Aryavarta, circa second millenium bce.
In a large glen somewhere in the verdant forests of Naimisha, a sattra, or conclave of scholars, has been convened by the sage Saunuka Kulapati. Here, in what is described as a sacrifice lasting twelve years, the finest scholar–seers of the land, the keepers of knowledge, have gathered to discuss the knowledge of their times and give final form to its codification as the Vedas, Books of Knowledge. At the centre of this conclave stands Ugrashravas Sauti, the bard, traditional keeper of the ancient narratives known as the Puranas. The story he tells them, however, is their own, the tale of who they are and how they have come to be there.
He calls it Jaya. Victory.
To the gathered scholars at Naimisha, that story was neither ancient nor mythological. It was itihasa, or history. Jaya was undeniably a tale of its time, and just as posterity elevated the great men of that time and saw them as gods, so too was the story’s context adapted and its reality turned into metaphor. In order to go behind the metaphor, and to tell the tale as mytho-history rather than mythology, the essential question that came to my mind was: If Govinda and all the other characters of this grand narrative had walked the world as we know it today, bound by our language and constructions, our common perceptions of physics, psychology and politics, what might their story really have been? Surprisingly, at its core it may not have been very different from the one that took form millennia ago during the conclave of Naimisha.
Like societies, stories are made up of two elements that I call (admittedly, with neither theological nor philosophical expertise) moral imperative and moral principle. Moral principles are the relatively immutable values that guide human life, perhaps even underlie philosophical evolution, whereas moral imperatives are the derivative rules that are part of social structure, the behavioural norms embedded in everyday interaction. These norms are often context-specific, and change as the structure of society changes. At the same time, for any social institution to survive, it must either adapt to these changing imperatives, or else justify defying them.
Through a process of re-interpretation and interpolation, even some aggrandisation, the many unnamed narrators who have passed down such epic tales through the centuries have recast some events and explained others differently to make them not just palatable but also plausible and relevant to their audience. What remain constant, however, are the broad sweep of the story and the moral principles that underlie it.
There began the quest for the story that lay hidden beneath the larger epic tales of ancient India. The story that emerged as a result is the product of research and analysis based on both mainstream and alternative (e.g. Bhil and Indonesian Kakawain) narratives, the details of which are given at the back of this book.
Based on these works, ranging from Bankimchandra Chattopadhyay’s and K.M. Munshi’s interpretations in their books Krishnacharitra and Krishnavatara respectively, to Van Buitenen’s critical translations of the epic’s texts and Alf Hiltebeitel’s scholarly research papers and books on their symbolism-rich language, and to alternative Bhil and Indonesian Kakawain versions, to name a few sources, it becomes possible to construct a story of why things may have happened as they did, a plausible narrative with reasonable internal logical consistency. Something that could well have been history, something that stands firm not just on faith but also on logic and science. In short, the story of why something might have happened.
And so, Aryavarta comes to life not as a land of demigods and demons in strife, but as an empire of nobles, commoners and forest- dwellers in socio-economic conflict. Kala
We welcome your comments at
letters@scroll.in.
In a large glen somewhere in the verdant forests of Naimisha, a sattra, or conclave of scholars, has been convened by the sage Saunuka Kulapati. Here, in what is described as a sacrifice lasting twelve years, the finest scholar–seers of the land, the keepers of knowledge, have gathered to discuss the knowledge of their times and give final form to its codification as the Vedas, Books of Knowledge. At the centre of this conclave stands Ugrashravas Sauti, the bard, traditional keeper of the ancient narratives known as the Puranas. The story he tells them, however, is their own, the tale of who they are and how they have come to be there.
He calls it Jaya. Victory.
To the gathered scholars at Naimisha, that story was neither ancient nor mythological. It was itihasa, or history. Jaya was undeniably a tale of its time, and just as posterity elevated the great men of that time and saw them as gods, so too was the story’s context adapted and its reality turned into metaphor. In order to go behind the metaphor, and to tell the tale as mytho-history rather than mythology, the essential question that came to my mind was: If Govinda and all the other characters of this grand narrative had walked the world as we know it today, bound by our language and constructions, our common perceptions of physics, psychology and politics, what might their story really have been? Surprisingly, at its core it may not have been very different from the one that took form millennia ago during the conclave of Naimisha.
Like societies, stories are made up of two elements that I call (admittedly, with neither theological nor philosophical expertise) moral imperative and moral principle. Moral principles are the relatively immutable values that guide human life, perhaps even underlie philosophical evolution, whereas moral imperatives are the derivative rules that are part of social structure, the behavioural norms embedded in everyday interaction. These norms are often context-specific, and change as the structure of society changes. At the same time, for any social institution to survive, it must either adapt to these changing imperatives, or else justify defying them.
Through a process of re-interpretation and interpolation, even some aggrandisation, the many unnamed narrators who have passed down such epic tales through the centuries have recast some events and explained others differently to make them not just palatable but also plausible and relevant to their audience. What remain constant, however, are the broad sweep of the story and the moral principles that underlie it.
There began the quest for the story that lay hidden beneath the larger epic tales of ancient India. The story that emerged as a result is the product of research and analysis based on both mainstream and alternative (e.g. Bhil and Indonesian Kakawain) narratives, the details of which are given at the back of this book.
Based on these works, ranging from Bankimchandra Chattopadhyay’s and K.M. Munshi’s interpretations in their books Krishnacharitra and Krishnavatara respectively, to Van Buitenen’s critical translations of the epic’s texts and Alf Hiltebeitel’s scholarly research papers and books on their symbolism-rich language, and to alternative Bhil and Indonesian Kakawain versions, to name a few sources, it becomes possible to construct a story of why things may have happened as they did, a plausible narrative with reasonable internal logical consistency. Something that could well have been history, something that stands firm not just on faith but also on logic and science. In short, the story of why something might have happened.
And so, Aryavarta comes to life not as a land of demigods and demons in strife, but as an empire of nobles, commoners and forest- dwellers in socio-economic conflict. Kala