Me : Congratulations, Bhikkku! Your education is complete. You can now leave the Sangha.
Bhikku : [blushing] I am deeply grateful, O Noble Tathagata! But if I may say so, I fear I have not learned everything yet.
Me : Not learned everything? Oh, don't be modest, Bhikku. You have in fact learned nothing. That's why I'm so proud of you. Of all my disciples, you'll do the least harm.
- "A Conversation Today", Early Spring, 507 BC
Bertrand Russell, that great philosopher, mathematician and smart-ass, writes : "Most men form their convictions while playing at their mother's knees, and never change them afterwards." Indeed, he is right. By the time a man starts shaving, it's too late to teach him anything new. That's why religious instruction begins early all over the world. Catch them young, says the Koran, and program them well. The practice, devious as it seems to some, has for centuries transformed beastly brats into harmless adults, all over the world.
Most impressive of all, the propaganda of every religion or culture has been admirably tailored to local needs. In Buddhist sanghas, young boys are taught to not have sex and beg for food, which essentially sums up adult life in most Buddhist countries. In Christian convents, little boys are dressed up in flowing robes, taught to sing pious hymns in a thrilling contralto, and buggered violently. Some might object to the practice, but surely it prepares the young ones for life under George W. Bush, where they will be frequently fucked in the name of Jesus. And then there's the Real Deal, the nominate race among Madrasas. In these, the Moslem young are taught to grow beards and make bombs. Blessed are they, for they learn to serve Raheem the Merciful by blowing up kafirs into tiny bits.
What, then, about the Hindus? What do we teach our tender young, in our Madrasas? But wait! first of all, do we have Madrasas at all? If so, where are they? If not, why not? Have we gone soft? Have we lost the desire to slowly rip out the balls of the heathen, dip them in maida batter, and deep-fry on a low flame to make crisp bondas? What is wrong with us? Don't we have Hindu pride?
I thought about this, and I was worried. In fact, I was shit-scared. And to allay my doubts and fears, I scoured all of Brownistan in search of a Hindu madrasa. My quest took me to three states and four cities. Finally, I found an Agmark specimen in the obscure village of T__, 6 kilometers west of the coastal Tamil town of K__. Come with me, gentle reader, to T__; and we'll sip off the best of Hindu culture.
T__ is a small village consisting of three parallel streets. Technically, there are a few more streets, but they contain only parayans and pallis and tulukkans and such-like low-caste vermin, so they don't really count. The three main streets of T__ are each about 200 meters long, and run north-south. The central one, Sannidi Teru, is where all the action really is. At the northern end of the street sits the temple chariot. From there we walk south, passing a few houses and many many marriage halls. As we reach the end, the temple stands on our right, and a small hillock rises to our left. Let's go up the hillock first.
The hillock, called Aushadagiri, is about 75 meters high. It flattens out to a surprisingly broad plateau. We look down from there, and see the temple below. It's built like a fort. A tall outer wall surrounds the central temple building, with a space of about 30 yards between the two. At various places, there are smaller buildings within the fort, each housing a different divinity no doubt. The gopuram of the central building, rising majestically from the bottom, towers over the scene. Behind the temple complex, we see the Garuda nadi. I dimly recall playing in its waters, many many years ago. Right now, it is dry. In the fading November light, its bare sands slowly darken from white-hot to silver-cool. On the other side of the river-bed, there are lush groves of palm, coconut and plantain trees. Against the backdrop of the setting sun, the scene is rather strikingly pretty.
We go down the hillock, enter the temple complex, pass the tall gold-plated Dwajastambam, and head to the central building. Soon, we reach the sanctum of the primary deity, Lord Devanatha. Here, gentle reader, we part ways. You can't go in there, because you are a shudra, a mleccha, a low-caste worm. I, on the other hand, have free entry because I am related to God. Aye, Lord Narayana--the Protector of the Universe, He who is at the same time Krishna the Chick-Magnet and Mohini the Man-Magnet, that self-same sex-changing super-God--is my cousin. I enter the sanctum, and find the priest offering prayers to the Lord. His voice is shaky, his Sanskrit even more so. At one point he piously declares that Lord Narayana has an elegant arse, while he really means to say He has a slender waist. The Lord Himself seems to take the compliment in style. The dark granite statue, which somehow mixes masculine authority with feminine grace, looks at us with a serene half-smile.
And then, we hear the faint sound of the thavil beating a slow rhythm. We hurry out of the central building. There, to our left, in the open space within the temple complex, we see a small-ish procession. Two bronze statues, one a mini version of Lord Devanatha and the other depicting his lovely consort Hemambhujavalli, are being taken in procession inside the temple complex. The statues are borne on palanquins, carried by true-blood Brahmins of course. Two young lads, probably around 5 years old, carry old-style fans for the Lord. They seem rather pleased with themselves, and very keen to do their job right. The statues have been decorated with jewels and flowers and bright silk costumes, arranged expertly and with evident devotion. The nadaswaram joins the thavil. A rather showy Hindolam precedes a majestic Thodi. It's been a while since I heard live nadaswaram of such high quality. The temple must be rich, if it can afford this chap. Finally the nadaswaram strikes up a lilting Sriranjani. On cue, the palanquin-bearers add a little jump to their step. The statues now sway up and down as they move along. If you just kept your eyes on them, you'd think they were dancing.
The lady standing next to me seems to be moved. She raises her hands, probably to fold them together, but seems to forget half way. Her hands hang in mid-air, in the posture of the Muslim namaaz. I suddenly recall seeing her about ten years ago. She must have been in her twenties then. I remember thinking that she would have been pretty if it were not for the hint of facial hair. She has grown older now, and in the way of Indian women, become a little plump. Our eyes meet but she does not seem to recognize me.
A deep, somewhat harsh, sound rises up. We turn, and notice suddenly the long row of young boys behind the procession. There are about twenty of them. Some of them have cropped hair. Others have old-fashioned tufts. All of them are dressed in dhotis. They are chanting, led by a middle-aged, tufted, rather handsome man. The voices are loud and deep. The chanting is almost musical, but the harshness of the voices remains. The chanting switches from Sanskrit to Tamil. I recognize it vaguely. The thunderous, booming words come back to me from some deep abyss of memory. "..Vadivaar sodhi valatthurayum, sudarazhiyum pallandu.. " A strange joy fills me as I join in, softly muttering the arcane words, along with the booming chorus. The chanting ends after a while. The procession breaks up. My uncle (and guide) explains that the chanting boys belong to the local Vedic school. The school has an attached hostel. The boys live there, under the supervision of the middle-aged man, who apparently is a great Sanskit scholar. He teaches them the Vedas, the Divya Prabandam, and the holy ways of the noble Srivaishnavas.
We all head to the dining hall. The chanters walk in first. A few others also enter. A middle-aged, dark-skinned man, evidently not a local, tries to enter after them. A slightly old priest gently stops him, and asks him to wait outside. Then his eyes fall on me. I'm waiting alone, my uncle having gone off on some errand. He motions me in. I suppose I look unmistakably like one of the Chosen. I walk inside, feeling somewhat guilty. A curtain is drawn behind us. Prasadam is distributed. Before every course, there's some more chanting. I try to look small and pious and respectful. Our prasadam served, we walk out slowly.
The same old priest walks out with his prasadam. We are talking now. He seems to know my grandmother. He is telling me about my father's antics as a child. Abruptly, he stops. He has noticed a poor-looking woman with a child in her arms. Gently, he drops his prasadam in her hands, taking care to not touch her of course. We walk on. He continues the conversation, as if nothing had happened.
And suddenly, I understand.
In the madrasas of Brownistan, they teach Psychological Warfare. All those young chanting boys are learning a bit of this and a bit of that, but primarily, they are learning that they are Superior. In time, they'll grow up to be like the old priest I'm talking to now. They will pick up various bits of the vast impressive brocade of culture I'd seen that evening. The best of them will learn to love it, treasure it and delight in it. They'll be proud of it, for no other culture in my land has the same intellectual depth. They won't know, alas, that theirs is only one of countless cultures of the Mind across the world. Indeed, as cultures go, it's not even particularly deep. They won't realize that ultimately, a culture of the mind is no better than a culture of river Gods and snake demons; that Life is bigger than the mind. The worst of them will, of course, not even analyze any of this, but just continue to lord it over the non-Brahmins. They will disagree with each other, indulge in petty politics, gossip and play games. But they will all agree on just one thing: that they are Better than the Others. They will be occasionally benevolent, even kind and thoughful, to the Others, but they'll keep away from them, for as long as they can.
There was once a time when I hated and despised my people for it. Looking back, I was anxious to prove to myself that I'm not one of them. Now I know I'm not, and they don't bother me anymore. They are wrong, of course. But it doesn't matter much. A few centuries back, they had the power to do harm. Now all they can do is their silly discrimination, and even that matters less and less each passing day. Like the dictator in The Autumn of The Patriarch, they are dying away slowly, even pitiably.
Look at them, Gentle Reader, and learn to be humble. You and I are the New Priests. Our God is Technology, our Veda is the Free Market, and our Orthodoxy is Individual Liberty. We rule the Earth now, like they did once. We lord it over our dumb subjects, like they did once. But we are no better than them. Arguably, we are much worse. They didn't destroy the Earth because they couldn't. We can, and we do. And like their end, ours will come too. Some young puppy from the New Age will one day look at us in silent judgement. Worst of all, he'll walk away with pity instead of anger, contempt instead of protest.
Aye, we will fall too, for it's the way of all flesh. As they would say, Shanti! Shanti! Shanti!
Note: D~, this one's for you.
Bhikku : [blushing] I am deeply grateful, O Noble Tathagata! But if I may say so, I fear I have not learned everything yet.
Me : Not learned everything? Oh, don't be modest, Bhikku. You have in fact learned nothing. That's why I'm so proud of you. Of all my disciples, you'll do the least harm.
- "A Conversation Today", Early Spring, 507 BC
Bertrand Russell, that great philosopher, mathematician and smart-ass, writes : "Most men form their convictions while playing at their mother's knees, and never change them afterwards." Indeed, he is right. By the time a man starts shaving, it's too late to teach him anything new. That's why religious instruction begins early all over the world. Catch them young, says the Koran, and program them well. The practice, devious as it seems to some, has for centuries transformed beastly brats into harmless adults, all over the world.
Most impressive of all, the propaganda of every religion or culture has been admirably tailored to local needs. In Buddhist sanghas, young boys are taught to not have sex and beg for food, which essentially sums up adult life in most Buddhist countries. In Christian convents, little boys are dressed up in flowing robes, taught to sing pious hymns in a thrilling contralto, and buggered violently. Some might object to the practice, but surely it prepares the young ones for life under George W. Bush, where they will be frequently fucked in the name of Jesus. And then there's the Real Deal, the nominate race among Madrasas. In these, the Moslem young are taught to grow beards and make bombs. Blessed are they, for they learn to serve Raheem the Merciful by blowing up kafirs into tiny bits.
What, then, about the Hindus? What do we teach our tender young, in our Madrasas? But wait! first of all, do we have Madrasas at all? If so, where are they? If not, why not? Have we gone soft? Have we lost the desire to slowly rip out the balls of the heathen, dip them in maida batter, and deep-fry on a low flame to make crisp bondas? What is wrong with us? Don't we have Hindu pride?
I thought about this, and I was worried. In fact, I was shit-scared. And to allay my doubts and fears, I scoured all of Brownistan in search of a Hindu madrasa. My quest took me to three states and four cities. Finally, I found an Agmark specimen in the obscure village of T__, 6 kilometers west of the coastal Tamil town of K__. Come with me, gentle reader, to T__; and we'll sip off the best of Hindu culture.
T__ is a small village consisting of three parallel streets. Technically, there are a few more streets, but they contain only parayans and pallis and tulukkans and such-like low-caste vermin, so they don't really count. The three main streets of T__ are each about 200 meters long, and run north-south. The central one, Sannidi Teru, is where all the action really is. At the northern end of the street sits the temple chariot. From there we walk south, passing a few houses and many many marriage halls. As we reach the end, the temple stands on our right, and a small hillock rises to our left. Let's go up the hillock first.
The hillock, called Aushadagiri, is about 75 meters high. It flattens out to a surprisingly broad plateau. We look down from there, and see the temple below. It's built like a fort. A tall outer wall surrounds the central temple building, with a space of about 30 yards between the two. At various places, there are smaller buildings within the fort, each housing a different divinity no doubt. The gopuram of the central building, rising majestically from the bottom, towers over the scene. Behind the temple complex, we see the Garuda nadi. I dimly recall playing in its waters, many many years ago. Right now, it is dry. In the fading November light, its bare sands slowly darken from white-hot to silver-cool. On the other side of the river-bed, there are lush groves of palm, coconut and plantain trees. Against the backdrop of the setting sun, the scene is rather strikingly pretty.
We go down the hillock, enter the temple complex, pass the tall gold-plated Dwajastambam, and head to the central building. Soon, we reach the sanctum of the primary deity, Lord Devanatha. Here, gentle reader, we part ways. You can't go in there, because you are a shudra, a mleccha, a low-caste worm. I, on the other hand, have free entry because I am related to God. Aye, Lord Narayana--the Protector of the Universe, He who is at the same time Krishna the Chick-Magnet and Mohini the Man-Magnet, that self-same sex-changing super-God--is my cousin. I enter the sanctum, and find the priest offering prayers to the Lord. His voice is shaky, his Sanskrit even more so. At one point he piously declares that Lord Narayana has an elegant arse, while he really means to say He has a slender waist. The Lord Himself seems to take the compliment in style. The dark granite statue, which somehow mixes masculine authority with feminine grace, looks at us with a serene half-smile.
And then, we hear the faint sound of the thavil beating a slow rhythm. We hurry out of the central building. There, to our left, in the open space within the temple complex, we see a small-ish procession. Two bronze statues, one a mini version of Lord Devanatha and the other depicting his lovely consort Hemambhujavalli, are being taken in procession inside the temple complex. The statues are borne on palanquins, carried by true-blood Brahmins of course. Two young lads, probably around 5 years old, carry old-style fans for the Lord. They seem rather pleased with themselves, and very keen to do their job right. The statues have been decorated with jewels and flowers and bright silk costumes, arranged expertly and with evident devotion. The nadaswaram joins the thavil. A rather showy Hindolam precedes a majestic Thodi. It's been a while since I heard live nadaswaram of such high quality. The temple must be rich, if it can afford this chap. Finally the nadaswaram strikes up a lilting Sriranjani. On cue, the palanquin-bearers add a little jump to their step. The statues now sway up and down as they move along. If you just kept your eyes on them, you'd think they were dancing.
The lady standing next to me seems to be moved. She raises her hands, probably to fold them together, but seems to forget half way. Her hands hang in mid-air, in the posture of the Muslim namaaz. I suddenly recall seeing her about ten years ago. She must have been in her twenties then. I remember thinking that she would have been pretty if it were not for the hint of facial hair. She has grown older now, and in the way of Indian women, become a little plump. Our eyes meet but she does not seem to recognize me.
A deep, somewhat harsh, sound rises up. We turn, and notice suddenly the long row of young boys behind the procession. There are about twenty of them. Some of them have cropped hair. Others have old-fashioned tufts. All of them are dressed in dhotis. They are chanting, led by a middle-aged, tufted, rather handsome man. The voices are loud and deep. The chanting is almost musical, but the harshness of the voices remains. The chanting switches from Sanskrit to Tamil. I recognize it vaguely. The thunderous, booming words come back to me from some deep abyss of memory. "..Vadivaar sodhi valatthurayum, sudarazhiyum pallandu.. " A strange joy fills me as I join in, softly muttering the arcane words, along with the booming chorus. The chanting ends after a while. The procession breaks up. My uncle (and guide) explains that the chanting boys belong to the local Vedic school. The school has an attached hostel. The boys live there, under the supervision of the middle-aged man, who apparently is a great Sanskit scholar. He teaches them the Vedas, the Divya Prabandam, and the holy ways of the noble Srivaishnavas.
We all head to the dining hall. The chanters walk in first. A few others also enter. A middle-aged, dark-skinned man, evidently not a local, tries to enter after them. A slightly old priest gently stops him, and asks him to wait outside. Then his eyes fall on me. I'm waiting alone, my uncle having gone off on some errand. He motions me in. I suppose I look unmistakably like one of the Chosen. I walk inside, feeling somewhat guilty. A curtain is drawn behind us. Prasadam is distributed. Before every course, there's some more chanting. I try to look small and pious and respectful. Our prasadam served, we walk out slowly.
The same old priest walks out with his prasadam. We are talking now. He seems to know my grandmother. He is telling me about my father's antics as a child. Abruptly, he stops. He has noticed a poor-looking woman with a child in her arms. Gently, he drops his prasadam in her hands, taking care to not touch her of course. We walk on. He continues the conversation, as if nothing had happened.
And suddenly, I understand.
In the madrasas of Brownistan, they teach Psychological Warfare. All those young chanting boys are learning a bit of this and a bit of that, but primarily, they are learning that they are Superior. In time, they'll grow up to be like the old priest I'm talking to now. They will pick up various bits of the vast impressive brocade of culture I'd seen that evening. The best of them will learn to love it, treasure it and delight in it. They'll be proud of it, for no other culture in my land has the same intellectual depth. They won't know, alas, that theirs is only one of countless cultures of the Mind across the world. Indeed, as cultures go, it's not even particularly deep. They won't realize that ultimately, a culture of the mind is no better than a culture of river Gods and snake demons; that Life is bigger than the mind. The worst of them will, of course, not even analyze any of this, but just continue to lord it over the non-Brahmins. They will disagree with each other, indulge in petty politics, gossip and play games. But they will all agree on just one thing: that they are Better than the Others. They will be occasionally benevolent, even kind and thoughful, to the Others, but they'll keep away from them, for as long as they can.
There was once a time when I hated and despised my people for it. Looking back, I was anxious to prove to myself that I'm not one of them. Now I know I'm not, and they don't bother me anymore. They are wrong, of course. But it doesn't matter much. A few centuries back, they had the power to do harm. Now all they can do is their silly discrimination, and even that matters less and less each passing day. Like the dictator in The Autumn of The Patriarch, they are dying away slowly, even pitiably.
Look at them, Gentle Reader, and learn to be humble. You and I are the New Priests. Our God is Technology, our Veda is the Free Market, and our Orthodoxy is Individual Liberty. We rule the Earth now, like they did once. We lord it over our dumb subjects, like they did once. But we are no better than them. Arguably, we are much worse. They didn't destroy the Earth because they couldn't. We can, and we do. And like their end, ours will come too. Some young puppy from the New Age will one day look at us in silent judgement. Worst of all, he'll walk away with pity instead of anger, contempt instead of protest.
Aye, we will fall too, for it's the way of all flesh. As they would say, Shanti! Shanti! Shanti!
Note: D~, this one's for you.
