Such is the way of the world, can never know
just where to put all your faith and how will it grow
Gonna rise up, burning black holes in dark memories
Gonna rise up, turning mistakes into gold...
--from Rise by Eddie Vedder
The two most cherished texts of Hindu literature are the Ramayana and the Mahabharata. The Ramayana is said to have been written between 400 and 200 BCE, and the Mahabharata between 400 and 100 BCE. Both texts were written as heroic epic poems to highlight the lives and the power of the ancient gods and thereby serve as ideals for all of us normal people to follow. Think the Iliad and the Odyssey, Beowulf, even the Bible and the Koran. The Ramayana tells the story of the life of Lord Rama whose affection for his parents and his devotion to his dharma (duty) ultimately help him to defeat the evil King Ravana. But not before Rama is sent into exile by his parents and loses his wife, Princess Sita, when she is kidnapped by Ravana, the King of Lanka. The Mahabharata is the narrative of the great war between two sets of paternal first cousins who become bitter rivals for the ancestral kingdom of Bharata, which some translate as Great India. One of the most sacred texts of the Hindus, The Bhagavad Gita (Lord's Song), is a central part of the story of the Mahabharata.
These poems are replete with not only acts of heroism, but with many moments we would recognize as very human. There is jealously, anger, cowardice, duplicity, in other words, ample examples of the gods behaving badly. What better way to teach that even the gods gained their wisdom by being fallible. Without mistakes, how are we to learn humility and forgiveness? If we have no opportunity to fall from grace, how then do we learn to recover the path to our divinity?
During the past two weeks, I have been intent on developing my discipline for a home practice. This is no small feat for someone who has been diligently studying with a teacher multiple times a week for 10 years. However, I am slowly coming to terms with the fact that it is an essential part of my path, a sharper turn inward on an already inward journey. When Sharath Jois was at UCLA at the end of May, I met and practiced next to several students of Ashtanga who had successfully developed the discipline of practicing at home. These students have beautiful practices. They also have teachers, but they have learned to treat their teachers as sage guides to check in with and consult with from time to time now that they have committed to a daily practice on their own.
It is not without coincidence that I recently came across the story of the great archer of the Mahabharata, Eklavya. Eklavya was the young prince of a confederation of jungle tribes of Ancient India. Despite his link to royalty, he belonged to the lowest caste in the Vedic system. Eklavya was determined to become an archer. He wanted to study with Dronacharya, the great tutor of archery. Dronacharya was Arjuna's guru. Even when Eklavya's father explained to his son that Dronacharya would not be willing to teach him, Eklavya set out undeterred. He was assured of becoming one of Drona's disciples once Drona observed Eklavya's resolve. The young prince travels to the Gurukal (realm of a guru) of Drona. He presents himself to Drona as a willing disciple. As Eklavya's father had predicted, Drona tells the young boy that due to his family background, he is unable to teach Eklavya.
This is a minor setback for Eklavya who remains committed to his goal of becoming a great archer. He does not return home, but instead goes into the forest surrounding Drona's Gurukal and creates a statue of Drona out of mud. Eklavya proceeds to practice archery under the stare of his Guru's mud statue. Within a few years, Eklavya is quite skilled. News of his talents reaches Dronacharya, and Eklavya is eventually brought before Drona to perform. Eklavya has indeed become a master of archery, and Drona, impressed by the young man's skill, asks Eklavya for the name of his guru. When Eklavya explains that his guru is none other than Drona, the guru is both surprised and flattered. But Arjuna is jealous. Drona had promised Arjuna that he would be his greatest archer. Arjuna then reminds Drona that Eklavya has not offered Drona his guru-dhakshina, a gift that the student or shishya offers his guru for the training the student has received.
Rather than recognize Eklavya's earnest devotion for what it was, Drona decides to punish Eklavya for his disobedience. Eklavya perfected his archery before the mud statue of Guru Drona even though Drona had told Eklavya that his low caste prevented Drona from being his guru. Thus, Dronacharya asks Eklavya to cut off his right thumb as his guru-dhakshina. Although he is stunned by Dronacharya's request, Eklavya obeys knowing that without his thumb, he will no longer be a great archer. And yet, in fulfilling his guru-dhakshina, Eklavya will finally be accepted as one of Drona's disciples.
In the end, Drona asks the gods to bless Eklavya for his loyalty and bravery. Eklavya continues to train without his thumb and eventually becomes an even greater archer than before. When Drona learns of Eklavya's continued devotion, Drona asks the gods for forgiveness.
On my syllabus every semester, I included a few paragraphs intended to give my students an idea of my personal philosophy regarding reading and writing, the subjects I would be teaching over the course of the term. Before the start of each new semester, I would edit my philosophy a bit, but overall, my message remained the same. I wanted my students to understand that the true depth and breadth of their learning was up to them. As the professor, I would provide structure and tools, but these tools would only take them so far. I suppose I wanted my students to understand that on any given day there was the possibility of running up against the limits of knowledge, mine and theirs. But where to go from "I don't know"? The possibilities were endless. As students, we are not always ready to accept that we are the ones responsible for the direction of our learning. Sometimes what we end up learning does not feel like what we would have willingly chosen to learn. Our lessons can be painful and harsh and unfair. They can also be brilliant and exemplary and gentle.
Along with my personal philosophy of reading and writing, at the very top of my course syllabus was a quote from the 19th century Indian philosopher Keshab Chandra Sen. The very first words my students would read at the start of every semester were these: "I am born a pupil. Everything that exists is my master. I learn from everything!" Our lives are filled with what is tragic as often as they are full of what is triumphant. If we learn to be willing, we will learn from it all. In this way, our lessons become eternal and our lives, well, they become the true epic tales.
just where to put all your faith and how will it grow
Gonna rise up, burning black holes in dark memories
Gonna rise up, turning mistakes into gold...
--from Rise by Eddie Vedder
The two most cherished texts of Hindu literature are the Ramayana and the Mahabharata. The Ramayana is said to have been written between 400 and 200 BCE, and the Mahabharata between 400 and 100 BCE. Both texts were written as heroic epic poems to highlight the lives and the power of the ancient gods and thereby serve as ideals for all of us normal people to follow. Think the Iliad and the Odyssey, Beowulf, even the Bible and the Koran. The Ramayana tells the story of the life of Lord Rama whose affection for his parents and his devotion to his dharma (duty) ultimately help him to defeat the evil King Ravana. But not before Rama is sent into exile by his parents and loses his wife, Princess Sita, when she is kidnapped by Ravana, the King of Lanka. The Mahabharata is the narrative of the great war between two sets of paternal first cousins who become bitter rivals for the ancestral kingdom of Bharata, which some translate as Great India. One of the most sacred texts of the Hindus, The Bhagavad Gita (Lord's Song), is a central part of the story of the Mahabharata.
These poems are replete with not only acts of heroism, but with many moments we would recognize as very human. There is jealously, anger, cowardice, duplicity, in other words, ample examples of the gods behaving badly. What better way to teach that even the gods gained their wisdom by being fallible. Without mistakes, how are we to learn humility and forgiveness? If we have no opportunity to fall from grace, how then do we learn to recover the path to our divinity?
During the past two weeks, I have been intent on developing my discipline for a home practice. This is no small feat for someone who has been diligently studying with a teacher multiple times a week for 10 years. However, I am slowly coming to terms with the fact that it is an essential part of my path, a sharper turn inward on an already inward journey. When Sharath Jois was at UCLA at the end of May, I met and practiced next to several students of Ashtanga who had successfully developed the discipline of practicing at home. These students have beautiful practices. They also have teachers, but they have learned to treat their teachers as sage guides to check in with and consult with from time to time now that they have committed to a daily practice on their own.
It is not without coincidence that I recently came across the story of the great archer of the Mahabharata, Eklavya. Eklavya was the young prince of a confederation of jungle tribes of Ancient India. Despite his link to royalty, he belonged to the lowest caste in the Vedic system. Eklavya was determined to become an archer. He wanted to study with Dronacharya, the great tutor of archery. Dronacharya was Arjuna's guru. Even when Eklavya's father explained to his son that Dronacharya would not be willing to teach him, Eklavya set out undeterred. He was assured of becoming one of Drona's disciples once Drona observed Eklavya's resolve. The young prince travels to the Gurukal (realm of a guru) of Drona. He presents himself to Drona as a willing disciple. As Eklavya's father had predicted, Drona tells the young boy that due to his family background, he is unable to teach Eklavya.
This is a minor setback for Eklavya who remains committed to his goal of becoming a great archer. He does not return home, but instead goes into the forest surrounding Drona's Gurukal and creates a statue of Drona out of mud. Eklavya proceeds to practice archery under the stare of his Guru's mud statue. Within a few years, Eklavya is quite skilled. News of his talents reaches Dronacharya, and Eklavya is eventually brought before Drona to perform. Eklavya has indeed become a master of archery, and Drona, impressed by the young man's skill, asks Eklavya for the name of his guru. When Eklavya explains that his guru is none other than Drona, the guru is both surprised and flattered. But Arjuna is jealous. Drona had promised Arjuna that he would be his greatest archer. Arjuna then reminds Drona that Eklavya has not offered Drona his guru-dhakshina, a gift that the student or shishya offers his guru for the training the student has received.
Rather than recognize Eklavya's earnest devotion for what it was, Drona decides to punish Eklavya for his disobedience. Eklavya perfected his archery before the mud statue of Guru Drona even though Drona had told Eklavya that his low caste prevented Drona from being his guru. Thus, Dronacharya asks Eklavya to cut off his right thumb as his guru-dhakshina. Although he is stunned by Dronacharya's request, Eklavya obeys knowing that without his thumb, he will no longer be a great archer. And yet, in fulfilling his guru-dhakshina, Eklavya will finally be accepted as one of Drona's disciples.
In the end, Drona asks the gods to bless Eklavya for his loyalty and bravery. Eklavya continues to train without his thumb and eventually becomes an even greater archer than before. When Drona learns of Eklavya's continued devotion, Drona asks the gods for forgiveness.
On my syllabus every semester, I included a few paragraphs intended to give my students an idea of my personal philosophy regarding reading and writing, the subjects I would be teaching over the course of the term. Before the start of each new semester, I would edit my philosophy a bit, but overall, my message remained the same. I wanted my students to understand that the true depth and breadth of their learning was up to them. As the professor, I would provide structure and tools, but these tools would only take them so far. I suppose I wanted my students to understand that on any given day there was the possibility of running up against the limits of knowledge, mine and theirs. But where to go from "I don't know"? The possibilities were endless. As students, we are not always ready to accept that we are the ones responsible for the direction of our learning. Sometimes what we end up learning does not feel like what we would have willingly chosen to learn. Our lessons can be painful and harsh and unfair. They can also be brilliant and exemplary and gentle.
Along with my personal philosophy of reading and writing, at the very top of my course syllabus was a quote from the 19th century Indian philosopher Keshab Chandra Sen. The very first words my students would read at the start of every semester were these: "I am born a pupil. Everything that exists is my master. I learn from everything!" Our lives are filled with what is tragic as often as they are full of what is triumphant. If we learn to be willing, we will learn from it all. In this way, our lessons become eternal and our lives, well, they become the true epic tales.
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| Silkscreen by Artist and Activist Sister Mary Corita Kent |
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