Pavan K. Varma | Many ways of being divine: A Janmashtami reflection
I am tired, very tired of our political discourse: the same coarseness, the unabating acrimony, the repetitive issues, the predictable responses, the unchanging allegations, the unceasing cacophony, the monotonous analysis, the absence of morality, the demise of values, the transparent hypocrisy, and the tediousness of non-stop “breaking news”.
So, this column takes a break from the usual, to discuss something happier and auspicious, Janmashtmi, celebrated with joy and celebration earlier this week. I remember as a child, the entire day was spent preparing a jhanki, recreating the humble village home of Nanda, and the sylvan surroundings of Gokula. Around midnight, Krishna’s birth was — and still is — celebrated.
The lore of Krishna has been written about extensively in the Harivamsha, the Vishnu Purana, the Bhagwata Purana, and an entire corpus of Krishna bhakti poetry, starting with Andaal in Tamil in the ninth century CE, and Jayadeva’s Gita Govinda in Sanskrit in the 12th century CE. These two led to a tidal wave of Krishna devotional writings from the 14th to 16th century CE, by luminaries like Vidyapati, Bihari, Chandidasa, Surdas, Mirabai, Chaitanya and Vallabhacharya, among countless others. The significant thing is that discarding Sanskrit, they all wrote in their mother tongue, reaching out directly to the masses.
When we celebrate festivals, do we ever ponder about the profound philosophical symbolism underlying them? Krishna was the eighth avatar of Vishnu. He was One, but his incarnate form was multifaceted. My book on Krishna has five chapters: Child, lover, warrior, saviour and god. Kanha is the adorable child who steals butter, the precocious adolescent who flirts with the gopis, the crafty and resilient warrior supporting the Pandavas against the Kauravas, the irresistible flute-playing lover who does the raas on the banks of the Yamuna, the incorrigibly unfaithful companion of his supreme love Radha, and the saviour of humankind in the Bhagvad Gita, in which he counsels Arjuna when he is facing a motivational void on the battlefield.
To most foreigners, the conceptualisation of a god who steals butter and frolics with the gopis in Vrindavan is near impossible to understand. Why did the Hindu mind, not choose, for purposes of devotion, a monochromatic representation of divinity rather than this kaleidoscope of differing attributes?
The answer lies in the remarkable cerebral complexity of Hinduism, and its audacious resolve to explore the unusual in order to provide a glimpse of the infinity of divinity. If the Ultimate is beyond definition, it cannot be portrayed in a simplistic and predictable manner. While not all its infinite aspects can be captured, a glimpse can be provided of this very infinity by portraying it in myriads of ways, each only a fragment of the whole, and yet a window to that endless canvas. Maryada Purushottam Ram — also an avatar of Vishnu — is one aspect of the grandeur of that absolute divine; Leela Purushottam Krishna is another playful aspect of that same omnipotent cosmic energy. Both represent facets of the seamless benediction of Ishvara, and the omniscience of Brahman.
Even within this diversity, there are complexities. Have we ever given thought to why Krishna, once he leaves Vrindavan, never returns to it, even though he is just nearby in Mathura? Surely this cannot be a coincidence. The truth is that in doing so, Krishna was reiterating the four purusharthas or goals of the Hindu worldview: Dharma, artha, kaama and moksha. The sage Vatsyayana, author of the Kamasutra, writes that dharma, artha and moksha, if pursued in proportion, and not in exclusion, lead automatically to moksha. Keeping this in mind, kaama or the sensual, has validity, but not exclusive priority. The sensuous can be a window to the divine, but not the only one. The physical is joyous, but so is the non-physical. Krishna is both the ultimate lover and the eternal celibate.
The gopis of Vrindavan are inconsolably bereft once Krishna leaves. The Lord sends his friend Uddhava to console them, and to explain that they can experience the same bliss and fulfilment if they meditate on his non-physical form. To begin with, the gopis uninhibitedly taunt Uddhava, asking him how can he lecture to them having not experienced the ecstasy they have had in the physical company of Krishna. This dialogue led to a separate genre of poetry, called Bhramargeet, literally songs with the bee. But finally, when Krishna never returns, the gopis meditate on his spiritual being, and their viraha or pangs of separation (viraha geet is also a separate corpus of poetry) turns to bliss.
As the saarthi or charioteer-counsellor in the battlefield of Kurukshetra, immortalised in the Bhagvad Gita, Krishna teaches Arjuna the doctrine of nishkama karma, right action without thought of reward, as an end in itself. Arjuna, representing “generic humankind” is gripped by the sudden realisation of the futility of effort in a world without ontological meaning. On both sides he saw kinsmen — fathers, brothers, uncles, teachers, companions — and his will faltered. “I desire not victory, nor kingdom, nor pleasures”, he told Krishna, “if these are to be won at the cost of so much bloodshed.” Endeavour and ambition have intrinsic value if they are earthed in an explicable context. But to a person, who does not know why he is born, and why he will die, the din and fury of the intervening period becomes, at the first instance of corrosive questioning, a pointless pantomime. The aim of Krishna’s discourse is to give purpose and context to the lives of people like Arjuna, and salvage for mortal individuals a framework to overcome the recurring existential crisis in their lives. In the immortal lines of the Gita, Krishna says: “Set thy heart upon thy work, but never on its reward. Work not for reward, but never cease to do thy work. Do thy work in the peace of Yoga and, free from selfish desires, be not moved in success or failure. Yoga is evenness of mind — a peace that is ever the same.”
Like an unfolding lotus, Krishna has many moods and many forms. Janmashtami, and our many other festivals, should prompt us to dwell on the profundity of thought in Hinduism, and hopefully stall any attempt to straitjacket its conscious complexity into simplistic diktats or arbitrary usurpations.
