an important statement of the danger of importing alien literary conventions and psychologies to Sanskrit literature (Smith 2009). Programmatic comparative work has also recently been undertaken by Brian Black and Jonathan Geen et al. (in their special edition of the Journal of the American Academy of Religion) that, as they promised, opened up ‘new vistas in the study of South Asian religious traditions’ (2011: 28). Naomi Appleton has also published a rich and wideranging study of shared characters in Hindu, Jain and Buddhist tradition (2017). Vidura, notwithstanding the fact that he stands at the intersection of social and divine hierarchies, and is a recurrently liminal figure in the Mahābhārata, remains understudied.2 Vidura is, at birth, pre-disposed to morality. He was born as a result of the cursing of the god Dharma by a sage. The sage, Animāṇḍavya, cursed the god to a human incarnation because of a draconian response to a moral question by the god; Dharma condemned Anmimāṇḍavya to impalation because he had, in his youth, impaled a bird. One could not find a neater literary means to capture what Jim Fitzgerald has called the ‘tense, bi-polar dharma’ of the Mahābhārata, which sees as the pitting of, ‘the old dharma of burnt offerings and Lawful, Meritorious Deeds against a newer dharma of inner Virtues and living without doing harm

212 James M Hegarty (ahiṃsā)’ (2001: 63). The substance of Animāṇḍavya’s curse is precisely that the ‘old’ Dharma should incarnate in order to understand the ‘new’ dharma. This process is played out in a characteristically complex fashion in the Mahābhārata. In the present paper, three voices will detain us, those of Vidura, the sage Sanatsujāta and queen Vidurā. All three of these characters appear prominently in dialogues of the Udyogaparvan – the fifth book of the Mahābhārata, in which there is a final attempt to establish peace in the Bhārata clan. There are many other voices in the Udyogaparvan, but these three are intimately related. Two of them explicitly so: Vidura calls upon Sanatsujāta to continue his instruction of Dhṛtarāṣṭra during the latter’s long dark night of the soul. Vidurā is less directly connected to Vidura. However, she is both Vidura’s namesake and his foil, as we shall see. We will thus address three dialogues that are themselves, intratextually, in dialogue with one another (as well as other parts of the Mahābhārata, such as the Bhagavad Gītā) (for other examples of intratextuality in the Mahābhārata, see Chapter 11 in this book). There are, connected to this, two further forms of intertextual dialogue that I will explore. The first of these looks largely to the past; it is a matter of the influences and knowing nods to other, earlier, teachings in what Vidura, Sanatsujāta and Vidurā have to say. The second looks to the future; it moves forward into the manuscript traditions of the Mahābhārata and explores how later variations in the text amplify and play with its content. This is a dialogue between the scribe, diverse reading communities and the story itself. In order to put Vidura’s teachings in context, we must, first of all, consider some of the basic perspectives on kingship that are likely to have influenced the authors of the Mahābhārata. The Vedic king was associated with a range of divinities, each of which was associated with a different function: Indra with battle; Varuṇa (and Mitra) with the maintenance of civil society; Soma with ritual; Agni with the domestic sphere, the clan fire and the fire of the Vedic peoples.3 The multivalent nature of Agni allowed him to become the perfect analogue for the king, whose role, like that of the ritual fire, spanned that of the family, the clan and the people.4 The language of sovereignty also had a constitutive role in the conception of knowledge of Brahman in the Upaniṣads. For example, in Sanatkumāra’s teaching to Narada in the Chāndogya Upaniṣad, Sanatkumāra makes explicit the parallel between terrestrial and ultimate ‘dominion’ (Chāndogya Upaniṣad 7. 25.2): A man who sees, thinks and perceives thus, finding pleasure, sport, intercourse, and bliss in the Self (ātman), becomes an autonomous ruler (svarāj). He moves according to his wish throughout all (sarva) worlds. And those who understand differently have others for kings, and their worlds are perishable. They do not move according to wish throughout all worlds.5 The autonomy of the king is here equated with that of the person who understands the relationship between their inner self and the universe (for further

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discussion on sovereignty in the Chāndogya Upaniṣad, see Chapter 5). In the Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad (5.3.1), a person who understands the nature of Brahman is ‘brought tribute’ (abhi √hṛ) by ‘his own people and others’ (svaś cānye). There is also the famous characterisation of the liberated soul in the Taittirīya Upaniṣad (3.10.6): I am food! I eat him who eats the food! I have conquered the whole universe! I am like the light in the firmament! Ted Proferes, in his excellent study of Vedic sovereignty, makes clear the connections between such a formulation and kingship: Although clearly attributed to a departed man who achieved liberation through wisdom, the expressions here are all familiar as standard elements of the older ideology of the world-conquering king … The paradigm of sovereignty was thus formative for a language and symbolism of spiritual aspiration that went on to dominate religious discourse in India for centuries. (2007: 151–152) The relationship between a king and his dominion and that of the spiritual aspirant and his goal is important for how we read Vidura and the Mahābhārata more generally.6 After all, ‘two men pierce the orb of the sun (i.e. reach heavenly worlds) viz. an ascetic endowed with Yoga and a soldier killed while facing the enemy’.7 So says Parāśara, as quoted by Medhātithi toward the end of the first millennium in his Manubhāṣya (commenting on Manu 8.89).8 This very same verse finds its way, as an apposite subhāṣita, into Vidura’s teachings in the Udyogaparvan in a clutch of Kaśmīri and Devanāgarī paper manuscripts of the Mahābhārata, all of which date from the circa seventeenth to nineteenth centuries (5.33.52*178.1–2). The Upaniṣads mobilise the language of kingship to express spiritual ends and attainments, and build on the connections, or bandhus, between king and world that underwrite the great Vedic royal consecration rituals, such as the rājasūya. Vidura takes the Upaniṣadic re-reading of this Vedic substratum and reapplies it to kingship.9 He is not alone in doing this in the Mahābhārata. The Gītā characterises itself as rājavidyā, ‘the knowledge of kings’ notwithstanding its wide-ranging emancipatory teachings. This is, indeed, the only text-internal characterisation of the nature of the Gītā as a whole, as noted by Angelika Malinar (2009: 145). This, again, underscores the theological and philosophical power of the language of kingship in the Gītā and beyond. It resonates very strongly with Vidura’s presentation of the ideal king, as we shall see. From the Vedic period onwards, then, the king, as a microcosm of society, was a powerful tool for reflection of, and on, the common lot of humankind, even as the sage was a cipher for the offering of solutions to existential and spiritual problems. The efficacy of these solutions often found their most challenging test case in their

214 James M Hegarty application to the king. This is made all too clear in Vidura’s nocturnal teachings to King Dhṛtarāṣṭra in the Udyogaparvan, in which he sets out to express not the king-like qualities of the sage, following the Upaniṣads, but the sage-like qualities of the king (for the overlapping qualities of kings and sages, see also Chapters 1, 2 and 6).

Vidura instructs Dhṛtarāṣṭra Vidura’s teachings offer a very distinctive perspective on the harmonisation of competing religious and political imperatives. This is just as well, as he faces a most unhappy and confused king. When Dhṛtarāṣṭra calls for his chief advisor on the eve of the aforementioned peace negotiations, he makes very clear to Vidura his mentally disturbed state, saying: saṃjayo vidura prāpto garhayitvā ca māṃ gataḥ | ajātaśatroḥ śvo vākyaṃ sabhāmadhye sa vakṣyati || 9 || tasyādya kuruvīrasya na vijñātaṃ vaco mayā | tan me dahati gātrāṇi tad akārṣīt prajāgaram || 10 || jāgrato dahyamānasya śreyo yad iha paśyasi | tad brūhi tvaṃ hi nas tāta dharmārthakuśalo hy asi ||11 || yataḥ prāptaḥ saṃjayaḥ pāṇḍavebhyo | na me yathāvan manasaḥ praśāntiḥ | sarvendriyāṇy aprakṛtiṃ gatāni | kiṃ vakṣyatīty eva hi me ‘dya cintā || 12 || Vidura, Saṃjaya returns to scold me, While morning brings word from the foeless one. I know not what his speech contains; my limbs Are all afire and sleep eludes me still. Wise in counsel; you know what must be done. Speak, my dear, to one that – sleepless – still burns. With Saṃjaya here: I know no peace; my senses Are deranged. ‘What will he say?’ I ask and ask again.10 Far from equanimity, the king paces his chambers; this nocturnal setting is perfect for the offering of wisdom and of secret knowledge. The teachings commence in a fairly standard fashion. Vidura offers a characterisation of the wise man. There is a high level of variation in the textual tradition of the Udyogaparvan in the opening of Vidura’s teachings. The Vulgate, as well as the Southern Recension (and a large number of devanāgarī script manuscripts used in the CE) tie Vidura’s speech more closely to the immediate circumstances of Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s disturbed state (the text of the variant materials is given in bold below). Vidura says: rājā lakṣaṇasaṃpannas trailokyasyāpi yo bhavet | preṣyas te preṣitaś caiva dhṛtarāṣṭra yudhiṣṭhiraḥ ||

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viparītataraś ca tvaṃ bhāgadheyena saṃmataḥ | arciṣā prajñayā caiva dharmātmā dharmakovidaḥ || ānṛśaṃsyād anukrośād dharmāt satyaparākramāt | gurutvaṃ tvayi saṃprekṣya bahūn kleśāṃs titikṣate || duryodhane saubaleye karṇe duḥśāsane tathā | eteṣv aiśvaryam ādhāya kathaṃ tvaṃ bhūtim icchasi || 168* || vāksaṃyamaś ca dānaṃ ca naiteṣv etāni kṛtsnaśaḥ | ekasmād vṛkṣād yajñapātrāṇi rājan | sruk ca droṇī voḍhanī pīḍanī ca | etad rājan bruvato me nibodha | ekasmāt puruṣāj jāyate ‘sacca sacca || 169* ||11 niṣevate praśastāni, ninditāni na sevate | anāstikaḥ śraddadhāna, etat paṇḍitalakṣaṇam || 16 || krodho harṣaś ca darpaś ca hrīstambho mānyamānitā | yam arthān nāpakarṣanti sa vai paṇḍita ucyate || 17 || yo ‘nyathā santam ātmānam anyathā pratipadyate || kiṃ tena na kṛtaṃ pāpaṃ caureṇātmāpahāriṇā || 170* || Yudhisṭḥira, banished at your behest, Yet fit to rule the three worlds, should be king! Though wise and skilled in interpreting the law, You oppose him with your spurious claims! Ever respectful, his tender heart endures All afflictions; his truth and virtue intact. How can power be yours if you appoint Men like Duryodhana to office? Rare is restraint in speech; likewise wisdom, and yet The tools of sacrifice are made from just one tree. There is truth and untruth in every one of us! The wise man is known by his acts; he is Also faithful and of sound ontology. A gentleman’s plans do not fail; they are Untouched by pride or joy, anger or shame. To see oneself falsely is the greatest of sins. What wrong is beyond the thief who steals himself? The very inclusive Vulgate, the prolix Southern Recension and the late devanāgarī manuscripts offer us some very rich evidence of patterns of reception of Vidura’s speech. The opening anchoring of Vidura’s advice in the immediate circumstances of Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s policy failures (with its bald and insolent opening vocative using only the name of the king – something I did not attempt to reproduce in my translation) makes for a more satisfying reading experience, as it enhances the continuity of the narrative (after all, it is with anxiety over these matters that Dhṛtarāṣṭra burns). The speech in the critical text, in contrast, begins in very general terms. The variant opening of the speech also alters its emotional tone rendering it more confrontational and more like those of Dhṛtarāṣtra’s charioteer Saṃjaya (who tends not to hold back in his criticisms

216 James M Hegarty of his king). Star passages 169 and 170 reflect the strong tendency for scribes and their sources, to insert subhāṣitas that they consider appropriate to the main theme. The final bon mot makes very clear Vidura’s emphasis on truth and personal transformation.12 The speech thus captures the recurrent concerns of Vidura’s teachings to Dhṛtarāṣṭra; the king should be a scholar and a gentleman; he should be devoted to truth and orthodoxy; he should be equanimous. However, the demands of truth push the boundaries of orthodoxy, as we shall see. Vidura follows his characterisation of the wise man with a parallel presentation of the fool, which I will not reproduce here. What is noteworthy is the way in which this sequence of teachings combines socially conservative elements with more ascetic and internal teachings. Thus we find the eight prior causes (pūrva-nimitta) of a person’s ruin,13 which are all related to the mistreatment of Brahmins, followed by a teaching with strong Upaniṣadic resonances: navadvāram idaṃ veśma tristhūṇaṃ pañcasākṣikam | kṣetrajñādhiṣṭhitaṃ vidvān yo veda sa paraḥ kaviḥ || 81 ||14 With its nine gates, three pillars and five witnesses Led by the soul; the true sage knows this place. The mode of conceptualising the body in terms of its gates recurs in the Upaniṣads and elsewhere.15 Here, it suggests that the wise person must establish perfect understanding and control of their person (the king is exhorted to be, not just a paṇḍita, which I translate depending on the context as either scholar or gentleman, but also a kavi, a sage and poet). The control of the senses is required of the king in the Arthaśāstra (1.6.1–14), but in a much more politically realist mode. In the Arthaśāstra text, such control is the foundation of a ruthless clarity of thought and action. The emphasis on control of the senses and equanimity is recurrent on Vidura’s part and goes beyond the studied neutrality of the Arthaśāstra. The wise man must be ‘imperturbable (akṣobhya) as the Ganges’ (33.26). The Bhagavad Gītā is also very clear on the necessity for control of the senses.16 Vidura’s characterisation of the meritorious ascetic is interesting in this regard. He states: aroṣaṇo yaḥ samaloṣṭakāñcanaḥ | prahīṇaśoko gatasaṃdhivigrahaḥ | nindāpraśaṃsoparataḥ priyāpriye | carann udāsīnavad eṣa bhikṣukaḥ || 38.6 ||17 He is free of anger; to him clay and gold are the same. Griefless, foeless, loveless, he seeks neither praise nor blame. Sublimely indifferent, this is the true mendicant. This is very close to, of course, Bhagavad Gītā 14.22–25 (6.36.23–25):

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pravṛttiṃ ca moham eva ca pāṇḍava | na dveṣṭi saṃpravṛttāni na nivṛttāni kāṅkṣati || udāsīnavad āsīno guṇair yo na vicālyate | guṇā vartanta ity eva yo ‘vatiṣṭhati neṅgate || samaduḥkhasukhaḥ svasthaḥ samaloṣṭāśmakāñcanaḥ | tulyapriyāpriyo dhīras tulyanindātmasaṃstutiḥ || mānāvamānayos tulyas tulyo mitrāripakṣayoḥ | sarvārambhaparityāgī guṇātītaḥ sa ucyate || The man sitting apart, disinterested, unmoved by the constituents, saying to himself, ‘It is the constituents that are operating,’ who stands firm and does not waver, to whom pain and pleasure are the same, to whom a clod of earth, a stone, and a piece of gold come alike, to whom the pleasant and the unpleasant and blame and praise are equal, who is constant, who is indifferent to honour and dishonour, impartial towards friendly or hostile factions, and who has renounced all undertakings, is said to have gone beyond the constituents.18 Vidura’s instructions are expressed in terms that resonate strongly both with the Upaniṣads and the great upaniṣad of the Mahābhārata, the Bhagavad Gītā. His teachings do not always fall on fertile ground, however; at the close of the first adhyāya of Vidura’s speech (33), Vidura exhorts Dhṛtarāṣṭra to do the right thing and surrender what he should to his nephews. Dhṛtarāṣṭra responds with an almost comic level of incomprehension. He commends Vidura’s attention to his immediate plight having just been told precisely what to do! It is tempting to read a degree of irony or even pathos in Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s response. The recalcitrant interlocutor is a powerful textual tool in dialogue of this type. It can turn instruction into satire without necessarily blunting the force of the teaching itself. Vidura, in any case, persists; what follows in adhyāya 34 is a further 79 ślokas of general instruction, which finish with a close approximation of the very lines that the Southern Recension and the Vulgate choose to open adhyāya 33 with viz. a request to let Yudhiṣṭhira reign. This third set of instructions emphasises once again equanimity and due deliberation. Vidura returns to his recurrent theme of control of the senses making use of the ubiquitous – and distinctly Upaniṣadic – metaphor of the chariot:19 rathaḥ śarīraṃ puruṣasya rājan | ātmā niyantendriyāṇy asya cāśvāḥ | tair apramattaḥ kuśalaḥ sadaśvair | dāntaiḥ sukhaṃ yāti rathīva dhīraḥ || 57 || The body is a chariot; the driver is the soul. The horses are the senses; vigilant and well skilled, He drives them joyfully, a masterful cavalier. Of course, here, the chariot metaphor revels in its agonistic and royal suggestiveness. The king, if nothing else, knows chariots. This is followed by a further

218 James M Hegarty 12 ślokas exhorting control of the senses, which culminates as follows (the five foes are, of course, the senses in the verse below): nijān utpatataḥ śatrūn pañca pañcaprayojanān | yo mohān na nigṛhṇāti tam āpad grasate naram || 68 || Five foes dwell within; rising up, their plans Bring ruin to the fool that tames them not. It is worthwhile to pause here and consider the relative weight given to control of the senses and to truthfulness in Vidura’s relatively short set of teachings (spread over a total of 91 ślokas). The aforementioned section of the Arthaśāstra on this topic is, in contrast, only half an adhyāya of 12 ślokas in total. The past is also exploited in Vidura’s teachings. For much of adhyāya 35, he tells the tale of the rivalry of Virocana and Sudhanvan, which hinges on the honesty of Virocana’s father, Prahrāda, in pronouncing on the relative worth of the two boys in favour of Sudhanvan, though it may mean death to his son. This is not the first time Vidura has told this tale to his king. He told it once before during the events of the dicing between Yudhiṣṭḥira and Duryodhana’s proxy, Śakuni, in book two of the Mahābhārata, the Sabhāparvan. Vidura told it there to recall the assembly, the sabhā, led by Dhṛtarāṣṭra, to its legal responsibilities. There the tale recalled a king and his assembly to the truth (setting to one side for the present the tale’s important role as a charter for Brahmin supremacy). In the Udyogaparvan’s ‘spotlit’ encounter between the king and Vidura, it asks the king to become the truth. Dhṛtarāṣṭra should be the neutral king, who, like the yogin, is in control of his senses and the master of his impulses.20 In adhyāya 36, Vidura offers us the instruction of Ātreya to the Sādhya deities. One should note at the outset Vidura’s special relationship to Atri, as his descendent, at least in the view of the list of partial incarnations of the Ādi Parvan (given in adhyāya 61). Vidura is thus to be closely identified with the sage in this embedded tale.21 The teaching of Ātreya focuses on the characteristics of virtue revealing Vidura’s desire to exceed the bounds of nīti, or political instruction, narrowly conceived. The emphasis on equanimity and neutrality is recurrent. Ātreya says, for example: yato yato nivartate tatas tato vimucyate | nivartanāddhi sarvato na vetti duḥkham aṇv api || 14 || From that which you turn you are liberated. From that which you turn you are liberated. By ceasing to act, one knows no pain at all. This is perhaps a shade too renunciant, however, for Dhṛtarāṣṭra. He asks Vidura what makes a family great (he is perhaps recalling Vidura to his more personal concerns as pater familias). Vidura shifts to an emphasis on equanimity with

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ascetic overtones, but without a call for renunciation. The king is like the sage, but not identical with him. In verse 44, a lovely homiletic rhythm is established in this regard: punar naro mriyate jāyate ca | punar naro hīyate vardhate punaḥ | punar naro yācati yācyate ca | punar naraḥ śocati śocyate punaḥ || 44 || sukhaṃ ca duḥkhaṃ ca bhavābhavau ca| lābhālābhau maraṇaṃ jīvitaṃ ca |22 paryāyaśaḥ sarvam iha spṛśanti | tasmād dhīro naiva hṛṣyen na śocet || 45 ||23 Oftimes a man is born; oftimes a man dies; Oftimes a man rises; oftimes a man falls; Oft a man asks and is asked; oft he mourns and is mourned. Happiness and misery; sickness and ill health; Life and Death; profit and loss; in this world, they touch us all. Thus the prudent man should neither rejoice nor grieve. The next two adhyāyas (37 and 38) sees Vidura turn his instructions more directly to the matters at hand. He first of all, rather self-servingly, but understandably, praises the advisor who brings unwelcome advice to his king. He then proceeds to exhort the king to do right by the Pāṇḍavas and repeats one of the more ruthless refrains of the Mahābhārata: tyajet kulārthe puruṣaṃ grāmasyārthe kulaṃ tyajet | grāmaṃ janapadasyārthe ātmārthe pṛthivīṃ tyajet || 16 || For the family’s sake, give up one man. For the village, give up one family. For the country’s sake, give up one village. For the sake of your soul, give up the world. The śloka at this point carries, of course, its familiar political charge; Duryodhana must be abandoned. However, the exhortation to abandon the Earth ‘for the sake of the soul’ (ātmārtha) deserves more attention here. It is, after all, being uttered now, not in the midst of the sabhā, or assembly hall, where it was last heard (at Mahābhārata 2.55.10), but in the midst of a teaching to a beleaguered and insomniac king, who is begging his minister, and halfbrother, to provide him with some solace. As with Prahrāda’s tale, Vidura is revisiting familiar and, to Dhṛtarāṣṭra, unwelcome, material at a critical moment of vulnerability on the king’s part. There is, however, some solace in these harsh words, if they are connected to the larger emphasis on equanimity, truth and the control of the senses, which is Vidura’s idée fixe, as we have seen (as also that of the Bhagavad Gītā). It also poses the only sensible ethical reading of the śloka

220 James M Hegarty above from a ‘Viduran’ standpoint; the realpolitik of the first three padas is transformed by the higher teaching of the final quarter line. Nonetheless, the overarching teaching is one that is focussed on the relationship between equanimity and equitability rather than emancipation. Nevertheless, Vidura finishes adhyāya 37 with a none-too-subtle threat with regard to the power of Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s spurned nephews and a none-too-flattering comparison of Dhṛtarāṣṭra and his sons to ‘creepers’ supporting the Śāla tree that is the Pāṇḍavas (at 37.59).24 Vidura implores the king, time and again, to come to his senses and embody his teachings on wisdom. Adhyāya 40 is the culmination of Vidura’s teachings. There are three key elements to it. The first is the non-negotiability of dharma and the necessity of detachment, Vidura says (at line 11), ‘na jātu kāmān na bhayān na lobhād; dharmaṃ tyajej jīvitasyāpi hetoḥ’, ‘Not for love, nor fear nor greed; dharma should not be abandoned even for the sake of one’s life!’ These very words are used in verses offered at the very close of the Mahābhārata (at 18.5.47–50), which are said to be as instructive as the Mahābhārata itself (at 18.5.46). The emphasis at the Mahābhārata’s end is the necessity for detachment in the face of the ‘thousands of opportunities for fear and for delight’ (harṣasthānasahasrāṇi bhayasthānaśatāni ca). Of course, the content and implications of dharma are precisely what are at issue in the Mahābhārata, but the equanimity required in the face of the vicissitudes of life is not and constitutes one of the text’s central refrains. Vidura is, then, recalling the king, who is the man-in-the-world par excellence, to the deepest teachings of the Mahābhārata. The second key teaching is the power of one’s actions to determine one’s posthumous reward (40.16ff.). The passage initially seems to stop short of a fully-fledged karma doctrine, referring only to the risk of entering a ‘great darkness’ (mahat tamas) as a consequence of misdeeds. However, it warms up to an elaborate karmic metaphor: ātmā nadī bhārata puṇyatīrthā | satyodakā dhṛtikūlā damormiḥ | tasyāṃ snātaḥ pūyate puṇyakarmā | puṇyo hy ātmā nityam ambho ‘mbha eva || kāmakrodhagrāhavatīṃ pañcendriyajalāṃ nadīm kṛtvā dhṛtimayīṃ nāvaṃ janmadurgāṇi saṃtara || 20 ||25 The Self is a river and good deeds are its fords. With banks formed from constancy, restraint is its swell. Its waters are the truth, wherein the good are cleansed. The Self is righteous, the waters ever fruitful. A passion-haunted and sensuous stream! With a raft of resolve, cross rebirth’s sound! As if sensing the generically ascetic and potentially emancipatory tone of what has gone thus far, Vidura, in his third key teaching, shifts his emphasis to the authority of

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the elderly (specifically those that are also vidyāvṛddha, ‘old in wisdom’ – at line 21).26 This allows him to offer his final key instruction on the proper, varṇa-based, ordering of society. In so doing, he also gives details of how each of the four orders may enter heaven (23–26). This final emphasis on heaven is significant. It establishes a posthumous hierarchy that reflects that of mortal life and deliberately stops short of emancipation. It also leaves an opening for Dhṛtarāṣṭra to ask if anything has been left unsaid. This allows Vidura to call Sanatsujāta to offer the final, highest, teaching, to Dhṛtarāṣṭra, to which we will now turn.

The teachings of transcendental Sanatsujāta Vidura refuses to present teachings on secret and supra-mundane matters due to his birth from a śudra woman (affirming, as he does so, that he knows them nonetheless); this is why he defers to the eternally youthful Brahmin, Sanatsujāta, saying (at Mbh.5.41): brāhmīṃ hi yonim āpannaḥ suguhyam api yo vadet | na tena garhyo devānāṃ tasmād etad bravīmi te || 6 || I say only the Brahmin-born can speak of things Well hid and stand uncensured by the gods. The combination of Vidura’s teachings with those of Sanatsujāta suggests a rather self-conscious juxtaposition of mundane and supra-mundane teaching, the effect of which is that each is read in the light of the other (a juxtaposition writ large in the Mokṣadharma and Rājadharma upaparva of the Mahābhārata’s twelfth book, the Śāntiparvan, where we find many of the same teachings as those given by Vidura).27 Vidura passes the baton of instruction to Sanatsujāta in a way that is revealing; here, indeed, is the upaniṣad to end Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s dark night. The teachings of Sanatsujāta are explicitly given in private (rahite), as befits their higher nature. They cover just four short adhyāya. The level of variation in the stemma of the critical edition is formidable. There are two distinct Southern versions (one of which has a commentary attributed to Śaṃkara associated with it) and wide variation in the form and order of verses across all manuscripts. These are beyond the scope of the present Chapter. Sanatsujāta begins by undermining the kṣatriya obsession with honour or esteem (42.30). He opposes māna (good opinion) to mauna (lit. ‘silence’, but also, more broadly, ‘asceticism’) and suggest that it is only in this world that esteem is considered important. Silence and celibacy are the watchwords of Sanatsujāta. He offers extended criticism of empty Vedic ritualism (from the opening of adhyāya 43 onwards). His primary focus is on the characteristics of the Brahmin and deathlessness. In adhyāya 33, he states of the true Brahmin: vidyād bahu paṭhantaṃ tu bahupāṭhīti brāhmaṇam | tasmāt kṣatriya mā maṃsthā jalpitenaiva brāhmaṇam | ya eva satyān nāpaiti sa jñeyo brāhmaṇas tvayā || 29 ||

222 James M Hegarty The Brahmin who recites deserves no special praise. Honour not his ceaseless prattle, my lord. Know that the true Brahmin departs not from truth. This recalls the debates over the true Brahmin in, for example, Buddhist sources, such as the Dhammapada. Despite his strong criticisms of empty ritualism, Sanatsujāta’s preferences are still strongly Vedic: satye vai brāhmaṇas tiṣṭhan brahma paśyati kṣatriya | vedānāṃ cānupūrvyeṇa etad vidvan bravīmi te || 37 || Hear now my words: by means of the Vedas, Each in turn, the Brahmin stands true. The Vedas are to be followed ānupūrvya, ‘in succession’, which is perhaps a reference to the end of the Veda, that is to say the Āraṇyakas and Upaniṣads. By the end of the chapter (adhyāya 44), Sanatsujāta is ready to reveal his ultimate teaching. He tells Dhṛtarāṣṭra that the person of perfected knowledge becomes immortal (amṛta). Adhyāya 45 closes the teaching. It establishes a homiletic rhythm by means of the refrain ‘yoginas taṃ prapaśyanti bhagavantaṃ sanātanam’, ‘The Yogins know well the eternal lord’, which is repeated 20 times. Between these refrains, Sanatsujāta offers a sequence of illustrations of the pluripotency, and plenitude of God (the words deva, puruṣa, brahman and bhagavat are all used). Sanatsujāta returns to the metaphor of the chariot: cakre rathasya tiṣṭhantaṃ dhruvasyāvyayakarmaṇaḥ | ketumantaṃ vahantyaśvās taṃ divyam ajaraṃ divi | yoginas taṃ prapaśyanti bhagavantaṃ sanātanam || 5 || Mounted upon the wheel of the chariot, The horses of ceaseless, eternal, work, Carry him skyward, shining, ageless, divine. The Yogins know well the eternal lord. Now, the control of the senses is yoked, not to equitable kingship, but to explicitly emancipatory goals, as is more usual. Sanatsujāta’s teachings, with their emphasis on truth and the control of the senses, certainly overlap with those of Vidura. The emphasis on the eternal lord also resonates, again, with the Bhagavad Gītā. We are, after all, on the eve of Kṛṣṇa’s first theophany in the Mahābhārata, which happens during the peace negotiations of the Udyogaparvan (at 5.129). Both Vidura and Sanatsujāta are socially conservative (the one emphasises the varṇa system, while the other emphasises ‘true’ – still Vedic – brahminhood), but advocates of extremely high standards of spiritual insight. For Sanatsujāta, the Vedas are only authoritative in so far as they are engaged with and acted upon properly; for Vidura, the king is

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authoritative only in so far as he himself is highly disciplined and devoted to truth. These are clear parallels in these social and religious ‘contracts’, but they do not amount to the same thing (as they do in the Bhagavad Gītā). At the close of these teachings, we do not return to Dhṛtarāṣṭra. We hear no gasp of insight or a whoop of understanding. There is thus a certain equivocation in the Mahābhārata with regard to the reception of these teachings on Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s part.

The teachings of piquant Vidurā With a characteristic tendency to offer starkly contrasting teachings (a particular feature of the antagonistic Udyogaparvan),28 the Mahābhārata gives us a counterpoint to Vidura’s views from a queen of the ancient past, the aforementioned Vidurā. If Sanatsujāta and Vidura talk to, and with, one another, then Vidura and Vidurā are locked in an intratextual altercation. The play of shadows at work in the attribution of names in the Mahābhārata is also worthy of note, as it is widespread.29 It is queen Kuntī, the mother of the Pāṇḍavas, who recalls, for the benefit of the assembly for peace, the saṃvāda of Vidurā and her ne’er do well son, Saṃjaya (who has his own namesake in Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s charioteer). Kuntī herself describes Vidurā as ‘irascible’ (manyumant) and as ‘revelling in the law of kings’ (kṣatra-dharma-ratā)’ (131.2–3). Kuntī is herself, at this point in the Mahābhārata, berating her son Yudhiṣṭhira for not being more forthright in his claims and actions. The difference between the teachings of Vidura and Vidurā are not difficult to identify: na mayā tvaṃ na pitrāsi jātaḥ kvābhyāgato hy asi | nirmanyur upaśākhīyaḥ puruṣaḥ klībasādhanaḥ || 5 || You are no son of mine; neither are you The issue of your father; how is it that You came to be such a spineless eunuch cadet? This accusatory opening commences one of the most incandescent reprimands that the Mahābhārata has to offer (and it has many to offer). Vidurā cannot, by any means, be accused of passive aggression. Her basic position is that dharma is wholly constituted by manly deeds no matter their outcome: kṛtvā mānuṣyakaṃ karma sṛtvājiṃ yāvad uttamam | dharmasyānṛṇyam āpnoti na cātmānaṃ vigarhate || 14 || Doing a man’s work, run the race to its end. With no debt to dharma, you will be content. Vidurā does not detain herself with the description of idealised internal states, commitment to truth or mastery of the senses. Fame, for Vidurā, is the only index of success:

224 James M Hegarty yasya vṛttaṃ na jalpanti mānavā mahad adbhutam | rāśivardhanamātraṃ sa naiva strī na punaḥ pumān || 20 || dāne tapasi śaurye ca yasya na prathitaṃ yaśaḥ | vidyāyām arthalābhe vā mātur uccāra eva saḥ || 21 ||30 If you are not praised for wonderous deeds, You are neither man nor woman; you are But one grain in an ever-waxing heap. If your might and largesse go unnoticed, you are less than your mother’s waste. She adds to this uncompromising view a perhaps rather ironical call for her son to ‘liberate’ himself: ebhyo nikṛtipāpebhyaḥ pramuñcātmānam ātmanā | āyasaṃ hṛdayaṃ kṛtvā mṛgayasva punaḥ svakam || 32 || Free yourself from these crimes of deception. With a heart of iron, pursue what is yours! Vidurā’s comments reject the ultimate in favour of the provisional. In this regard, Vidurā’s etymology of the word ‘man’ is also noteworthy for its blunt association with heroic activity and its undercutting of more learned nirukti: puraṃ viṣahate yasmāt tasmāt puruṣa ucyate | tam āhur vyarthanāmānaṃ strīvad ya iha jīvati || 33 || For from the manor well sacked comes the word man. Live not as a woman; for thus will you be known! The etymology offered for puruṣa is a far cry from the Atharvanic etymology of púruṣa, as Brahman’s stronghold (cited in note 15). It firmly locates the value of a man in his actions. While Saṃjaya, the much-berated son initially demurs, he is eventually persuaded that Vidurā is right and promises to devote himself to the pursuit of victory over his foes. Unlike Dhṛtarāṣṭra, he affirms the truth and value of the teaching he is offered. It is worth noting that, while absent from one manuscript used in the critical edition (K5), and peppered with the usual minor scribal variations, the four adhyāya of Vidurā’s speech are almost entirely uniform across the stemma (cf. the very textually unstable teachings of Sanatsujāta). It seems that this mother’s invective could not be improved upon. The perception of the unity is also reflected in the presence of phalaśruti (descriptions of the benefits of the hearing of a text) at the end of Vidurā’s speech. The itihāsa of Vidurā and Saṃjaya is named jaya or ‘victory’ (5.134.17), which is precisely what it promises to all who hear it. Kuntī adds that ministers should tell it to their kings. This, of course, is itself a knowing and amusing nod to its stark difference from the instructions offered by Vidura to his king.

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Concluding remarks Vidura’s teachings place equanimity at the heart of royal piety. He is an integral part of the Mahābhārata’s attempt to create a model of equitable kingship that is duly, and thoroughly, Brahmin-centred. In conjunction with the creation of social hierarchies, we find, in Vidura’s teachings, a parallel attempt to organise posthumous destinations and emancipatory goals in relation to concrete social institutions. Sanatsujāta may seek to shift the indices of Brahmin excellence, but he does not question the estate, or its reliance on the Vedas properly understood and suitably engaged with. Vidura offers us Brahmin apologetics that reflect the influence of competing religious ideologies, such as those of the Buddhists. Vidura’s teachings, without those of Sanatsujāta, and even with them, are not full-throated ‘Bhagavad Gitism’, however; they do not even in potentia advocate emancipation by means of a doctrine of non-attached action. Instead, a series of mental characteristics ordinarily associated with asceticism and the pursuit of emancipatory goals, which were expressed in the language of Vedic sovereignty in the Upaniṣads, find themselves re-applied to pious kingship. Where the Upaniṣads suggest the kinglike qualities of the sage, the Mahābhārata suggests, at least in the teachings of Vidura, the sage-like qualities of the king. The former is a predominantly religious argument. The latter is a predominantly political one (and it is hard not to see the legacy of the great ‘Buddhist’ emperor Aśoka at play). Vidura’s teachings are, of course, called into question by Vidura’s namesake, Vidurā, whose powerful counter-teaching is quite simply that ‘might is right’. In this way, the Mahābhārata suggests a tension between pious and heroic kingship. This tension is one that is played out in the intra- and intertextual strategies of the Mahābhārata, as I have shown. To this rich play of ideas, we must further add the variant readings, which are found across the manuscript tradition and in other editions of the Mahābhārata, such as the Vulgate; which suggest a willingness to reposition, summarise and sometimes simply let be parts of the text. The variant offers a form of embedded commentary that is full of invaluable hints of a dialogue related to, but quite distinct from, that of our textual interlocutors, Vidura, Sanatsujāta and Vidurā. To this day, audiences find it hard to reconcile the appeal of the political leader, who is full of bravado and derring-do, with that of the figure of calm integrity.

Notes 1 The notable exceptions that spring to mind are Vyāsa, Arjuna, Karṇa and Yudhiṣṭhira, as examined by Sullivan (1990), Katz (1990), McGrath (2004) and Hiltebeitel (2001). 2 Another contribution is that of Lisa Crothers, in her 2013 doctoral dissertation, The Eyes of Power and Dharma: Conceptions of the Advisor in Early India. Vidura plays a more prominent role in this work, but in the context of a larger comparative study of the figure of the advisor in early Indian sources. 3 A considered overview of this is given in Oberlies (1998: 337–349). 4 This is traced in Proferes (2007). 5 I have used Proferes’ translation here (2007: 146). For those that feel that Proferes translates svarāj too literally (Olivelle gives ‘own master’ in his translation of the Upaniṣads), it is worth considering the Vedic use of svarāj: in the Ṛg Veda, at 3.45.5,

226 James M Hegarty

6

7

8 9 10 11 12

it refers to Indra, while at 7.82.2, it refers to Varuṇa (with Indra being described in the same hymn as samrāj). In the Atharva Veda, at 17.1.22c, it refers to Indra. It thus has deep and recurrent associations with divine kingship. The apparent ‘oxymoron’ of mokṣadharma, for example, (as it is described in Bowles 2007: 153), begins to look far less contradictory, if the very concept of the becoming ‘this all’ (idaṃ sarvaṃ) elides the term ‘dominion’ (rāṣṭram), as Proferes contends (2007: 143ff). The idea of battle as the fitting place for a king or warrior to die is recurrently stated in the Mahābhārata: 12.78.31, 12.21.19, 12.77.28, 12.77.30, 12.97.25, 12.97.25, 9.5.32, 6.17.11., but without – explicit – connection to ascetic goals, be they focused on heaven or emancipation. As cited in Kane vol. III, 1973: 58 nt. 71. The verse is also found in the Parāśaradharmasaṃhitā (3.31.1) and the Dhanurveda (1.218.1). Brian Black, in a more narratological mode, has shown the importance of the representation of kings as knowledgeable, but dependent on Brahmins, in the Upaniṣads (2007: 101–131). My translations always reproduce ślokas as – fitfully iambic – Pentameters and triṣṭubh as – ill-disciplined – Alexandrines. The final triṣṭubh is also found in the Mahāsubhāṣitasaṃgraha 7562–1&2. Only one manuscript, D2 (described by the editor of the Udyogaparvan (S K De) as containing ‘perhaps the largest number of marginal insertions’, 1931: vii) adds *170, of which we also find a version in Manu (4.255 – where the term used is ātmahāraka); this verse adds perhaps a note of more distinctly anti-Buddhist sentiment to Vidura’s speech, if we read the idea of the ‘thief of the self’ rather literally i.e. in terms of the anatta doctrine cf. Maitrī Upaniṣad 7.8 (262–263) given below in the translation of Valerie Roebuck (2004: 460), who I should like to thank for discussing this verse with me:

With juggleries of the non-self doctrine, With false examples and causes, Going astray, the world does not know The difference between knowledge and ignorance.

13 14 15

16 17

I also prefer another reading to the CE reading of kitavena in *170 to kiṃ tena na, which is the reading of the Vulgate (admittedly at 1.68.26). This line is discussed by Paul Hacker (1995: 287). Cf. 3600–3602 of the Mahāsubhāṣitasaṃgraha. The nine gates are, of course, the orifices of the body. The three pillars are the guṇas. The five witnesses that are led by the ‘soul’ are the senses. It is mentioned in the Bhagavad Gītā (the navadvāra-pura or city of nine gates at Bhagavad Gītā 5.13/Mahābhārata 6.27.13). It is mentioned in the Svetāśvatara Upaniṣad (3.18) and, admittedly with 11 gates, in the Kaṭha Upaniṣad (5.1). Perhaps the earliest reference to the nine gates is that of Atharva Veda 10.2.31 in the chapter on the nature of humankind, which speaks of the nine-doored stronghold of the gods. Verse 30 contends that Brahman’s stronghold (púr) is that for which man is called púruṣa. This etymology is questionable, but the association is obviously a longstanding one. Atharva Veda 10.8.43 associates the nine doors with the body as a lotus flower with three guṇas. For one of many examples, see Gītā 2.61. Cf. Mahābhārata 12.237.1, which repeats this verse. Van Buitenen translates gatasaṃdhivigraha as ‘beyond friendship and emnity’ (1978a: 277), but saṃdhi-vigraha has a more basic meaning of ‘peace and war’, which I think is apposite here.

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18 This is the translation of Will Johnson (1994: 62–63). 19 Ṛg Veda 6.75.6 includes a description of a chariot whose reins ‘declare from behind the will of him who drives’. The metaphor is found – to name only a few examples – in the Kaṭha Upaniṣad – 1.3.3–4; the Saṃyutta Nikāya – 1.134–155; and the Milinda Pañha – 2.1.72 ff. 20 In contrast, the Arthaśāstra simply lists a number of kings of the past whose rule failed due to their impulsiveness, which is not the same thing at all. This list includes Duryodhana (at 1.6.8). 21 His description as Atri’s son is nowhere repeated. It is perhaps an aggrandising reference to Vyāsa. Vyāsa, as a sage, lacked a rich Vedic pedigree (though the Mahābhārata is as unstinting in its acknowledgement of his Brahmin status as it is of Vidura’s low estate). This attribution marks Vyāsa, Vidura’s father, as someone ‘at home’ with ‘timetravelling intergalactic ṛṣis’, as Hiltebeitel puts it (Hiltebeitel 2001: 45). 22 The line recurs in the Śāntiparvan at 12.26.31. 23 The line recurs in the Śāntiparvan at 12.316.42. 24 Duryodhana is also explicitly compared to Bali (defeated by Vāmana) and his fall is predicted (38.43–44). 25 This śloka is also found at Śāntiparvan 12.309.16. 26 Something the Dhammapada lampoons, of course, at verse 260, ‘Someone is not an elder because his hair is grey …’ 27 As has been noted above. cf. Upaniṣadic and Buddhist Sanatkumāra (discussed by Hiltebeitel 2011: 671). In what is a good litmus test of the literary integrity and cultural saliency of the combination, Kṣemendra includes both the advice of Vidura and Sanatsujāta in his eleventh-century epitome of the Mahābhārata, the Bhāratamaṇjarī. 28 Angelika Malinar offers us a satisfying overview of the differing perspectives on kingship in the Udyogaparvan, which she connects to the central themes of the Bhagavad Gītā. Curiously, although she mentions Vidurā, she makes no mention of Vidura in this chapter (2009: 35–52). 29 As, for example, in the several Janamejayas of the Mahābhārata. 30 See also Garuḍa Purāṇa (1.115.32).

13 Dialogue in extremis Vālin in the Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad

The narrative of Rāma has taken many forms1 in many languages over 2,000 years; and while many versions are antinomian formulations or radical reformulations of the oldest form, the Sanskrit Rāmāyaṇa attributed to an author named Vālmīki, we must also recognise that the creative liberties that have been taken with the story owe something to suggestive, unresolved or underinterpreted elements this text contains (in either its vulgate or critical versions). If there is a dynamic tension that informs Vālmīki’s text, it manifests itself in the repeated confrontation of ideals of conduct with the complex and subtly disorienting realities that confront Rāma and other figures. Every critical unfolding of the narrative appears to involve a challenge to the audience’s shifting sense of moral psychology. In this Chapter, I look at one of the incidents that the tradition has always recognised as a knotty problem. I do so in order to examine in detail the conversation that is at the heart of the incident. This conversation is worth being called a dialogue because it is not merely two characters speaking to one another, but an encounter between two viewpoints that are opposed on many counts; and furthermore, it is framed as the account of a transformation of one of the protagonists through this conversation (see also Chapters 6–9). But it is also transformative at a literary and philosophical level – that is to say, not just within the narrative but at that of the reader/audience of the narrative. I will argue that there are in fact two readings of this dialogue, and that the way we think about the relationship between these two readings has implications for how we ought to understand the transformative potential that the incident contains.

The narrative Sītā has been abducted by the demon king of Lanka, Rāvaṇa, from the forest exile in which she has been living with her husband, Prince Rāma, and her brother-in-law, Lakṣmaṇa. The brothers wander through the forest hoping to find her and the means to rescue her. They encounter the magical monkey (vānara),2 Hanumān, who is drawn to Rāma and offers to take him to his master, Sugrīva, who would help him. But there is a problem. Long ago, the monkey kingdom was ruled by Sugrīva’s brother, Vālin. As Sugrīva tells it, once, after Vālin had

Dialogue in extremis 229 been inside a cave for a long time fighting a fierce demon, Sugrīva thought him dead from the flow of blood and the roars within and, to trap the demon inside, blocked the mouth of the cave with a rock. He then went back to the kingdom and assumed the throne and took Vālin’s chief wife, Tārā, as his. When Vālin escaped, he was enraged by what appeared to be an attempted regicide, and drove his brother away, and took his wife Rumā, in turn. Now Sugrīva wandered the forest. He and Rāma form an alliance, based on Rāma’s unhesitating acceptance of Sugrīva’s version of events: if Rāma can win back the kingdom for Sugrīva, then the latter will lead his army into battle against Rāvaṇa for Rāma. Sugrīva is no match for his brother, but challenges him to a fight, and despite Tārā’s warnings, Vālin accepts. As they fight, Rāma watches from hiding. Eventually, Rāma shoots Vālin down with an arrow, and reveals himself. Dying, Vālin castigates Rāma with a series of arguments against the latter’s wrongdoing, initially of killing him at all, but more potently, of shooting him from hiding. Rāma defends himself, and at the end of his response, Vālin concedes to Rāma. Tārā rushes out to speak in agony to her dying husband, and then Vālin makes arrangements for his brother to succeed him but with Vālin’s own son Aṅgada as heir apparent. Hanumān consoles Tārā, and with Vālin dead, the monkeys go off to arrange the funeral and the coronation, while Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa adhere to their exilic vow and remain waiting in the forest for Sugrīva to come back with his army. These events – starting from Rāma’s initial encounter with Hanumān – happen between sargas (chapters) 1–25 of the Kiṣkindhākāṇḍa, the fourth book of Vālmīki’s Sanskrit Rāmāyaṇa, as the critical edition numbers them.

Framing Rāma: divinity, humanity The traditional issue The medieval commentaries, the great devotional retellings of the Rāmāyaṇa in other languages and even the hyper-intense popular Hindi serial from the 1980s, all adhere to the unsettling narrative and the key features of the dialogue on dharma between Vālin and Rāma. The only question concerns how to interpret it. It cannot be bowdlerised: Rāma must shoot from concealment, Vālin must have his angry yet probing questions, and Rāma must resort to a set of answers that in itself does not logically settle the matter of his righteousness but yet must draw submission from Vālin. Let me frame this paper through the debate over Rāma’s divinity. There is the text-history and the attendant academic question – revivified by Sheldon Pollock – of Rāma’s divinity.3 To put it crudely, much modern scholarship has laboured for long to read the (indubitable) historical development of the Rāmāyaṇa as demonstrating its transformation from being the saga of a mythic warrior-hero into a sacred and normative text on the avatāra of Godas-Viṣṇu in the form of Rāma. S A Srinivasan complexified these claims,4 suggesting that the divinity of Rāma might itself have been long in its emergence, so that while the text might not display the full-blown Śrīvaiṣṇava

230 Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad theology of medieval commentators,5 it nevertheless shows some understanding of Rāma’s nature early on. Comparing the portrayal in Vālmīki with Kālidāsa’s Raghuvaṃśa (where his powers are circumscribed by Brahmā even when he is seen as at least a partial manifestation of Viṣṇu) he says, ‘Could not, then, Rāma, ambivalent, divine, but not yet freed of humanness in Kālidāsa, be so in Vālmīki’s conception also?’6 Pollock provocatively argues that the divinity of Rāma is intrinsic to the text and as such received by the tradition.7 Putting these two arguments together, it suffices for my purpose to treat the vulgate text by the time of the medieval commentaries as containing a complex and elusive recognition of Rāma’s divinity as the descent of Viṣṇu in human form. The cheapest way to sort out the text, then, is to say that the tale of the killing is in an earlier – if not original – stratum when Rāma is only a human hero, and that it is only some subsequent development in the vulgate text that makes the pragmatic action of a warrior into the problematic one of God. But obviously, the real moral charge of the narrative comes precisely from the troublesome tradition of Rāma being divine in some sense. And the more fully-developed a Rāma theology, the more significant the problem seems to become, unless the entire moral peril of the situation is ignored.8

Framing Rāma: divinity, humanity Human and divine: attempting a new hermeneutic Setting aside text-history, in this Chapter I want to look at the critical text holistically, and start with what I hope is the uncontroversial point that by the time the commentators – and here I am thinking of the more coherent Śrīvaiṣṇava reception of the Southern recension, rather than the multifaceted history of reception of the Northern recension – began to deal with the text, it definitely expressed the view that Rāma was, somehow, human yet divine. Pollock offers a complex rendition of the literary-historical account, but he sums it up succinctly: [I]t was precisely these ‘contradictory’ aspects in the nature of Rāma that have so often been the source of religious mystery and the object of theological reflection. In the Indian tradition, at least, the unity of the ‘divine saviour’ and the ‘ideal human’ was easily accommodated.9 Pollock’s literary-historical argument has three interlocking parts:10 first, the ideology of divine kingship; second, the identification of Viṣṇu specifically as the divine presence in the earthly king;11 and third, the understanding of Rāma as king who is Viṣṇu, although we cannot be sure exactly how and when Rāma came to be equated with Viṣṇu. But the point is that the text as a whole – before the commentaries – contains a certain conception of the divinity of Rāma, although Pollock is at pains to point out, ‘the hypothetical effects of the

Dialogue in extremis 231 appropriation of the text by early Vaiṣṇavism has finally no bearing on the question of the divine status of Rāma as it was originally conceived … ’12 Ajay Rao seeks to articulate the issue here: One reason this conception of the divine has engendered such confusion is its contrast with Jewish and Christian or even later Hindu theism: the hero here is both fully human and also in some sense divine ….This image of divinity mirrored another where the agent was both a man and a god: the ideal of divine kingship … Rāma’s identification with Viṣṇu is … closely related to the ideal nature of Rāma’s rule, rāmarājya.13 Rao follows this up with making a distinction between two conceptions – the human king of the text, who also has some dimension of divinity, and the Vaiṣṇava theology in which the divine appears as the human king.14 Let me sum up the challenge that each conception faces: if Rāma is a human king who also has the powers of a god, then the tensions his character faces in the Rāmāyaṇa can be dissolved by considering him ‘not merely more than human’ but also ‘in some way more than divine’.15 This agglomeration leaves the nature of the relationship between humanity and divinity, as well as the theology involved in the representation of Rāma a historical mishmash. If, however, Rāma is not only divine but indeed the supreme God, as the Vaiṣṇavas have it, then the theology of God who descends as man faces the various moral problems that come from the activities of the man. In what follows, I suggest an alternative theology, set between the redacted text and the commentators, which offers a hermeneutic through which to read Rāma, especially in such tricky situations as his dialogue with Vālin. I cannot here undertake the full task of developing such a theology, but will present its outline as a means to understand the dialogue with Vālin in its moral complexity. In brief, I suggest that we read Rāma in the Rāmāyaṇa neither as conjoining humanity and divinity – which undermines any theological recognition of Rāma as supreme Viṣṇu – nor as divinity enacting humanhood – which sends Vaiṣṇava commentators into a vortex of special pleading in such cases as the killing of Vālin. Rather, we should see Rāma as fully human and fully divine. There is a long history of Christology that attempts to unify humanity and divinity in the person of Jesus Christ, in order to fulfil the seemingly opposed requirements that he suffer to redeem humanity, without loss of the triune nature of God (as Father, Son and Holy Spirit). The human nature of Christ is real and yet does not have a personhood of its own, being in fact the Word of God made flesh.16 My purpose here is neither to interrogate nor to endorse this dyothelite metaphysics. Christology cannot concede that Jesus Christ is a human person but must find out how to introduce human subjectivity into divine presence. In that sense, it is in the same situation as any full-blown Vaiṣṇava theology: for how can God not remain God even when man? But if we were to step back from the demand to have

232 Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad a consistent metaphysics of divine being,17 we could read the possibility of a figure who is both human and divine as a hermeneutic manoeuvre. This manoeuvre depends on the spiritual mystery of Rāma consisting in being fully human while fully divine. There is nothing intrinsically inconsistent in understanding the personal God as having the omnipotence to will presence as a wholly human being. But to emphasise my point: there is no need for my immediate purpose to develop a metaphysics of divine nature even if it were advisable (and I think it is not). All I need is to say that if we read Rāma as human and divine wholly and not conjointly, then we can make sense of such key incidents in the text as the killing of Vālin in a way that has perhaps not been attempted before. The nature of divine mystery, I claim, is that Rāma can be read wholly as a human being (even within the terms of an ideology of divine kingship, which is not a theology), and then again, wholly as God on earth (as a Śrīvaiṣṇava theologian would have it). The problem comes up when we try and reconcile these two accounts as making sense together. Then we either have a political ideology masquerading as underdeveloped theology, or a unified theology struggling to cope with moral peril. The practice of such a hermeneutic, although not its articulation, is not unknown. It is found in the legendary lectures of V S Srinivasa Sastri that remained influential through the twentieth century.18 He says, The man who reads the Ramayana thinking that from the beginning he is dealing with God, will get nothing out of it. You must read the story as a human story, lived among human beings by a human being, and, then, Oh, what rich treasures there are of wisdom in it!19 Let me now, belatedly, outline my argument in the rest of this Chapter. Read one way – Rāma as human – the dialogue with the dying Vālin presents us with a compelling account of how hegemony functions, in which Vālin gives us a hint as to how the subaltern may speak, may even be heard. It is a moral tale about power, and Rāma’s is the exemplary presence of the purely human hegemon. If the trace of divinity is retained in the moral reading, it becomes destabilising, as the tradition always recognised. Read the other way – Rāma as supremely divine – the conclusion of the dialogue indicates that talking with God is ultimately not about argument but surrender (that very Vaiṣṇava attainment), and cannot ever be a moral tale at all. Vālin cannot be persuaded by Rāma to concede, he can only go beyond reason to surrender to divine presence. But this requires a theology without theodicy,20 a move no commentator appears to make, because wedded to the unity of Rāma’s divinity.

Reading Vālin The moral dialogue: the subaltern seeks to be heard This analysis, of course, is oriented, if somewhat idiosyncratically, to Gayatri Spivak’s influential essay, ‘Can the Subaltern Speak’.21 It is aligned to some

Dialogue in extremis 233 aspects of Spivak’s interrogation, especially, the failure of radical Western critics (Foucault, Deleuze) of Western subjectivity to recognise that their position is not universal, and that cultural contexts matter. It also cleaves to Spivak’s rueful acknowledgement that the subaltern who speaks (and thus has at least the chance to be heard) is already in some positional sense not the true subaltern who remains permanently – perhaps by definition – in the shadows of silence. Most importantly, I have not attempted to follow here the deepest point of Spivak’s critique, which is the constitutive place of gender in the formation of subalternity; I touch on but feel it premature to explore further the implications of Tārā’s speaking role in this episode. It seems odd to me that the rich classical literary tradition has not been studied yet in the light of subalternity’s place in South Asian studies; but for that reason it has been difficult to go beyond the sketchiest programme of outlining what such study could mean. So the focus on Vālin is both risky (in its disciplinary focus) and conservative (in talking within the terms of competing masculinities). Still, the hybrid subalternity of royal magicmonkeys in relation to the imperial norms of warrior (kṣatriya) dharma seems to raise enough interesting questions about the moral dimensions of speaking to and about power. In framing the dialogue as a moral exploration of subalternity, I propose to read the vānaras as a striking expression of subalternity in the classical Indian tradition. The most obvious presence of the voiceless subaltern in that tradition is, of course, contained within the enunciation of varṇa dharma in various śāstric sources, spoken for by an hyper-elite. (Not that anything is ever completely simple: what is the implication of speech in the Āpastamba Dharmasūtra’s strange last words, ‘According to some, one should learn the remaining dharma from women and people of all classes’? That remains an inquiry on and about the margins.) Before turning to the question of voice, I first want to draw attention to broadly two ways in which the subaltern occurs in these discourses, ways that are universal to this day. In one, subalternity is a brute fact, a self-evident structural feature of human reality that is represented in elite discourse. This is how class (varṇa) operates: one begins with the hierarchy, and the features of the subaltern are merely a consequence of that starting point. The extermination of native Americans, or ‘everyday’ racist violence across the history of the United States, is similar in its primitivist view of subalternity. But there is another way in which subalternity operates, and that is through a loaded attempt to construct it in terms of a putative rationality. Whether with the civilising mission of Empire or the argument of the Bell Curve, this construction of subalternity remains alive and well. In contrast to much of the discourse of dharma on class, the magicmonkeys of the Rāmāyaṇa are subalterns constructed through such a defence of the hegemonic dharmic order. To contrast with a famous case from the ‘other’ great text, there is no effort to argue why Ekalavya should not be permitted to match Arjuna – he just should not; his inferiority is a starting point that his manifest equality of ability cannot overcome. In the Rāmāyaṇa itself, Rāma will execute a śūdra for performing penance (in Uttarakāṇḍa 67) since wrongness

234 Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad lies primitively in his being a śūdra who by definition is disqualified from brahminical penance, whereas in our episode much goes into arguing how Vālin was in the wrong. Returning to the question of voice, it is of course scarcely deemed necessary for an elite construction of subalternity to converse with the subaltern. Nevertheless, if we are to ask at all how a subaltern might speak and perhaps even be heard, then it is when a discourse wobbles between elite purpose and recalcitrant alterity. Spivak has clarified in later work about what she was seeking to convey about the suicide of a middle-class Bengali revolutionary woman who chose to kill herself during a menstrual period in order to make clear that the suicide was not because she was pregnant, and in that way tried to ‘erase the axioms that endorsed sati’. The point I was trying to make was that if there was no valid institutional background for resistance, it could not be recognized … My point was not to say that they couldn’t speak, but that, when someone did try to do something different, it could not be acknowledged because there was no institutional validation.22 It is unclear to me what the institutional background is to Vālin’s dying speech. Too easy an assimilation of his communicative uses of warrior-kingly norms into varṇa dharma, and we lose sight of his genuine alterity; and too quick a reduction of his persona to that of a fantasy animal, and his challenge is no longer heard. There is, of course, a persistent classical Indian theme of animals protesting at being hunted, but as we will see, that is not the simple case with Vālin. It is as if the very boundaries of institutional normativity are being formed under test, in this episode as elsewhere in the text. It may be that this is because the Rāmāyaṇa was at origin a liminal text.23 Without engaging further with text-history, it is worth hazarding that the development of the text from out of bardic composition into a text on Sanskritic culture left the Rāmāyaṇa with many oddities of representational perspective. In such an implied context, the magic-monkeys are always shifting the borders of humanity. As Rosalind Lefeber usefully summarises in her Introduction to the translation of the Kiṣkindhākāṇḍa, they have human qualities but display monkey behaviour, and speak like humans but have tails. Vālin and Hanumān are superhuman in their powers, while Tārā is beautiful, wise and steadfast; but their armies fight with stones and trees, not manufactured weapons. Even more strikingly, the depiction of the fraught relationship between Vālin and Sugrīva transports the listener/reader from an ideal world of matchless piety [shown in Rāma and his brothers] down to a realm closer to their own experience: Precisely because of their beastliness, the monkeys are in some sense more recognisably human than the humans.24

Dialogue in extremis 235 The narrative cannot cease to distinguish the vānaras from the uninflected human beings with whom they interact (we must bracket the major question of the demons for this Chapter). They cannot be simply equal, simply the same. The literary and didactic power of their presence comes from the questions they ask about humanity as conceived within the hegemonic order of dharma. That Vālin, their king, speaks (as too does his queen, Tārā) does raise the tricky issue of the status of speaking elites amongst subaltern communities: namely, if Spivak’s original position is right, the one who speaks cannot truly be a subaltern. But a look at what Vālin and Rāma say to one another does permit us to explore some features of subalternity within the very possibility of dialogue with the hegemony, the warrior-king. First of all, a minimum of interpretive honesty requires that the subaltern’s speech not be mere words of servitude, but an expression of agency that chooses its modality of speech. (But subaltern agency is ultimately negating; it can only be tragic. We know that already, because Vālin speaks as he dies from an arrow.) When the fallen Vālin sees Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa emerge from hiding, ‘He spoke these severe words, albeit civil and consonant with righteousness.’25 Such subaltern speech cannot be defined by superordinate conditions, but must always – even in extremis – question those conditions in order to inscribe its presence upon the encounter. I did no harm in your dominion, or your city; nor did I insult you. So why have you killed me, an innocent forest-ranging monkey living on fruit and roots, when I was engaged in battle with someone else, and not fighting with you?26 Vālin engages with the terms of hegemonic discourse (or else, how will he communicate? That he is subaltern is made clear because he is forced to do so). He notes that Rāma’s reputation and birth should associate him with normative virtues. But that makes his criticism more searching. We are but forest-dwelling animals, Rāma, living on roots and fruit. This is our very nature, whereas you are a man, a lord of men. Land, gold, and silver are reasons for conquest; but what do you gain from the forest-fruit that belong to me?27 … King, men do not touch my skin or bones, and my flesh must not be eaten; and yet I, a five-clawed creature, have been slain.28 This is an artful place to locate the case for subaltern equality: it is not in the language of the reservation, where the rapacity of a conquering culture is voluntarily held back by the conqueror. Whatever the martial capacity of the two sides (and Vālin will have something to say about that), this is a paradoxically brutal call to equality: if you want to fight for the things you need, it would make sense. Subalternity is presented as an alternative space outside the norms of hegemonic culture, such that its conquest is needless, irrational. At the same time, subalternity does not disappear in this call to

236 Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad a certain equality. Here, the unstable humanity of the magic-monkey is put to powerful use. There is an acknowledgement of ‘untouchability’, a decisive echo of class proscriptions against pollution – re-coded as about dietary practice rather than social status. The speech of the subaltern expresses subalternity because it functions within the terms of superordinate discourse. We have seen that in Vālin’s orientation to the norms of righteousness according to the code of the kṣatriya. But in order to speak so as to be heard, the subaltern must deny his subordinate positionality. Vālin contrasts himself with his brother, who models what we may colloquially call ‘sidekick’ subalternity – a break out of servitude but only as a cipher for superordinate morality. (As the meme has it, how is the Lone Ranger ‘lone’, when he has Tonto with him? Sugrīva can only be through being with Rāma.) Vālin essays the largest claim he can make, though a competitive masculinity that both compares and contrasts with Rāma’s ostensible warrior dharma. It is not even equality he asserts, but superiority. If you had fought me in an open fight, prince, I would have killed you, you would now be gazing at Vaivasvata, the god of death.29 I could have given you Rāvaṇa, not killed in battle but bound around the neck; yet for that same outcome, you killed me, wishing to please Sugrīva.30 He says too that he could simply have rescued Sītā himself. All these forms of speaking, through and then beyond the self-awareness of subalternity, come together to express the limits of subaltern speech as agentive presence. Now Vālin’s final point, at 17.43, is the moral one. From all these ways of signifying himself, he asks the question that will force into the open the nature of the hegemonic order that renders him ineluctably subaltern. It is the question that the tradition recognises as the acute problem. ‘It is fitting that when I go to heaven, Sugrīva should obtain the kingdom. But what is not fitting is for you to have killed me unjustly in battle.’31 Rāma’s response begins with claiming representative kingly power: he is acting for his brother, Bharata (who, of course, is in turn acting as king for Rāma during the latter’s exile) (18.6). It is the ancient right of the state to have monopoly on punishment; but Rāma justifies himself saying that this punishment is not because of the intrinsic nature of Vālin (although he is foolish) or even transgression of rules specific to his category of being. It is of a quite universal rule of conduct. Learn, then, the reason that I have killed you: you have forsaken everlasting morality (sanātanaṃ dharmaṃ), having lived in sin with your daughter-inlaw Rumā [since the wife of one’s younger brother is to be considered as a daughter-in-law] (18.18) To assert that the subaltern is just being treated like anyone else when it comes to punishment is, of course, a general feature of hegemonic justification. It is indeed

Dialogue in extremis 237 the way to authorise violence, but also the easiest justification to give (as the denials of ethnic differentiators in prison populations reminds us only too well). In fact, Rāma later resorts to stating the unconditional givenness of royal power, saying that nobody should harm or censure or insult kings, who are gods in human form walking on earth (devā mānuṣarūpeṇa caranty ete mahītale; 18.38), and Vālin’s rebuking him is deemed impermissible. He will not be heard if he speaks that way again. But before that, Rāma’s second answer unexpectedly comes closest to erasing the distance of subalternity. My friendship with Sugrīva is just like my friendship with Lakṣmaṇa. For the sake of wife and kingdom, he is devoted to my highest good. I made a promise, too at that time in the presence of the other monkeys. How can someone like me disregard such a promise such as that?32 Vālin’s brother is as Rāma’s brother – a significant psychological dimension is added to moral reasoning. Here, I think, we have a valuable check to too monotonic a construal of subalternity: a person may simultaneously be and not be a subaltern; and we lose the analytic power of the concept, as well any humanist optimism, if we (whoever ‘we’ are) engage in nothing other than the search for the subaltern who can never be anything else. The justification in itself is moot, for it does not engage with Vālin’s point that Rāma could have been his friend instead, and to greater effect. But its very weakness points to the fact that emotion is a far more significant force in the structuring of conduct than the abstract norms of social order (here, of kingship) might suggest. But not for long. Rāma knows that he must address the key challenge in 17.43. And here the distance between him and Vālin opens back up as wide as it can. Men seeking meat shoot animals, whether attentive, inattentive or even facing away; there is no wrong in this. Even royal sages who fully understand righteousness hunt here. So, monkey, I struck you down with an arrow in battle, whether you fought back or not. After all, you are only a monkey.33 That is to say, there is no moral argument to be had; ultimately, Vālin will not be heard. The obscure compositional history of the Rāmāyaṇa leaves us with an irreducibly polycentric and unstable view of the world. It is worth taking seriously the fact that a tradition so capable of redaction did not eliminate but layered its contrary perspectives.34 So I take it as hermeneutically significant – if we want to recognise the living text, which of course one cannot assume in ‘past philology’ – that these obviously inconsistent approaches are left juxtaposed. In seeing subalternity in such a text, we confront the sheer resistance of its undoubted presence to systematisation. But some deep features are evident in the dialogue read in this manner.

238 Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad Vālin wants to be considered within the terms of dharma: since subalternity is positional to a hegemonic order, it can be rejected only by saying that the terms of that order lead to such rejection. But he also wants to reject those terms themselves, and thereby re-code his subalternity as radical otherness. Yet, either way, subalternity is a tragic condition. It can be spoken only in erasure. So Vālin’s freedom of expression comes at the time when he is already dead. Every moral order that takes the form of social order leaves open such a tragic absence of closure. That is at least one reading of the ‘subtlety’ of dharma as Rāma puts it. ‘Dharma is subtle, monkey, and extremely difficult to understand even for good people. The self in the heart of all beings knows the good and the bad’.35

Reading Vālin The dialogue with God: only surrender Vālin can live only an after-life, a religious ideal that requires us to see him in another way. The critical problem lies in an assumption – whether by Vaiṣṇava commentator or German philologist – that can be summed up with this slogan: theology requires theodicy. In other words, it is taken for granted that Rāma’s reasoning in response to Vālin’s castigation of him must be what brings about Vālin’s astonishing transformation of attitude. Once Rāma has finished stating that he has hunted Vālin as an animal, Vālin is ‘deeply disturbed’ (pravyathito bhṛśaṃ), and responds with hands cupped in supplication (prāñjali) (18.40). ‘You see the nature of things, know the truth, and are devoted to the wellbeing of people. Your immutable judgement on deed and consequence is gracious’.36 From here on, Vālin’s concerns turn away from Rāma towards Sugrīva’s succession and securing his own son, Aṅgada’s future. His response cannot easily be read as a judicious acceptance of Rāma’s argument. It is some other kind of transformation. Let me now develop my position by triangulating it with the Vālmīki narrative we have seen so far, and David Shulman’s inspired reading of Kampaṉ’s Tamil Irāmāvatāram.37 In the Kampaṉ text, Vālin already knows full well that Rāma is Lord Viṣṇu, and is confident in the face of Tārā’s fears that Rāma will not do anything untoward. But as the audience knows, Vālin is betrayed by God. In Vālin’s accusatory questioning and Rāma’s multiple but indirect answers, Kampaṉ follows Vālmīki. One difference is that Lakṣmaṇa finally explains to Vālin that Rāma shot from hiding in order to prevent Vālin from taking refuge in Rāma and changing the course of predestined events. Nevertheless, even then, Vālin’s final concession comes as surprisingly here as in Vālmiki, for the arguments in themselves do not add up. But because Kampaṉ’s Rāma is known to be God, the poet is able to spell out why Vālin makes this transition. ‘[T]he poet tells us bluntly: Vālin suddenly realises the true nature of his opponent. Or, to be more precise, he understands what it means to argue with God.’38 What does it mean? Shulman suggest that it is:

Dialogue in extremis 239 the unexpected truth that Rama, because he is God, can indeed violate the code. God does, in fact, shoot down his devotees from his hiding place, and the victim’s protests against this fate ultimately reveal only his own ignorance, egoism, and subservience to relativity.39 Rāma does show dharma by personal example, but God is linked to chaos too, and not only order: ‘God is total existence’ and dharma is ‘all that is (uṇṭu)’. Viṣṇu is constructive in Rāma’s open, dharmic actions; but he is also capable of hidden actions that manifest his destructive aspects. Kampaṉ has Vālin say that Rāma is broken-hearted for what he has to do, and the evil of the action is reevaluated as grace; so Vālin accepts ‘unequivocally the deity’s relations with evil’.40 Shulman concludes, rightly, that Kampaṉ is concerned with theodicy, which consists in this ‘new perception of God’ as both creative and destructive. This theodicy is indeed revisionist, because Vālin’s spiritual surrender (prapatti) is traced as a move from a narrower conception of God as good (and therefore incompatible with evil) to an expanded one of God as the source of good and bad, the creative and the necessarily destructive. Crucially, however, it requires Kampaṉ to deny Rāma’s humanity altogether, because only then can Vālin’s rage flow from within what is already devotion. As we have discussed, it is integral to the Vālmīki text that Rāma’s divinity is not a given but a meta-narrative device that erupts into the text only at critical points, otherwise leaving Rāma human. So Vālin’s concession is not a passage from one to another form of devotion, but a radical disjuncture in his understanding of Rāma. It is not a development or even transition, but a complete switch of perspective, going from the probing anger towards the hegemonic order that Rāma represents to a complete and reasonless acceptance of Rāma. Vālin finally sees Rāma as God, yet not because he is persuaded by Rāma as man. As I have argued, ‘Vālmīki’ deliberately leaves a gap between the dialogue on dharma and the event of spiritual surrender. But in Vālmīki, Vālin does not discover ‘what it means to argue with God’. He argues with the king in order that he may be heard as a subaltern. But when he is heard by God as a devotee, he no longer argues. Argument is over standards, of conduct and reason. But being heard by God without argument is to have a theology without any theodicy, howsoever revisionist. It is not a move the exegetical tradition has made, although – and it would require a different undertaking to establish this – one possible aspect of the Śrīvaiṣṇava theology inaugurated by Rāmānuja might not be altogether inconsistent with such a move: for if ‘taking refuge’ (śaraṇāgati) or ‘surrender’ (prapatti) are to be taken rigorously, doing so without reason but only for love and devotion seems to imply the suspension of theodetic reasoning. Vālin’s is the sharpest depiction of the text’s switch of register from arguing with the exiled prince to surrendering to the hidden god. ‘God is the only point of loving God. Other outcomes, however desirable, are, thereafter, in God’s hands’, as D Z Phillips says of the Christian God.41 Theodicies, on the other hand, assume that ‘God is part of a community of criticism and counter-criticism’.

240 Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad But then the problem arises, ‘where are we to find the standards that would make us happy were God to live up to them?’ Philosophers may claim to have found reasons for evil to exist consistently with God. ‘But these reasons are operative within a moral community. Since God is not a member of such a community, such reasons cannot be ascribed to him’.42 Historically, again, we may take the human and divine narratives in Vālmīki as a clash between the secular cosmic order of dharma and the emergent total theology of Viṣṇu. Seeing the text as a whole, only the hermeneutic move I recommend shifts these two dynamics from clashing at the same level into functioning at two different levels. It has been argued that in some places in the Hebrew Bible, the mystery of God makes for the disappearance of theodicy. Examining Qoholeth (Ecclesiastics), James Crenshaw makes this case: Because reason cannot fathom God, neither can it contest it. The problem is no longer God; it has now become the limits of rational discourse about deity. Theodicy, then, is insoluble, a mystery that is embedded in the unfathomable mystery of God.43 If something comparable is signalled in the disjuncture of Vālin’s transformation, then the way the narrative proceeds over the rest of the episode indicates what happens with dialogue in the face of this insuperable mystery. Vālin simply seeks to ensure that his son Aṅgada succeeds Sugrīva, and asks Rāma to show the same regard to the former as he does to the latter. Rāma then offers rather cool consolation (āśvāsa) to a Vālin who now ‘saw things clearly’ (vyaktadarśanam). You should not worry about us, or even about yourself, best of monkey, for we have made our determination with regard to you according to dharma … 44 Therefore, freed from sin by meeting with this punishment, you have returned to your dharmic nature, by the path determined by dharma.45 Devotion may release Vālin at his death; but his dying is still tragically bound to the order which he had challenged. I cannot think of a place where a Vaiṣṇava is more bleakly confronted by the humanity of Rāma than at this place, where Vālin emerges as a true devotee without yet the reciprocal reassurance of God (for he only gets the reassurance of the dharmic prince). It seems that the divinity that Vālin glimpses is of the Deus absconditus. After all, if we found Rāma’s words reassuring, we would once more be subjecting his divinity to the standards of his human conduct, which is precisely what causes the theodetic problem in the first place. Contrast how Kṛṣṇa’s reassurance at the end of his dialogue with Arjuna, at Gītā 18.66, requires first the theophany, the deliberate presencing of the divine as divine, before that reassurance can be delivered with all norms of human rationality left behind. Now, Vālin is also emphatic (speaking to Sugrīva) about Tārā, who he says ‘is thoroughly knowledgeable about deciding subtle matters and about various

Dialogue in extremis 241 portents’ (artha-sūkṣma-viniścaye, autpātike ca vividhe sarvataḥ pariniṣṭhitā; 22.13). ‘Whatever she says is right should be done without doubt, for nothing Tārā believes turns out to be otherwise’.46 Rāma does not speak again until Vālin is dead. He stands to one side, resting on his bow (19.25). Tārā rushes out to grieve over Vālin’s dying body, and speaks mainly to him. It is striking that she does not once address Rāma. Three times she mentions only that Vālin has been slain by Rama (19.19; 20.18; 23.15), a mere description of fact; and later, that fate (kāla – time/death/darkness) came in the form of Rāma (24.34).47 As we are told repeatedly by the poet and various actors in the scene, she is wise; and I wonder whether it might be that her greatest wisdom lies in treating the prince who is present as the God who is absent. I am by no means suggesting that there can be no dialogue with God. But it seems to me that in the Hindu tradition, it always requires God’s self-disclosure as a dialogical presence before that can happen; for accidental conversations with a hidden God are not dialogues (for dialogues with deities that disclose their divine identity, see Chapters 8 and 11 in this book).48

Conclusion Vālin’s dying is a critical event at which we see the palimpsest of the Rāmāyaṇa’s narrative peel apart for a moment. Seeing Rāma as human permits a dialogue on normative order and the unsettling technique by which a subaltern voice is heard at the boundary-limits of the text’s creative range. Seeing Rāma, yet again, as God shows that dialogue is not usually a theological possibility, for it requires exactly that agentive tension that spiritual surrender to divine presence gives up. The difficulty here is that it is near-impossible to resist trying to bring these two readings together into some single relationship, rather than leave them as correlative aspects of the encounter with the text, two readings permanently available to us without one collapsing into the logic of the other. But if we can so resist the temptation, we are left with what could be called a fruitful irresolution that keeps us continually involved with the possibilities the text has opened up for us. There are other places, other texts, where that exceptional type of dialogue takes place, but the attention that the tradition has placed on them shows how exceptional they are. Here, I have sought to argue that the bulk of that same commentarial tradition has misplaced its sense of the exceptional, in worrying that the human standards of dialogue fail to be met during the mysterious suspension of it in the face of a hidden God.

Notes 1 Richman (1991). 2 The vānaras behave like humans, they are described in monkey-like terms both physically and in behaviour, and they are magical in their capacities, changing form at will and displaying strange non-human powers. And Hanumān becomes a deity in the tradition in any case. So ‘monkey’ means something special in the Rāmāyaṇa. In my reading, I suggest that they also represent a certain challenging subalternity from

242 Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad

3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

27

28 29

the perspective of the redactors and commentators (if not, perhaps, the original bards and the First Poet) of the text. Pollock (1991). Srinivasan (1984: 135–138). Rao (2014: 84, 109, 111 on Vālin). Srinivasan (1984: 137). It makes no sense to me that for this reason, Pollock’s argument is wrong, and that it is merely a Vaiṣṇava apologetic (which apparently makes it doubly wrong), as Gonzales-Reimann seems to think (2006). Ajay Rao points out how in Vedānta Deśika’s praise-poem, the Mahāvīravaibhava, the slaying is simply depicted as demonstrating Rāma’s power over a Vālin who had already humbled Rāvaṇa (Rao 2014: 111). Pollock (1991: 20). Srinivasan (1984) covers the same ground too. The king is a being in which ‘mankind and divinity actually meet and combine’, Pollock quotes Jan Gonda (Pollock 1991: 51). Pollock (1991: 53). Rao (2014: 2–3). Rao (2014: chapter 1). Pollock (1991: 43). The main purpose of this hybridity, of course, is because when Rāvaṇa got a boon from Brahmā to be safe from being killed by all classes of beings, he arrogantly did not bother to be saved from human beings; so Rāma has to be human. For a recent and sustained inquiry into this ‘divine unity’, see Riches (2016). I argue in the case of Śrīvaiṣṇava interpretation of the Kṛṣṇa of the Gītā that a metaphysics of divine being has to be left behind in a mystical acceptance of God; Ram-Prasad (2013: chapter 2). Srinivasa Sastri (1977 [1944]). Srinivasa Sastri (1977 [1944]: 12). ‘By theodicies, one means defences of the highest wisdom of the Creator against the complaints which reason makes by pointing to the existence of things in the world which contradict the wise purpose’ (Kant 1973 [1791]: 283). In the version in Spivak (1993: chapter 3). Spivak (2010: 228). Julia Leslie argued in the conclusion to her portrayal of the contemporary Vālmik community that Vālmīki may have been a tribal bard with knowledge of Sanskrit who was somehow appropriated into a brahmin clan (Leslie 2003). See Lefeber on Rāma’s Allies (Lefeber 1994: 43). I mostly follow Lefeber’s nowstandard translation, only occasionally diverging with regard to a few words or phrases. abravīt praśritaṃ vākyaṃ paruṣaṃ dharmasaṃhitam | 4.17.12c. Text from GRETIL. viṣaye vā pure vā te yadā nāpakaromy aham | na ca tvāṃ pratijāne ‘haṃ kasmāt tvaṃ haṃsy akilbiṣam || phalamūlāśanaṃ nityaṃ vānaraṃ vanagocaram | mām ihāpratiyudhyantam anyena ca samāgatam || 17.20–21. vayaṃ vanacarā rāma mṛgā mūlaphalāśanāḥ | eṣā prakṛtir asmākaṃ puruṣas tvaṃ nareśvaraḥ || bhūmir hiraṇyaṃ rūpyaṃ ca nigrahe kāraṇāni ca | tatra kas te vane lobho madīyeṣu phaleṣu vā || 17.26–27. carma cāsthi ca me rājan na spṛśanti manīṣiṇaḥ | abhakṣyāṇi ca māṃsāni so ‘haṃ pañcanakho hataḥ || 17.35. dṛśyamānas tu yudhyethā mayā yudhi nṛpātmaja | adya vaivasvataṃ devaṃ paśyes tvaṃ nihato mayā || 17.39.

Dialogue in extremis 243 30 sugrīvapriyakāmena yad ahaṃ nihatas tvayā | kaṇṭhe baddhvā pradadyāṃ te ‘nihataṃ rāvaṇaṃ raṇe || 17.41. 31 yuktaṃ yat prapnuyād rājyaṃ sugrīvaḥ svargate mayi | ayuktaṃ yad adharmeṇa tvayāhaṃ nihato raṇe || 17.43. 32 sugrīveṇa ca me sakhyaṃ lakṣmaṇena yathā tathā | dārarājyanimittaṃ ca niḥśreyasi rataḥ sa me || pratijñā ca mayā dattā tadā vānarasaṃnidhau | pratijñā ca kathaṃ śakyā madvidhenānavekṣitum || 18.26–27. 33 pramattān apramattān vā narā māṃsārthino bhṛśam | vidhyanti vimukhāṃś cāpi na ca doṣo ‘tra vidyate || yānti rājarṣayaś cātra mṛgayāṃ dharmakovidāḥ | tasmāt tvaṃ nihato yuddhe mayā bāṇena vānara || ayudhyan pratiyudhyan vā yasmāc chākhāmṛgo hy asi || 18.35–36. 34 Brockington argues, ‘The point is that the original authors were more concerned with telling a story which extolled Rāma’s martial qualities and it was only later redactors who became worried by moral scruples’ (Brockington 2004a: 667). I only wish to say that we do not have very persuasive reasons why these developments were left together, and the tale not re-told. In our episode, it may be that the writers with moral scruples were simply not very good philosophers, and left Rāma with bad arguments. I just think that it makes more literary sense to see the composition as deliberately leaving gaps in the dharmic re-configuration of the martial ruthlessness. Here, as in the Mahābhārata, dharma queries itself, for the tradition saw it that way. 35 sūkṣmaḥ paramadurjñeyaḥ satāṃ dharmaḥ plavaṃgama | hṛdisthaḥ sarvabhūtānām ātmā veda śubhāśubhe || 18.15. 36 tvaṃ hi dṛṣṭārthatattvajñaḥ prajānāṃ ca hite rataḥ | kāryakāraṇasiddhau te prasannā buddhir avyayā || 18.43. 37 Shulman (1979). 38 Shulman (1979: 666). 39 Shulman (1979: 666). 40 Shulman (1979: 668). 41 Phillips (2004: 162). 42 Phillips (2004: 150). 43 Crenshaw (2005: 169). 44 na vayaṃ bhavatā cintyā nāpy ātmā harisattama | vayaṃ bhavadviśeṣeṇa dharmataḥ kṛtaniścayāḥ || 18.53. 45 tad bhavān daṇḍasaṃyogād asmād vigatakalmaṣaḥ | gataḥ svāṃ prakṛtiṃ dharmyāṃ dharmadṛṣṭtena vartmanā || 18.55. 46 yad eṣā sādhv iti brūyāt kāryaṃ tan muktasaṃśayam | na hi tārāmataṃ kiṃ cid anyathā parivartate || 22.14. 47 This passage within the episode deserves separate treatment, in light of the fact that Spivak’s exploration of the gendered nature of subalternity proceeded precisely through an interrogation of the Dharmaśāstra discourse of sati, of the wife dying on her husband’s funeral pyre; for Tārā wants to die with her husband, while it is Hanumān who advises her that she should do what is ‘auspicious’ (śubham) and ‘Let Aṅgada here, supported by you, rule the earth’ (21. 5, 9). The story leaves her alive, cremating Vālin and awaiting the return of the monkey army. 48 One is reminded from the Hebrew Bible that the self-declaration can actually foreclose on dialogue (Exodus 3:14): ‘ehyeh ašer ehyeh’, whose very translation raises the question of what is being un/said (‘I am [will be] that I am [will be]’). Moses precisely does not have a dialogue with the burning bush.

Afterword Laurie L Patton

The series, Dialogues in South Asian Traditions: Religion, Philosophy, Literature, and History is now in its sixth year. The series’ premise is that dialogue, while omnipresent in Indian traditions, is under-theorised in the study of South Asian culture. The series also intends to show the ways in which Indian history is always plural, always engaged with ‘the other’ in a number of ways, and that reading Indian texts through the dialogical lens is a helpful way to make that pluralism visible. Careful study of the details of dialogues can reveal hitherto unnoticed aspects of literary, philosophical and theological works. Brian Black and Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad’s In Dialogue with Classical Indian Traditions continues and deepens the emphasis of the previous books in the series. Like the previous works, its essays explore the nature of a single dialogical tradition, introduce a long-term dialogue between two Indian traditions, such as Buddhism and Hinduism, or introduce themes in dialogues across a number of classical religious and philosophical genres.

How does this volume change things? How does In Dialogue with Classical Indian Traditions push the agenda forward? I think there are a number of important distinctions made in this work. Black and Ram-Prasad’s framing of the issues is new: (1) dialogue as encounter – whereby an actual meeting is depicted and mutual influence occurs; (2) dialogue as transformation – whereby the consequences of an encounter are dramatic, and, in the words of the editors, ‘relationships and meanings shift’; and (3) dialogue as interpretation – whereby the form of dialogue itself becomes an interpretive signal to readers as to how to read the text in the present and the future. The editors also make the useful distinction between dialogue as narrative, where an engagement between particular characters is depicted, and dialogue as discursive commentary, where philosophical rivals are given voices and refuted. The two forms of dialogue can be overlapping in structure and intent, but generally occur in different domains of Indian culture. While the nature of the authors’ contributions is too subtle and flexible to suggest a rigid ‘typology’ of the dialogical, these categorical insights alone should be taken forward into future works. ‘Dialogue as encounter’ retains the resonance of the

Afterword 245 dramatic presentation so essential in dialogue, whether it is between a sage and a king in the Upaniṣads or the Nikāyas (Black), or an absent paccekabuddha and his self-reliant disciple in various parts of the Pāli Canon (Appleton). The category reminds us that dialogue frequently draws us into a ‘present’ moment. Moreover, the idea of an ‘encounter’ also makes us want to know the outcome of the exchanges, even of dialogues not officially placed in the ‘encounter’ section of the book. ‘Encounter’ preserves the element of surprise that is so central to much Indian narrative texts, particularly in the epic episodes such as the ones discussed in this work. In the dialogue between Yudhiṣṭhira and Nahuṣa the snake (Thomas), will the snake change his way of life? In the exchange between Rāma and Vālin (Ram-Prasad), will Vālin accept Rāma’s logic? And in the conversation between Vidurā and her son (Hegarty), will Saṃjaya truly adhere to his mother’s advice? ‘Dialogue as transformation’ underscores the efficacy of the genre. Why put something in dialogical form in the first place, when ancient Indian writers also clearly heavily availed themselves of poetry and prose, as well as more straightforward narrative and philosophical genres? The answer is generally because the point is more persuasive in dialogical form. This would be powerfully true in a clearly didactic ‘gnoseological’ text such as the Yogavāsiṣṭha (Madaio), or in the Vārkarī women saints’ redemption of gender oppression through a playful dialogue with their god Viṭṭal (Kirloskar-Steinbach), or in the various Jain depictions of King Mahābala finally deciding to pursue the superior path of the mendicant (Geen). These are the cases described in the section, but we might also observe the transformational efficacy of dialogue in other essays. For Śaṃkara to write ‘here’s how my view is superior to the Bhāgavatas’ doesn’t really drive the point home, but his sincere engagement with the Bhāgavatas as interlocutors does (Suthren-Hirst). Buddhaghosa could depict the Buddha’s teaching in far more abstract form (Heim), but choosing dialogue allows its reach to move across centuries to transform even the contemporary reader. Finally, the idea of ‘dialogue as interpretation’ demonstrates the role of dialogue as a signifier beyond the genre in which it is written. When an ancient Indian writer chooses dialogue, he or she is frequently giving the reader clues on how to interpret the text, whether that is one, 100, or 1,000 years after it is written. In the aforementioned Heim Chapter, Buddhaghosa’s attention to the ‘frames’ of the Buddha’s encounter signal that these details draw any reader into the Buddha’s teachings. So, too, the Sullivan Chapter shows the ways in which the BhīmaHanūmat dialogue is so explicitly modelled on the Gītā that we must interpret Hanūmat as divine the way Kṛṣṇa is in the Gītā. Hegarty’s juxtaposition of several dialogues involving King Dhṛtarāṣṭra about controlling the senses gives the reader/ listener clues as to how to interpret the vexing questions of kingship and renunciation.

What’s next for the study of dialogue in India? Due to the volumes in this series, and this volume in particular, we have a greater knowledge of how dialogues work in and across particular genres – narrative,

246 Laurie L Patton philosophy, poetry, epic, hagiography and so on. And we know more about how dialogues work in the traditions and schools of Jain, Brahmanical texts and Buddhist texts. The book, like the series as a whole, has made it part of its purview to think about Indian pluralism, and the multiplicity of world views that were competing in India at any given moment in its history. Frazier’s idea of a ‘plurilogue’ is particularly helpful here, moving away as it does from a simple dyadic approach to the dialogues that infuse early and classical Indian texts. Yet one of the subtitles of this series is ‘history’. How might we think about dialogues within the larger sweep of social and cultural history? Some of the most salient questions for early and classical India are the different forms of narration of history, and historical contexts. Taking into account different historiographical approaches are a particularly challenging task for historians of early India, where dating and assessing methods of composition cannot be a precise endeavour; at best, one can give a span of possible dates of origin and a range of possible compositional methods. Might dialogue become a lens through which we look at early and classical intellectual histories in new ways? For example, might we look at the development of Indian philosophical traditions in terms of their use of dialogues over time? Is there a particular approach within each school to the use of the pūrvapakṣin? Indeed, Freschi’s Chapter in this volume seems to suggest something like this. And this approach in turn might help us with social history; if we detect changes over time in that usage of the pūrvapakṣin, we might detect a changed approach to and relationship with a particular school’s interlocutors. What is more, in this volume as well as earlier ones (Black and Patton 2015), the series has acknowledged the role of dialogue and plurilogue as forms of shutting down debate, of finalising a truth before it might be final in the world outside that particular text. Might it be an intriguing project to look at the different ways in which these conversations are relatively more open or closed at any given period in the life of a tradition? Finally, in this spirit of telling history, one might add the need for more volumes focusing on second millennium and early modern, as well as contemporary dialogical traditions. Are there significant changes in the approach to dialogues in later epic compositions? How does the emergence of Indian vernacular languages change composers’ and performers’ approach to dialogue? Do early modern influences, such as interaction with Muslim thinkers and texts, change Indian classical traditions’ approaches to conversation? What do Islamic texts do with dialogues? Do dialogues change under colonial rule, and if so, how? The twentieth and twenty-first centuries, too, are filled with possibilities. Did the texts and performances of the freedom movement use dialogue, and if so, how? Might we look at different dialogical traditions in the various South Asian nation states as they emerged over the twentieth century? (Most of the series to date has focused on classical India.) How do twentieth and twenty-first century ideas about the interiority of the self and the individual agent affect compositional approaches to dialogue? What of local performances? Does the advent of

Afterword 247 the multivocal and multilocal South Asian film industry affect the use of dialogue in local performances or in textual traditions? Mirror earlier traditions of dialogue? These are just a few of the questions that can and should be asked by this series. It is my hope that, in future years, the books in the series in aggregate will reflect a form of South Asian cultural history that is entirely made up of a detailed study of conversational encounters and their various forms – thereby telling precise and subtle stories of surprise, relationality, political intricacy, interpretive subtlety and constant change in South Asian worlds.

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Index

abandonment, true renunciation 116–117; see also renunciation abductive inference, definition 95–96 abductive plurilogue, definition 85–86, 87, 95; see also plurilogues ābharaṇa 71 abhaya 26 Abhidhamma 186 abhigamanādi 52–53, 58–59 Abhinavagupta 200–201 absorption 41–42, 151 ‘acceptance of heterodoxy’ 33 adhikārin 56, 112 adhyāyas 134, 217–224 Ādipurāṇa 1, 3, 10–11, 160–161, 163–169, 170–177; discussion 170–173; Jain ministers and the religious persuasion of king Mahābala 10–11, 160–161, 163–169, 170–177; see also Jainism Āditta-jātaka 38 Advaita 2, 3, 5–6, 51–65, 68, 69–70, 73, 103 afterlife, Ajātasattu’s tortures 26, 189, 193; Vālin 238, 240 afterword 244–247 Āgamaprāmāṇya 76 Agastya the Brahmin 130, 131–132, 136, 139, 141–142, 144; Lopāmudrā 130, 139, 141–142; wife creation 139, 141 agency 92, 145, 149, 153, 155, 158, 235–236, 246–247 Agni 212 agonistic interactions 134, 138 ahamartha 118–119 ahaṃkāra I-sense 56–57, 63, 149, 158 aikaśāstrya 75–76 aiśvaryam (sovereignty) 60–62 Ajāta 189 Ajātaśatru 86

Ajātasattu 4–5, 17, 23–35, 181, 184–185, 187, 188–193; afterlife tortures 26, 189, 193; assassination attempts on the Buddha 189, 192; Buddha 4–5, 17, 23–35, 188–193; fears 188–192; pain and joy 189, 190, 191–192; patricide 26, 189–193; son’s birth 189–190 Ajita Kesakambalī 31, 188 Ājīvikas 31 ākāśa 93 akṣara 92 alcohol 39–40 algebra 95 Almond, I. 194 alms 153 Altekar, A. S. 177 Amoghavarsa 172–173, 174, 177 anaikāntya 72 Ānanda 185 Ānandavardhana 200–201 ananyacitta 58–60 Andhra Pradesh 145 Aṅgada 229, 240, 243 anger 38, 41, 46, 138–139, 142, 154–156, 160, 216–217 Aṅguttara Nikāya 46, 210 Animāṇḍavya 211–212 Aniruddha 56–57, 60–62 anubhav 156 Anugītā 207, 210 Anuśāsanaparvan 143 anvaya 70 Apadāna 37, 48 apasiddhānta 72 Āpastamba Dharmasūtra 233 Appleton, Naomi vii 5, 7, 17–18, 26, 35, 36–50, 211, 245 Arahat 185

Index Āraṇyakaparvan 9, 12–13, 14–15, 130, 132–144, 197, 222; Mahābhārata dialogues on dharma and devotion with Kṛṣṇa and Hanumān 12–13, 14–15, 197; see also Mahābhārata Aravinda 166 ardhacakrin 168–169 argumentation processes 3, 6–7, 15, 23–34, 51–52, 66–83, 84, 88–89, 232; definitions 33–34; Seśvaramīmāṃsā argumentative structure 6–7, 15, 66–83; Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta 6, 66–83, 93; winning arguments 70–72 The Argumentative Indian (Sen) 84 arhats 50 Arjuna 19, 69, 86, 135–136, 197–198, 201–210, 225, 240; Kṛṣṇa 19, 197–198, 201–210, 240 artha 76, 241 Arthaśāstra 216 Ārya Śūra 36 ascetics 35, 43–50, 111, 140, 147–148, 166–177, 208, 218–219; Sāma 140 Aśoka 23–25, 33 āśrama 133–134, 204 assassination attempts, Buddha 189, 192 aṣṭadhāvidhi 59–60 Asvala 91 Aśvatthāman 199–200 Atharva Veda 99, 226 Athens 84, 97 ati-vāda 84–85 Atibala 163–164, 175 atiprasaṅga 72 ativāda 76 ativyāpti 71 ātma-vicāra 107–129 ātman 70, 113, 212–213; see also self concepts; soul atomists 31 Atreya, B. L. 123, 218–219 attachments 37–50, 61–62, 117, 160, 220; fears 39, 220; forms 41; paccekabuddhas non-attachment teachings 37–50 attha 187 atyantābhāva 108 Avadānaśataka 36, 49–50 avatāra 65, 146, 205–207, 229–230; see also Viṣṇu awakening 18, 41–50, 113–129, 185–187 āyatana 90 avyāpti 71

265

bādha 72 Bahiṇābāī, background 147–148, 151–158; pregnancy 151–152; Vārkarī tradition dialoguing 9, 145–159; visions 151, 155; see also santakaviyatrīs Baka Dālbhya 98 bala (potentiality) 60–62 baladeva 168–169 Balarāma 203 bali 55 banana trees 206 bandhu 87 Baudhāyana 54–55 Baxi, Upendra 20, 131, 140–141, 142 bearers of rights, human rights 141–142 bears 130–144 being human dialogically 3, 9, 11, 16, 20, 130–144 Belfiore, Elizabeth 97 Bell Curve 233 Bengali revolutionary menstruating woman, suicides 234 Bhagavad Gītā 6, 12–13, 14–15, 51–65, 80, 81, 93, 146, 197–210, 212, 216–222, 225–227, 240, 245; bhakti (devotional worship) 204–205; citations 209; definition 207–208; dharma 201–202, 204–205; Mahābhārata dialogues on dharma and devotion with Kṛṣṇa and Hanumān 12–13, 14–15, 197–210; see also Mahābhārata Bhagavān (the Lord), definitions 53–54, 58, 185–186, 195; see also ‘creator’; God; Supreme Bhāgavatas, conclusions 62–63; conversation partners 54–55, 56–65; definitions 53–54; Samkara’s treatment of the Bhāgavatas 5–6, 51–65, 81, 245; socio-religious context 53–65; worship practices 55–56, 58–62, 197–210 Bhagwat, V. 148 Bhaktavijaya 3, 146–147 bhakti (devotional worship) 69, 79, 145–159, 197, 204–210; Bhagavad Gītā 204–205; conclusions 206–208; definitions 204–205; Kṛṣṇa 204–205 Bharadvāja 108–109, 121 Bharata 38, 174, 236 Bhargava, Rajeev 23–34, 131, 141 Bhāṭṭas 74–75 Bhāvanātha 71 bhikkhus 26, 188–189, 195

266 Index Bhīma 2–3, 12–13, 14–15, 19, 131–132, 133, 136–137, 144, 197–210; Mahābhārata dialogues on dharma and devotion with Kṛṣṇa and Hanumān 12–13, 14–15, 19, 197–210; the snake (Nahuṣa) 131–132, 133, 136–137; see also Pāṇḍavas; warriors; Yudhiṣṭhira (Pāṇḍava) Bhīṣma 208 Bhujya Lāhyāyani 91 bhukti 59 Bhūriśravas 202–203 bhūtas 93 Bhūtavādin 164–165, 175 Bildung 101–102 Bimbasāra 189–190, 192 Black, Brian i, vii 1–20, 23–35, 51, 80–81, 86, 133–135, 138–139, 193, 210, 211, 226, 244, 245, 246 Bochenski, J. M. 83 Bock-Raming, A. 53–54, 64 Bodhi, B. 48–50 Bodhisatta Sāma 130, 139–141, 144 bondage 130–144 Bourdieu, Pierre 84, 101 Brahmā 51–52, 58, 198, 230, 242 Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya 5–6, 51–65; conclusions 62–63; five key practices 55–56; Śaṃkara’s treatment of the Bhāgavatas 5–6, 51–65, 245; see also Upaniṣads Brahmaloka 162 brahman 7, 16, 24–25, 27–28, 31–32, 52, 58–59, 60–61, 68, 83, 84–103, 120–121, 129, 132, 246; definition 27–28, 84–85, 88–93, 96–98, 102; implied qualities 90–91; plurilogues about brahman in the early Upaniṣads 7, 16, 84–103, 246; ‘theory of everything’ 102; see also truth; varṇas brahmavidaḥ 68, 102 Brahmins 25–30, 31–34, 41–42, 54–56, 62–63, 85, 89–94, 115, 130, 132, 133–134, 136, 141, 143, 146–147, 151–155, 218, 221–225; definition 32, 90, 132, 136, 221–222; eligibility issues 143; the hunter 130, 132, 139, 144; parental burnings 155; suicides 146; virtues 132–134, 136, 221–222 Brereton, J. 27, 88, 89, 90, 92, 93 Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad 4, 23–25, 31, 60–61, 85–87, 89–96, 103

Bṛhatkathā 161 Brockington, John 209, 210, 243 Bronkhorst, J. 103 Buddha 4–5, 12, 14–15, 18, 20, 23–35, 43–44, 46–47, 125, 126–128, 133, 181–196, 245; Ajātasattu 4–5, 17, 23–35, 188–193; assassination attempts 189, 192; Buddhaghosa commentarial tradition 12, 14, 18, 20, 181–196, 245; dialogues with solitary Buddhas (paccekabuddhas) 5, 17–18, 36–50, 187, 192, 245; eightfold path 46, 189, 191; first sermon 46; four noble truths 46; ‘fruits of renunciation’ 188–189, 191–192; guṇas (nine qualities) 185–186, 191, 226; Hindu literary sources 4–5, 23–35; ‘Knower of Worlds’ 182; sermons 26–28, 31–32, 46, 188–189, 194; teachings 24–34, 46–47, 181–196, 245 Buddhaghosa 2, 12, 14, 18, 20, 181–196, 245; Ajātasattu 181, 184–185, 187, 188–193; careful attention and the voice of another 12, 14, 18, 20, 181, 187, 192–196; commentarial practice 181–187, 188–196; conclusions 193–194; listening/hearing attentiveness 12, 14, 18, 20, 181, 187–188, 192–196; question types 187–188, 191–192; silence features 190–191; see also buddhavacana buddhavacana 181–188, 194; features 182–188; limitlessness of text 182–184; message is the event 184–188; pushing discourse back into speech 184–188; reading practice implications 181, 182–188 Buddhism ii 1, 4–7, 14–15, 16–18, 23–35, 36–50, 51–52, 69–70, 72–73, 87, 140, 174, 181–196, 210, 211, 225, 244, 245–246, 247; dhamma 44, 46–49, 183; Jainism derivative 174; paccekabuddhas as an alternative model of Buddhist renunciation 43–44, 48, 245; politics and religion relationships 4–5, 7, 16–17, 23–35, 193–194, 211, 247; secularism sources in India 4–5, 7, 16–17, 23–35, 193–194, 211, 247; values 36–50, 210 bulls 40, 41–42 ‘bundle-theory-brahman’ 94–95 byañjana 187 cakravartin 24, 168–169, 174 Cāṅgadev 146

Index careful attention and the voice of another, interpretation of dialogue 12, 14, 18, 20, 181, 187, 192–196 Cārvāka 70, 87, 169 caste 132, 139, 143, 148–149, 152–153, 155–158, 174–175, 221, 233–234; gender issues 148–149, 152–153, 155–158, 174–175; see also social class/strata celibacy 221 Chakrabarti, K. K. 70, 81–82 Chakravarti, U. 35, 149 chakravartins 28 Chāndogya Upaniṣad 35, 58–60, 65, 85, 86–87, 90, 96–101, 212 China 89 Christianity, divinity concepts 231–232, 239–240 co-existence principles 23, 33–34 Colas, G. 54, 64 collaborative dialogue 7, 15–16, 20, 85–86, 88–89 Collins, Randall 84 colonialism 148, 157 commentaries, Buddhaghosa commentarial tradition 12, 14, 18, 20, 181–196, 245 common humanity notion 130–132, 138, 140–143, 229–232; see also empathy; humanity compassion virtue 132–144, 165–166 compliments, dialogue 134–135 confessions 140, 192–193 consciousness 61–62, 120–129, 164–166, 175–176; ‘the creator’ 120–121, 129; flow of consciousness 164–166, 175–176 contemporary political concerns 4–5, 7, 16–17, 23–35, 193–194, 211, 247 conversation concepts 86–89 cosmology 19, 56–57, 62–63, 89–92, 97, 200; (psycho-)cosmology 56–57, 62–63 Cowell, E. B. 140 cows 39–40, 89, 147, 158 ‘the creator’ 53–54, 120–121, 129, 242; consciousness 120–121, 129; see also Bhagavān (the Lord); gods; Supreme Crenshaw, James 240 Critical Edition 2 critical reason 86 Crothers, Lisa 225 crows, greed 39 cruelty 142, 166 Cūḍālā 8, 108, 109, 111, 112–129

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cultural issues 84–89, 131–132, 140–143, 148–149, 156–159, 247; feminists 148–149, 156–157; humanity 131–132, 140–143; ‘modernity’ 24–25, 156–157, 159 curse background 9, 130, 131–132, 138–139, 143, 211–212; the snake (Nahuṣa) 9, 130, 131–132, 138–139, 143; Vittal 150–151 Czerniak-Drożdżowicz, Luis 55, 58–59, 64, 65, 209 daimon 97 Dalmiya, V. 158 dances 161–162, 174–175 Danda 166, 170 Darīmukha-jātaka 39 Daśaratha 109–110 dāsi 147, 149–150 Davis, Richard 210 De Clercq, Eva 173 De, S. K. 53–54 death 46, 91–94, 107, 110–113, 140, 146–147, 161–164, 167, 170, 172, 198, 200–203, 221–222, 229, 235–239, 241; decomposition 91; is always lurking principle 163; Mahābala 161, 162, 163–164, 167, 170, 172; sallekhanā (ritual fasting unto death) 167, 170; suicides 107, 110–111, 112–113, 146; Vālin’s death from Rāma’s arrow 14, 229, 235–236, 238–239, 241 decomposition, death 91 deductive dialogue, definition 85, 87 definition, santakaviyatrīs 9–10 dehumanisation 141–142 Deleuze 233 delusion 38 demons (rākṣasa) 39, 46, 109 depression 107, 109–111, 114; Rāma 107, 109–111, 114; Śikhidvaja 114 deprivation/poverty 145, 153, 155–156, 157–158 Derrida, Jacques 183, 194 desa 185 desaka 185 desires 38, 39–40, 41–42, 44–50, 61–62, 91–93, 161–162, 163–164, 167–170, 188–189, 216–217 Deutsch, Eliot 95 Devadatta 189 devanāgarī 2–3, 213, 214–215 devas 92–93; see also gods

268 Index devotion 12–13, 14–15, 197–210, 240–241; dharma and devotion dialogues with Kṛṣṇa and Hanumān 12–13, 14–15, 19, 197–210; see also bhakti (devotional worship); worship practices dhamma 26–29, 37–38, 42–49, 182–192, 222; definitions 26–29; see also dharma dhammacakkappavattana 27–28 Dhammacakkappavattana Sutta (Saṃyutta Nikāya) 46 Dhana 168–169 dharma 12–15, 24–25, 37–38, 71, 77, 111, 142–143, 162, 164–165, 168–177, 197–210, 211–212, 220–222, 233–238, 243; Bhagavad Gītā 201–202, 204–205; conclusions 206–208; decline 200–201; definitions 27–29, 201–202; four-yuga system 198–200, 208; herons 132, 133, 137; Mahābhārata dialogues on dharma and devotion with Kṛṣṇa and Hanumān 12–13, 14–15, 197–210; Rāma’s violations 238–239, 243; shared aspects 202; types 12–13, 197–210; warriors 12–13, 24, 28, 197–210, 233–238, 239, 245; Yudhiṣṭhira (Pāṇḍava) 132, 199–200, 203 Dhaumya 131–132, 133, 136 Dhṛtarāṣṭra 13–15, 17, 199–200, 211–227, 245; royal piety models in the Mahābhārata 13–15, 17, 211–227, 245; Vidura’s instructions 214–221 ‘dialogical presence’, Viṭṭal 153 dialogism search 86–89, 94–96 dialogue, afterword 244–247; background i, ii 1–20, 23–35, 66–83, 84–103, 130–144, 244–247; being human dialogically 3, 9, 11, 16, 20, 130–144; Buddhaghosa commentarial tradition 12, 14, 18, 20, 181–196, 245; compliments 134–135; conversation concepts 86–87; definitions 1–3, 19–20, 66–67, 84–86, 101–102, 130–131, 134, 244–245; face-to-face conversations i, ii 4, 5, 157; forms 1–2, 85–86, 244–245; future prospects 245–247; gnoseological dialogues 8–9, 10–11, 18, 107–108, 113, 116–129; gods 9–10, 19, 145–159, 166, 197–210, 211–227, 232–243, 245; importance 1–3, 66–67, 101–102, 244–247; inductive searches for sound principles of dialogue 69–72, 81–82; Jain ministers and the religious persuasion of king Mahābala 10–11, 17–18, 160–177, 210, 245; kings

4–5, 10–11, 16–18, 23–35, 37–38, 40, 44–45, 111, 112–129, 160–177, 210, 211–227, 228–243, 245; Mahābhārata dialogues on dharma and devotion with Kṛṣṇa and Hanumān 12–13, 14–15, 19, 197–210, 245; overview of the book i, ii 1–20, 244–247; plurality 4–5, 7, 16, 23–25, 30–34, 84–103, 133–135, 136, 193, 246; plurilogues about brahman in the early Upaniṣads 7, 16, 31–34, 84–103, 246; politics and religion relationships 4–5, 7, 16–17, 23–35, 193–194, 211, 247; proper dialogues 134–135; Rāma 8, 107–129, 228–243; recognition of the other 134–135, 136, 138–144; respect 16, 134–135, 136–144; royal piety models in the Mahābhārata 13–15, 17, 211–227, 245; Śaṃkara’s treatment of the Bhāgavatas 5–6, 51–65, 81, 245; santakaviyatrīs 9–10, 19, 20, 145–159; secularism in India 4–5, 7, 16–17, 23–35, 193–194, 211, 247; silence features 5, 36–50; with solitary Buddhas (paccekabuddhas) 5, 7, 17–18, 36–50, 187, 192, 245; symmetries 134–135; uses 1–2, 244–247; vāda 3, 6–7, 68–74, 84–90, 101–102; Vālin in the Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa 14–15, 19, 228–243, 245; Vārkarī tradition 9–10, 19, 20, 145–159; Veṅkaṭanātha’s Seśvaramīmāṃsā argumentative structure 2, 3, 6–7, 15, 66–83; Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta 6, 66–83; Yogavāsiṣṭha dialogical transformation potential 8–9, 10–11, 17–18, 20, 107–129, 245; see also individual topics Dīgha Nikāya 24–34, 188, 210 discursive dialogues, narrative contrasts 3, 52, 185–187, 244–245 discussion of dialogue, overview of the book i, ii 1–20 Divanji, P. C. 122 diversity issues 23–35, 92, 142–143; human rights 142–143; religion 23–35 Divine absorption (sāyujyā) 151 divine qualities 60–62, 185–186, 197–210, 226, 229–232, 239–240, 245; see also gods divinity/humanity issues, Christianity 231–232, 239–240; Judaism 231, 240, 243; Rāma 11, 19, 229–232, 236–237, 239–241 Divyāvadāna 36, 50 Dixsaut, Monique 96 Doniger, W. 124, 129

Index Donnelly, J. 140, 144 Draupadī 135–136, 201–203, 205–206 dreams 128, 165, 167, 176 Droṇa 208 dṛśya 108, 128 Durkheimian model of cohesiveness community 101–102 Durvāsa 128 Duryodhana 203–204, 207–208, 218 Ecclesiastics 240 Eckhart, Meister 183 Edelmann, Jonathan 81 ego concepts 56–57, 108–109, 118–119 eightfold path 46, 189, 191 Ekalavya 233 elephants 39, 116, 188, 191 Eliot, G. 141–142, 144 empathy 9, 16, 138, 141–143; human rights 141–142; see also ‘the gaze returned’ Empire’s civilising mission 233 encounter theme i 1–8, 15–20, 23–50, 51–65, 66–83, 84–103, 131–132, 133–134, 141–143, 185–186, 193–194, 211, 244–247; argumentation processes 3, 6–7, 15, 23–35, 51–52, 66–83, 84, 88–89; definition 4, 244–245; dialogues with solitary Buddhas (paccekabuddhas) 5, 7, 17–18, 36–50, 187, 192; discussion 7–8; overview of the book i 1–8, 15–20, 244–247; plurilogues about brahman in the early Upaniṣads 7, 16, 31–34, 84–103, 246; politics and religion relationships 4–5, 7, 16–17, 23–35, 193–194, 211, 247; Śaṃkara’s treatment of the Bhāgavatas 5–6, 51–65, 81, 245; secularism sources in India 4–5, 7, 16–17, 23–35, 193–194, 211, 247; silence features 5, 36–50; Veṅkaṭanātha’s Seśvaramīmāṃsā argumentative structure 2, 3, 6–7, 15, 66–83; see also individual topics enlightenment 33, 107, 113–129, 133–134 epistemology 1–2, 70, 91, 95–96, 182; see also interpretation of dialogue equalities 84 Eros 97 erotic motifs 205 erôtikê technê 97 ethics 1–2, 12–13, 15–20, 24–34, 143–144, 219–220, 231–238, 240; definitions 15–16 Eurocentric/Western discourse 20, 84, 131, 140–141, 148–149

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‘events to be lived’ 112 existence, definitions 82 face-to-face conversations, overview of the book i, ii 4, 5, 157 fears, Ajātasattu 188–192; attachments 39, 220; kinds 191–192, 220 female bodies 39, 110, 146–147, 154–155, 156–158; renunciation 154–155 female saints 148–159; see also gender issues; santakaviyatrīs feminists 20, 145–159; cultural issues 148–149, 156–157; definition 145; dialogical space creation 149–155; India 20, 145–159; santakaviyatrīs; gender issues 147–159 Fitzgerald, James 201, 204, 209, 211–212 five key practices, Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya 55–56 flow of consciousness 164–166, 175–176 food, the snake (Nahuṣa ) 137–138, 144 Foucault 233 four noble truths 46 four-yuga system 198–200, 208 Fox, R. L. 88 Frazier, Jessica vii 3, 7, 15–16, 20, 84–103, 246 Freschi, Elisa viii 3, 6–7, 15, 66–83, 87, 122, 246 ‘fruits of renunciation’ 188–189, 191–192 Fujita, K. 49 future prospects, dialogue 245–247 Gaṇḍavyūha 1 Gandharvas 205, 207 Gandhi, Mohandas 35 Gaṅgādhar Pāṭhak 147 Gaṅgamāla-jātaka 44–45 Gangetic plain 84 Gārgī Vācaknavī 91, 92–93 Gautama, Akṣapāda 3 ‘the gaze returned’, definition 9, 11, 138–140; see also empathy Geen, Jonathan viii 10–11, 17–18, 160–177, 210, 211, 245 gender issues 9–10, 19, 20, 133–134, 139, 141, 145–159, 233, 245; agency 145, 149, 153, 155, 158; conclusions 157–158; conventional analysis 154–155, 156–157; female bodies 146–147, 154–155, 156–158; female saints 148; male oppression tolerance 148–149, 155–158; philosophy of practice 146–159; rights

270 Index 148, 156, 158; roles of women 145–159, 233; social class/strata 145, 148–149, 152–153, 155–158, 174–175; Vārkarī tradition dialoguing 9–10, 19, 20, 145–159; Vedas 155; wife creation 139, 141; see also feminists; santakaviyatrīs ‘gendered constructions’, Vārkarī tradition dialoguing 145–159 generosity virtue 9, 38, 132–144 Genesis 88, 142 German philology 238 ghouls 165 Gītā see Bhagavad Gītā gnoseological dialogues, Yogavāsiṣṭha 8–9, 10–11, 18, 107–108, 113, 116–129 God, Christianity 231–232, 239–240; Judaism 243 gods 9–10, 19, 60–62, 76–79, 83, 91–94, 145–159, 162–163, 166, 167–170, 172–173, 185–186, 197–210, 211–227, 229–232, 239–240, 245; dialogues with gods 9–10, 18–20, 145–159, 166, 197–210, 211–227, 232–243, 245; Lalitāṅga 162–163, 170; love 239–240; Mahābala 162–163, 167–170, 172–173; relationships with gods 9–10, 18–20, 76–79, 83, 145–159, 166, 197–210, 211–227, 232–243, 245; surrender 79, 232, 238–241; Svayambuddha 162–163, 167; Veṅkaṭanātha’s Seśvaramīmāṃsā argumentative structure 2, 3, 76–79, 83; see also Bhagavān (the Lord); ‘creator’; divine qualities; Supreme; Viṭṭal Gombrich, Richard 49 Gonda, J. 55–56, 102 González-Reimann, L. 200, 209, 242 good conduct virtue 132–144 Grammar 73 Great Beings, Jain Universal History 160–161, 163, 170, 172, 173–174 Greece 84–85, 87, 88, 90, 95–96, 97 greed 39, 41, 46, 140, 142, 160, 220 gṛhya 59 Gujarat 173 Guṇabhadra 174 guṇas 185–186, 191, 226 gurus 146–147, 168–177, 201–202; see also sages; teacher/pupil agonistic interactions Habermas, Jürgen 30, 33, 85, 102 Hadot, P. 85 Hanneder, J. 123

Hanumān 12–13, 14–15, 19, 197–210, 228–229, 241, 245; conclusions 206–208; Mahābhārata dialogues on dharma and devotion with Kṛṣṇa and Hanumān 12–13, 14–15, 19, 197–210, 245 Hanūmat 12–13, 197–210, 245 happiness, five kinds 191, 192–193 Haricandra 162, 166, 169–170 Harris, Ian 26 hatred 38, 41, 46 hawks 41–42 hedonistic lifestyles 161–163 Hegarty, James viii 13–15, 17, 202, 211–227, 245 Heim, Maria viii 12, 14, 18, 20, 112, 130, 140, 144, 181–196, 245 hell 39, 46, 166, 168, 171 hellish rebirths 39, 46 Hemacandra, Triṣaṣṭiśalākāpuruṣacarita 10–11, 160–161, 168–177 Hermans and Giser (2011) 108 hermeneutics 1–2, 11–15, 71, 122, 183, 194, 230–243; see also interpretation of dialogue; meaning the heron, Yudhiṣṭhira (Pāṇḍava king) 137 herons, Dharma 132, 133, 137 High Chant 85 ‘highest-truth speakers’, plurilogical community 101–102 Hiltebeitel, A. 27 Himalayas 41 Hinduism ii 1, 4–5, 7, 16–19, 23–35, 140–144, 174, 193–194, 211, 231, 241, 244, 247; Buddhism literary sources 4–5, 23–35; human rights 20, 140–143, 144; Jainism derivative 174; later divinity concepts 231; politics and religion relationships 4–5, 7, 16–17, 23–35, 193–194, 211, 247; secularism sources in India 4–5, 7, 16–17, 23–35, 193–194, 211, 247; see also individual topics historiographical approaches 246 human contrasts, the snake (Nahuṣa) 136–138, 141–143 human rights 20, 130–131, 138, 140–143, 144, 148, 156, 158; abuses 141–142; bearers of rights 141–142; diversity issues 142–143; empathy 141–142; Hinduism 20, 140–143, 144; karma 142–143; objectifiction problems 141–142; Universal Declaration of Human Rights 141

Index humanity 3, 9, 11, 16, 20, 84, 87–88, 130–144, 229–232, 239–241; being human dialogically 3, 9, 11, 16, 20, 130–144; common humanity notion 130–132, 138, 140–143, 229–232; cultural issues 131–132, 140–143; definitions 131–132; divinity/humanity issues 11, 19, 229–232, 236–237, 239–241; Eurocentric/Western discourse 20, 84, 131, 140–141; monkeys 234–238; Rāma 11, 229–232, 236–237, 239–241 the hunter, Brahmins 130, 132, 139, 144 hymns 87–88; see also Ṛgveda ‘I’ notion (ahamartha), Yogavāsiṣṭha 56–57, 63, 118–120; see also identity; self concepts Ibn ‘Arabi 183, 194 identification of dialogue, overview of the book i 1–20 identity 8–11, 28–30, 62, 89–90, 109–111, 117–118, 121, 125, 135, 141, 152–154, 241; see also self concepts illusion doctrine 70, 169–170 impalation practices 147, 211–212 impermanence 41, 57 implied dialogue, Śaṃkara’s treatment of the Bhāgavatas 5–6, 51–65 Independence 33, 35 India, feminists 20, 145–159; politics and religion relationships 4–5, 7, 16–17, 23–35, 193–194, 211, 247; ‘premodern’ concepts 20, 24–25, 146, 148, 156–157; secularism sources in India 4–5, 7, 16–17, 23–35, 193–194, 211, 247; see also individual topics Indra 28, 95, 98, 143, 212 inductive searches for sound principles of dialogue 69–72, 81–82 initiations 56 injury-abstaining virtue 9, 132–144 inter-religious debates 172–173 interpretation of dialogue 6, 8–9, 11–12, 13–15, 17, 18, 19, 20, 70, 122, 181–196, 197–210, 211–227, 228–243, 244–247; Buddhaghosa commentarial tradition 12, 14, 18, 20, 181–196, 245; careful attention and the voice of another 12, 14, 18, 20, 181, 187, 192–196; definition 11–12, 244, 245–246; discussion 14–15; Mahābhārata dialogues on dharma and devotion with Kṛṣṇa and Hanumān 12–13, 14–15, 19, 197–210, 245;

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overview of the book i 4, 6, 8, 11–15, 244–247; royal piety models in the Mahābhārata 13–15, 17, 211–227, 245; Vālin in the Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa 14–15, 19, 228–243, 245; see also hermeneutics; individual topics; meaning intra-religious debates 172–173 Irāmāvatāram 238 Islam ii 194, 246 Israelites 183, 195 īśvara-praṇidhāna 59–60, 83 itipiso gāthā 185, 191 jackals 41–42 Jacobsen, Knut A. i Jain Universal History 160–161, 163, 170, 172, 173–174, 177 Jainism ii 1, 4, 10–11, 17–18, 26, 28, 31–32, 40, 43, 51–52, 69, 73, 87, 160–177, 210, 211, 245–246; assiduous practice of Jainism 162, 164, 170–171; background 10–11, 17–18, 31–32, 40, 160–177, 210, 245; definitions 174; derivative doctrines 174; discussion 170–173; founder 31; Jain ministers and the religious persuasion of king Mahābala 10–11, 17–18, 160–177, 210, 245; stories 10–11, 160–177, 245; temples 163–164, 166–167; see also Ādipurāṇa; Triṣaṣṭiśalākāpuruṣacarita; Vasudevahiṇḍī Jaivali, Pravāhaṇa 86 jalpa 3 Jambūsvāmin 174 Janābāī, background 147–148, 149–151, 153–159; Vārkarī tradition dialoguing 9, 145–159; see also santakaviyatrīs Janaka 4–5, 16, 23–35, 44, 85, 86, 88, 89–95, 97, 101, 111 Janamejaya 130 Jāratkārava Ārtabhāga 91 Jātakamālā 36 Jātakas 3, 37, 38–50, 130, 139–140, 144; see also individual titles Jātakatthavaṇṇanā 37 jātis 54 jaya 224–225 Jayākhya-saṃhitā 54–56, 58–60 Jayavarman 167 jealousy 160 Jesus Christ 231–232 jhānas 189 jinas 160–177; see also gods; Jainism

272 Index Jinasena, Ādipurāṇa 10–11, 160–161, 163–168, 170–177 jīva embodied self 56–57, 63, 165 Jīvaka 188–191 jīvanmukta 107, 129 jñāna (knowledge) 55, 60–62 Jñāndev 146–147, 150–151, 153–155, 158 Jñāneswarī 146 Johnson, W. J. 200 Jones, D. T. 48 Judaism, divinity concepts 231, 240, 243 Kabbalah 183 kāla 12–13, 185, 241 kālavādin 200 Kali Yuga 203–204 Kālidāsa 230 Kampaṉ 238–239 karma 38, 52–53, 91, 142–143, 164, 177, 204; critique 52–53; definitions 142, 164; human rights 142–143 Karṇa 225 Karnataka 145 kartuḥ karaṇam 57 Kaśmīrī manuscripts 2–3, 213 Kassapa Buddha 31–32, 41–42 Kaṭha Upaniṣad 86 Kathola Kauṣītakeya 91 Kauravas 203, 207–208 Kauśika the Brahmin 139, 141 Kauṣītaki 98 kavi 216 Kena Upaniṣad 93 kindness virtue 9, 132–144 kings, cakravartin 24, 168–169, 174; dialogues 4–5, 10–11, 16–18, 23–35, 37–38, 40, 44–45, 111, 112–129, 160–177, 210, 211–227, 228–243, 245; divinity/humanity concepts 231–232; gnoseological dialogues 8–9, 10–11, 18, 107–108, 113, 116–129; Jain ministers and the religious persuasion of king Mahābala 10–11, 17–18, 160–177, 210, 245; paccekabuddhas 40, 44–45; renunciation 8, 10–11, 17, 24–34, 108, 109, 110–129, 160–177, 188–189, 191–192, 210; royal piety models in the Mahābhārata 13–15, 17, 211–227, 245; ‘wisdom king’ model of kingship 24, 28; see also individual kings Kirloskar-Steinbach, Monika viii, ix 9–10, 19, 20, 34, 145–159, 245 Kisa-Gotamī 46

Kiṣkindhākāṇḍa 14, 229, 234 Kloppenborg, R. 48–50 ‘knowable world is external to the relations of knowing’ 158 ‘Knower of Worlds’, Buddha 182 knowledge 55, 60–62, 96–101, 182–196; see also individual topics; philosophical approaches Krishna, Daya 96 Kṛṣṇa 12–13, 14–15, 19, 53, 61–62, 63, 86, 197–210, 222, 240, 242, 245; Arjuna 19, 197–198, 201–210, 240; Balarāma 203; bhakti (devotional worship) 204–205; conclusions 206–208; first spoken word 201; form 197–199, 205–206, 207–208, 209, 242; Mahābhārata dialogues on dharma and devotion with Kṛṣṇa and Hanumān 12–13, 14–15, 19, 197–210, 245; paramārthatattva (supreme reality/ truth) 62; repeated births 198, 205–206; Time presentation 12–13, 197–210; warrior instructions 201–207, 210; worship practices 61–62, 197–210; see also Rāma; Viṣṇu kṣatriya 27–28, 87, 197–210, 221, 233, 236; see also warriors kṣatriya-dharma 12–13, 197–210, 233–236; see also dharma Kumārapāla 173 Kumbha 115–129 kumbha ritual pot 55–56 Kumbhakāra-jātaka 40, 41 Kuntī 208, 223–225 Kuru region 24, 89, 98–99 La Vallée Poussin, L. 48 Laghuyogavāsiṣṭha 109, 122, 126–129 Lake of the Serpent Dwellers 190 Lakṣmaṇa 228–229, 237, 238–239 Lakṣmī 78 Lalitāṅga 162–163, 170; see also Mahābala Lancaster University 3–4 Lefeber, Rosalind 234, 242 Lele, Jayant 152–153, 156 ‘the lens of the dialogical’ 133 Leslie, Julia 242 Lester, R. C. 68 liberation from cycle of existence 55, 59–60, 61–62, 91, 107, 108–129, 160, 171, 224; see also rebirth liberties 84 lies 39–40

Index Lindquist, S. 90 listening/hearing attentiveness, Buddhaghosa 12, 14, 18, 20, 181, 187–188, 192–196 Lo Turco, B. 128, 129 lokuttara 183 Lone Ranger and Tonto 236 Lopāmudrā, Agastya the Brahmin 130, 139, 141–142; virtues 139 ‘The Lotus’ parable 176 love 41, 216, 220, 239–240; gods 239–240 lust 39–40, 46, 110, 138, 142, 160 McClintock, Sara 80 McGovern, N. 35 Machiavelli 73 Madaio, James ix 8–9, 10–11, 17–18, 34, 107–129, 130, 160, 193, 245 Madanikā 125, 129 Mahābala, background 10–11, 17, 160–170, 245; birth place 175; discussion 170–173; gods 162–163, 167–170, 172–173; Jain ministers and the religious persuasion of king Mahābala 10–11, 17–18, 160–177, 245; youthful death 161, 162, 163–164, 167, 170, 172 Mahābhārata 1, 2–3, 9, 12–15, 17, 20, 76–77, 124, 130–144, 197–210, 211–227, 243, 245; citations 209; definition 130–131, 201–202, 207–208, 211–212, 225; dharma and devotion dialogues with Kṛṣṇa and Hanumān 12–13, 14–15, 197–210, 245; great accomplishments 201; royal piety models 13–15, 17, 211–227, 245; ‘Russian dolls’ layering sub-stories 130–131; see also Āraṇyakaparvan; Bhagavad Gītā Mahābhāṣya, Patañjali 66, 80 Mahājanaka-jātaka 40 Mahāmati 164–165 Mahāmora-jātaka 45 Maharashtra Vārkarī tradition, gender issues 9–10, 145–159 Mahāvastu 36, 39, 49 Mahāvīra 31 Mahāyāna 1, 110 Māheśvara 51, 58–59 Mainkar, T. G. 123, 128 Maitreyī 86 Makhādeva Sutta 26 Makkhali Gosāla 31–32, 188 male oppression tolerance 148–149, 155–158

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Malinar, Angelika 213, 227 manas 56–57, 63, 221 Mānavadharmaśāstra 1, 76 maṇḍalas 56 mantras 56, 94, 147 Manu 35, 98, 135, 143, 213 mārjana 108 Marxist models of dialogue 84 Matanga 143 Materialism 31, 174 matidvaidhe 135 meaning 1–20, 187–196, 201–210, 240–241; monkeys 241; see also hermeneutics; interpretation of dialogue meditation 41–42 Meno 87, 95 mental anxieties, fear types 191–192, 214–215 metaphysics 1–2, 91–93, 135–136, 242 Middlemarch (Eliot) 144 Mīmāṃsā 2, 6, 15, 71, 72–76, 81–82 ‘mind’ concepts 56–57, 118–119; Yogavāsiṣṭha 118–119 mindfulness 189, 245 mirror of the reader, Yogavāsiṣṭha 8–9, 107–108, 109–129 mithyādṛś 163 Mitra 212 ‘modernity’ 24–25, 156–157, 159 Mokṣadharma 221 Mokṣopāya 122; see also Yogavāsiṣṭha momentariness doctrine 169–170 monkeys 12–13, 198–199, 228–229, 234–241; humanity 234–238; meaning 241; see also Hanūmān; Vālin Moses 243 Mount Meru 166–167 mudrās 56 Muktābaī, background 146–148, 153–155, 156–158; Vārkarī tradition dialoguing 9, 145–159; see also santakaviyatrīs mukti 59–60 Mummaḍideva 127–128 nāga 144 Nahuṣa see the snake (Nahuṣa) Naimiṣa forest 87 Naiyāyikas 51, 58–59, 70 Nakula 135–136 Nāmā 147, 149–150 namaskāra 55 Nandy, Ashis 23–34

274 Index Nārāyaṇa 53, 58, 60–62, 79, 198–199 narrative contrasts, discursive dialogues 3, 52, 185–187, 244–245 negotiations 133–134 Nehru, Jawaharlal 35 neti neti 60, 62 networks, social relations 9, 11, 135–136, 140–143 New Delhi 84 next-lives, Mahābala 160–177; see also rebirth nidānas 12, 185–187, 188–189 Nigaṇṭha Nātaputta 31 Night of Time (kālarātriṃ) 200 Nikāyas 1–5, 17, 20, 23–34, 46, 188, 210, 245 Nimi 26 nippariyāyabahussutā 38–39, 186 nir-ā-√kṛ 52 Niranjana, Tejaswani 148–149 nirguṇa 60 nirukti 71, 195, 224–225 nirutti analysis 187–188 nir√as 52 Norman, K. R. 43, 48, 49 Northern Recension 230 Novetzke, Christian 34 Nyāya 73, 82, 86 Nyāyapariśuddhi 69–70 Nyāyasūtras 3 Oberhammer, Gerhard 53, 65 objectification problems, human rights 141–142 Occam’s razor 95 Olivelle, P. 27, 35, 87, 90, 94, 103, 226 Oṃ 99 ornaments 71, 161–162 overview of the book i, ii 1–20, 244–247 Ovid 88 paccekabuddhas 5, 7, 17–18, 36–50, 187, 192, 245; achievement 5, 37–44, 47–48, 187; alternative model of Buddhist renunciation 43–44, 48; conclusions 47–48; definition 5, 36–37, 42–44, 46–47; dhamma 44, 46–49; dialogues with solitary Buddhas 5, 7, 17–18, 36–50, 187, 192, 245; kings 40, 44–45; literature 36–37, 38–39; non-attachment teachings 37–50; past-lives 45–46; renunciation teachings 36–50, 192; rhinoceros stories 36, 37, 43, 48; sense desires 39, 44–50;

signs/symbols 5, 18, 36–37, 40–42, 46, 47–48; silence features 5, 36–50; social class/strata 44–46; stories 36–50; teaching abilities 37, 43–44, 47–48; teaching lessons learned 42–50; tensions surrounding the concepts 43–45, 48; transformation theme 37, 47–48; verbal dialogues 5, 36, 37–40, 46–50; see also Buddhism; encounter theme; Pāli Canon padesa 185 pain and joy, Ajātasattu 189, 190, 191–192 Pakudha Kaccāyana 31 Pāli Canon 5, 14, 31–32, 36–37, 42, 44, 48–50, 245; see also paccekabuddhas Pāli suttas 12, 14, 181–196 pañcakāla rituals 55–56, 58–60, 62 Pañcāla region 24, 89 Pāñcarātrins 52–65, 76–77, 83; definitions 53–54 Pañcūposatha-jātaka 41–42 Pāṇḍavas 13, 130, 131–132, 136, 197–210; see also Bhīma; Yudhiṣṭhira (Pāṇḍava king) Pandharipande, Rajeshwari 150–151, 159 Pāṇḍuraṅg guise, Viṭṭal 151–152 Pānīya-jātaka 39 Parama-saṃhitā 59–60 paramārthatattva (supreme reality/truth) 62 paramātman supreme self 56–58 paramattha 186 parental burnings, Brahmins 155 parisā 185 pariyāya 186 Parmenides (Plato) 96 Parṇāda 109 passion 38, 110, 138, 142, 160 past-lives 41–42, 43, 45–46, 160–177; Mahābala 160–177; paccekabuddhas 45–46; see also rebirth Patañjali’s Mahābhāṣya 66, 80 patience virtue 132–144 paṭisambhidā 187 patricide, Ajātasattu 26, 189–193 Patton, Laurie L. ix 51, 94, 133, 135–136, 139, 145, 156, 244–247 Pauṣkara-saṃhitās 56 peacocks 45 Pechilis, K. 145, 155 Peirce, Charles 95 Phaedo 96 Phillips, D. Z. 239

Index philological approaches i, ii 1–20, 43, 66–83, 211–227, 228, 238–243, 244–247; overview of the book i, ii 1–20 philosophical approaches, overview of the book i, ii: plurilogues about brahman in the early Upaniṣads 7, 16, 31–34, 84–103, 246; Yogavāsiṣṭha 108–129; see also individual topics; knowledge philosophy of practice, definition 146, 158; gender issues 146–159 pigeons 41–42 Piliyakkha 130, 139–141, 144 piṭakas 182, 186 Plato 85, 87, 88, 95–97 ‘plenitude’ 183 plurality 4–5, 7, 16, 23–25, 30–34, 84–103, 133–135, 136, 193, 246; definitions 30–34; politics and religion relationships 4–5, 23–25, 30–34; tolerance 4–5, 23–25, 30–34, 133–135, 136 plurilogues 7, 16, 31–34, 84–103, 193, 246; about brahman in the early Upaniṣads 7, 16, 31–34, 84–103, 246; definitions 16, 85, 87, 95–96; ‘highest-truth speakers’ community 101–102 poetry 150–151, 154–155, 158, 174, 185, 200–201, 206, 216, 246; defining qualities 201; Viṭṭal 150–151, 158; see also sages political concerns 4–5, 7, 16–17, 23–35, 193–194, 211–227, 247 ‘political subjectivity’ 30 politics and religion relationships 4–5, 7, 16–20, 23–35, 193–194, 211, 247; conclusions 34; pluralism concepts 4–5, 23–25, 30–34; power-sharing arrangements 28–29; secularism in India 4–5, 7, 16–17, 23–35, 193–194, 211, 247; separation concepts 25–30 Pollock, S. 230–231, 242 potters 40 power-sharing arrangements, politics and religion relationships 28–29 Prābhākaras 74–75 Pradyumna 56–57, 60–62 Prajāpati 95, 98 Prajñāpāramitā 1 pralaya 200–201 pramāṇa 71 prāṇa 93 prapatti 79, 239 Praśna Upaniṣad 86, 90 pratibrūyād 133

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pratiṣṭhā 90 prati√ṣidh 52 pratyekabuddhas 43–44, 46, 49–50 pratyakcetanaḥ 61–62 Pravāhaṇa Jaivali 98 Preisendanz, Karin 89 ‘premodern’ concepts 20, 24–25, 146, 148, 156–157 pride 41–43, 46 Prītiṅkara 168–169, 171–172 probandum 71–72 probans 71–72 Proferes, Ted 213, 226 prostitutes 150 Pruitt, W. 50 Purāṇas 1, 155, 200 purifying the body, yogic practices 56 purohita 136 puruṣa 92, 224 Puruṣottoma 53 Pūrva Mīmāṃsā Sūtra 66–67, 70, 74, 75–76, 82 pūrvapakṣa 67, 68–69, 246 qualities 60–62, 185–186, 197–210, 214–227 ‘question rings’ 89 questions 9, 31–32, 89, 107–129, 132–135, 142–143, 187–188, 191–193; Buddhaghosa 187–188, 191–192; Socratic questioning 188–189 quotations 73 Quran 194 racism 233 rāga 117 Raghuvaṃśa 230 Raikva 98, 100 Rājadharma 221 rākṣasa 109, 209 Ram-Prasad, Chakravarthi i, ix 1–20, 34, 35, 80–81, 153, 155, 228–243, 244, 245 Rāma 8, 11, 14–15, 19, 28, 107–129, 168–169, 198–199, 205–206, 208, 210, 228–243; conclusions 121–122, 241, 243; critique 14–15, 19, 229–232, 235–239, 241, 243; definitions 11, 229–232, 237, 239–240; depression 107, 109–111, 114; dharma violations 238–239, 243; dialogues 8, 14, 107–129, 228–243; divinity/humanity issues 11, 19, 229–232, 236–237, 239–241; mirror of the reader 8–9, 107–108, 109–129; penance

276 Index 233–234; prince status considerations 111–112, 229–232, 235–237, 243; selfinquiry (ātma-vicāra) 107–129; Sītā 198, 208, 228–229, 236; suicides 107, 110–111; Vālin 14–15, 19, 228–243, 245; Vālin’s death from his arrow 14, 229, 235–236, 238–239, 241; see also Kṛṣṇa; Viṣṇu; Yogavāsiṣṭha Rāmānuja 63, 67, 68–70, 73–78, 81, 209, 239; background 68–70, 73–78, 81, 239; see also Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta Rāmanujan, A. K. 63, 148 rāmarājya 231 Rāmāyaṇa 1, 2, 14–15, 107, 208, 210, 228–243; monkey meaning 241; Vālin in the Vālmīki Rāvaṇa 14–15, 19, 228–243 Rao, Ajay 231, 242 rasa 99, 205–206 Rastelli, M. 53–56, 58–59, 61–62, 64 raudradhyāna 166 Rāvaṇa the demon king 228–229, 242 Ray, Reginald 43–44, 48, 50 Rāyapaseṇiya 1 reality 7, 62, 68, 70, 84, 90–94, 109–110, 112–129, 134, 135–136; brahman 68; self concepts 62, 90–94, 109–110, 112–129, 134, 135–136 reason 6–7, 15, 66–83, 84–103, 109–129, 239–240; definitions 85–86; goals 84; Veṅkaṭanātha’s Seśvaramīmāṃsā argumentative structure 2, 3, 6–7, 15, 66–83 rebirth 37, 39, 41–42, 46, 49, 52, 111, 162–163, 166–167, 173; hellish rebirths 39, 46; see also liberation from cycle of existence; next-lives; past-lives; saṃsāra recognition of the other, dialogue 134–135, 136, 138–144; see also respect reference concepts, texts 184–188 refutation considerations, Śaṃkara’s treatment of the Bhāgavatas 5–6, 51–65 relationships with gods 9–10, 18–20, 76–79, 83, 145–159, 166, 197–210, 211–227, 232–243, 245; Vittal 9–10, 147–159 release 130, 132–144 religion, diversity issues 23–35; Jain ministers and the religious persuasion of king Mahābala 10–11, 160–177, 245; plurality 4–5, 7, 16, 23–25, 30–34, 84–103, 133–135, 136, 193, 246; politics and religion relationships 4–5, 7, 16–20, 23–35, 193–194, 211, 247; separation

concepts 25–30; types ii 1, 194, 231–232, 239–240, 243, 246; see also theological approaches renunciation 8, 10–11, 17, 24–34, 36–50, 87, 108, 109, 110–129, 154–155, 160–177, 188–196, 210, 245; Buddhism 24–34, 43–44, 188–196, 210; female bodies 154–155; ‘fruits of renunciation’ 188–189, 191–192; Jain ministers and the religious persuasion of king Mahābala 10–11, 160–177, 210, 245; kings 8, 10–11, 17, 24–34, 108, 109, 110–129, 160–177, 188–189, 191–192, 210, 245; paccekabuddhas 36–50, 192; Sāmaññaphala Sutta 188–196; Śikhidvaja 8, 108, 109, 110–129; true renunciation 116–117 repeated births, Kṛṣṇa 198, 205–206 resentment 160 respect, dialogue 16, 134–135, 136–144; see also recognition of the other Ṛgveda 1, 2, 31, 35, 87–88, 99, 143, 227 rhetoric 80 rhinoceros stories, paccekabuddhas 36, 37, 43, 48 Ricoeur, Paul 183–184, 195 ‘ritual alliances’ 156 ritual baths (maṅgaḷasnāna) 146–147 rolling on 38 Rouse, W. H. D. 140 royal piety models in the Mahābhārata 13–15, 17, 211–227, 245; see also kings Ṛṣabha 160–177; see also Mahābala Rumā 229, 236 ‘Russian dolls’ layering sub-stories, Mahābhārata 130–131 Rwandan genocide, objectifiction problems 141–142 Sabhāparvan 218 sacrifices 39–40, 55, 130, 204–205, 211–212 ṣāḍgūṇya 62 sādhu 168–169 sages 5, 10–11, 16–18, 23–35, 38–50, 107, 108–129, 160–177, 211–227, 237, 245; Jain ministers and the religious persuasion of king Mahābala 10–11, 17–18, 160–177, 245; Svayambuddha 10–11, 17–18, 160–177; see also gurus; poetry Sahadeva 135–136 Sahasrabala 166

Index saints 43–44, 148, 151–152 Sakai, Naoki 157 śakas 88–89 sakhyā, Viṭṭal 150–151, 152–153 śakti (power) 60–62 Śāla tree 220 sallekhanā (ritual fasting unto death) 167, 170 Sāma, death 140; King Piliyakkha 130, 139–141, 144; miraculous revival 140 Sāmaveda 31, 35 samāgama 2–3, 198–199, 206–208; see also dialogue Sāman 99 samaṇa 38–39, 52–53 Sāmaññaphala Sutta 24, 26–34, 181, 187, 188–196 saṁbhāṣya 2–3, 133, 138 Sambhinna 164–165, 175 Sambhinnaśoka 161–162, 172–173 saṃgrahas 1 Saṃjaya 13–15, 17, 208, 211–227, 245 Śaṃkara 5–6, 16, 51–65, 81, 221, 245 Saṃkarṣaṇa 56–57, 60–62 Sāṃkhya 51, 53, 73, 76–77, 87, 89 Sāṃkhyans 51 sammuti 186 sampradāya 148 saṃsāra 46, 108–109, 160; see also rebirth Saṃsārataraṇi 127 Samuel, Geoffrey 24 saṃvāda 2, 90, 107, 108–129, 139 saṃvargaḥ 99, 100 Saṃvitsiddhi 66–69 samyagdarśana 163–164, 167–168, 171–172, 176 Sanatsujāta, royal piety models in the Mahābhārata 13–15, 17, 211–227; transcendental teachings 221–223 Sanday, Eric 88, 96 Śāṇḍilya 52 Saṅghadāsa, Vasudevahiṇḍī 1, 10–11, 160–163, 170–177 Sañjaya Belaṭṭhaputta 31 Saṅkarṣa Kāṇḍa 74 Sankha 26 santakaviyatrīs 9–10, 19, 20, 145–159; agency 145, 149, 153, 155, 158; conclusions 157–158; conventional analysis 154–155, 156–157; definition 9–10, 146–147; dialogical space creation 149–155; feminists 147–159; relevance today 155–158; rights 148, 156, 158;

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Viṭṭal 9–10, 147–159; see also Bahiṇābāī; gender issues; Janābāī; Muktābaī Śāntiparvan 143, 221, 227 sanyāsin 151, 154 Śaraṇāgatigadya 77–79, 239–240 Sarasvatī, Ānandabodhendra 110 sarcasm 67–68 sarpasattra (sacrificial massacre of snakes) 130 sarvabhāvena 62 śāstras 1, 66–67, 69, 73–74, 80, 233 sat 89–90, 100 Śatabala 162, 166, 169–170, 175 Śatamati 165, 175 Śatapatha Brāhmaṇa 89 ṣaṭkarma 55–56 sattu 189 Sātvata 54–56, 63–64 Satyakāma Jābāla 35, 86, 98 Sātyaki 202 Śaunaka 130 Śaunaka Kāpeya 98 Scholem, Gershom 195 secularism in India 4–5, 7, 16–17, 23–35, 193–194, 211, 247; definitions 29–30, 33–34 self concepts 9–10, 17, 24–25, 30, 33–34, 35, 56–62, 70–73, 89–94, 107–129, 132–159, 165–166, 197–213, 220–221, 236–238; reality 62, 90–94, 109–110, 112–129, 134, 135–136; Vāsudeva 56–58, 61–62; see also identity self-control virtue 9, 17, 24–25, 30, 33–34, 35, 132–144, 165–166 self-inquiry (ātma-vicāra) 107–129 selflessness doctrine 165–166 ‘semantic potentials’ 30 Sen, Amartya ii 23–34, 84, 86, 88, 102, 134–135 sense concepts, texts 184–188 sense desires 39, 44–50, 188–189, 216–217; paccekabuddhas 39, 44–50; see also attachment; desires; greed; hatred; lust; pride sensual pleasures 38, 161–162, 163–164, 167–170 ‘separateness within immersion’ 149–150 separation concepts, politics and religion relationships 25–30 Seśvaramīmāṃsā, argumentative structure 6–7, 15, 66–83 sexual intercourse 2, 125, 139

278 Index Sharma, Arvind 142, 144, 207 Shulman, David 238–239 siddhānta 67–68, 73–74 siddhas 110, 129 signs/symbols, Oṃ 99; paccekabuddhas 5, 18, 36–37, 40–42, 46, 47–48 Śikhidvaja 8, 108, 109, 110–129 Sikhism ii silence features 5, 36–50, 190–191, 221–222; Buddhaghosa 190–191; paccekabuddhas 5, 36–50 sins 26, 38–39, 41, 46, 110, 116–117, 138, 140, 142, 160–164, 167–170, 188–189, 201–202, 215–217, 236–237, 240 Sītā 198, 208, 228–229, 236 Śiva 51, 54, 199–200 Smith, Frederick 149, 158 Smith, John 211 smṛti 59–60, 69, 77 the snake (Nahuṣa) 3, 9, 11, 20, 130–144, 245; anger 138–139, 142; ascent into heaven 132–133; background 9, 130–137, 141–143, 245; curse background 9, 130, 131–132, 138–139, 143; description 137, 138; food 137–138, 144; human contrasts 136–138, 141–143; karma 142–143; questions 9, 132–135, 142–143; release conditions 132–133, 136–138; release from the curse 132–133, 136–144; virtues 9, 136–137, 142–143; Yudhiṣṭhira (Pāṇḍava king) 3, 9, 11, 20, 130–144, 245 snakes 3, 9, 11, 41–42, 130–144 social class/strata 27–28, 44–46, 132, 139, 141, 143, 145, 148–149, 152–153, 155–158, 174–175, 198–199, 221, 233–235; gender issues 145, 148–149, 152–153, 155–158, 174–175; paccekabuddhas 44–46; see also castes social relations 3, 9, 11, 133–144; networks 9, 11, 135–136, 140–143 socio-religious context, Śaṃkara’s treatment of the Bhāgavatas 53–65 Socrates 87, 88, 188–189 solitude 5, 36–42, 43–50; dialogues with solitary Buddhas (paccekabuddhas) 5, 7, 17–18, 36–50, 187, 192, 245; see also paccekabuddhas Soma 212 Sonaka-jātaka 38–39 sopādhikatva 72 the soul 13, 70, 143, 160–177; definition 164; existence denials 164–165

South Asian religions, types ii 1; see also Buddhism; Hinduism; Islam; Jainism; Sikhism Southern Recension 214–217, 221, 230 sovereignty 60–62, 96–101, 212–227 Spivak, Gayatri 232–235, 243 śramaṇas 24 Śrī Bhāṣya 68–69 Śrīdhara 168 Srinivasa Sastri, V. S. 232 Srinivasan, S. A. 229–230, 242 Śrīṣeṇa 167 Śrīvaiṣṇava theology 229–232, 239, 242 śṛṅgāra 150, 151–152 śruti 58–59, 69, 77 stealing 39–40, 60 stoics 88 Stotraratna, Yāmuna 79 strīdharma 147 subaltern’s attempts to be heard, Vālin 19, 232–238, 241 subhāṣitas 216 Subuddhi 162, 169–170 śuddhipatra 146 Sudhamma 174 śūdras (low Hindu caste) 27–28, 132, 139, 143, 148, 221, 233–234 Sugrīva 228–229, 234–237, 240–241 suicides, Bengali revolutionary menstruating woman 234; Brahmins 146; Rāma 107, 110–111 Śuka 111, 120, 123 Sukthankar, V. S. 207, 209 Sulabhā 134–135, 138 Sullivan, Bruce M. ix 2–3, 12–13, 14–15, 18–19, 197–210, 225, 245 Śūnyavādin 68–69, 165–166, 175 Supaṇṇa birds 190 Supreme, definitions 53–54, 185–186; see also Bhagavān (the Lord); ‘creator’ ‘supreme self’ 61–62 Suraghu 109 ‘surplus of meaning’ 183 surrender, gods 79, 232, 238–241 Suta-Brahmadatta (the Learned) 38 Suthren Hirst, J. G. ix 3, 5–6, 51–65, 81, 245 sūtras 1, 3, 76, 110 Sutta Nipāta 3, 5, 36–50 suttas 12, 14, 24, 26–34, 181–196; see also Buddhaghosa; Sāmaññaphala Sutta sva-dharma 12–13, 197–210; definitions 204; warriors 201–202, 204; see also dharma

Index svādhyāya 58–59 svarāj 212 Svayambuddha, background 10–11, 17–18, 160–177; discussion 170–173; gods 162–163, 167; Jain ministers and the religious persuasion of king Mahābala 10–11, 17–18, 160–177; mockery 164 Śvetaketu 86–87 Śvetāmbara 169, 173, 175–176 Śyena case, Seśvaramīmāṃsā 71 syllogisms 70 symmetries, dialogue 134–135 Symposium 96 Taharabadkar, Mahipatibuwa 146 Taittirīya-Upaniṣad 213 Talbot, Sally 158 Tamil Irāmāvatāram 238 Tantras 86 tapas 69 Tārā 229, 233–235, 238–239, 240–241, 243 Tatia, N. 176 Tātparyaprakāśa 110 Taylor, C. 141, 142–143 teacher/pupil agonistic interactions 5, 10–11, 17–18, 36–50, 134, 138, 160–177, 181–196, 245; see also gurus; individual topics tejas (splendour) 60–62 Telapatta-Jātaka 39 Thapar, Romila 24–25, 27–28 Tharu, Susie 148–149 theodicy issues, theological approaches 232, 239–240 theological approaches i, ii 1–20, 53–56, 60–65, 229–231; overview of the book i, ii 1–20; Śaṃkara’s treatment of the Bhāgavatas 6, 53–56, 60–62; theodicy issues 232, 239–240; see also individual topics; religion; worship practices ‘theory of everything’, brahman 102 thieves 39–40, 60 thirst 38 Thomas, Lynn ix–x 3, 9, 11, 16, 20, 130–144, 245 Timalsina, S. 123 Time presentation, Mahābhārata dialogues on dharma and devotion with Kṛṣṇa and Hanumān 12–13, 197–210; see also yugas tīrtha 185 tīrthakṛt 166–167

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tolerance, plurality 4–5, 23–25, 30–34, 133–135, 136 Torah 183, 195 transcendent states 52–53, 61–62, 132–133, 147–148, 151, 183–184, 221–223; Sanatsujāta teachings 221–223; Vāsudeva 57, 61; virtues 132–133 transformation theme, being human dialogically 3, 9, 11, 16, 20, 130–144; definition 8, 9, 67, 138–139, 244–245; discussion 10–11; Jain ministers and the religious persuasion of king Mahābala 10–11, 17–18, 160–177, 245; overview of the book i 2, 4, 5, 8–11, 15, 20, 244–247; paccekabuddhas 37, 47–48; Śaṃkara’s treatment of the Bhāgavatas 56–65; santakaviyatrīs 9–10, 145–159; Vārkarī tradition dialoguing 9–10, 19, 20, 145–159; Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta 78–79; Yogavāsiṣṭha dialogical transformation potential 8–9, 10–11, 17–18, 20, 107–129, 245; see also individual topics Triṣaṣṭiśalākāpuruṣacarita 1, 3, 10–11, 160–161, 168–177; discussion 170–173; Jain ministers and the religious persuasion of king Mahābala 10–11, 160–161, 168–177; see also Jainism truth 3, 7, 9, 15, 16, 33–34, 37–38, 46–47, 62, 73–74, 84–103, 132–144, 218, 220–225, 238–241; plurilogues about brahman in the early Upaniṣads 7, 16, 84–103, 246; see also brahman; vāda Tukārām 151–152 Tutsis, objectifiction problems 141–142 tvaya saṃbhāṣya 133 Uddālaka Āruṇi 86, 92–93, 96, 98, 101–102 Udyogaparvan 13, 132, 133, 138–139, 143, 212–214, 218, 222–223, 227 Ugraśravas 130 United States, racism 233 Universal Declaration of Human Rights 141 ‘universal normative doctrine’ 30 upādāna 58–59 upahāra 55 upākhyānas (sub-stories) 130 Upaniṣads 1, 2–5, 7, 13, 15–17, 20, 23–35, 53, 58–61, 67, 69, 76, 80, 84–103, 210, 212–214, 217, 222, 226–227, 245; background 3, 4–5, 7, 15–17, 23–35, 84–103, 210, 212–214; conversation concepts 86–87; emergence 86, 89, 102; plurilogues about brahman in the early

280 Index Upaniṣads 7, 16, 31–34, 84–103; see also Brahma-sūtra-bhāṣya; individual Upanisads; Vedas Uṣasta Cākrāyaṇa 91, 93, 98 utpatty-asaṃbhavāt 57 Uttara Mīmāṃsā Sūtra 74, 82 Uttarakāṇḍa 233–234 vāda 2, 3, 6–7, 68–74, 84–90, 101–102; definitions 2, 3, 69–70, 73–74, 85; see also truth Vaikhānasa 54–55 vairāgya 110 Vaiśaṁpāyana 130 Vaiśeṣikas 51–52, 58–59, 73, 86 Vaiṣṇava theology 6, 53–56, 60–63, 231–232, 238 Vaivasvata 236 Vālin 14–15, 19, 228–243, 245; afterlife 238, 240; conclusions 241; death from Rāma’s arrow 14, 229, 235–236, 238–239, 241; Rāma 14–15, 19, 228–243; Reading Vālin 232–241; Rumā 229, 236; subaltern’s attempts to be heard 19, 232–238, 241; Sugrīva 228–229, 234–237, 240–241; supplication gestures 238, 240; Vālin in the Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa 14–15, 19, 228–243, 245 Vālmīki 14–15, 19, 108–109, 208, 228–243 van Buitenen, J. A. B. 53–54, 63, 143, 209, 210, 227 vānaras 233–234, 241 vaṇṇa, definitions 28–29 Vārkari tradition, gender issues 9–10, 19, 20, 145–159; see also santakaviyatris varṇas 28–29, 35, 56, 88–89, 132–133, 135, 139, 143, 204, 222–223, 233–234; definitions 28–29; see also brahman varṇāśramakarma 55 Vāsiṣṭha 8, 108–112; 121–122 Vāsudeva 53–54, 56–65, 174–175; four manifestations 56–57, 60–62; self concepts 56–58, 61–62; transcendent states 57, 61 Vasudevahiṇḍī 1, 3, 10–11, 160–163, 166, 167, 168, 170–177; discussion 170–173; Jain ministers and the religious persuasion of king Mahābala 10–11, 160–163, 166, 167, 168, 170–177; see also Jainism vatthu 185 Vāyu the Wind God 198 Vedānta Deśika see Veṅkaṭanātha

Vedāntins 6, 53, 63, 66–83, 84 Vedas 1, 6, 13, 27, 31–32, 35, 52–56, 62–63, 70–72, 74–77, 84, 86, 87, 99–100, 143, 151, 155, 222–223; critique 52–56, 62–63, 76–77; gender issues 155; summary of the whole teaching 62; see also individual Vedas; Upaniṣads Veṅkaṭanātha, biography 66, 77–78, 81; conclusions 79–80; dialogue styles 67, 72–77; God’s role within debates 76–79, 83; interlocuter approaches 72–77; other works 77–78; Śaraṇāgatigadyabhāṣya 77–79; Seśvaramīmāṃsā argumentative structure 2, 3, 6–7, 15, 66–83; see also Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta vicāra 107–129 Vidagdha Śākalya 35, 92, 102–103 Videha 89 vidhi 59–60 Vidura 13–15, 17, 208, 211–227, 245; instructing Dhṛtarāṣṭra 214–221; royal piety models in the Mahābhārata 13–15, 17, 211–227, 245 vidyādhara 129, 160–161, 164–165, 167 vimṛṣṭaṃ 99 viniyoga 94, 101 Vīrocana 95 virtues, Brahmins 132–134, 136, 221–222; Lopāmudrā 139; self-control virtue 9, 17, 24–25, 30, 33–34, 35, 132–144, 165–166; the snake (Nahuṣa) 9, 136–137, 142–143; transcendent states 132–133; types 9, 60–62, 132–133, 136, 142–143, 221–222; Yudhiṣṭhira (Pāṇḍava king) 9, 132–144 vīrya (might) 60–62, 99 Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta 6, 66–83, 93; conclusions 79–80; definitions 81; see also Rāmānuja; Veṅkaṭanātha; Yāmuna vismaraṇa 108 Viṣṇu 53–54, 55–56, 61–62, 78, 205–206, 229–232, 238–239; form 205–206, 229–232, 238–239; Lakṣmī 78; see also Kṛṣṇa; Rāma Viśvāmitra 107, 109–111 viśvarūpa 13, 197–198 vitaṇḍā 3 Viṭṭal 9–10, 19, 147–159, 245; conventional analysis 154–155, 156–157; curse background 150–151; ‘dialogical presence’ 153; Pāṇḍuraṅg guise 151–152; poetry 150–151, 158; relationships with gods 9–10, 147–159;

Index sakhyā 150–151, 152–153; santakaviyatrīs 9–10, 147–159; see also gods Vivāgasuyaṃ 1 vohāra 186 Vṛtra 143 The Vulgate 214–215 vyākṛ 100 vyāpti 71 Vyāsa 77, 111, 201–202, 225 vyatireka 70 vyūhas 56–58, 60–65 Walshe, M. 32 Walters, Jonathan 195 warriors 12–13, 14–15, 24, 28, 90, 197–210, 212–218, 233–238, 239, 245; dharma 12–13, 24, 28, 197–210, 212–218, 233–238, 239, 245; Kṛṣṇa 201–207, 210; sva-dharma 201–202, 204; weaponry 234; see also Bhīma; Rāmāyaṇa weaponry, warriors 234 wife creation, Agastya the Brahmin 139, 141 Wiltshire, Martin 44, 48, 49 winning arguments 70–72 ‘wisdom king’ model of kingship 24, 28 worship practices, Bhāgavatas 55–56, 58–62, 197–210; Kṛṣṇa 61–62, 197–210; see also devotion; theological approaches Yājñavalkya 4–5, 16–17, 23–35, 86, 89–94, 102–103 Yājñavalkya-kaṇḍa 94 Yajurveda 99

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Yakṣas 205–206 Yāmuna 63, 66–69, 79, 81; sarcasm 67–68; Stotraratna 79; see also Viśiṣṭādvaita Vedānta Yāmunācārya 76 Yoga 51, 53, 58–59, 87, 213 Yogavāsiṣṭha 1, 3, 8–9, 10–11, 17–18, 20, 107–129, 245; background 8–9, 20, 107–112, 245; conclusions 121–122; definition 122; dialogical transformation potential 8–9, 10–11, 17–18, 20, 107–129, 245; ‘forgetting’ motif 115; gnoseological dialogues 8–9, 10–11, 18, 107–108, 113, 116–129; ‘I’ notion (ahamartha) 118–120; ‘mind’ concepts 118–119; mirror of the reader 8–9, 107–108, 109–129; philosophical position 108–129; stories 8–9, 107–129; see also Rāma yogic practices 56, 114, 121 yogis 108–129, 146–147, 153–154, 155 Yoshimizu, Kiyotaka 83 Young, K. 64 Yuddhakāṇḍa 2 Yudhiṣṭhira (Pāṇḍava king) 3, 9, 11, 130–144, 199–200, 203–204, 218, 225, 245; background 9, 11, 130–135, 141–143, 199–200, 203–204, 218, 245; Dharma 132, 199–200, 203; famous rescues from Dharma 132; the heron 137; the snake (Nahuṣa) 3, 9, 11, 20, 130–144, 245; social network 9, 11, 136; virtues 9, 132–144; see also Bhīma; Pāṇḍavas yugas 12–13, 197–210; four-yuga system 198–200, 208; see also Time presentation