Did you know that the literal meaning of Jataka is ‘birth stories’? A fact we know well is that the Jatakas are a body of Indian literature that mainly concerns the previous births of Gautama Buddha, in both human and animal form. Jataka stories were depicted on the railings and toranas of Buddhist stupas as a permanent record.
In passing, a Torana or toran is the decorative door hanging on a sacred archway in Hindu, Jain and Buddhist architecture. In temples and homes, it’s a traditional adornment to welcome guests and mark auspicious occasions. The North, East and West make beautiful toranas of cloth and metal. I have grown up with toranas of fresh mango leaves strung over the front door for big festivals, and have seen many homes hang festive strings of marigolds as torans for Dipavali. When I saw the Sanchi stupa many years ago, I became aware that this is a very ancient custom found across India.
Here, I would like to share an observation about the depiction of gods and goddesses in India. The images and paintings came much later. They were first envisioned in words in ancient poetry. A striking example is the popular depiction of Mahalakshmi on a lotus, wearing gold, flanked by two celestial elephants sprinkling water on her. We know this image best today from the calendar art of Raja Ravi Varma. His original oil painting hangs in the Lakshmi Vilas Palace in Vadodara. I had the chance to see it last October when I went to Vadodara with some young friends for the fabulous garba that Gujarat resonates with during Navratri.
The fascinating fact is that Ravi Varma’s painting, and all such earlier depictions in statues or on coins, are drawn directly from Lakshmi’s description in the Sri Suktam, a paean to her in the Rig Veda, the oldest book known to the planet. So, the fact that toranas date back so far should surprise no one.
Carvings of Jatakas, too, are drawn from the Indian oral tradition. There are about 550 Jatakas, later compiled by an unknown Sri Lankan monk. Their purpose was to serve as parables and teachings to convey Buddhist morals and virtues. Content-wise, they relate stories of the Buddha’s past lives, featuring him as a king, a god, a worker, or even an animal, including a snake, a rabbit, a swan, a fish, a quail, an ape, a woodpecker, a deer and an elephant. The tales span Sanskrit, Pali, Sinhalese, Burmese, Khmer, Thai, Japanese and English.
It seems unfair to talk about Jatakas without sharing one. I want to retell a favourite that some of you may remember from this column in November 2022. This very poignant Jataka goes that the Bodhisattva, or Buddha in a previous birth, was once born as a baby quail in ancient Magadha, in present-day Bihar. The baby quail’s parents knew nothing of their region’s history or that it was a holy land in those days where saints and sages walked and taught. The parent birds nested in a fine old lodhra tree (Symplocus racemosa), of which entire forests grew in ancient Magadha, as noted with enthusiasm in old texts.
Physicians regularly foraged the forest to gather precious lodhra bark for a range of Ayurvedic cures, for it was cherished as a Divya aushadi, a divine medicine. But the little quail family remained undisturbed deep in the forest. The parent quails flew out every day to forage for their nestling, and life proceeded exactly as it ought.
One day, however, a sudden fire broke out in the forest. As the fire tore unstoppably through the trees, birds and animals fled in terror. As terrified as the rest, the baby quail’s parents completely lost awareness of everything but the need to save their own lives and flew away, leaving their baby behind.
Hearing the terrible noise of crackling flames, falling branches and the cries of stampeding animals, the baby quail stretched its tiny body to peer out of its nest. When it saw the fire advancing purposefully, it understood the situation at once. “My poor parents have fled in fear, abandoning me to my fate,” it thought. “If my wings were grown, I could fly. If I had legs, I could run away. But I can do neither, and so I must die.”
In that moment of cold clarity, the baby quail found inspiration. “There are only two real powers in this world,” it thought, “the power of truth and the might of goodness. I accept the truth that I am weak and alone. But I also feel that there must be so much merit stored in the world by the good deeds of good people. Let me call upon both forces.”
Making an enormous mental effort to block out its fear, the baby quail began to switch off its sight, hearing, and other senses and concentrate its thoughts on total stillness. When it had withdrawn deep into its mind and could neither hear the noise outside nor feel the heat, it said, “Here am I alone, with wings that cannot fly. By this truth, and by the faith that I find in me in the power of goodness, I ask you, O fire, to please turn back without harming me or the others in this forest.”
And, says the Jataka, the fire retreated sixteen paces and died out because of the baby quail’s satyakriya, or act of truth.
Renuka Narayanan | Senior journalist
(Views are personal)
(shebaba09@gmail.com)