by Roopa Pai
‘It is that living Self, the life-essence, that is the Self, Atman, of the world. That is the finest, most subtle essence of everything, the soul of everything, the root of everything, the scaffolding on which everything else stands. That is the true. That is the real. And That is your Self, your Atman, too.
‘That Thou Art, Shvetaketu, Tat Tvam Asi!’
‘Tell me more, sir,’ cried Shvetaketu, ‘teach me more!’
‘So be it, saumya,’ said Uddalaka.
‘Now bring me the fruit of a nyagrodha* tree.’
*A giant, spreading fig tree, referred to several times in both Buddhist and Hindu scriptures and mythology. It is usually identified with the banyan, Ficus benghalensis.
‘Here it is, sir.’
‘Break it.’
‘I have done so, sir.’
‘What do you see inside?’
‘Some tiny seeds, sir.’
‘Cut up one of the seeds.’
‘I have done so, sir.’
‘What do you see inside?’
‘I see nothing at all, sir.’
‘Know this, saumya, that “nothing”, which you cannot see, it is from that “nothing” that the giant nyagrodha grows, it is because of that “nothing” that it exists at all.
‘It is that “nothing”, saumya, believe me, that is the Self, Atman, of the world. That is the finest, most subtle essence of everything, the soul of everything, the root of everything, the scaffolding on which everything else stands. That is the true. That is the real. And That is your Self, your Atman, too.
‘That Thou Art, Shvetaketu, Tat Tvam Asi!’
‘Tell me more, sir,’ cried Shvetaketu, ‘teach me more!’
‘So be it, saumya,’ said Uddalaka.
‘Put this chunk of salt in a pot of water and come back to me tomorrow.’
‘Consider it done, Father.’
When Shvetaketu came back the next morning, his father said to him: ‘That chunk of salt I gave you yesterday, please bring it to me.’
‘B...but, Father,’ stuttered Shvetaketu, bringing the pot of water to his father, ‘how can I? The salt is gone now – it has completely dissolved.’
‘Take a sip of the water, son, from this side of the pot. How does it taste?’
‘Salty, Father.’
‘Now take a sip from the opposite side. How does it taste?’
‘Salty, Father.’
‘Now dip a finger into the centre of the pot and taste the water. How does it taste?’
‘Salty, Father.’
‘You see, Shvetaketu? The salt is here, there, everywhere, in the water, only you do not see it. And so it is with the Supreme Self. It is everywhere, pervades everything, only we do not see it.
‘It is that Supreme Self that is the Self, Atman, of the world. That is the finest, most subtle essence of everything, the soul of everything, the root of everything, the scaffolding on which everything else stands. That is the true. That is the real. And That is your Self, your Atman too.
‘That Thou Art, Shvetaketu, Tat Tvam Asi!’
‘Tell me more, sir,’ cried Shvetaketu, ‘teach me more!’
‘So be it, saumya,’ said Uddalaka.
‘Now consider a man from Gandhara, a stranger to these parts, who has been brought here by someone, blindfolded and left to fend for himself. The poor man goes east, and west, and north, floundering in every direction, not knowing where he is headed, crying out for help. Until some kind person passing by removes his blindfold, and when he asks, points out to him the way to Gandhara. Now, if he is a sensible type of man, this stranger will eventually find his way back, by making sure to check in the villages along his way if he is indeed on the right track, if Gandhara indeed lies in the direction he is going.
‘In exactly the same way is a man in this world, lost, floundering in every direction, not knowing where he is headed, until he finds a teacher to show him the way home. And then he rejoices, for he knows that his time in this foreign land is limited, and that, sooner or later, with the help of his teacher, he will find his way back to where he came from, back to his own Self.
‘It is that Self, whose home lies within you, that is the Self, Atman, of the world. That is the finest, most subtle essence of everything, the soul of everything, the root of everything, the scaffolding on which everything else stands. That is the true. That is the real. And That is your Self, your Atman, too.
‘That Thou Art, Shvetaketu, Tat Tvam Asi!’
‘Tell me more, sir,’ cried Shvetaketu, ‘teach me more!’
‘So be it, saumya,’ said Uddalaka.
‘Now consider a man who is gravely ill. His family gathers around his bedside, one of them asking anxiously, ‘Do you recognize me?’ and another asking the same, ‘Do you recognize me?’ As long as his speech has not merged into his mind, and his mind into his breath, and his breath into heat, and heat into the original Being, he recognizes them. But once speech merges into mind, and mind into breath, and breath into heat, and heat into Pure Being, there is no recognizing any more.
‘It is that Pure Being, into which we all eventually merge, that is the Self, Atman, of the world. That is the finest, most subtle essence of everything, the soul of everything, the root of everything, the scaffolding on which everything else stands. That is the true. That is the real. And That is your Self, your Atman too.
‘That Thou Art, Shvetaketu, Tat Tvam Asi!’
‘Tell me more, sir,’ cried Shvetaketu, ‘teach me more!’
‘So be it, saumya,’ said Uddalaka.
‘Now consider a man in handcuffs, being dragged into a public square, with the mob shouting, ‘Thief! Stealer of others’ possessions! Heat the axe for him!’ And if he is indeed a thief, and protests his innocence, and takes hold of the axe, his hand will burn, and everyone will know him for a liar. But if he is innocent, and protests his innocence, then the axe will not burn him, for the truth will protect him like a shield.
‘It is that shining Truth, that ultimate Truth, that Truth that shields and protects, that is the Self, Atman, of the world. That is the finest, most subtle essence of everything, the soul of everything, the root of everything, the scaffolding on which everything else stands. That is the true. That is the real. And That is your Self, your Atman, too.
‘That Thou Art, Shvetaketu, Tat Tvam Asi!’
And Shvetaketu, the beloved son of Uddalaka Aruni, who knew now that, at the very core of his being, at the very root of his existence, he was no different from the nectar in the flowers and the honey in the beehives and the waters in the rivers and the salt in the sea and the life-sap of the trees and the Truth that protects and the Pure Being into which everything returns and the nothing-everything at the heart of a nyagrodha seed, bowed to his father and his teacher, from whom he had indeed learnt the secret of the Self.
Aum Shantih Shantih Shantih ||
Isn’t that a beautiful story? Don’t you love the fact that the teacher uses so many examples from daily life, so many metaphors, to explain a concept that he knows the student will find hard to grasp? Doesn’t it make you feel all warm and fuzzy that the teacher refers to the student so often as ‘saumya’ – dear one? [By the way, this is not only because Shvetaketu happens to also be his son – throughout the Upanishads, teachers refer to their students as saumya, and students to their teachers (whether they were human or beast or bird) as ‘Bhagavan’ – powerful, respected, worshipped, blessed, prosperous (in wisdom) – indicating that the relationship is one based on deep and mutual love, and respect.] Doesn’t it send a thrill running down your spine each time you read that tremendous declaration – That Thou Art, Tat Tvam Asi?
As you have probably guessed by now, Tat Tvam Asi is the third of the four Mahavakyas – Great Pronouncements – of the Upanishads that we have encountered in this book so far. Keep your eyes peeled for the fourth! PS: Easy-peasy. It has to be part of the next Upanishad, since it is the last one on the list.
THE AFTERSTORY
In the
first section of this chapter – ‘The Backstory’ – we talked about how the answer to most (all?) questions raised in the Chandogya was ‘Brahman’. Is this the ultimate cop-out by the Vedantic sages, then? Were they in fact pulling a fast one on us all? Were they being deliberately obscure because they did not know the answer themselves?
Not really. In fact, these sages were the first to even engage with the kind of fundamental questions that the Chandogya concerns itself with – Where did the universe come from? What is it made of/pervaded by? What makes it tick? Who are we, really? What is it that allows a ‘physical system’ like the body, which you can touch, see, smell, taste and hear, to produce a ‘mental system’ like the mind and intellect, which you are aware of and can locate in the region of the brain, but cannot see? What is it in turn that allows a ‘mental system’ to produce an ‘emotional system’ that you are aware of but cannot locate in the body (do feelings emerge from the brain or from the heart, or from somewhere else altogether)? What is it, or who is it, inside each of us that allows us to experience our feelings, thoughts, ideas, memories? What is the nature of reality – how can we call this moment – this present, current moment at which we are reading this particular phrase – real, if it has receded into the past, into dreamlike memory, by the time we are done reading this sentence?
The Vedantins’ answer to all these questions was Brahman, which simply means – Consciousness. (Did you think Brahman meant God? Naaah.) And what does consciousness mean? The thing that allows all humans to be self-aware, the ability that we all have to think of ourselves as ‘I’. Do you know what’s even more remarkable? At least two of the questions that the Upanishads concerned themselves with deeply 2,500 years ago – (1) What is the universe made of/pervaded with?; and (2) What is consciousness? – are two questions that STILL remain among the Top Five Unanswered Questions in science today (google it!).
The Vedantins believed that both ‘Space’ (here and there, inside and outside, me and you) and ‘Time’ (then and now, today and tomorrow), the two concepts by which we have always measured and understood reality, are both illusions (quantum physics, anyone?) created by our consciousness, which is the only true reality there is. Consciousness, they said, is itself boundless (not limited by space) and timeless (not part of past, present or future) – it has simply always been, and always pervaded everything. In fact, they said, there is nothing else besides it – this entire universe, and everything in it, is simply a projection of that Consciousness, an amusing game it plays with itself, as ephemeral as a dream. In a sense, say the Vedantins, the universe, and everything in it, is nothing but a giant VR game!
No, seriously. Here’s how it apparently works.
Imagine you are visiting a VR arcade in Jalpaiguri. Imagine you have chosen to play a game that involves a ski contest set in the Swiss Alps. You have snapped on your VR headset, stepped into stationary skis and grabbed a pair of ski poles that you can twist this way and that but are otherwise fixed to the ground. The game begins, and you instantly find yourself zipping down an expert-level slope. It feels real, sure, all of it – the pines and firs rushing by, the skis under your feet, the poles you are digging into the snow to control your speed, the wind in your hair, even your terror when you sail off the edge of the slope (check your heartbeat and you will find it is elevated), but it is only a dream world, which you can step out of any old time you want to, simply by whipping off your headset. And when the game ends, you know there is no need to be sad, for you can return to it anytime.
What’s more, each time you return, you can do so as an entirely different character – a ballet dancer (male), maybe, or a powerful business tycoon (female), or a beggar on the street, covered with sores – in an entirely different setting. You may return to the game for a variety of reasons – because you want to win more points this time, because you want to play a different character, or game avatar, or simply because you are bored, and the game is fun and challenging and gives you something to do. Or you may decide to quit the game entirely, by getting to the most advanced level and winning the maximum number of points, because the novelty has worn off and it has stopped being fun.
The Upanishads tell us that that is exactly what Consciousness, Brahman, is doing – amusing itself, through us, characters that It has imagined and created out of Itself. Which is why, say the sages of the Upanishad, we shouldn’t take the world, and ourselves, too seriously. Instead, we should watch everything that is happening, or seems to be happening, around us, and to us, with a certain level of detachment, knowing it is make-believe.
From Shvetaketu’s story, we know that the authors of the Upanishads believed that there is absolutely no difference between the original Consciousness that created us and our own consciousness, which allows us to feel and think and experience the world in a very different way from how everyone else experiences it. If you believe that implicitly (the Vedantins would rather you discovered this ‘truth’ for yourself through contemplation, instead of simply taking their word for it), sorrow cannot hurt you and death cannot scare you. Life becomes a wonderful experience, even a game, to be played at the highest level of focus and dedication, of course – because it would be no fun otherwise – and to be enjoyed thoroughly, through the wins and the losses, but never to be taken too seriously.
Yup, that’s not at all an easy concept to grasp, especially by the mind or the intellect, which are the only two devices most of us use to understand something. But don’t fret – this is just to get you thinking out of the box a little. Keep thinking like that, and one day, you may, who knows, get a glimmer of understanding of what or who Brahman really is, and/or solve some of the most fundamental questions in science.
१८
BRIHADARANYAKA
The Great Forest Upanishad
In which we learn that we should be careful what we wish for, for we are nothing but our deepest desire
Aum!
That is complete, and This is complete,
From That completeness comes This completeness;
If you take completeness away from completeness,
Only completeness remains.
Aum Shaantih Shaantih Shaantih ||
THE BACKSTORY
America, 1911. A bright young American, from one of the country’s most privileged families, is accepted into a three-year course of study in Indian philosophy and Sanskrit at Harvard University. He has studied philosophy as an undergraduate in the same college a few years before and already has a Master’s degree in English literature. In fact, the twenty-two-year-old has always found refuge in books and reading, because a debilitating medical condition has kept him from enjoying all kinds of fun activities while growing up.
Cut to a decade later. The now-not-so-young man has moved to England and become the toast of the literary community there and back home in America. He is recognized as something of a genius, both as a poet and a social critic, but his personal life is a mess. His marriage is failing, both his wife and he have been diagnosed with nervous disorders that hamper their work, and his spirit is at an all-time low. The couple move out of London into the countryside for a three-month convalescence, and the poet finally has time to work on a ‘long poem’ that has been brewing in his mind. The mega-poem, weighing in at almost 1,000 lines, is as angst-ridden and disillusion-filled as the poet himself, but for the very last section, which ends on a note of hope and a wish for peace.
In October 1922, after it has been polished and trimmed down to about half its length, the weird and wonderful poem is finally published in the first issue of a new British literary magazine that the poet himself has founded. It goes on to become one of the best known, most quoted, most analyzed poems in modern English literature, and establishes its poet as one of the greatest of the twentieth century. It is called ‘The Waste Land’.
T.S. Eliot’s ‘The Waste Land’ includes a story from the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad
Yup, the troubled genius we have been talking about all this
time is none other than T.S. Eliot!* And we are talking about Eliot and his epic poem here because the last section of the poem – ‘What the Thunder Said’ – the only part of the poem that isn’t so gloomy, is inspired by a story in the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad (BU)!
(Check out the original ‘What the Thunder Said’ story from the BU at the end of this chapter and then google ‘The Waste Land’ to read the poem, particularly the last section. Make sure you have a good guidebook by your side, for the poem is itself a sprawling forest, riddled with difficult references to this and that.)
*You may be interested to know that he also wrote a lovely book of poems called ‘Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats’, which was adapted by Andrew Lloyd Webber into the smash-hit musical Cats! Ring a bell?
The Brihadaranyaka Upanishad, which is part of the Shukla Yajur Veda and among the oldest Upanishads, lives up to the first part of its name – ‘brihad’, which means vast, ginormous – by being the largest of the Upanishads. As for the ‘aranyaka’ part, if you understood it literally, as ‘of the forest’, then the BU is ‘The Ginormous-Forest Upanishad’. That would be appropriate too, for you could spend months and years walking its main path and exploring its many detours. Here’s a startling bit of trivia – together with the also-giant Chandogya, the BU constitutes two-thirds of all the Upanishadic literature that has survived to this day!
Clearly, it would be a futile exercise to try and touch upon all the themes addressed by the BU in its six giant chapters, or adhyayas, in this little book. Instead, we shall focus on a few stories and a few engaging themes. If you want to find out more, go ahead – the BU has been around for almost 3,000 years and isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
THE STORY
ADHYAYA 1
No such thing as bad breath! – A story about gods and demons
Prajapati, Supreme Father, had children of two kinds – demons and gods. The demons, who were older, were misguided, selfish, grasping and always willing to trample over others; in short, they were not the best role models for their younger siblings. Fortunately, younger siblings are often smarter, so the gods did not look to their brothers, but to their own sweet natures, for guidance, and tried their best to be kind, virtuous and unselfish. Unfortunately, younger siblings are also often bullied, and so it was with the gods. Their older brothers were always snatching things from them – Heaven, for instance. Fed up, the gods decided to perform a big yagna, and overcome their exasperating brothers by means of the power of the High Chant, the Udgitha, Aum.