Hindus: Their Religious Beliefs and Practices (The Library of Religious Beliefs and Practices)

by Julius Lipner

  (vi) Finally, we can consider Yoga, which has been paired with Sāṃkhya because of a similarity of perspective. The term yoga is derived from the verbal root, yuj, which means to ‘join together, harness, yoke’. Hence yoga is a harnessing or conjoining in some way. This is achieved by a certain mental and physical discipline of harmonization by the yogī or practitioner. The idea may well be very old. The reader may remember our mentioning in Chapter 2 an image of what appears to be a figure seated in a distinctive meditative posture surrounded by animals, etched on a Harappan seal (the so-called Śiva Paśupati prototype). If this is a yogic posture, however incipient, then the rudiments of Yoga may have been derived from non-Aryan sources and assimilated and developed in Brahminic Hinduism over time. The same may apply to the origins of the concept of prakṛti. This is why we said earlier that the ṣaḍ-darśanas may well contain both ‘Aryan’ and indigenous or non-Aryan roots.

  The technical source-text for the Yoga system is the Yoga Sūtra of Patañjali, usually consigned to the third century or so C.E.; it consists of about 194 Sūtras (depending on which version of the Sūtra is accepted) and gives its teachings against the backdrop of Sāṃkhya metaphysics. However, there is evidence to suggest that the tradition was developing systematically in preceding centuries, probably in conjunction with the formulation of Sāṃkhya. The Mbh. (including the Gītā) and several Upaniṣads speak of yoga in a determinate sense (see Feuerstein 1975:Chapter V). Another important source-text for the system is the Yogabhāṣya or ‘Commentary on the Yoga Sūtra’, generally attributed to Vyāsa (fourth–seventh century), ‘which has done most to shape understanding of the Yoga Sūtra, particularly in a Sāṃkhya context’ (Johnson's Dictionary of Hinduism, under Yoga Sūtra).

  Patañjali defines yoga as ‘the control of the modifications of consciousness’ (yogaś citta-vṛtti-nirodhaṣ), and his text has been regarded by scholars as containing reference to more than one yogic path. Be that as it may, I think there is little doubt that there is intended to be an underlying conceptual coherence in this text, and this is how the Indian tradition, for one, has understood it (see Whicher 1998:45–6, for a comment on this point). Encapsulated in the Sūtra is the idea of undergoing a rigorous discipline (sādhana) of mind and body to recover the original pure, undifferentiated state of consciousness that characterizes the ‘true self’ (puruṣa, ātman) of the practitioner, detached from the various pulls and seductions of bodily (prakritic) existence. The Sūtra lays out analytically various steps and mental and bodily features of this process, including its essentially altruistic moral component, and gives a description of the ultimate goal as blissful aloneness (kaivalya). In contrast to classical Sāṃkhya, there is reference in the Yoga Sūtra to the need to focus on the existence of a disembodied PuruṣA or Lord (īśvara), who rather than being the providential, creative God of the G ita, functions more as the Exemplar of the ultimate state.

  In time, the concept of yoga proliferated into various special forms of practice, with an emphasis on postural and/or mental exercises.18 It was in the nineteenth century that both Patañjali's Yoga and some of its other developments were somewhat indiscriminately ‘exported’ to and adapted in Western circles preoccupied to some extent with occultist and mystical experience. In due course, this gave rise to the West's current interest in ‘modern postural yoga’ in the context of mental and bodily wellbeing; Swami Vivekananda's interpretation of Yoga played an important part in this process of transfer (see De Michelis 2004). We shall return to various aspects of Yoga later.

  On the basis of this brief survey, let us now attempt to grasp the motivating ideas behind these traditions of Hindu intellectual endeavour. As I said earlier, it all starts in the Veda. In this context, inquiry into the scope, role and authority of language (śabda), especially scriptural language, would have been paramount. Hence the linguistic concerns of the Mīmāṃsa (not to mention Nyāya). Scripturally, does language essentially describe what exists, including the transcendent Brāhmaṇ, or does it prescribe what one must do, viz. performance of the ritual, and how this is to be accomplished? But the core concept of dharma has to do with describing-and-prescribing in the attempt to create a world of enabling order out of what would otherwise be a very amorphous sea of existence, hence the Mīmāṃsaka preoccupation with trying to crystallize the meaning of dharma in various contexts. This bears on self-definition too in relation to those within and outside the Vedic pale, so varṇāśrama dharma – the dharma of caste and stages of life – becomes an important concern.

  But what are the different categories of being (padārtha) among which we must find our proper place, indeed, what exactly are we – as thinking, aspiring beings – in this scheme of things? And how do we know that we understand scripture aright, that we are making proper use of our thinking processes in order to arrive at the truth, confronted as we are with many internal and external opposing views? Vaiṣeśika and Nyāya help guide one towards providing the correct answers to these questions, not least through establishing the norms for honest debate with one's opponents. And what might be the overall semantic and metaphysical framework in terms of which we may conduct our multi-faceted quest for salvation, and the tested discipline (sādhana) for undertaking this momentous religious journey? Here the categories of Sāṃkhya and Yoga come into play.

  No doubt, ontologically, epistemologically, morally and soteriologically, a huge array of explorative options lay within the ambit of this intricate web of ideas and practices of the six systems, shared through debate with both internal and external opponents (e.g. the Tantriks, Śāktas, Buddhists, Jainas, Materialists, etc.). But it was by this means that, gradually over time, the Veda itself was affirmed in Brahminic Hinduism as a symbol and repository of saving truth, and it was through the ramifications of these debates that the codes of practice for determining right thinking and behaviour and the correct ways of communicating this, came into being. In the process, the parameters of what we may loosely call ‘Vedic orthodoxy’ were established.

  The so-called six systems do not exhaust the movements of systematic thought that have developed in Hindu tradition over the centuries. We have already indicated that there were others which over time were brought into the penumbra, if not the umbra, of Brahminic Hinduism, e.g. Tantric and Śākta schools, not to mention philosophical–theological thinking from the south such as the śaiva Siddhānta, which had their own scriptures that were Brahminized and validated as alternative Vedas (see Chapter 4). These systems too had their prasthāna-vākyas, which could be commentated upon in the spirit mentioned above. Let us now consider one or two of the common practices for arriving at and transmitting the perceived gains of rational inquiry in the centuries-long tradition of Hindu intellectual endeavour. We shall confine ourselves to (i) the style of argument, and (ii) the mode of perpetuating the seminal wisdom of these traditions, i.e. the commentary or bhāṣya.

  (i) A frequently resorted-to pattern of reaching the established conclusion (Siddhānta) of the reasoned discussion of a topic in the ṣad-darśanas, was to consider first the position of an opponent (Pūrvapakṣa, the opponent being the Pūrvapakṣin). Usually the opponent is given full rein by the siddhāntin (or establisher of the final position) to arrive at his conclusion, often in terms of a lively debate.

  After the Pūrvapakṣin’s conclusion is reached, the siddhantin takes over the discussion, and by means of an equally lively debate, in which he progressively demolishes the opponent's arguments point by point, the final conclusion or Siddhānta from the author's own point of view, is arrived at. This exchange can continue, by way of argument and counter-argument, for a considerable length of time. In the process, the impression is sought to be given that all the important objections to the Siddhānta have been aired, and that the Siddhānta has been reached by withstanding the onslaught of reasoned debate.

  Not only does this style of debate represent an attempt to demonstrate the reasonableness of the Siddhānta, but it also implies a
shared world (with the opponent) of rational discourse; the rules of reason are universal, irrespective of which side of the fence one finds oneself on. The implication is that, if logic is used correctly, one can arrive at a settled conclusion. But this method also tends to give the opponent the respect due to a reasonable disputant; to this extent it is a way of resolving differences non-violently, under the banner of rationality.

  In Indian thought, the characteristic way to explicate the wisdom of a tradition, whether this was encapsulated in Sūtras or in more discursive text, was through the commentary, the foundational level of which was usually called the bhāṣya. The motivation underlying the commentary was to both affirm and unravel the knowledge that lay condensed in the original text so as to release its śakti or inner power for the benefit of the reader/listener. As such, commentary had not only a cognitive function, but also a moral component; it was an act of humility on the part of the commentator, an act of deference to the text commented upon. Commentators did not seek to aggrandize themselves by being ‘original’. No doubt through the commentating act, in seeking to explicate the purport of a text, to make it relevant to contemporary issues, many original insights might come to light, but these were generally attributed to the original text which was itself regarded as encapsulating knowledge that was ‘discovered'or revealed. Original knowledge in Hindu thought, certainly under the Vedic umbrella, was something given which needed to be passed on and expounded. The commentator was a servant of the knowledge or wisdom seeking egress from the original, the instrument that brought the suppressed data to light. This is why it is hard sometimes to identify or to find much personal information about a commentator in Indian tradition.

  In this context, the Indologist Daniel Ingalls writes:

  In the West we think of commentators as dull creatures, lacking in imagination, who take some one else's text to furnish themselves with ideas ... But the Indian tradition is different. The most original and imaginative products of the Indian intellect are [traditionally] given us in the form of commentaries. The Indian authors may try to hide their originality, borrowing from tradition as much as they can, attributing even their new ideas to some ancient sage, but the originality is still there. Often it may be as great in a pious Sanskrit commentary as in a professedly revolutionary tract written in English or in German. The Indians are not less original; they are simply more anonymous.

  (1952:3)

  The commentary could be a detailed one, on most of the words of the original Sūtra or text, or more broadly, on selected statements or arguments. In the Introduction to his detailed bhāṣya on the Gītā, Śaṃkara writes as follows:

  This sacred text, the Gītā, which encapsulates the essence of the whole purport of the Veda, is difficult to understand. Realizing that its logic and the meaning of its sentences and words have been expounded by numerous people in order to discover its sense in a way that produces many and the most contradictory of meanings, I shall briefly provide an explanation so as to ascertain its exact meaning.

  He then goes on to produce a commentary running to over 500 pages in English translation!

  The ṭīkā, vṛtti and vārttika are forms of sub-commentary, i.e. commentaries on commentaries, though other terms occur to describe the commentatorial task in the names of various commentaries or glosses, e.g. kaumudī and candrikā, which metaphorically evoke ‘the light of the moon’ (= kaumudī, candrikā) as the agent that enables the buds of compressed meaning in the text to flower. Over the centuries, Hindu tradition has produced countless commentaries and sub-commentaries in Sanskrit and other languages on works that range across the spectrum of human expertise and behaviour, not to mention on texts believed by one group or other to be promulgated scripture. This practice continues to the present day among religious and other teachers who follow the accredited ways. Thus the founder of ISKCON, BhaktiVedānta Swami Prabhupada, has written a learned and elaborate gloss, among other works, on most of the Bhāgavata Purāṇa, a prime scripture of his movement.

  It has already been pointed out that prasthāna-vākyas may function at different levels of the religious journey. We need to say more on this. But first we have to provide a context. In Brahminic Hinduism the goals of human existence are said to be fourfold. These goals or puruṣārthas are (i) artha or prosperity, (ii) kāma or gratification, (iii) dharma, to be understood here as religious merit, and (iv) mokṣa or liberation from satnsara, the flux of existence. Though one often comes across this division in the literature, there is nothing sacrosanct about it, in that many Hindus today simply do not make much of it, unlike modern Hindu (and non-Hindu) writers on Hinduism!

  The order in which the first three goals are traditionally listed varies, as do their precise meanings (see A. Sharma 1982, Lipner 1997, and in a modern context, Parel 2006). It is perhaps useful to note that when the list, especially of the first three goals, was first formulated some centuries before the beginning of the Common Era (mokṣa being added at a later date), artha is likely to have meant the means required to fund the Vedic sacrifice,19 kāma the satisfaction gained from the fruits of the sacrifice, and dharma the merit acquired by regular and proper performance of the solemn ritual. In other words, these three goals centred round the Vedic sacrificial cult, still the religious norm of the time. As alternative cults, e.g. bhakti, gained currency, the meaning of the puruṣārthas changed in accordance with context. With the rise of saṃnyāsa (the renunciation of worldly ties) as a religious objective – the early Upaniṣads mark this trend as we have seen – mokṣa, interpreted variously as the transcending of the ritualistic mentality, was added to the list as the fourth goal, and the relationship between mokṣa and the other three puruṣārthas takes on new philosophical implications. More will be said about this later. Here we point out that, in typical Hindu fashion, the original list was not discarded but reinterpreted.

  However, the pursuit of artha and kāma was set in an ethical context from very early on. Artha and kāma, and perforce dharma, were never recommended as goals to be sought for their own sake irrespective of an ethical code of practice. This idea is implied, for instance, in the Gītā 7.11. The Lord Kṛṣṇa says: ‘I am the kāma [you experience] for things, but not as opposed to dharma’. Artha and kāma could be sought in unprincipled ways of course – generically kāma simply means desire, which easily turns to concupiscence or lust – but this was condemned in the context of dharma. Today it is common for artha to be interpreted as worldly success or wealth, kāma as aesthetic and sensual satisfaction, and dharma as virtue, whether in the cause of enlightened self-interest or when pursued for disinterested ends. The interpretation of the puruṣārthas has been enlarged, although their ethical context has been retained. We shall return to this later.

  It is now time to relate the puruṣārthas to the concept of the prasthāna-vākya. In Brahminic Hinduism various writings are associated with the articulation and attainment of each puruṣārtha in such a way as to be, in effect, the prasthāna-vākya for each pursuit. Consider the Artha Śāstra, for example, a well-known Sanskrit work of some 5000 Sūtras attributed to Kauṭilya, an expert on politics.

  It is generally believed that the Artha Śāstra was produced originally in the fourth–third century B.C.E. by Kautilya (also known as Cāṇakya), adviser to the king Candragupta Maurya, who is thought to have reigned from 322–298. But a study has claimed with plausibility that the text known to us has come down as a compilation of the first or second century C.E.20 In any event, there can be no doubt that the text was preceded by a developed tradition of thought on statecraft. The very first Sūtra declares: ‘This particular treatise on artha has been produced after collecting as many authoritative texts as possible by former teachers on the acquisition and preservation of territory’. The text also refers to a number of other teachers by name. As the Sūtra quoted suggests, artha here has to do with wellbeing in the context of a well-ordered and stable state. In the course of 15 chapters Kaurilya's work expounds ar
tha by concentrating on what the king and his chief officials should do to run a successful state. Only indirectly, then, has the material wellbeing of a subject (indeed, an ‘Aryan’ subject) of such a polity been described.

  The meaning of artha in the text is already considerably broad. The work tells us, among other things, how princes, including the heir, should be raised, educated and treated; councillors tested and appointed by the king; wars begun, conducted or averted; enemies won over, undermined or overthrown, taxes levied, criminals punished, and how calamities should be dealt with, and how the king's chief officials should function, viz. the king's chaplain and the ministers of revenue, records, audits, taxes, mines, courtesans, gold control, agriculture, the armoury, shipping, cattle, elephants, etc.

  As a treatise on achieving material well-being (artha) rather than on ethics, the Artha Śāstra is not concerned to justify its recommendations by analytic moral discussion. But it does postulate a moral framework for the pursuit of artha. The alternative name for the genre of literature for which it was a model, namely Daṇḍa Nīti (‘The Code of the Rod’), indicates as much. We are also told (1.4.11–14):

  For the Rod, used wisely, endows one's subjects with dharma, artha and kāma. Used badly – out of passion or anger or disregard – it enrages even forest-anchorites and wandering ascetics, leave alone householders! If not used at all, it gives rise to the Law of the Fish (matsya-Nyāya): for, in the absence of the wielder of the Rod, the stronger swallows the weak (I have modified Kangle's translation).