In the ongoing holy month of Magh, and in recognition that Indian epics are deeply internalised and encoded at levels we may have perhaps lost touch with, I would like to share a few points about our epics this week.
A fascinating unity of purpose holds these epics together that you’ll notice too whether you are deeply Hindu, nominally Hindu, of another persuasion, or an atheist.
So, let’s review what constitutes an Indian epic.
Expectedly, its deep components are unique to India compared to other epics in the old universe of discourse. To take the three most famous epics of the western world, the Iliad and the Odyssey (Greek) and the Aeneid (Latin), the themes seem quite similar at first—men vs fate, with the jealous gods in the thick of it all, the warring heroes and villains, the patient women who endure, the women who are sacrificed to serve the larger male cause, the journeys, adventures, deaths, laments, victories and the life-code points made at great personal cost.
But while the old gods of the Greeks and Romans lost their devotees, as did the other old gods of Europe, the gods, heroes and heroines of epic India have stayed very much alive and are still loved by millions. The three foundational Indian epics remain the Ramayana, the Mahabharata and the Srimad Bhagavatam. They were written in Sanskrit and inspired retellings in many other languages.
Regarding the Ramayana, I like to stick with the root epic, Valmiki’s Ramayana, which others acknowledge as their official source, while adding, opposing, questioning or nuancing bits with their own ‘masala’. Moreover, I stay with the first six books, which officially end the epic with the hero’s homecoming and coronation and the phala shruti or list of listeners’ benefits.
The seventh book is generally considered a prakshipta, or a later addition or interpolation. In my view, it certainly adds unsustainable twists and turns, and so I choose to cheerfully discard it.
To partially illustrate the rationale for this choice, let’s take an iconic modern book as an example. Gone with the Wind is complete the way Margaret Mitchell wrote it; it’s the original book. It leaves us longing to know more about Scarlett and Rhett, and if somebody writes a ‘sequel’, as somebody did, which I’ve read, it may be interesting, but it’s not by Margaret Mitchell. The style and substance differ. It may be worth keeping or amount to just one read out of curiosity. But it’s not Margaret Mitchell’s story, the one we like. That’s how it is for many with the Valmiki Ramayana.
In my case, this is not because I don’t celebrate plurality—who can help responding to the beauty of the Ramcharitmanas by Tulsidas, for example? I recognise that the Ramayana has dialogued unceasingly with the Indic bandwidth and beyond. I’ve spoken at the National Museum, Bangkok to wrap an eight-country international Ramayana dance festival, about how the Ramayana is ‘the Epic of Asia’ in ways not fully counted yet. There’s even a version in Mongolia.
I choose to stick with the root story because I don’t want to be confused or confuse others. Therefore, I don’t ‘buy’ the Uttara Kand, the seventh book that has allegedly been tacked on to Valmiki’s Ramayana later.
I curl my lip at the Lakshman rekha—how literal a device, though touchingly respectful. In Valmiki’s Ramayana, Ravan drags Sita away by her hair and holds her in his arms. But Tulsi, bless his heart, couldn’t handle the sacrilegious thought in the 16th century of Ravan laying his hands on Sita. Much as I honour and appreciate Tulsi’s chivalry, it’s another reason why I choose to clinically stick to Valmiki. It’s the Ramayana ‘as it is’ without the little zari curtains.
This view need not be a cause for quarrel. As Tulsi himself says, “Hari anant, Hari katha ananta, kahat sunat bahuvidhi sab santa”, meaning, God is infinite and so are the stories about God, which are told and heard in different ways by saints.
That being noted, what are the five points that define an Indian epic? The first point is that it concerns itself with the Paramatma or Supersoul or God, the macro-cosmic entity guessed at, sketched, debated and discussed from the time of the oldest Indian scriptures.
Thereby, an Indian epic’s second point is that it features the Jivatma or individual soul, and its awareness or ignorance of its relationship with the Supersoul.
The third point of an Indian epic is that the events described in it must illuminate the path by which an individual soul can merge into or attain the Supersoul without enduring any more lives on earth. This liberation from the cycle of birth and death is called moksha, and the epic must contain and illustrate the praapti upaay or means to achieve moksha.
Fourthly, an Indian epic must illustrate the advantages, principally the state of grace or sublime happiness obtained by moksha. Attaining this ‘fruit of liberation’ is called phala praapti.
Fifthly, the Indian epic must complete the matter by detailing through the events it describes, the praapti virodhi or obstacles to attainment. How else may a listener be fruitfully instructed in which attitudes, actions and responses to avoid?
And there you pretty much have it, that the modest endeavour of the Indian epic is to unite persons muddling along in life with the highest spiritual or cosmic energy out there and deep within us. An Indian epic has work to do, which it tirelessly does even today.
Renuka Narayanan | FAITHLINE | Senior journalist
(Views are personal)
(shebaba09@gmail.com)