Mystic Mantra: Of heroes and villains

Why are human beings intrinsically drawn to tales that touch upon tussles between something designated as “good” and something designated as “evil”? We all share an almost primeval fascination for such stories, despite whatever else we might have learnt about life experiences being a composite grey, rather than definitive blocks of black and white. The human moral compass, even with settings tweaked according to culture, place and time, most often has as its due north a perceived goodness. We are hardwired, it would seem, to cheer for the good guy and boo the bad. Of course, good and bad is a matter of perception. Perhaps finding out for ourselves what is one and the other, and not just accepting prevalent notions, might be an important task we have as thinking, spiritual beings.

Why, for instance, is Rama deemed to be godly good and Ravana demonic bad in some versions of the epic Ramayana, such as those attributed to Valmiki and Tulsidas? In the Jain version, Paumachariyam, Ravana is a great king whose sense of judgement is impaired by an afflictive emotion — lust — that comes to overshadow the rest of his life. He is not unremittingly evil. Similarly, in a version found in Thailand, Ravana is a scholar who suffers deeply because of his unrequited love for Sita. Again, a character deserving of sympathy rather than revulsion, and one we cannot think of as purely evil. In the more than 300 versions of the epic, plot points and characterisations shift continually, at times barely retaining the bare bones of the story that we might be the most familiar with.

The fact that the Ramayana has been so widely and variedly interpreted, performed, told and retold over the centuries, makes it ideal for studying the way we respond to what we perceive as good and evil. What if the villain of one version is the hero of another? Do we feel jarred and disoriented, or are we able to shift our view of the story and the character accordingly? Is our point of view flexible enough to adapt to versions, or do we stick rigidly to one or the other? And do we, in an instinctive preference of one over the other, fail to realise the shared ground — the stage on which both the good and the evil stand, and which remains constant despite character changes and role reversals?

For, beyond good and evil, to paraphrase Rumi, there is a field. It is where dualities dissolve, and winning and losing, light and dark, hero and villain, self and other, become immaterial. That which is the basis of all becomes apparent. I wish us all a vision of that oneness this Diwali. Where good and evil might still battle it out, but our sights are drawn not by their opposition but by the common ground of pure consciousness upon which they, and indeed everything, arises and falls.