Modern Frames and Premodern Themes in Indian Philosophy: Border, Self, and the Other 9781138284081, 9781315206509

Table of contents :
Cover
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
Preface
Acknowledgements
Introduction
Part I Self and other
1 Slavery of the spirit and svaraj in Krishna Chandra Bhattacharyya
2 Other in the relation between Swami Vivekananda and Ramakrishna Paramahamsa
3 Other in the relation between Mahatma Gandhi and Bhagavad Gita
4 The colonised self’s climb towards svaraj: revisiting the debate between Mahatma Gandhi and Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore
Part II Border
5 A thin border between the premodern and the modern in India
6 Modern democracy and premodern people
7 Social space and time: calibrating radical ideals in a reformist model
Conclusion
References
Index

Citation preview

Modern Frames and Premodern Themes in Indian Philosophy

This book presents a fascinating examination of modern Indian philosophical thought from the margins. It considers the subject from two perspectives – how it has been understood beyond India and how Indian thinkers have treated Western ideas in the context of Indian society. The book discusses the concepts of the self, the other and the border that underline various debates on modernity. In this framework, it proposes the notion of the other as an enabler in taking cue from the lives of Swami Vivekananda, Mahatma Gandhi and Rabindranath Tagore. It focusses on the nature and compulsions of the colonised self, and its response to the body of unfamiliar and sometimes oppressive ideas. The study traces these themes with allusion to the works of Edward Said, Frantz Fanon and Krishna Chandra Bhattacharyya and the Bhagavad Gita. The author exposes the limitations in existing theories of self, the incompatibility between the slavery of self and svaraj in ideas, how the premodern village intersects modern city and democracy, the radical challenges that confront society with its accumulated social evils, inequality, hierarchy and the need for reform and non-violence. This engaging work will be of interest to scholars and researchers of Indian philosophy, social and political philosophy, Indian political theory, postcolonialism and South Asian studies. A. Raghuramaraju is Professor, Department of Philosophy, University of Hyderabad, India. He was UGC Principal Investigator for Philosophy for e-PG Pathshala. Among his publications are Debates in Indian Philosophy: Classical, Colonial and Contemporary (2006) and Enduring Colonialism: Classical Presences and Modern Absences in Indian Philosophy (2009). He has edited Ramchandra Gandhi: The Man and His Philosophy (2013) and coedited Grounding Morality: Freedom, Knowledge and Plurality of Cultures (2010). He is also the General Editor of Porugununchi Teluguloki, a series of Telugu translations of books on post-independent India.

Modern Frames and Premodern Themes in Indian Philosophy Border, Self and the Other A. Raghuramaraju

First published 2017 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2017 A. Raghuramaraju The right of A. Raghuramaraju to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN: 978-1-138-28408-1 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-20650-9 (ebk) Typeset in Goudy by Apex CoVantage, LLC

Dedicated to Laxmi Narayan Kadekar my any time mentor, for his wise counselling that restored stability to my gaze which is essential to undertake works like this.

Contents

Prefaceix Acknowledgementsxii Introduction

1

PART I

Self and other9 1 Slavery of the spirit and svaraj in Krishna Chandra Bhattacharyya11 2 Other in the relation between Swami Vivekananda and Ramakrishna Paramahamsa

32

3 Other in the relation between Mahatma Gandhi and Bhagavad Gita56 4 The colonised self’s climb towards svaraj: revisiting the debate between Mahatma Gandhi and Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore

76

PART II

Border89 5 A thin border between the premodern and the modern in India 6 Modern democracy and premodern people

91 104

viii  Contents

7 Social space and time: calibrating radical ideals in a reformist model

121

Conclusion

132

References135 Index141

Preface

Two tasks of the present study are to lay bare the nature of debate and to understand, through the concept of debate, modern Indian thinkers and social reality. Border and the other, in addition to the self, constitute three structural aspects of a debate. In a debate, the participant knows what his or her position is, knows the position of the other who is the opponent and, more importantly, knows how to relate his or her position to the position of the other. The last task requires the cognitive competence of both translation and critical comparison. At times, one wins a debate not only because one’s position is stronger, but also because one knows about the position of the other better than the upholder.1 Logic and argumentation are aspects of a debate. Debate is a more structured form of inquiry than dialogue. Structured forms of debates in Indian philosophy can be traced to the post-Buddha period. The Vedas are aphoristic in nature; the Upanishads are devoted more to the search for truth. Sometimes, the seeker of truth did speak, but it was more in the form of self-expression – like the joy of realising the truth – rather than communication. Though the rishis were heard by the disciples who followed them, some of that was meant to be communicated while some were in a debating mode. The main purpose of their activity was seeking after truth rather than communication or debate. Difference, which is the necessary requirement for debate, was less during the pre-Buddhist time, particularly in the Vedas and the Upanishads, as their preoccupation was more with the search for truth. This, however, takes a different turn with the advent of the Buddha who rejected the Vedas and Upanishads in a radical way. This sowed the seed for the rise of a new mode of philosophising in India, namely, debates. There were instances like Badarayana compiling Upanishads under one place in his Vedanta Sutra. The compiler discusses other philosophical schools. Buddha radically rejected the earlier forms of philosophy, particularly those of the Vedas and Upanishads, except some form of Kapila’s Samkhya, or what is known as classical Samkhya.2 This seems to have

x  Preface alerted the seekers of truth to come up with compilations that consolidate their works, to study other schools of thought, particularly those that rejected theirs.3 This subsequently gave rise to debate as a form of philosophising. A systematic attempt is made by Samkara, who, in his commentary on Badarayana’s Brahma Sutras or Vedanta Sutras, consolidates his critique of Buddhism. Debates as a philosophical genre began to develop during this period and grew substantially in the subsequent times, giving rise to debates between or amongst various schools of philosophy.4 In recent times, however, this way of dealing with the other has almost disappeared. Largely, the relation is seen as an oppressor, within postcolonial discourse. There are two ways of depicting the role of the other. One is followed by scholars like Romila Thapar and the other by Ramchandra Gandhi. She presents a critique of those developments, ‘which was the parent to the present-day Syndicated Hinduism which is being pushed forward as the sole claimant to the inheritance of indigenous Indian religion’ (1985: 21). In this context, she argued that the . . . origin of the word ‘Hindu’ is geographical and related to those living in the Indian subcontinent. The Sindhu (Indus) river was referred to as Hindu by the Achaemenid Persians and as the Indos by the Greeks. (1985: 17) She finds this problematic and argues that the ‘call to unite under Hinduism as a political identity is anachronistic’ (1985: 22). This anachronism highlights the extent of the self that is called Hindu, dependent on the other, the outsider, for its name. Ramchandra Gandhi has a different take on this. He refers to the worried feeling many Hindus have that the other gave them the name, and how they sometimes feel that they ‘ought not to even call’ themselves ‘Hindus’ because it is a term coined by outsiders. He moves away from the domain of kartha, the agent, inhabited by Thapar, and highlights the name. He finds the name to be ‘marvellous’, as it is the name of a river. He reminds Hindus how they ought to be grateful to the outsiders for having given ‘this beautiful name, the name of a river’. To quote him: The name reminds us that our identity is the identity of a river. What is the identity of a river? The river always seeks the ocean. That’s what an Indian is. Any human being who seeks the ocean, the vast, the infinite and is willing to take the supreme risk of entering that ocean and apparently ceasing to be that river is an Indian. That’s what Indian spirituality is. (2015: 4–5)

Preface xi This philosophical dimension moves the discussion away from the political terrain. Instead of operating at the political level of negotiation, it brings in the hermeneutical dimension that looks at the same reality or interpretation differently. The philosopher achieves this by shifting attention away from the agent to the name. This dimension of the other needs to be recognised, else we might lapse into a situation where oppression is totalised. This can smack of essentialism or, worst, disguised puritanism. A position that totalises oppression or victimhood, at least inadvertently, presupposes essentialism, which is an aspect of puritanism. So, this is another way of looking more positively at the other who is an outsider. Further, at a more philosophical level, what is given by an outsider is a name and not a reality. Therefore, the issue that Thapar refers to is about the name and not the reality referred to by the name. In the present work, I want to pursue a different dimension of debate by highlighting the border and the other, to understand better some contributions of modern Indian thinkers and make better sense of modern Indian society that had so far not been factored in scholarship. Embarking on this trajectory makes me partially move away from classical concerns by taking into account later developments. The self that will be covered here is the colonised self, the other is the colonial and the border is the one between India and the West, particularly the modern West. I will show both: how modern Indian thinkers tried to negotiate the other at the border in an ingenious way and how modern Indian society inhabits a large area at the border between the modern and the premodern. I suggest, in the conclusion, two ways of dealing with the other: one as a guest who is in but not inside the home and the other as a question paper that needs to be answered.

Notes 1 This third competence, along with the need to not expose the weak and vulnerable aspects in his or her own positions, is the other requirement associated with winning a debate. 2 See Larson (2012). 3 Referring to the cross-references in the subsequent systems of Indian philosophy, Hiriyanna says that in both orthodox and heterodox systems we find ‘consolidated’ teaching of their school of philosophy and ‘criticism’ of other schools with which they disagree. This is evident as we find in their texts ‘cross references to one another’. This, says Hiriyanna, gives the impression that they were in interaction with each other and that their positions are updated. However, he maintains that this may not be the case as the ‘mutual internal references . . . [are] often due to later interpolations’ (first published in 1948; 2008: 41–2). So, it seems, the practice of mutual interaction and debating are a later development. 4 I have discussed in my other work how this came to a halt subsequently; identified the consequences of this absence; and pointed out the possible areas and directions to restart this process of debate by invigorating philosophical activity in India (see Raghuramaraju 2006).

Acknowledgements

Working on this project has been very challenging. I was able to sharpen in this work the idea of debate that I had been pursuing in my previous works. It also gave me an opportunity to bring into the discussion of modern Indian philosophy a new concept with a different reading – border – in addition to the existing concepts of self and other. This excited me and at the same time reposed in me more responsibility. Ashis Nandy’s suggestion, which I have followed diligently, to write a short and crisp book has helped keep me focussed on ideas and how to frame them. I thank him for this invaluable piece of advice given at an appropriate time of my career. Following his advice made me set the task of writing, where I minimise descriptions that burden the reader and elevate the discussion through the presentation of larger symbols. I also learnt from him that it is necessary to forget your earlier book to be able to write the next one. The decision to compile and edit a volume while writing a book considerably reduced the danger of repetitions. This is particularly true when working on modern India, where there is a tendency towards repetition due to non-availability of readymade material. In addition, compiling the works of other authors is a different experience. It is like babysitting your neighbour’s children, which requires more patience, concern and imagination, while avoiding doing either too much or too little. Compilers need to be accountable and be able to justify every decision. This becomes more difficult when the author is no more, or has been your teacher or a public thinker. There were several stages in the making of this book and there are many who worked on my manuscript at various stages. I am reluctant to appear without the background support. The rehearsals and the green room activity of the text making, in my case, are rather long. My books have been in the making for several years. For instance, writing Enduring Colonialism: Classical Presences and Modern Absences in Indian Philosophy took nearly 16 long engaging years, starting from November 1993 till it was published.

Acknowledgements xiii I cling to the idea like a baby monkey clings to its mother. I know the risk if I loosen the grip or am inattentive. I write regularly, at a specific time and for a fixed duration. During this time, if I am not able to write I do not put pressure on myself, though I ensure that I do not do anything else either. I do not even listen to music or meet people, which are favourite hobbies. I have learnt this routine from ordinary people attending to ‘recurrent needs’. Routine is as important to me as novelty. While novelty excites, routine helps in consolidation, thus saving the new from lapsing into the dispensable. I enjoy rereading an old book or revising an old idea more than reading a new book. I spend more time in circling or doing pradarshana around a new idea, exploring it from all sides. No idea looks dry to me at any point of time. But I do ensure that there is no digression when I am trying to focus on my work. I like to work on unexplored areas and generally avoid working in domains where one can only extend an already established idea. I think the latter feels somewhat like working under the floodlights, whereas I prefer to work with candles and to throw new light on dark areas. This not only has its own risks, but also has its charms and a feeling of adventure. The initial loneliness fades, gradually and at times suddenly, when your work is recognised. I have decided to write clearly and lucidly, unlike the way philosophy is generally written. I have watched my mother and wife making sambar, where there is a direct relation between dissolving of ingredients and increase in the aroma and taste. Similarly, I try to dissolve philosophical terminology to achieve better communication of ideas. While working on modern India, one cannot avoid studying different areas and thinkers simultaneously. However, I start working in earnest on one of these only after I have the first line of the book. Getting the first line is a difficult process. It involves long waiting and is often non-intentional and unconscious. The only preparation I undertake during this waiting time is to reread books and identify key sentences in them. Once the first sentence is ready, the rest is largely sorting out details, organisation and assembling. In this sense, the first sentence is like a seed that is the microcosm of the book. The first sentence need not be the first line of the book. It can be located in any place in the book, and one of the tasks of the reader is to identify it. I believe that most of the time we do not write well because we do not read well. Reading involves rereading and several rereadings. I learnt from Sasheej Hegde the art of writing philosophy. I watched with amazement how he goes around an idea several times, moves back and forth between sentences and paragraphs, when he was correcting my paper on ‘Problematizing Indian Nationalism’. This training from him is invaluable to me. Laxmi Narayan Kadekar has been my anytime mentor. He assured me that what I am doing is worth pursuing and has been my audience whenever I have come up with an idea or a project. He ensures

xiv  Acknowledgements that my attention does not deviate and energy is not dissipated. I have followed his advice. He taught me to treat adversaries as a challenge and make positive use of them instead of lapsing into negativism, allowing oneself to be co-opted by the adversary. I am a major beneficiary of his advice. This book is dedicated to him for his generosity. It is one thing to organise your routine, but there is an outside world that may not fit into your scheme. Whenever I was on the verge of crashing out, it was Sundar Sarukkai and Dhanwanti Nayak who saved me, comforted me, encouraged me and took charge of my well-being. It is impossible to think of my work without them. Their support and encouragement elevated me to a domain where I remained academically engaged with minimum digression. Aparna Davare has been a constant source of help and encouragement. Her critical comments and suggestions have helped make this book more systematic. I am extremely thankful to her for this. Sasheej, Laxmi Narayan, Sundar, Dhanwanti and Aparna have been an invisible but intrinsic part of my work. There were several instances where I felt distracted and pained. However, I decided to endure rather than express the pain. Expressing reveals the site of the pain and the path through which it was caused. This, then, paves the way for distraction and takes one away from one’s work, often without realising. My decision came after seeing the experience of some of my friends who gave in to distraction and got co-opted in this process of dealing with the cause of the pain, instead of focussing on their work. A root cause of this anomaly is the growing number of people following precedents in public educational institutions. These precedents, however, are very diverse and each person tends to follow whichever is most convenient for them. These precedent makers and followers do not follow any rules, neither are they part of authority. They are in between the individual and authority. They are closer to J. S. Mill’s idea of the majority that tyrannises the individuals. Given their numerical superiority, even authority fails to act on them and stands by as a mute spectator. Their nature is not ‘all that I say is correct; but since I say it, it is correct’. These precedents do not follow rules; therefore, following rules is tantamount to not following precedents. Not following precedents can land one in trouble, as it generates insecurity in those who follow precedents. This gives rise to a serious problem, as it distracts the academic whose work involves dealing with ideas: teaching ideas, researching ideas, and exploring new ideas. This is a large phenomenon that is not even properly identified. Most often, the discussion around this issue is raised at the level of following or breaking rules, when the real problem is regarding following precedents that neither follow rules nor clearly appear as instances of rule-breaking. This phenomenon at the border needs to be studied to better understand what happens in Indian

Acknowledgements xv society. I have made this brief mention not in the mode of complaining, but as a lesson to the next generation. I do not wish to complain, as one has to work in India dealing with all these as part of one’s working reality. Complaining, again, can be an enormous another form of addiction and can become a burden. On a general note, if education in India is slowly drifting away from the public sector, the above aspect is one of the primary causes for this change. Some of these chapters were written or delivered as talks at the invitation of Akeel Bilgrami, Amiya P. Sen, Divya Dwivedi, V. Sanil, Apaar Kumar, Rajiv Sangal, Lipika Moitra, Narendar Pani, Karuna Manthena, James Manor, N. Anjaih, J. Seetaramamma, L. Uday Kumar, Nitesh Chaudhary and Abhishek Dadhich. The chapter on ‘Slavery of the spirit and svaraj in Krishna Chandra Bhattacharyya’, was presented in a seminar on ‘Rethinking Svaraj: Ontology and Intellectual Self-Determination’, organised by Manipal Centre for Philosophy and Humanities, Manipal University, during 15–17 January 2015. Chapter 2, ‘Other in the relation between Swami Vivekananda and Ramakrishna Paramahamsa’, was presented at a seminar on ‘Swami Vivekananda and the Making of Modern India’, New Delhi, organised by the Nehru Memorial Museum and Library, Indian Council of Historical Research and Jamia Milia Islamia, during 11–12 January 2013. A slightly modified version of this chapter is published in the Indian Economic and Social History Review, 52, 2, 2015, pp. 185–205. Some parts of the chapter on ‘Other in the relation between Mahatma Gandhi and Bhagavad Gita’ are from my chapter ‘Ethics of M. K. Gandhi: Nonviolence and Truth’, in The Bloomsbury Research Handbook of Indian Ethics, edited by Shyam Ranganathan (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2016, pp. 341– 56). A modified version of the chapter on ‘A thin border between the premodern and the modern in India’ was published as ‘In Search of Suburb: Exploring the Relation between City and Village in India’, edited by Divya Dwivedi and V. Sanil, in The Public Sphere from Outside the West (London: Bloomsbury Publishing, pp. 128–40). The earlier version of the chapter on ‘Modern democracy and premodern people’ was published as ‘Ideology and Social Reality’ in Marx, Gandhi and Modernity: Essays Presented to Javeed Alam, edited by Akeel Bilgrami (Delhi: Tulika, pp. 267–81). ‘The colonised self’s climb towards svaraj: revisiting the debate between Mahatma Gandhi and Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore’ was presented at a conference on ‘Indian Political Theory’, jointly organised by the National Institute of Advanced Study, Bengaluru, South Asian Study, Yale University, and the School of Advanced Study, University of London at the National Institute of Advanced Study, Bengaluru, during 6–8 July 2015. I thank the editors of Indian Economic and Social History Review, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Tulika for their permission. I am also thankful for

xvi  Acknowledgements permission to publish the following short pieces: ‘Gandhi and Corruption: Beyond Fact and Norm’ in The Hans India, 8 October 2013; ‘The Relation between Gandhi and Common People’, Prajavani, Kannada newspaper, 26 January 2014; and ‘Vivekananda and the Other’, DNA, 4 March 2014. I thank A. M. Shah, Bhikhu Parekh, Vadrevu Chinaveerabhadrudu, B. Koteshwara Rao, N. Satyanarayana Raju, M. Mohan Raju, Jay Garfield, Nalini Bhushan, Shyam Ranganathan, Arun Murti, Sanjay Kumar, Shashank Sinha, M. R. Venkatesh, Arvind Susarla, Geeta Ramana, Devalla Vishwanth, Manvitha Singamasetty and Bhaskarjit Neog for their help. I thank Ranjan Mukhopadhyay for sending me the original paper of Swaraj in Ideas originally published in The Visva-Bharati Quarterly. A special thanks to Rajen Harshe and Archana Thakur for my becoming Principal Investigator, e-content development in Philosophy for Postgraduate students, under UGC, e-pathshala. The experience that I gained while working on this project has drastically changed my research agenda. I was working under the impression that neglect of the modern Indian philosophy is the reason for the poor performance of philosophy in India. However, working on this project made me realise that the problem actually lies at the realm of teaching philosophy. This is a very complex domain that cannot be discussed here. To return to acknowledgements, I thank Aparajita Basu, Abha Thapalyal Gandhi, Chitralekha Manohar, Nikhita and Rajeshwari Mishka Sinha for editing the manuscript, and my colleagues Kavita Chauhan, Vinusa Tinyi and Jobin M. Kanjirakkat for the lively discussions and making my stay in the department cheerful. I am extremely thankful to Aparajita Basu for her generosity in helping me to revise the entire manuscript. My students Narmada Pujari, Imsurenla Jamir, Suchismita Satpathy, Aravinda, Tarun and M. Rajasekharam have been of great support in raising tough questions, reading through the manuscript and helping me at various stages of the making of this book. Jatin Tripathi, Pragati Dwivedi, Astha Saluja, Utkarsh Singh Vats, Bharat Singh, Shubham Pandey, Shivangi Gaur and the entire class of law students of Nirma University, Ahmedabad, helped me sharpen the ideas in this book. I thank them for their critical evaluation and Nitesh Chaudhary for surprising me in organising this event.

Introduction

Postcolonialism highlighted how colonialism oppressed the native self. This has been lucidly depicted in the case of Africa by Frantz Fanon (1977) and in the case of the ‘Orient’ by Edward Said (1979). Krishna Chandra Bhattacharyya, in his seminal talk, which was later published as ‘Svaraj in Ideas’, characterised the colonised self as ‘slavery of spirit’ (1984: 383) while making a case for svaraj in ideas. These three perspectives give us different accounts of the self or a dehumanised self. Though presented from different perspectives, they nevertheless converge on the tragedy of the dehumanised nature of the self. Despite this convergence, these three anticolonialists have offered different solutions to overcome this ‘wretched’ or ‘slav[ish]’ nature of the colonised self. While Fanon endorses physical violence to overcome the wretched state, Said seems to suggest cerebral and intellectual realisation as a prescription; and for Bhattacharyya, it is svaraj in ideas that can save the self from the slavish state of the spirit. Also, while Fanon and Said spend more time elucidating the nature of the dehumanised self and less on how to overcome it, Bhattacharyya spends less time on the nature of the slavish self and more on ways of overcoming it. What is common to these studies on the colonised self is that, other than elucidating the oppression or finding out ways of overcoming it, there is less that sustains the relation between the self and the other, not to speak of the border as a terrain.1 Against this gloomy background, there are two nearly invariant incidents in the life of Swami Vivekananda and Mahatma Gandhi that made me look at the nature and function of philosophy differently. One was Reverend Hastie, a Christian, an outsider, drawing the attention of Vivekananda to visit Ramakrishna Paramahamsa. The other was a similar instance where two Englishmen, again outsiders, ‘induced’ Gandhi who at that time had no particular interest in reading the Gita to read it. The consequences of these interventions brought into the limelight the significance of the outsider, or more specifically the ‘other’, in the making of these two indomitable

2  Introduction figures of modern India. The interesting thing in both instances is that the outsider, the other, illuminated the inside, the self. Working with this understanding, I locate both Vivekananda and Gandhi on the border of the inside and the outside. These two incidents allowed me to look at a subject like philosophy differently. Following the incidents in the life of Vivekananda and Gandhi, I would like to look at the functioning of philosophy also as an activity at the border. Adi Samkara can be located at the border of the Upanishads and Buddhism; and St. Thomas Aquinas and St. Augustine at the borders of Aristotle and Christ. From this vantage point, one finds the discipline of philosophy contributing immensely from the borders. Like philosophy, religion too performs a significant task at the borders of the inside and the outside. The radical and the ritual are two significant aspects surrounding the phenomenon of religion. The radical consists of elements that differ, disagree, dissent, oppose or even exclude the then existing religion or religions. This could be with respect to either their ideas or practice. The ritual or regulative is concerned with formulating, systematising, building, laying the rules, maintaining, emulating and eventually consolidating new ideas. Giving importance to the latter and not factoring in the former can seriously compromise one’s understanding of the nature of religion. Further, let me reinforce my argument by introducing a distinction between a leader and a follower. A leader is one who knows how to handle not only what is politically correct, but also that which is politically incorrect. The level of competence in dealing with these two realms distinguishes a leader from the followers. The follower mostly knows how to deal with what is politically correct. If we take into consideration the second aspect, we then cover only the confirmative, a difference aspect of religion, while leaving out its radical aspect. Very often, a new religion begins because it is different from the existing order; hence, difference forms the foundation of religion. Even the novelty of a new religion comes later in the chronological order. There is an imperative need to take note of these foundations and their chronological order, not only to arrive at a comprehensive idea of a religion, but also to understand its later functions. The immediate reason for bringing this to the table of discussion is to make a case for the significance of the difference between two or more than two religions or philosophies. Like the five senses of our body, philosophy seems to negotiate both the outside and the inside worlds. It is instances like the ones mentioned above that allow such an altered view of philosophy and religion in the lives of Vivekananda and Gandhi. Against this way of looking at the function of philosophy, we can see differently the nature of the ‘other’ or the outsider,

Introduction 3 apart from the way in which the ‘other’ is construed by Fanon, Said and Bhattacharyya. While the other is seen by Fanon as an oppressor, by Said as constructed and victimised and by Bhattacharyya as creating the state of slavery, the incidents mentioned above make me look at the ‘other’ differently. In addition to this bordering nature of philosophy, let me also bring into the discussion an epistemological dimension. According to the apoha theory of knowledge in Indian philosophy, particularly Buddhism, knowledge consists in knowing not what it is but what it is not. What it is not is numerous. If knowledge consists in knowing what it is not, then it has radical and enormous implications on power. In this context, let me contrast this version of knowledge with those from the West. Unlike classical philosophy, where knowledge is envisaged as leading to liberation, Bacon related knowledge with power. In contrast, Foucault highlighted the oppressive and negative nature of power. While, most often, the scholarship on Foucault portrayed him as critiquing positivism, using the apoha theory of knowledge we can excavate positivist assumptions in Foucault. The scholarship often paid attention to the relation between knowledge/ power rather than critically scrutinising the nature and assumption of knowledge in him. This scrutiny is important. The nature and function of knowledge drastically changes if it leads us not to what an object is but to what it is not. This version of knowledge may not generate power. Instead of reflecting on the relation between knowledge and power or even knowledge and liberation, I want to deflect the gaze and take it away from the domain of relation and draw attention to the very nature of knowledge. This is of paramount importance, as it either determines the nature of the relation or the redundancy of the relation between knowledge as liberation and knowledge/power. For our present purpose, it takes the gaze away from what knowledge is to what it is not. This version of knowledge from Indian philosophy can fall outside the antenna of power. This can release us from the necessary and oppressive character of the relation between knowledge and power, as explicated by Foucault. Given this, we can consider both versions of knowledge/power. So, knowledge about India does not consist only in knowing what it is, but also what it is not. Thus, you have one trajectory where knowledge of the positivist version generates power, including modern notions of power, extensively highlighted by Foucault and colonial versions of it as diligently pointed out by Said. To this, we can add its counter from apoha theory that knowledge need not generate power. What it generates is an open question. With this in mind, I now introduce another distinction – to thicken the plot at the border – between rejecting something and receiving what remains after rejecting elements from the outside. Judith Brown, a

4  Introduction Gandhian scholar, while evaluating the contribution of Gandhi, points out that the decision to leave India by the British was not due to ‘Gandhi’s nonviolent campaigns’. It was rather ‘precipitated by wartime politics’ and the Raj’s realisation regarding the ‘declining significance, over a long period, of India to Britain and its Empire’ (2011: 66). While conceding Brown’s claim, which reduces the importance of Gandhi and the Indian freedom struggle, I should point out that her argument also admits the loosening grip of the Empire. In this context, it may be necessary to mention that it is Gandhi, more than anyone else, who saw through this decline; hence, his changing strategies in dealing with the Empire. This understanding of the opponent by the agent rather than combat is what reveals the ingenuity of the fighter. Moreover, what Brown maintains about Gandhi is true of many revolutions, including the famous French Revolution. Here, I wish to take Brown’s argument in two other directions. One, to the nature of British entry into India, and two, the predicament after they left, to highlight the ingenuity of those like Gandhi. Let me begin with the latter, conceding to Brown that Gandhi’s non-violent campaigns did not bring about the British decision to leave India. However, what Brown does not recognise is the enormous task of receiving the independence after the British left. The work of the freedom struggle does not end, as assumed by Brown, in gaining independence. The freedom struggle consists not only of driving away the outsiders, but also in claiming what is left by those who were colonised. The ingenuity of those like Gandhi lies in making sure that the subcontinent is received, though in two parts, at the very juncture of India’s independence. This is an enormous achievement, given the historical fact that the British did not capture a single geographically unified nation, but occupied several principalities and tried to put them together as a nation. Brown’s failure lies in not taking into consideration this second aspect of the freedom struggle. In this context, it may be of interest to note that India as a nation was handed over mostly to lawyers. Gandhi contributed, though with varying success, in facilitating this takeover process. This is a remarkable achievement, given the size of the subcontinent and the complex contrasting agencies involved in this process. Now, let me take her discussion in the other direction. Gandhi is not the original formulator of the idea of non-violence. This will be discussed later. I am ready to accept that the relation between India’s independence and non-violence is not strong. I am ready to concede to Brown that this relation is perhaps weak, or it is contingent, or it is only notional not substantial or even that it is not there at all and is merely a show. What is important is that it is an interesting show. Gandhi’s ingenuity lies in seeing various textures of this show. Let me elaborate. There is an interesting distinguishing feature of British entry into this subcontinent. Unlike

Introduction 5 other earlier and later invasions, this invasion did not use violence. This created a psychological problem, of justifying their entry, which in the previous forms of invasion was through war and violence. So, the answer to the question why did X colonise Y was because X won the war against Y. However, here is an instance of invasion without war and violence. So, this arrival has not passed through the conventional procedure at the gate before entering. There have been several interesting post facto explanations – that we wanted them, they came to reform us and so on. It is important to pay more attention not only to the content of these explanations, but also to the time of their articulation. So, if the British entered India not through violence, can they be sent out through violence? Many freedom fighters, including Tilak, Savarkar, Bose and Aurobindo, did not see the subtext in this form of invasion. They continued to read this invasion through the prism of earlier invasions as they were reading too much of world history. The variance between the past instances of invasion and the British invasion of India eluded their attention. In contrast, Gandhi saw this difference more clearly than the invaders. This is one of the reasons why he was wary of history as a guide to determine the present and the future. But, Gandhi did not confront the British on this. Instead, he offered an answer in the form of non-violence, even if we consider it more show than substance. This show that made a case for their exit then threw light on the nature of the entry. First, it avoided the mismatch between the entry and the exit. Violence was not used for the exit, just as it was not when they had entered. The show also matched the post facto explanation that preoccupied East India Company intellectuals. So, even if there is no relation between non-violence and the British leaving India, Gandhi saved the other Indian freedom fighters from committing the blunder of a mismatch, which would have made India lose the moral case. They would have answered the wrong question. This in turn would have retrospectively legitimised many acts of the British, including their entry. Gandhi, in embarking on this, created a scene where one wonders why the British entered India, what they did here and why they left. This is more magic realism than rational and modern. So, while agreeing with Brown that the British left India not because of Gandhi and non-violence but because of war politics, I am only contesting her subtext where she seems to assume that a weak man leaving does not make strong the one who threw him out. I am claiming that Gandhi, in putting on this show, avoided unwittingly strengthening the already weak British. He simultaneously spent his energy though non-violence in activities within India, particularly in reform and constructive programmes. With this as the background, Part I in its first chapter discusses in detail the nature and predicament of the self in Bhattacharyya’s thesis on slavery of

6  Introduction the spirit. The chapter shows how Bhattacharyya failed to explain the relation between the incompatible concepts of slavery and svaraj. Then, it goes on to point out the asymmetry in Bhattacharyya’s recommendation for the slave to achieve svaraj. Having identified this problem with Bhattacharyya, the next two chapters discuss the significance of the ‘other’ in the lives of Vivekananda and Gandhi, respectively. The second chapter discusses how the present scholarship on Vivekananda fails to capture salient features of those like him who, instead of operating either from the inside or outside, function at the border. Their performance has to be evaluated from their location at the border and not as belonging to either the inside or the outside. In this context, the next chapter discusses another instance from the life of Gandhi, who like Vivekananda was motivated by two Englishmen to read the Gita. This chapter discusses the radical interpretation of the Gita by Gandhi, and the innovative internal adjustments he makes to this sacred text in the process of responding to secular demands. Subsequent to the discussion of how Vivekananda and Gandhi negotiated the outside other, Chapter 3 moves a step further in discussing the debate between Tagore and Gandhi that reveals how the self of what was in slavery was slowly climbing towards svaraj, in participating in a debate. While accounting for the contributions of the outsider to the shaping of their growth, self in debate that are discussed in Part I bring in further complexity to the rich tapestry of contemporary India, which continues to be a wonder. Having made a case for factoring the other and the border through Vivekananda and Gandhi and the debate between Tagore and Gandhi at the level of thinkers, Part II turns towards the social realm by highlighting the overlapping between the modern and the premodern in Indian society. The first chapter in Part II highlights the overlap between the modern and the premodern in India. This is in contrast to the claimed demarcation between the modern and the premodern in the West. This is explained through a philosophical scrutiny of the relation between village and city. The chapter discusses how most of the Indian cities are extensions of villages. It highlights how this defies the modern Western canon of building modern cities in uninhabited land. This overlapping or coexistence that defies the Western canons and is unique to India has eluded the attention of social theorists and policymakers. The discussion covers Descartes, the father of modern philosophy, who clearly laid the foundation for the modern city as excluding everything from the premodern; Rabindranath Tagore, the poet, who posited a relation between the village and the city that symbolically represents Indian society; and A. M. Shah, a social scientist, who confesses how Indian social theory did not pay attention to the relation between the premodern village and the modern city.

Introduction 7 Having highlighted the variance between Western and Indian society, the next chapter turns its attention to yet another overlap. In contrast to democracy in the West that is sustained by the modern notion of the citizen, democracy in India is sustained largely by non-literates who belong to premodern societies. In this context, it discusses four important and influential Marxists: Javeed Alam, who highlights the variance in Indian democracy; Alam Khundmiri, who moves near to people that, in turn, takes him away from modern social theories; E. M. S. Namboodiripad, who acknowledges the success of Gandhi in expressing the aspirations of the common people; and Akeel Bilgrami, who introduced a critical distinction between truth and lie. Using this distinction, this chapter restores cognitive capacity to the common people of India who belong to premodern society. Having traversed symbolically the city and democracy – two important domains belonging to modernity – the last chapter discusses the relation between English and bhashas in India. In this context, it discusses an important experiment curated by Gopal Guru and Sundar Sarukkai to have a running discussion for six months on the phenomenon of caste in Indian society in Prajavani, a Kannada newspaper. Thus, the chapters in this part of the book highlight the overlap between Indian and Western societies on important areas like the city – village; democracy – non-literates; and discussion of caste in bhasha newspapers. In this context, the book makes a claim for building academic scaffoldings to convert writers from India into authors in the modern sense of the term.2 This will elevate and enable the present scholarship to theorise contemporary India better. This, thus, is the reason behind bringing in a different definition of philosophy – philosophy as located at the border – and read modern Indian society and modern Indian writers from this philosophical perspective. Thus, the overall thrust of the work is to highlight the differences and the overlaps without any valourising, but to present it for further critical scrutiny.

Notes 1 Those who make a case from the victim’s points of view tend to assume that societies and individuals should not be invaded by their neighbours or by outsiders. I tend to believe that though desirable, this however has shades of protectionism where one’s existence or growth depends on the other’s goodness. An individual or a society must have their resources not only to grow independently, but also to ensure that they are not encroached upon from the outside. This requires ensuring that their borders are strong. 2 Even the compilation like Brahmasutras of Badarayana follows what is called as Sangati, which means consistency to be followed in the text. The author or compiler has to make sure that there is consistency and no conflict between what precedes and what follows. This is of three kinds: (1) consistency with the Scripture

8  Introduction called Sastra S´a¯ ngati; (2) consistency within the chapter called Adhya¯ ya S´a¯ ngati; and (3) consistency within the quarter called Pa¯ da S´a¯ ngati. To accomplish one the interpretation should not deviate from the main subject matter. Similarly, to accomplish two and three, the text should not deviate from the theme of the chapter and quarter (see M. M. Agarwal 2010: xxx–xxxi). One needs to keep these textual requirements while converting the writers into authors. Compared to this, most of the modern Indian thinkers are not strictly speaking authors; hence, the need to avoid drawing final conclusions from their writings and embark on converting, wherever possible, them into authors.

Part I

Self and other

1 Slavery of the spirit and svaraj in Krishna Chandra Bhattacharyya

This chapter examines the nature of the colonised self whose spirit is enslaved, as discussed in ‘Svaraj in Ideas’ by Krishna Chandra Bhattacharyya. There are several gaps, inconsistencies and claims in the scholarship on this important essay. The first section will undertake to organise these in a systematic manner, to make them available for close philosophical scrutiny. The next section will examine the concept of svaraj and scrutinise the relation between the incompatible concepts, namely, slavery and svaraj, and the last section will show the asymmetry between his claim for svaraj that his recommending in his other writing Indian solution to Western problems.

I ‘Svaraj in Ideas’ is an influential and popular talk delivered by Bhattacharyya to the students of Hooghly College, Hooghly, where he was the principal during 1928–1930 (Ghosh 1984: 513; Bagchi 1992: 194), and was later published in The Visva-Bharati Quarterly, vol. 20, 1954, pp. 103–14 (Shah et al. 1984: 383).1 This influential essay was not included in Studies in Philosophy, a volume that claims to collect ‘all the published and only a few of the unpublished philosophical writings of Krishna Chandra Bhattacharyya’ (Gopinath Bhattacharyya 1983: vii). In this context, Gopinath Bhattacharyya, the editor of this collection, admits that there ‘remains over an immense mass of manuscripts which will, perhaps, remain unpublished for all the time to come’ (1983: vii). ‘Svaraj in Ideas’, though published, was not included in these volumes. This collection was first published as a two-volume work in 1958 by Progressive Publisher, Calcutta. It was later reprinted as a single volume by Motilal Banarsidass, Delhi, in 1983, and a revised and enlarged edition was again brought out by the same publisher in 2008.

12  Self and other However, this essay has attracted more attention than Bhattacharyya’s other works, including his philosophical work Subject as Freedom, which he wrote at the Indian Institute of Philosophy, Amalner. Interestingly, and perhaps intriguingly, the Krishna Chandra Memorial Volume edited by S. K. Moitra, G. R. Malkani, T. R. V. Murti and Kalidas Bhattacharyya, and published by the Indian Institute of Philosophy, Amalner (1958), and the ‘Special Issue on the Philosophy of K. C. Bhattacharyya’ published by the Journal of Indian Council of Philosophical Research, 1992, did not have any papers that discussed this essay. The first major interest in this essay can be seen in a special issue of the Indian Philosophical Quarterly, 1984. K. J. Shah, Ramchandra Gandhi, S. S. Deshpande and Probal Dasgupta formed the special number editorial committee. This issue had several critical essays and commentaries by scholars belonging to different allied disciplines. It also reprinted this essay with a slightly different spelling, ‘Svaraj in Ideas’. While some of the essays in the special issue of the Journal of Indian Council of Philosophical Research (1992) referred to the Krishna Chandra Memorial Volume (1958), the 1992 publication did not refer to the special issue of Indian Philosophical Quarterly (1984). I am not claiming that both these volumes covered all other works of Bhattacharyya, except ‘Svaraj in Ideas’. In fact, one of the essays in the memorial volume, ‘The Principle of Modern Kant-Interpretations’ by Jitendranath Mohanty (1958), while discussing many writers and philosophers on Kant, did not even once refer to Bhattacharyya’s paper ‘The Concept of Philosophy’, which presents a clear critique of Kant by creating a distinction between two forms of knowledge: knowledge through thinking and through non-thinking. I will discuss this paper later in the book. To return to the main point, the reason for overlooking this essay, be it an unintended lapse or one with an underlying reason, due to the prevalence of colonialism or the priorities of the discipline of philosophy or its biases, is an open question that needs to be further researched. Notwithstanding the exclusion of this essay, there is an interesting relation between its title and that of another famous work, Hind Swaraj, by M. K. Gandhi. Both bear the word svaraj in their titles. There is more to this commonality. Both Gandhi and Bhattacharyya were greatly influenced by Jainism, which is often thought of as a heterodox school of Indian philosophy along with Buddhism and Carvaka. Despite the similarities, those like A. K. Saran criticise the comparison between these two works referred by the editors of the special volume (1984: 519). While Saran claims Gandhi’s work to be more revolutionary than Karl Marx’s Communist Manifesto, he maintains that ‘Bhattacharyya’s discourse is not revolutionary in the right sense of the term – not even in the currently common usage of the term’ (1984: 519). Rather, asserts

Slavery of the spirit and svaraj in Krishna Chandra  13 Saran, it is ‘flawed in certain fundamental aspects’ (1984: 519). Unfortunately, he does not substantiate his claim in this short piece. J. P. S. Oberoi makes a similar claim regarding the comparisons between Gandhi and Bhattacharyya’s work. He says that ‘Svaraj in Ideas’ should not be ‘compared with the radical critique of Hind Svaraj by Gandhiji’ (1984: 523). Unlike Saran, he does give reasons for his claim. According to him, Bhattacharyya’s arguments are likely to appeal to the ‘modernist and the fundamentalist alike’. In contrast, claims Saran, Gandhi was the ‘enemy’ of both modernists and fundamentalists. Raghavendra Rao, too, echoes the same sentiment when he claims that Gandhi’s Hind Svaraj goes ‘far beyond’ to the ‘substantial committed positions’, whereas Bhattacharyya’s essay moves within the academic circles (1984: 533).2 ‘Svaraj in Ideas’, claims Mohini Mullick, sets a ‘norm’; it creates ‘a norm for action’, and in the present case, ‘the act of thinking’. It is a norm that clearly advocates the need to take a resolution to ‘think in our own concepts everywhere’ (1984: 541). In the same volume, Dharmendra Goel alleges that Bhattacharyya ‘has not fully worked out all the implications’ in this paper and that this leads to some ‘uncomfortable consequences’ (1984: 423). Rajendra Prasad asserts that Bhattacharyya ‘left vague and unexplained almost all of his key-concepts’ (1984: 490). While endorsing the strength of Bhattacharyya’s intention, Ashok Kelkar points out the real danger of misreading Bhattacharyya by the ‘tired’ and ‘lethargic mind’ (1984: 550). Unlike other contributors, who equated colonialism or the West as enslaving the Indian self, Rajini Kothari identifies modernity as performing this task. Like Kelkar, he too is cautions that svaraj must be ‘transformed and institutionalised in the framework of an external order’. This external order should prove to be ‘meaningful to the diverse people of the world’. Unless this is done, there is a possible danger of lapsing into ‘fanaticism that usually accompanies such religious upsurges, usually arising from outward looking religious traditions (including Visva Hindu movement)’ (1984: 568). While accepting the normative dimension of this concept, as rightly pointed out by Mullick, the next section sets the limitations surrounding this concept and critically scrutinises the relation between slavery and svaraj. In this context, it critically evaluates this norm and the Section III will show the asymmetry in Bhattacharyya.

II There is a complex relation between slavery and svaraj. The two concepts are incompatible with each other. A close reading of this paper reveals that Bhattacharyya does not offer any philosophical explanation when dealing with the relation between these two incompatible concepts. I should

14  Self and other also clarify that I do not contend that incompatible concepts cannot ever be used together; I only argue that there is a need to explain the relation between them. In order to explain the relation between these two incompatible concepts, let me bring into the discussion two kinds of combinations: (1) Freedom, then Slavery, and then overcoming Slavery to reach Svaraj; and (2) Slavery, and then Svaraj. A, not A, then A; and not A, and then A. Bhattacharyya’s position is closer to one rather than two. If A is prior to not A, the argument reads differently from the situation when not A is prior to A. We need to be careful in recognising this logic; otherwise, we may unwittingly begin to assume certain things that are not there in the text. For instance, there is a difference between losing freedom and regaining it and gaining freedom without having lost it. I lost my money, and then I got it back is different from I gained knowledge without having lost it earlier. In the latter example, I did not lose to gain, whereas in the former I regained that which I had lost. So, the situation of the self in India during colonialism is similar to that described by Rousseau in his famous statement that ‘Man is born free; and everywhere he is in chains’ (1952: 3). Hence, leaving aside the political content, one sees that, according to the passage, it is the free man who lost freedom. Rousseau does not say when and how man lost his freedom, but makes the claim nevertheless without giving any evidence, leaving the argument hanging in the air. One, how man is born free, two, how and when remains unjustified; thus, how and why man lost freedom remains unexplained.3 He leaves the assertion that man was born free without justification, and further does not say when and how he lost his freedom. These are important concerns that invite us to question the logic underlying the famous statement about man being born free but yet being in chains. That is, when was man born free and how did he loose his freedom? In one of his brilliant passages, Rousseau takes on Aristotle, who claimed that slavery was natural hence should be maintained, by saying that Aristotle was right, but that he had taken the effect for the cause. Rousseau says of Aristotle: Aristotle, before any of them, had said that men are by no means equal naturally, but that some are born for slavery, and others for domination. Aristotle was right; but he took the effect for the cause. (1952: 5) The underlying idea behind Rousseau’s critique of Aristotle is the use of two different logics that are in operation. It is this underlying logic that attracts my attention, along with the political radicalism of modernity.

Slavery of the spirit and svaraj in Krishna Chandra  15 That is, while Aristotle is using the position of IE (Inequality) to IE, Rousseau on the contrary alleges that IE that is sought to be maintained was not IE in the beginning but a manufactured IE from E (equality). This much is clear and acceptable; however, two key issues remain unresolved: first, how E became IE, and second, whether there was a state when there was E. My claim can be said to have been admitted by Rousseau himself, when he says immediately after claiming that man is born free but everywhere he is in chains, and then going on to further say that one thinks himself the master of others, but still remains a greater slave than they (I shall come to the second a little later). I quote: How did this change come about? I do not know. What can make it legitimate? That question I think I can answer. (1952: 3). Here, though Rousseau himself admits what I am pointing out, my objection is his clear avoidance of the historical and anthropological explanations which call for presenting the state of nature as pre-societal. Rather, he takes recourse to legitimising it, which is the political task. Here, the normative project of Rousseau does not rest on a factual claim. That is, while Aristotle’s idea of nature is fabricated, Rousseau’s politically correct state of nature hangs in the air (I have, in my 2013 work, discussed other problems with this idea). The ingenuity and success of Rousseau lies in the way he mesmerises his readers with political content, leading them without their being able to scrutinise these structural aspects crucial to the statement. Similar to the logic of Rousseau, Bhattacharyya assumes with brief hints here and there the pre-slavery state of the self that is in slavery. Both Rousseau and Bhattacharyya use a particular version of causation in making their political claims. Both use asatkarya vada version of causality, according to which the effect is different from the cause. This is in contrast to another, in fact, the contrasting version of causality, that is, satkaryavada. This version of causality argues that there is invariance between cause and effect. The effect is already there in the cause. Both are offering not the instance of freedom to freedom or slavery to slavery. They build their arguments on the basis of the idea of a move away from freedom and towards slavery. However, there is a close relation between Rousseau and Bhattacharyya, for unlike the former, the latter’s pre-slave self is located in history. So, Bhattacharyya does not face the problems surrounding Rousseau. Bhattacharyya claims that people in India now admit: . . . what was not sufficiently recognised in the earlier days of our western education – that we had an indigenous culture of high degree of

16  Self and other development, the comparative value of which cannot be said to have been yet sufficiently appraised. (1984: 384) So, a high degree of developed indigenous culture existed earlier in India. He, however, half-heartedly concedes two problems with the pre-slavery state at two different places in the paper. First, when he refers to ‘unthinking conservatism’ (1984: 386), and later in the paper, where he says: We condemn the caste system of our country, but we ignore the fact that we who have received Western education constitute a caste more exclusive and intolerant than any of the traditional castes. (1984: 393) In the later part of the paper, he gives a justification for his focussing on the destructive impact of Western ideas on the Indian mind and for not highlighting the evils within Indian society, when he says: The other danger of national conceit and the unthinking glorification of everything in our culture and depreciation of everything in other cultures appears to me, in our circumstances, to require less stressing. Not that it is less serious abstractly considered, but as a matter of fact our educated men suffer more from over-diffidence than from overconfidence, more from ‘rootless’ universalism than from our clinging particularism. (1984: 391) Here, it may be noted that this account of the history of the pre-slavery state may be differently interpreted. That is, it is not clear whether Bhattacharyya will reject the caste system independently of those who condemn it in the context of accepting Western ideals. Notwithstanding this unanswered question, it may be noted that Bhattacharyya’s pre-slavish state is historical and not a mere postulation like Rousseau. Explaining various aspects of the nature of the slavery of the spirit, Bhattacharyya distinguishes slavery in the political sphere from slavery in the realm of ideas. The slavery in the political sphere is ‘tangible’ and effects the ‘outer life’ and operates at a ‘conscious’ level (1984: 383). Since this form of slavery operates at a conscious plane, one can ‘resist it’ or can ‘bear it as a necessary evil and to keep free in spirit’ (1984: 383). In contrast, explains Bhattacharyya, cultural subjection is ‘unconscious in character’ and is subtler in nature, and has ‘more serious consequences’ as it is not ordinarily felt (1984: 383). Distinguishing cultural slavery or subjection

Slavery of the spirit and svaraj in Krishna Chandra  17 from assimilation, he admits that the latter ‘need not be evil, may be positively necessary for healthy progress, it does not mean lapse of freedom’ (1984: 383). The cultural subjection, according to Bhattacharyya, takes place when ‘one’s traditional cast of ideas and sentiments is superseded without comparison or competition by a new cast representing an alien culture which possess one like a ghost’ (1984: 383). Drawing a distinction between assimilation and slavery or subjection, he does accept at one point the former ‘after a full and open-ended struggle had been allowed to develop between it and their indigenous culture’ (1984: 384). But such a struggle, however, did not take place. Elaborating the consequences of the cultural subjection, he says: Under the present system we generally receive western culture in the first instance and then we sometimes try to peer into our ancient culture as a curiosity and with the attitude of foreign oriental scholars and yet we say that this ancient culture of ours is no curiosity. (1984: 384) Let us pay attention to the underlying sequence. First, there was a state of pre-slavery, a state with a high degree of developed indigenous culture. Then, outside Western ideas got imposed leading to the slavery of spirit. So, we moved from A to not A, while the outside subjugated the inside, thus becoming the agent of oppression. In this context, Bhattacharyya does concede something interesting, when he admits: Many of our educated men do not know and do not care to know this indigenous nature of ours. When they seek to know, they do not feel, as they ought to feel, that they are discovering their own self. (1984: 384) That is, there was a state of pre-slavery, then slavery of ideas was imposed from outside. When our educated men begin to see our own culture, but from that state of slavery, they either will not know it or even if they do seek it they will not feel it. This is the consequence of the slavery of the spirit.4 Having alleged the imposition by the outside self on the native self, he however admits that this imposition was not on ‘unwilling minds’, as he concedes that ‘we ourselves asked for this education’ (1984: 384). So, the inside self that was willing received the imposed ideas, and this willing self, he acknowledges, feels, ‘and perhaps rightly, that it has been a blessing in certain ways’ (1984: 384). So, the Indian self on which outside Western ideas are imposed has not resisted this imposition, but has shown its

18  Self and other willingness with the justification that it has been a blessing in some ways. So, the willingness of the slavish self to receive the ideas from outside takes away the blame for slavery from the outside self. O imposes on N, when N is willing to be imposed upon.5 So, O cannot be blamed. This will be an instance of willing or voluntary slavery that is similar to Grotius’ defence of slavery discussed in Rousseau’s Social Contract. Grotius argues that an individual exercising his individuality and right over himself can voluntarily ‘alienate his liberty and makes himself the slave of the master . . .’. Similarly, asks Grotius, why ‘could not a whole people do the same and make itself subject to a kind’? (in Rousseau 1952: 7). The case of Indians allowing themselves to be willingly enslaved by Western ideas is similar to Grotius’ argument regarding voluntary slavery, thus making the instance of slavery within liberalism possible. Since the blame for slavery or the case against slavery cannot be located with outside the self, the source of the oppression, Bhattacharyya moves outside the realm of agency and turns towards consequences to make a case for svaraj and against the slavery of ideas. Let us see how he undertakes this tactical move. He says that there was no ‘vital assimilation’ of Western ideas, though he concedes there was ‘assimilation in a fashion’ (1984: 385). In the absence of vital assimilation, their impact induced in the native self ‘certain habits of soulless thinking which appears like real thinking’ (1984: 385). This appearance, he claims, creates in us a ‘shadow mind that functions like a real mind except in the matter of genuine creativeness’ (1984: 385). Pointing out the consequences of this state of affairs, he asserts that the native self has been robbed of ‘genuine creativity’. As a result, the native self has been unable, even after a century of contact with the West, to make a contribution of a: . . . distinctive Indian style to the culture and the thought of the modern world – contribution specially to humane subjects like history, philosophy or literature, a contribution such as may be enjoyed by our countrymen who still happen to retain their vernacular mind and which might be recognized by others as reflecting the distinctive soul of India. (1984: 385) In addition, there is another consequence that is problematic. That is, the modern Western education that is practised by Indians, says Bhattacharyya, ‘has not so far helped us to understand ourselves, to understand the significance of our past, the realities of our present and our mission of the future’ (1984: 387). The further consequences of this peculiar situation have been that our mind has been driven ‘into the unconsciousness’ and replaced ‘by

Slavery of the spirit and svaraj in Krishna Chandra  19 a shadow mind that has no roots in our past and in our real present’ (1984: 387). This, says Bhattacharyya, leads to a situation where ‘our old mind cannot be wholly driven underground and its imposed substitute cannot function effectively and productively’ (1984: 387). The result, according to Bhattacharyya, ‘is that there is confusion [not conflict] between two minds and hopeless Babel in the world of ideas. Our thought is hybrid through and through and inevitably sterile. Slavery has entered into our very soul’ (1984: 387). The problem with this state of affair is that this confusion leads to ‘moral evil’ (1984: 393). Bhattacharyya proposes the need to overcome this state of affairs, to shake free from this state of slavery and to awaken. He describes this state as one where one ‘feels as though the scales fell from his eyes. He experiences a rebirth, and that is what I call Svaraj in Ideas’ (1984: 383). In order to move from the actual state of affairs to the desirable state of svaraj, he proposes a critical first stage. He suggests the need to move away from ‘English to Vernacular medium’ in expressing ‘cultural ideas’ (1984: 387). Further, he recommends the need for the native self to have ‘critical reserve, and not of docile acceptance’ (1984: 392). He adds: Let us break down the barriers of this new caste, let us come back to the cultural stratum of the real Indian people and evolve a culture along with them suited to the times and to our native genius. That would be to achieve Svaraj in Ideas. (1984: 393) He further pleads for ‘genuine translation of foreign ideas into our native ideas before we accept or reject them. Let us everywhere resolutely think in our own concepts.6 It is only thus that we can think productively on our own account’ (1984: 393).7 In this context, he acknowledges that there is a realisation among educated men in the ‘political sphere’ that the masses need to be carried along. In the ‘social sphere’, too, there is a belief that reform must be brought to the masses. However, in the sphere of ideas, Bhattacharyya writes that ‘there is hardly yet any realization that we can think effectively only when we think in terms of the indigenous ideas that pulsate in the life and mind of the masses’ (1984: 393). Thus, Bhattacharyya concedes some initial progress both in the political and social spheres in overcoming slavery; he, however, admits lack of such progress in the realm of ideas. In this context, he rules out the possibility that a foreigner could be capable of helping the self that was in slavery to overcome that state. He says that ‘prima facie it is very difficult for a foreigner to understand the mind of a people from whom he is widely removed by tradition and history unless he has intimately participated in their life for a long time’ (1984: 392).

20  Self and other At this point, the problem is as follows: there is a state of the slavery of ideas, imposed from the outside and welcomed by the inside; though the state was welcomed by the inside self, the consequences were not desirable; hence, the need to overcome it. Bhattacharyya identifies some moves towards this end like shifting from English medium education to vernacular medium to express one’s ideas; he rules out the foreigner as being capable of effecting this change. The crux of the problem, however, is: there is a fact and there is a value; there are some stages that will make the move from fact to value. The problem that remains is how the change from fact to value via these stages may be affected. As already admitted, the self is in slavery, and given this state it is not capable and neither is any foreigner. More importantly, how can a given self that was willing to be enslaved be made to realise the need to overcome that state. This is a big task, and Bhattacharyya has not paid enough attention to this crucial requirement. That is, how to convince the willing slavish self to make a U-turn and get back to the state of svaraj. The scene would be different if slavery had been thrust on an unwilling self. Then, the unwilling self could have shed this slavery and attained the state of svaraj. Though one can recall the preslavish stage, one needs something from the present to begin to fulfil the desire for freedom. That is, it is one thing to wish the self in slavery to have reserves of the critical faculty, but in reality, the question is whether the self in slavery is capable of overcoming the state of slavery and desires to do so. Where the desire to overcome slavery and to achieve svaraj comes from and how it enters into this self are important questions. This issue, I claim, has not been addressed by Bhattacharyya, leaving this project a mere wish and leaving slavery and svaraj, which are incompatible concepts, as they are. For instance, his statement that docile acceptance without criticism would mean slavery (1984: 392) is almost like an analytical statement where the predicate is already present in the subject. Docile acceptance and lack of criticism mean slavery. We need to go beyond this state and we need an agency to make this move. As he himself admits, the foreigner is not capable of helping in making this move. Given the initial willingness of the native self in welcoming Western ideas, how does one help it to reach an understanding of their undesirable consequences, so that it can begin to contemplate a move away from its present state? This crucial aspect eluded the attention of Bhattacharyya. To understand this problem better, let us recall some instances from the history of philosophy in which the problem of variance between cause and effect has been faced. One is the relation between non-being and being, being as arising from non-being. An earlier formulation of non-being is available in the Rig Veda, where it is claimed that the void or absolute

Slavery of the spirit and svaraj in Krishna Chandra  21 absence preceded existence. This idea of absence is expressed in n ­ egative terms. It is said in the Songs of the Creation, ‘Then there was neither Aught nor Nought, no air nor sky beyond’ (Muir 1868: 129). So, this state of p­ reexistence, in which nothing whatsoever ‘is’ is designated as a state where there is no trace of ‘change’. It is from this state of pre-existence as NonBeing that existence is formed. Elucidating this formation, it says that from this void-like situation, existence first arose. To quote the passage from the Rig Veda: Who knows, who ever told, from whence this vast creation rose? No gods had then been born – who then can e’er the truth disclose? Whence sprang this world, and whether framed by hand divine or no – Its Lord in heaven alone can tell, if ever he can show. (Muir 1868: 129) So, existence or being came out of non-being. However, being and nonbeing are heterogeneous and mutually exclusive. Hence, the difficulty in explaining such a process. It is taken to be a mystery. In Mundaka Upanishad, non-being in the form of pre-existence is referred to as ‘invisible, ungraspable, without family, without caste (a-varna). Without sight or hearing is It, without hand or foot’. It is eternal ‘all-pervading, omnipresent, exceedingly subtle’ and imperishable. Deviating slightly from describing the process from pre-existence to existence as mystery, there are instances where this process is indicated through similes. In addition to explaining the incompatibles either as mystery, or ungraspable or even through similes, we have instances in Plato where an external influence is used to move those who are ignorant towards knowledge. This is available in Plato’s allegory of the cave – Those inside the cave who can see only the shadow of the light have to be forcefully turned towards the light against their will to see the reality, thus making the external force indispensable. Yet another approach in explaining the relation between two heterogeneous or incompatible aspects is through potentialities to actuality. Following Aristotle, we can argue that the slavish self has the potentialities of achieving svaraj. The consequences that Bhattacharyya refers to can be seen as working directly or at least as catalysts to make the self move towards svaraj. The triggering of these potentialities may be within or from the outside. We can also find in evolutionary theories an explanation for the evolution from slavery to svaraj. But a major insight that revolutionised the onward march of modern politics and political transformation is available in the work of Hegel, who perhaps for the first time introduced a radical idea that turned the understanding of the master and slave relationship instituted by Aristotle. Unlike

22  Self and other the earlier understanding of the relation between master and slave, where the latter is totally dependent on the former, Hegel’s approach pointed out that at times the master is also dependent on the slave. This interdependency, though unequal, allowed the slave to see for himself through the eyes of master and in those moments to gain the idea of svaraj. While this insight is largely attributed to Hegel in mainstream scholarship, there are reasons for arguing that the seeds of the idea predate Hegel. We find one of them in Rousseau. To quote: Man is born free; and everywhere he is in chains. One thinks himself the master of others, and still remains a greater slave than they. (1952: 3) The roots of Hegel’s master and slave can be traced to this brief but revolutionary idea. The scholarship on Hegel did not see the roots of the master and slave relation lying in Rousseau. The reason for discussing this point here is to highlight the gaps in Bhattacharyya’s paper in explaining how the slavish self gets an idea of svaraj. Unless this fundamental problem is answered, the idea lacks a philosophical explanation and argument. At a different level, the uneasiness in deriving one that is incompatible from the other surrounds in the ‘is-ought’ problem made famous by David Hume. The reason for recalling these instances from the history of philosophy is to highlight the problem associated with Bhattacharyya’s program of making the self in slavery reach the state of svaraj. I admitted earlier that I would not have critically evaluated this paper if it had been merely a talk indicating that a talk, dictated by the requirements of an audience and a particular context, may not be as systematic and rigorous as a text. I justified my attempt at evaluating it as it had been published as a text in a journal. After analysing this text, however, I now feel that one has to be more careful, though differently careful, while delivering a talk, as many missing links will grossly interfere with the understanding of an audience following the talk. The audience of the talk may not have the facility a reader of a text has to go through it carefully or to read it again. So, the lesson we need to draw is that both the speaker and the listener have to be careful, at least differently careful, with regard to the talk. This thought in a larger context reveals the complexity surrounding the oral traditions that use less text and more talking. I began by focussing on the incompatibility between slavery and svaraj that constitute the fulcrum of Bhattacharyya’s paper. I have discussed different combinations of the concepts ranging from slavery to slavery in Aristotle, to the move from slavery to freedom in Rousseau and Bhattacharyya. Having drawn this comparison, I have identified how Bhattacharyya’s idea of the pre-slavish state is historical while Rousseau’s

Slavery of the spirit and svaraj in Krishna Chandra  23 pre-slavish state is not. I have then discussed how slavery is welcomed by the indigenous self, hence concurring with the oppressor from the outside. Having found no locus for making a case for svaraj within the realm of the agency of the native self, Bhattacharyya turns towards the consequences that are undesirable for the self that is in slavery. While accepting this as a good move for making a case for svaraj, this chapter went on to highlight how the self in slavery may be convinced to overcome this state and to move towards svaraj. In the end, I have recalled some instances from the history of philosophy where the overcoming of incompatibility is dealt with: as a mystery, as something incomprehensible, as a simile in classical Indian philosophy; as effected from outside in Plato’s allegory of the cave; as a move from potentiality to actuality in Aristotle; and through the relation between master and slave in Hegel, an idea whose roots can be traced to Rousseau where along with the slave, who is dependent on the master, the master too is said to be at times dependent on the slave. The purpose of bringing these dimensions into the discussion is to evaluate Bhattacharyya’s paper and to see how it withstands wider philosophical scrutiny. Bhattacharyya seems to use more rhetoric rather than provide philosophical justification to explain the relation between the slavery and svaraj that are incompatible with each other. This, in my reading, is the problem with his idea of svaraj. Having evaluated this concept, let me show the asymmetry between Bhattacharyya’s plea for svaraj, which trespasses when he recommends Indian solutions to Western problems in his essay The Concept of Philosophy.

III Bhattacharyya’s positive claim is about svaraj in ideas. There is also a negative claim where he says it is ‘very difficult for a foreigner to understand the mind of a people from whom he is widely removed by tradition and history unless he has intimately participated in their life for a long time’ (1984: 392). While retaining the insider and the foreigner, let me change or interchange the particulars in these two concepts. More specifically, let us replace Indian from the concept insider and Western from the concept foreigner with Western and Indian, respectively. So, we have an interchange where the foreigner is an Indian and the insider is a Westerner. Having swapped roles, let us identify Bhattacharyya’s main argument and recall its various aspects: 1

It is difficult for a foreigner ‘to understand the mind of the people from whom he is widely removed by tradition and history unless he has intimately participated in their life for a long time’ (1984: 392).

24  Self and other 2 3 4 5

Bhattacharyya is for assimilation and not for slavery (1984: 383). He is for svaraj in ideas. He does not accept everything just because it is one’s own. He does not entirely reject outside values. He gives the following qualifications with regard to engaging with the outside: (a) Respecting outside ideals ‘from a distance without recognizing any specific appeal to ourselves’ (1984: 389). (b) Amongst these, there are those that have a ‘partial appeal’ to us because ‘they have an affinity with our own ideals, though still with a foreign complexion’ (1984: 389). (c) However, our reception of these outside ideals has to be in ‘our own fashion with the ceremonial or our own religion’ (1984: 389). (d) The translation of these ideals into our practical life ‘has to be decided by ourselves according to the genius of our own community’ (1984: 389). (e) Further, this ‘synthesis of our ideals with Western ideals is not demanded in every case’ (1984: 389). (f) Wherever there is a demand, one has to make sure that it is the ‘foreign ideal’ that is to be ‘assimilated to our ideal and not the other way’ (1984: 389). (g) The impact should be restricted to the secular realm and should not be allowed within the spiritual realm.

Having made the list, let me now discuss Bhattacharyya’s critique of Kant, focussing on his work ‘The Concept of Philosophy’. After a brief discussion on Bhattacharyya’s critique of Kant, I will present his critique of the Indian solution to the Kantian problem. In this context, I will maintain that instead of travelling in space, which is fraught with many problems of cultural translatability, there is a need to travel in time, and in the process, the discussion points out the disguised divinity in Kant and offers traditional Western solutions to modern Western problems. While both Western and Indian classical philosophies have accepted agentless consciousness or divine consciousness, here I discuss the problems related to the relation between the self as a knower and the unknowability of the self or self-knowledge. It will focus on two aspects, namely, self-knowledge and certainty, to understand the Kantian problematic. The Kantian problematic, for Bhattacharyya, lies in the ‘knowability of the self as a metaphysical entity’ (1983a: 462). While Kant sees the self as the source of knowledge, Bhattacharyya says that the ‘self is not in itself knowable’. Kant postulates the unknowability of the self in order to avoid a logical impasse. If the self is knowable, then that self needs to be known;

Slavery of the spirit and svaraj in Krishna Chandra  25 this, in turn, has to be known by something else and this continues towards an infinite regress. To avoid this, Kant, says Bhattacharyya, justifies this choice by making the self a ‘necessity of thought’ and an ‘object of moral faith’ (1983a: 462).8 Taking ahead Bhattacharyya’s diagnosis, we can show Kantian justification to be too weak to establish the existence of the self, particularly when the self is the key and the central concept in modern Western philosophy. Bhattacharyya traces the inevitability of this agnosticism to equate ‘thinking’ with ‘knowing’. He alleges that it is this equating which underlies the Kantian problematic.9 This diagnosis of the Kantian problematic by Bhattacharyya is novel. His ingenuity lies in his ability to use the Advaitic position and insights to understand the Kantian problematic through critical comparison. Now, let us discuss his Advaitic solution to overcoming this problem in Kant. Let me discuss Bhattacharyya’s Advaitic spatial (space) solution to the Kantian problematic. He proposes the need to break Kant’s assumption that ‘knowing’ and ‘thinking’ are equivalent, and suggests that there are ways of knowing outside the mode of thinking. To quote him: My position is . . . that the self is unthinkable and on the other that while actually it is not known and is only an object of faith, though not necessarily only of moral faith, we have to admit the possibility of knowing it without thinking . . . (1983a: 462) At the outset, his position is closer to the Advaita position if not the Advaita per se. As part of elucidating on ‘knowing without thinking’, he distinguishes four grades of thought: Empirical Thought: Empirical thought (ET) is theoretic consciousness of content involving reference to an object that is perceived or imagined to be perceived. Pure Objective Thought: Pure objective thought (POT) refers to content that is objective but has no necessary reference to sense perception. He also calls it contemplative thought. Spiritual Thought: The content of spiritual thought (ST) is not objective and nothing that is contemplated here is in the objective attitude. It is subjective, in the sense of being appreciated in a subjective or ‘enjoying’ attitude. Transcendental Thought: Transcendental thought (TT) is consciousness of content that is neither objective nor subjective. In his reckoning, transcendental truth is that aspect of thought that is knowledge,

26  Self and other which again, strictly speaking, is not thinking, but beyond thought. This is also the domain of truth. Bhattacharyya says of the absolute: The absolute as transcending the enjoyed reality of religion is positive being (truth) or positive non-being (freedom) or their positive indetermination (value). The absolute is conceived rigorously as truth in (Advaita) Vedanta. What is loosely called nihilist Buddhism apparently understands the absolute as freedom. The Hegelian absolute may be taken to represent the indetermination, miscalled identity of truth and freedom which is value. All these views belong to what may be called the transcendental grades of philosophy. (1983: 478–9) Though he refers to nihilist Buddhism and Hegel, I will not discuss them here as his focus is Advaita, and these two schools are used mostly to further illustrate his point about truth. Having distinguished the four grades of thought, he also categorised ET as Fact, POT as Self-subsistent, ST as Reality and TT as Truth. He classifies them under two broad categories: the domain of science and the domain of philosophy. He places fact under science and the other three, namely, Self-subsistence, Reality and Truth, under philosophy. He identifies the major differences between these two broad domains and sharply demarcates them by saying that fact is spoken of as information and understood without reference to a spoken form. It need not be spoken to be believed, because speakability is a contingent character of the content of ET. In sharp contrast, speakability is a necessary character of the content of pure philosophic thought. Further, speaking is not merely speaking as information, and all speech is not expressed in the form of judgements. Even in those cases where thoughts are expressed in the form of a judgement, it is only artificial and symbolic. Of the spoken, which necessarily refers to the speaking of it, there are three forms accordingly, as it is spoken in the objective, subjective or the transcendental attitude. Correspondingly, there are four grades of speakables. As with the different grades of thought, Bhattacharyya makes a general distinction between science and philosophy with reference to speakability. He says that the contents of fact are spoken as information and are intelligible without reference to the speaking of it, whereas the contents of philosophy are not spoken as information and they are necessarily dependent on the speaking. Elucidating different grades of speakability, he says that in the factual domain, that is, ET, in the statement ‘x is’, ‘x’ and ‘is’ and their combinations are literal. In POT, ‘x’ is literal, ‘is’ is literal but not their combination, which is symbolic. In ST, ‘x’ is literal, but ‘is’ and their combination are symbolic. In TT, all three – ‘x’, ‘is’ and their combination – are symbolic.

Slavery of the spirit and svaraj in Krishna Chandra  27 Thus, by distinguishing the four grades of thought, he shows how knowing consists of not only thinking but also non-thinking knowledge. There is a non-cognitive source of knowledge by way of aesthetic and spiritual knowledge (or self-knowledge), which also constitutes the knowledge domain. This eluded the attention of Kant, which forced him to lapse into agnosticism. The non-cognitive knowledge can save the Kantian self from agnosticism. The two important aspects in Bhattacharyya’s engagement are his critique of Kant and the Advaitic solution to overcome the Kantian problem. While admiring his critique of Kant, let me however ask: is this path of providing an Indian solution to a Western problem not trespassing the same recommendation he holds for svaraj for Indians? The conclusions in Bhattacharyya’s ‘The Concept of Philosophy’ do not follow the thesis of svaraj in ideas. Subsequent to the interchange of elements in the concepts of the inside and outside, will not this recommendation, if accepted by the West, be considered as slavery of the spirit? This is particularly so, when there are internal resources similar to what is recommended by Bhattacharyya. For instance, offering the proof for the existence of God, St. Aquinas says: It is therefore impossible that in the same respect and in the same way a thing should be both mover and moved, i.e., that it should move itself. Therefore, whatever is in motion must be put in motion by another. If that by which it is put in motion be itself put in motion, then this also must needs be put in motion by another, and that by another again. But this cannot go on to infinity, because then there would be no first mover, and, consequently, no other mover; seeing that subsequent movers move only inasmuch as they are put in motion by the first mover; as the staff moves only because it is put in motion by the hand. Therefore it is necessary to arrive at a first mover, put in motion by no other; and this everyone understands to be God. (Aquinas 1920) There is a greater similarity between the metaphysical position of Advaita and St. Thomas Aquinas. Both seem to suggest limits to thought in understanding reality. Further, the infinite regress in Kant for not allowing knowledge of self, as pointed by Bhattacharyya, is similar to the infinite regress that is used by Aquinas to establish the existence of God. Given that this is available within the West, let us revisit each of his arguments mentioned at the beginning of this section. Would not the Westerner argue that Bhattacharyya, a foreigner who is widely removed from Western tradition and history, does not understand the Kantian problem? This, thus, fails to maintain the following: (i) How would his recommendation of Advaita as a solution to the Kantian problem be an ‘assimilation and not . . . slavery’

28  Self and other (Bhattacharyya 1984: 383). So, (ii) remains problematic. Would using St. Aquinas be more in tune with svaraj than Advaita? So, (iii) becomes vulnerable. However, (iv) is met, though the same cannot be said of (v). Thus, on closer scrutiny, there seems to be an inconsistency between his theses in ‘Svaraj in Ideas’ and ‘The Concept of Philosophy’. Either Bhattacharyya fell short of reflecting on this or he did not properly test the purview of his concept of svaraj. This vulnerability leads him to commit reverse colonialism or another form of provincialism. Moreover, asking Western philosophers to read Advaita when they are in crisis is asking for too much. While there is this problem with Bhattacharyya, Gandhi on the contrary rarely offered Indian solutions to Western problems. My critique here founders on the issue of an intellectual power asymmetry.10 This asymmetry gives rise to the vulnerability of reverse colonialism, where one loses the moral ground for rejecting colonialism. Once the moral ground is lost, it lapses into crude bargain, or worse, opportunism. Having levelled this charge against Bhattacharyya, let me in this context identify four broad developments that took place during the preceding period. With the advent of the British, a dominant tendency was spreading across the subcontinent that the modern way of life is the only way of life for everyone. So, everyone has to embrace it. The move towards this had begun, though with varying success. Bengal presidency responded to it differently than the Madras presidency. For instance, the Bengal presidency allowed modern life to enter into their private lives and the modernisation process to enter their kitchens. But the Madras presidency, while receiving modernisation in the public sphere, faced attempts to not allow it within private or cultural life. (For some other aspects of this difference, see Peter L. Schmitthenner 2001.) There was another development based on the works of Indologists and other historians, who highlighted in The Wonder That Was India that this life, though in the past, was worth living. Max Mueller’s Sacred Books of the East and A. L. Basham’s The Wonder That Was India contributed to this view. Subsequently, Swami Vivekananda and Sri Aurobindo’s influence made some foreigners convert to the Indian way of life. There was a subtle but significant aspect in this third development that Gandhi tried to arrest, namely, he did not encourage people from other faiths to convert to Hinduism. This is evident in his refusal to give permission to C. F. Andrews, who sought it from Gandhi, to leave Christianity. Gandhi, perhaps, felt that this would help circumvent the possibility of cultural asymmetry committed by others, including Vivekananda, Aurobindo and Bhattacharyya. So, there are these interesting developments that were taking place within India in negotiating the indomitable other, that is, modernity through colonialism, which threatened to spread like wildfire. Even if they

Slavery of the spirit and svaraj in Krishna Chandra  29 had not succeeded in stopping this, they did provide resistance. And recalling the history of this resistance is important indeed. In addition to circumventing this reverse colonialism or cultural asymmetry, thereby gaining a moral point, Gandhi did point out that modernity, which threatened life in the subcontinent, had also consumed premodern life, particularly the religious, and Christian life within the West, the place of its origin. I will discuss these in a later chapter. The other point I want to make in this context is the need to snap the connection often made between the predicament of philosophy in India today and colonialism. I want to ask if the asymmetry, in addition to colonialism, is responsible for philosophy in India not being taken seriously. I want to argue for the possibility of a contingent relationship between political oppression and philosophical creativity. Here, I am not undermining the impact of colonialism on philosophy in India. In this context, we may have to ask whether self that is given to slavery is capable of upholding and sustaining svaraj. That slavery is not thrust from the outside but emerges voluntarily from within is the position held by Bankim, Vivekananda, Aurobindo and Gandhi, though each gives a different reason for this (see Partha Chatterjee 1986). However, here I am not referring to the reasons for British to enter into India, whether it is cultural or political like Chatterjee does, instead I am focussing on factors that would enable the self that is in slavery to attain svaraj. In other words, is the self that is vulnerable to slavery qualified to take the responsibility of svaraj? (Interestingly, Jitendranath Mohanty does not refer to Bhattacharyya’s work in his paper on neo-Kantians in the memorial volume on Bhattacharyya [Mohanty 1958]. This is particularly intriguing as Bhattacharyya has a clear, or perhaps a clearer, critique of the Kantian self.) If this is not possible immediately, there is a need to provide additional input to equip the self to accomplish svaraj. Here, I am not ruling out the possibility of a slave achieving svaraj. It is possible that the slave may not remain a slave. Like in the allegory of the cave in Plato, slaves can see the light. In fact, the state of slavery that Bhattacharyya discusses is closer to Rousseau’s idea of slavery than Plato’s cave allegory. In Plato’s allegory, those in the cave have been there since birth and have not seen the light. In contrast, in Rousseau, men were born free and then were made slaves, who should be freed now. Similarly for Bhattacharyya, Indians were in the state of svaraj before the British arrived, after which they were put in the state of subjugation and now needed to be released from this state to achieve svaraj. To return to the main argument, can the selves that are in slavery be blamed if they do not aspire to svaraj? Slaves may achieve svaraj, but if they have not yet done so, can we expect them to attain svaraj given their

30  Self and other state of affairs? If yes, then that is an adventure, if not a miracle, which should be welcomed and celebrated. But to expect slaves to achieve svaraj is problematic with regard to the connectivity between what is and what ought to be. There is an unbridgeable chasm between the factual domain of slavery and the normative domain of svaraj. I am open to the possibility of taking this discussion out of the matrix of asymmetry and processing it through asatkarya vada relation between slavery and svaraj. That requires more work. This is not undertaken by Bhattacharyya and has not been recognised by later scholarship. I have explored the status of svaraj as a philosophical concept, closely scrutinised the extent of this norm and pointed out some vulnerabilities by bringing into the discussion Bhattacharyya’s other text, where he recommends an Indian solution to a Western problem. The problem with this text is that in highlighting the slavery of the spirit of the colonised self, it covers only those instances where the self has become a slave. As is evident, it does not find any substantial evidence where the colonised self has contributed to Western scholarship. This leaves Bhattacharyya’s project stuck with the responsibility of elucidating the nature of the enslaved self and the lack of any positive contribution. Thus, in his analysis, border and the other play no positive role, and are therefore left unexplored. This becomes a problem with Bhattacharyya, as he tends to totalise slavery, conceding no capacities to the slave. This makes his normative stand of svaraj disconnected from the factual domain of slavery of the spirit. I wish to overcome this dead end by reopening this relation and introducing some modifications. This is undertaken in the next two chapters by looking at instances where the other from the outside is an enabler of the self that is in slavery. This also requires moving away from Bhattacharyya’s domain of restricted ‘academic circles’, as rightly identified by Rao (1984: 533), and also away from locating svaraj within these academic circles. This brings us to exploring the contributions of those like Swami Vivekananda and Mahatma Gandhi in their relation with the other. While moving away from the academic circles, I follow two points. One, the dual role played by philosophy in history, namely, analysing an existing system of philosophy; and two, building a new system on novel ideas. This, when undertaken, can subsequently contribute to philosophical activity. The problem with Bhattacharyya’s concept of svaraj is that it is not offered as a clear and total concept per se. (Here, I am aware of the fact that this need not be the case in all philosophising.) The qualifications admitted and exceptions allowed largely compromise the intrinsic value of this concept. In this process, it becomes a tool for description and loses its foundational status crucial to philosophical discussion. The concept acquires more realism and becomes unsuitable for performing philosophical tasks.

Slavery of the spirit and svaraj in Krishna Chandra  31 While agreeing with Mullick that this is a norm, I would like to point out that Bhattacharyya has dented the concept. Rather than the normative aspect, it is this dwarfed nature of the concept that is problematic to me.

Notes 1 In The Visva-Bharati Quarterly, where the talk was first published, the title was ‘Swaraj in Ideas’; however, when it is reprinted in the Indian Philosophical Quarterly special issue, 1984, the spelling was ‘Svaraj in Ideas’. Since most of the subsequent discussions on this paper refer to the title in Indian Philosophical Quarterly, to avoid confusion I will use Svaraj rather than Swaraj. 2 For comparison and contrast between Gandhi and Bhattacharyya, see Raghuramaraju (2006). 3 Without attending to these fundamental gaps in Rousseau, Rawls makes a superficial attempt to update the state of nature by the concept of veil of ignorance. Political philosophy of some part of the previous century inhabited this idea. 4 A similar demand is made by Binoy Kumar Sarkar, who also says, ‘It is time for India to commence studying Euro-American as well as Asian and African developments through her own eyes and interpreting them from her own angle of vision. One cannot depend exclusively on Western interpretations even when many of the facts and phenomena happen to be Western’ (Sarkar 1928). 5 The other way of looking at this is to claim that this was a state of freedom that is lost, but a state of non-freedom that continued. 6 Ramchandra Gandhi in his essay on ‘The Svaraj of India’ rejects three ideas associated with the idea of svaraj. They are: nativism; the desire to return to an ‘almost pathological womb-returning life-style’; and the failure of cosmopolitanism, internationalism and cultural freedom. Instead, he claims that svaraj needs to be ‘a deep-going Indian inquiry’ to rediscover and celebrate ‘the distinctive advaitic politics and metaphysics of Indian civilization’ (1984: 463). 7 Bhattacharyya rejects the idea of synthesis between ideas from different cultures. He clearly states this in his essay, ‘The Concept of Philosophy’. For more on this, see the chapter ‘Sri Aurobindo and Krishnachandra Bhattacharyya: Relation between Science and Spiritualism’ in Raghuramaraju (2006) for the contrast in Bhattacharyya with those like Swami Vivekananda and Sri Aurobindo and comparison with Mahatma Gandhi. 8 For a more detailed discussion on this, see Raghuramaraju (2006, 2013), where I discuss this issue in a slightly different context. Also, see Garfield (forthcoming) for Bhattacharyya’s critique of Kant and Bhushan and Garfield (forthcoming) on self in Subject as Freedom, another work by Bhattacharyya. 9 It is possible that Kant has not made the mistake pointed out by Bhattacharyya. 10 I am thankful to Jay Garfield for this very apt observation on my position, while commenting on the earlier draft of the chapter and also for sharing two of his, one of which is with Nalini Bhushan, a forthcoming paper on Bhattacharyya.

2 Other in the relation between Swami Vivekananda and Ramakrishna Paramahamsa*

I accept Bhattacharyya’s distinction between slavery in the political sphere from the slavery in the realm of ideas. In contrast to Bhattacharyya’s depiction of the subjugated self and slavery of the spirit, in this chapter I explore significant attempts that were made outside the academic circle and in the political sphere to deal with the outsider in an ingenious manner. I discuss individuals who contributed immensely, such as Vivekananda, who is discussed in this chapter, and Gandhi, in the next. I focus on how the colonised self negotiated with the other. As a background to this, I will examine the relation between the disciple and the teacher; self and colonialism; and the self outside the colonial power nexus. Before I discuss the relation between self and the other in the life of Vivekananda, let me make a detailed, concerted attempt to systematically classify claims in the existing scholarship on Vivekananda. This will provide a platform to better understand Vivekananda’s engagement with the other. Nineteenth-century India is unique, as it was a site of interaction between two civilisations or cultures that engaged with each other in a substantial manner. The distinctive nature of this interaction has been variously interpreted. According to Sri Aurobindo, ‘[t]he Indian brain is still in potentiality what it was; but it is being damaged, stunted and defeated. The greatness of its innate possibilities is hidden by the greatness of its surface deterioration’ (italics mine, 1972: vol. 3: 339). Taking the contrary view, commentators like Daya Krishna, while warning us against the eventuality of Indian philosophy remaining merely a subject of antiquarian interest and research, characterise the present picture of Indian philosophy as already ‘dead and mummified’ (1996: 15). Between these two positions, the latter is closer to Bhattacharyya’s. Aurobindo seems to be rejecting both Bhattacharyya and Krishna with regard to the impact of colonialism on Indian consciousness. Between these two extremes (of an assumption of still-living greatness beneath surface degeneration and of a lifeless corpse whose value is

Other in the relation between Swami Vivekananda 33 confined to its historical interest) lie several other interpretations. These include that of the modernists who assume that one of the two agents of this meeting is erased, and so they speak about India in the past tense. Others claim continuity and homogeneity between the past and the present. Kalidas Bhattacharyya writes of the ‘Indian mind – at least the mind of the mainstream that was Hindu – being . . . captured’ by the West (1982: 172). According to Michael Dummet, an Oxford philosopher, Indian philosophy is ‘blanketed’ by colonialism (1996: 14–15). In the social sciences, we find the derivativity thesis (see Partha Chatterjee 1986) and critical discussions on revivalism in Bengal by Tapan Raychaudhuri (1988) and Amiya P. Sen (1993). Two aspects of this tradition of scholarship on 19th-century India stand out. One is the manner in which India has been read or analysed, and the other is the reading of the West by Indian philosophers. While broadly accepting the modern Indian scholars’ reading of classical Indian philosophy, my object is to point out problems related to their reading of Western philosophy. It is necessary to have knowledge of both India and the West to understand the heteromorphous and complex terrain that is the 19th century. A distinguishing feature of 19th-century Indian philosophy is the prevalence of ‘writers’ rather than ‘authors’ in the modern sense of the term (see Raghuramaraju 2006). The complexity associated with the writers I am referring to is explained by Arundhati Roy in her introduction to B. R. Ambedkar’s Annihilation of Caste: The Annotated Critical Edition. She puts it succinctly, when referring to ambivalences in Gandhi: Gandhi’s life and his writing – 48,000 pages bound into ninety-eight volumes of collected works – have been disaggregated and carried off, event by event, sentence by sentence, until no coherent narrative remains, if indeed there ever was one. (2013: 40) Notwithstanding this arduous work, Roy declares: The trouble is that Gandhi actually said everything and its opposite. To cherry pickers, he offers such a bewildering variety of cherries that you have to wonder if there was something the matter with the tree. (2013: 40) Illustrating this trouble, she highlights the opposite views in Gandhi between his ‘well-known description of an Arcadian paradise in “The Pyramid vs. the Ocean Circle”, written in 1946’ and ‘his endorsement of caste system in 1921 in Navajivan’. In this context, she asks, ‘Is this not the very

34  Self and other antithesis of “ever-widening and never ascending circles” ’ (2013: 40–41). While conceding that there is a difference of 25 years between these two opposite stands on the same theme, she wonders how ‘do we reconcile the idea of the non-violent Gandhi, the Gandhi who spoke Truth to Power, Gandhi the Nemesis of Injustice, the Gentle Gandhi. . . . ’ She concludes by saying: What do we do with this structure of moral righteousness that rests so comfortably on the foundation of utterly brutal, institutionalised injustice? Is it enough to say Gandhi was complicated, and let it go at that? There is no doubt that Gandhi was an extraordinary and fascinating man, but during India’s struggle for freedom, did he really speak Truth to Power? Did he really ally himself with the poorest of the poor, the most vulnerable of his people? (2013: 43) While Roy is right in her identification of the problem, I will use this to characterise thinkers like Gandhi as writers and not as authors. The ‘writers’ often produced loose and at times contradictory pieces that do not meet the requirements of a coherent and cohesive text. Authors, on the other hand, produce a systematic body of organised knowledge. It is important to keep this distinction in mind and take what these thinkers wrote as pieces, rather than authored texts, to make sense of their views. Further, it is this looseness that does not allow us to come up with clear conclusions of their writings. It is here that I disagree with those like Roy who, while recognising the problem with the tree, nevertheless equate the tree with one kind of cherry, leaving out the other cherries that are different. I shall return to this at the end of this chapter. Having set the background, let me get down to the theme of this chapter. The Teacher and the Disciple – Universal Self, Equality, and Hierarchy: There have been several important attempts to problematise the relationship between Ramakrishna Paramahamsa and Swami Vivekananda. Some of the most prominent of these include Ashis Nandy (1973), Sumit Sarkar (1997, previously published in 1992), Jyotirmaya Sharma (2011, first published in 2003), Narasingha Sil (1993) and Carl Olson (1998). In the history of ancient and modern philosophy, there are numerous and recurrent instances of continuity posited between teachers and the taught. Most of these, quite rightly, fall outside the pages of history. However, there are also instances where such continuity between master and disciple is claimed and contested by different groups of commentators. A notable instance concerns the relationship between Socrates on the one hand and Plato and Xenophon on the other. The relationship between Plato and Aristotle is

Other in the relation between Swami Vivekananda 35 also the subject of a long disquisition by Gilbert Ryle, where he contends that the pupil extends his teacher’s later philosophy rather than contesting it (1966). Similar claims and contestations are made in the case of the Buddha and Buddhism as well as Samkara and his followers. Also relevant to interrogating the relationship between Vivekananda and his teacher are the many efforts made by Indian scholars to analyse the complex relations between Gandhi and Nehru. These include Partha Chatterjee’s Nationalist Thought and the Colonial World: A Derivative Discourse? (1986) and Gopalkrishna Gandhi’s edited volume Gandhi is Gone: Who Will Guide Us Now? (2007). The latter is particularly interesting for its first person account and use of rich original material. It often offers factual evidence in place of interpolated analysis. Further, it corroborates Partha Chatterjee’s argument regarding Nehru’s manoeuvres when dealing with Gandhi by showing how Nehru skilfully handled not only Gandhi, but also his followers, who were assembled at Vardha from 11 to 15 March 1948. This shows us the complex relation between Gandhi and his chosen successor, Nehru. In this chapter, I focus on a point of singular importance in the scholarly discussion of the relationship between Ramakrishna and Vivekananda. Tracing the origin of Vivekananda’s idea of common universal faith, Sharma asserts that this idea is drawn from Sri Ramakrishna. This assertion refers to a lecture by Vivekananda delivered in New York, and subsequently published as ‘My Master’. Here, Vivekananda states that Ramakrishna derived from his desire ‘to know the truth about the various religions’ the knowledge that ‘the goal of every religion is the same, that each is trying to teach the same thing, the difference being largely in method, and still more in language. At the core, all sects and all religions have the same aim, and they were only quarrelling for their own selfish purposes; they were not anxious about the truth, about “my name” and “your name” ’ (Sharma 2011: 93). However, Sharma claims that Vivekananda, unlike his guru Ramakrishna, did not experience the ‘oneness of faiths’. He is ‘confined to the intellectual plane’ and ‘lacked the intensity of living another man’s faith with one’s “whole heart” ’ (2011: 93–4) This difference or ‘disparity in method to arrive at the same conclusion’, says Sharma, ‘made all the difference’. Comparing this difference between the teacher and his disciple, Sharma says, and I quote: Like Jesus, Sri Ramakrishna was after all the pure sort, unencumbered by history or context, but immensely rich in experience. Vivekananda was like Paul, the thundering sort, who had to spread the light quickly and effectively. He understood well that religion was not an intellectual activity but an act of realization. But he was often impatient.

36  Self and other Hinduism as a tolerant and all-embracing faith remained for him an aspiration, never an experience. (2011: 93–4) Sharma finds this difference between teacher and disciple problematic. He questions the assertion of continuity between the two, and more importantly it does not fit in well with Vivekananda’s claims apropos Hinduism. Vivekananda, writes Sharma: At the outset . . . categorically asserted the pre-eminence of Hinduism by calling it ‘the mother of religions’. This claim of superiority rested on the fact that Hinduism was that religion which had taught, and continued to teach, the world both tolerance and universal acceptance. Not only did Hinduism believe in tolerance but it also accepted all religions as true. It has never persecuted, either with sword or pen, and, in fact had given shelter to persecuted sects. Its message was the surest antidote to sectarianism, bigotry and fanaticism. In one deft stroke, Vivekananda defined Hinduism’s equation with all other faiths: They were mere children in relation to the ‘mother of religions’, and also were participants in an eternal seminar, where the ‘tutor’ was Hinduism and the ‘tutees’ were all other faiths. (2011: 79) This, for Sharma, directly contradicts the universalism of Ramakrishna, who declared that all religions are equal. Ramakrishna’s disciple, on the other hand, attempted to build a hierarchy, in which Hinduism either is placed at the top or contains all other religions within it in an inclusive and yet simultaneously preeminent manner. Thus, the tension between the supposition of equality and the imposition of a hierarchy contends against the claims of continuity between teacher and disciple. This deviation from – or even refutation of the discipline imparted by the master, or what might be called the indiscipline of the disciple – is problematic. However, it is interesting to note here that the superiority of Hinduism is not asserted through the rejection or defeat of the other – which would involve violence – but by co-option through subsuming other religions within it, as minor or even major parts, making violence apparently redundant, or couching it in co-option. In this context, let us bring Sumit Sarkar’s understanding of the relation between Ramakrishna and Vivekananda. Sarkar contended that ‘it is not a perhaps unapproachable “original” Ramakrishna-by-himself, but Ramakrishna as constituted in the gaze of the late-nineteenth century bhadralok, who is of central importance in any exploration of the

Other in the relation between Swami Vivekananda 37 Ramakrishna-Vivekananda tradition’ (1997: 286). Ramakrishna, declared Sarkar, ‘then, was an appropriated and partially bhadralok-constructed, “other” with whom an urban plagued with a sense of alienation from roots could relate without undue discomfort’ (1997: 287). In addition to the correspondence or its lack between Ramakrishna and Vivekananda, as discussed by Sharma, Sarkar suggested a further dimension of difference, namely, the construction of Ramakrishna by the bhadraloks, which preceded Vivekananda’s reconstruction. Whether such a construction was in place of the ‘original’, ‘Ramakrishna-by-himself’ or in addition to him, is left ambiguous by Sarkar. This representation by Sarkar is not quite in agreement with Sharma’s portrayal of Ramakrishna as a ‘pure sort’. However, both Sarkar and Sharma agree on certain essential differences between the teacher and the disciple. Sarkar has insisted that Vivekananda ‘inverted’ much of his master’s teachings. For instance, Sarkar writes that Vivekananda made Ramakrishna’s ‘catholicity’ into ‘an argument for the essential superiority of an aggressive and muscular Hinduism’ (1997: 291). Further, Sarkar states that Vivekananda opened up dimensions virtually unknown to his master. For example, he introduced several significant, though alien, elements that contrast with and are in opposition to the nature of Ramakrishna’s teaching. This contradiction between Ramakrishna and Vivekananda for Sarkar is made clearly evident in the differences between Dakshineshwar and Belur Math: [The] Dakshineshwar temple, where Ramakrishna had lived for thirty years, and Belur Math, founded by his most illustrious disciple, face each other today on opposite banks of the Bhagirathi, presenting in many ways a vivid study in contrasts even oppositions. The temple, like any major Hindu sacred site, is thronged with crowds which cut across class divides, noisy, colourful, not oversensitive to dirt. (1997: 342) In contrast, ‘Belur Math is much more of an upper-middle-class devotionalcum-tourist spot: almost aggressively hygienic, it is full of guards and notices warning visitors off from bathing in the river or spoiling the lawns’ (1997: 342). By emphasising these inversions, contrasts, oppositions and new openings lying between Ramakrishna and Vivekananda, Sarkar seeks to move the latter away from the former. In pursuing this separation, Sarkar brings Vivekananda nearer to the right-wing ideology of Hindutva that is based on a unified, muscular and aggressive Hinduism.1 In this, Sarkar’s representation is unlike Sil’s (1993), who whilst holding Vivekananda responsible for distorting and fabricating Ramakrishna, nonetheless acknowledges

38  Self and other a broader range of positive aspects to Vivekananda and more gaps, or even limitations, in Ramakrishna than does Sarkar. In Sarkar’s as in Sharma’s assessment, there are, in general, many more beneficial characteristics associated with the master than the disciple. This contrasting and contradictory valuation of Vivekananda and Ramakrishna may be read in the context of elucidating the choices made by secular India, in choosing Rammohan Roy and Gandhi as ideological progenitors over Tilak and Vivekananda. Ashis Nandy, in an argument that precedes both Sarkar’s and Sharma’s, makes crucial distinctions about individuals, philosophical systems and social institutions. Nandy’s thesis is that while Rammohan Roy ‘criticised Hinduism on rationalist grounds’, he was ‘too confident of the resilience and supremacy of Vedanta and of his understanding of both Christianity and Islam to pull [his] punches’ (1973: 73). The reason for this, Nandy explains, was that the ‘West was psychologically “external” to him [Rammohan] and this gave him a certain autonomy and protected him from feeling called upon to continuously prove the greatness of India and Hinduism’ (1973: 73). In contrast, Nandy maintains: [b]y the time Vivekananda entered the scene, the West had made deeper inroads into the minds of Indians. To him, therefore, the real threat was the West within, particularly the attractiveness of Christianity and Brahmoism to the young babus, rather than the colonial system. Vivekananda in this sense was dealing with more divided men and was perhaps himself a more divided man. (1973: 73) Here, Nandy makes a further important point – that Vivekananda and those who thought like him: . . . introduced the concept of hierarchy into Hindu metaphysics and the concept of equity into Hindu institutions. As a technique of change, this had its handicaps in a system which thrived on ideological flexibility and institutional rigidity. Besides, in this formulation, the very tolerance of Hinduism became proof of its metaphysical superiority. As a corollary, the non-Hindu’s fear of being engulfed or of being fitted into the Hindu hierarchy became an indicator of his metaphysical poverty. (1973: 74) Thus, according to Nandy, in the ultimate analysis: . . . a civilization is wrong less frequently than a social scientist. In choosing its Rammohuns, Gandhis and Nehrus rather than its

Other in the relation between Swami Vivekananda 39 Vivekanandas and Tilaks as symbols of secular politics, Indian society may have ignored the subtleties of these complex persons, but it has also shown its historical wisdom and sense of survival. (1973: 75) Nandy’s argument, in addition to shedding new light on the relationships between Vivekananda and his predecessors, can also open up for us an immensely germane discussion on the sustained interrelationships in India, between a philosophical terrain that is open and flexible and a social system that is rigid.2 In this context, one needs to explore how a society like India that is alleged to have no ethics in its philosophical systems still managed to formulate, maintain and sustain rigidity, thereby making the correlation between order and ethics contingent. In relation to Nandy’s argument on the presence of equality in Indian metaphysics alongside hierarchy in the social structure of the Indian society, the ambiguity in Vivekananda’s contribution to the failure or success of either may be resolved by inverting, to use Sarkar’s phrase, the assumptions of equality and hierarchy. In Nandy’s focussed identification of the problematic disjuncture between philosophy and social structure, hierarchy is claimed at the metaphysical level while equality is introduced at the social level. Nandy’s clarification disaggregates the metaphysical from the social and claims that Vivekananda’s contribution lies in introducing hierarchy, where there is equality at the metaphysical level and equality where there is hierarchy at the social level. Nandy’s demarcation, which is prior to Sarkar’s and Sharma’s arguments, complicates the alleged assertion of the superiority of Hinduism by Vivekananda, which is held to be in contrast to his teacher’s insistence upon the equality of all religious experience. In Nandy’s portrayal, Vivekananda emerges as a more complex and contradictory figure. We return to the question of Vivekananda’s complexity below. Long before Nandy, the Indian philosopher S. Radhakrishnan had made a similar argument while explaining the reasons for the decline of Buddhism in India. While explaining Hinduism’s hostility towards Buddhism, Radhakrishnan – in a manner reminiscent of Foucault’s criticism of Kant (Foucault argued that Kant limited dissent to the level of ideas while endorsing the status quo at the level of practice) – contends that Hinduism restricted freedom to the realm of thought without extending it to the realm of practice. To quote Radhakrishnan: The Hindu quarrels not so much with the metaphysical conceptions of Buddha as with his practical programme. Freedom of thought and rigidity in practice, have marked the Hindu from the beginning of his history. The Hindu will accept as orthodox the Sa¯m·khya and the Pu¯ rva

40  Self and other Mima¯m · sa¯ systems of thought, regardless of their indifference to theism, but will reject Buddhism in spite of its strong ethical and spiritual note, for the simple reason that the former do not interfere with the social life and organisation, while the latter insists on bringing its doctrine near to the life of the people. (2008: 596) To underscore his point, he adds: While the Upanis·ads tolerated, even if they did not encourage the caste rules, Buddha’s scheme definitely undermined the institution of caste. (2008: 597) This is not only an important but also an interesting argument, as it discloses the substantial threat that the Buddha poses to Brahmanism. While the other schools of Indian philosophy offered differences in the realm of ideas, Buddhism threatened to intervene in social life and its organisation. In this context, it sought to diminish the distance between theory and practice. According to Radhakrishnan, it was this move by the Buddha that threatened to change the organisation of social life and incurred the wrath of the Hindus. Buddhism’s threatening move into the social realm can help illuminate the issue at hand. Both Radhakrishnan and Nandy refer to deep structural changes within Indian philosophy and society. In this light, we may examine certain similarities between the Buddha and Vivekananda. To recollect our analysis above, Indian philosophical systems allow freedom of thought and tolerate those systems that do not agree with them. At the same time, they practise rigidity in their social systems and do not allow them to be undermined. According to Radhakrishnan, while Hindus had no problems in accepting Buddhism as a philosophical system, they rejected it and refused to tolerate it when it interfered with and threatened their rigid social system. In Radhakrishnan’s view, there emerges a similarity between the Buddha and Vivekananda, with regard to their attitude towards breaking open the rigidity of the prevailing social system and introducing equality in the place of hierarchy. To contextualise this further, I will introduce another element and direct attention towards the relation between the native self and colonialism as an other. The central critique of Vivekananda by Sharma, Sarkar and Nandy, though not in chronological order, and in fact in reverse chronology, runs as follows: Vivekananda postulates a metaphysical hierarchy wherein Hinduism, particularly, Advaita (though Vivekananda is critical of S´amkara), is placed

Other in the relation between Swami Vivekananda 41 at the top. This has estranged him from his teacher’s construal of the equality of all religions. Here, it is relevant to note that Hegel postulated a hierarchy amongst the various religions in their march through history, in which Christianity is placed at the top. Like Hegel, Vivekananda too seems to have claimed higher status, though in his case it is for Hinduism. Hence, rather than the postulation of hierarchy, the root of the problem that governs the relationship between the teacher and the disciple is in fact the construction of the other. To clarify this further, we may refer to Paul Hacker in the context of the present discussion. In ‘Schopenhauer and Hindu Ethics’, Hacker proclaims: We can even state it as a rule that up till now the essential impulses and influential elements of Neo-Hindu thought have always come from the West or from Christianity, in such a way that an idea coming from those sources appears so powerful in a particular situation that its adoption is inevitable; that these impulses and elements are then hastily attached to inherited ideas or identified with them at the price of logical incongruity and even a kind of dissimulation; and that on the other hand – in typical NeoHinduism, as opposed to surviving traditional Hinduism – ideas inherited from the Hindu tradition hardly ever become significant or effective as such. (1995: 307–8) To support his claim, Hacker writes that non-violence ‘was first discovered by Gandhi in Tolstoy’s writings’ and he ‘later attached it to traditional Indian ideas of ahimsa¯ ’ (1995: 308). He also insists that the ‘Neo-Hindu dogma of the equality of all religions, however much it can be supported by certain Hindu traditions, emerged originally at the beginning of the nineteenth century, probably from the ideology of the European Enlightenment’ (1995: 308). In a similar vein, he continues, the ‘Neo-Hindu concept of dharma was clearly prompted by the philosophy of August Comte and John Stuart Mill, but was then expressed in completely Indian terms’ (1995: 308). Finally, he declares that in ‘Bankim’s ethic of love, and in Vivekananda’s amalgamation of the Western and Indian forms of ethical relativism, there is an attempt to fuse inherited Hindu ideas with concepts taken from Christianity or from Western philosophy, which provide the impulse for this attempt, and to fuse them in such a way that the result appears to be genuinely Hindu’ (1995: 308). Hacker traces the roots of Christianity or Western philosophy and the extent of its impact in a thesis, which invokes the entirety of the modern attempt to establish the superiority of Christianity and Western philosophy. This claim cannot be countered in isolation, or merely by showing the

42  Self and other ingenuity of modern Indian thinkers, as A. L. Basham (2006) attempted with Gandhi and W. Halbfass (1995) with Vivekananda. Here, I shall first claim that if Vivekananda’s Neo-Hinduism or his tat tvamasi ethics are Western or even Christian, as is claimed by Hacker, then by the same argument Schopenhauer and Deussen are Indian. This claim is different from that of Halbfass who, while rejecting Hacker, reveals the indigenous sources of Vivekananda’s philosophical oeuvre (Hacker 1995: 218–19). Unlike Halbfass, I am willing to concede to Hacker that Vivekananda is Western or even Christian, but by the same argument I claim Schopenhauer to be Indian. Along with Schopenhauer comes Vivekananda, though in the second round. We can decide about Deussen in the second round. Having made this larger claim, let me analyse Hacker’s argument. Schopenhauer used the tat tvamasi (that art thou) of the Cha¯ ndogya Upanis·ad to support his thesis that one’s ‘real inner being exists in every living being’ (Hacker 1995: 273). In response, Deussen, Schopenhauer’s student, quoted the Bible, ‘ “Thou shouldst love thy neighbor as thyself”. But how am I expected to do this, since my feelings are located in me and not in someone else?’ ‘Because’, as the Vedas state, ‘in truth your neighbor is your own self, and what separates you from him is mere illusion’ (Hacker 1995: 279). According to Hacker, Vivekananda borrowed this idea from Schopenhauer through Deussen, more specifically, from Deussen’s lecture given in Bombay (1995: 292–3). As already pointed out, in this context, Hacker insists that Vivekananda in particular, and all of 19th-century Indian scholarship in general, borrowed their ideas from Christianity and Western philosophy. While conceding that they did borrow from these sources, let us revisit the last paragraph of Hacker’s essay to understand his argument: It is to be hoped that Indian thought will soon outlive the memory of the colonial period and the deep wound which it left in the Indian mind, and regain a greater tranquillity and composure, so that it can attempt to sift through the various forces and impulses that are clashing together in the world of Indian thought today in a more dispassionate and clear-sighted spirit, and find a new orientation. (1995: 308–9) It is vital to note Hacker’s attempt to dissociate Christianity and Western philosophy from colonialism. Hacker does not bring the question of colonialism into the core of his discussion, but attaches it as a coda, shorn of threat, to the end of his analysis. This is even more remarkable, since many of the Western philosophers and thinkers he refers to, such as J. S. Mill, were

Other in the relation between Swami Vivekananda 43 active contributors to the East India Company, a key player in the colonisation of India. While accepting the gravity of the need to decolonise ourselves, it is also necessary to perceive the role colonialism played in shaping modern Indian thought, by forcing modern Indian philosophers to deal with it. Colonialism, as Hacker correctly points out, is a philosophical project rather than a political one. It offers a philosophical justification as to why it should preserve its hegemony. This is brilliantly explicated by Said in his now classic work Orientalism (1979). If the East is otherworldly, we (i.e., the West) will take care their world. The supremacy of the West is instituted in direct association with this division of specialisations (such as active versus passive, antique versus modern, otherworldly versus pertaining to practical and present needs) between civilisations or cultures. It is vital to consider that modern Indian philosophers like Bankim, Vivekananda and others at a later time, may have been responding to exactly this kind of philosophical claim by countering it. Both Hacker and Dermot Killingley (1990, 1999), who claim that Vivekananda was influenced by the West, avoid referring to the historical context of this influence – namely, colonialism – that surrounds him and others like Bankim. The justification for colonialism is theoretical and philosophical; hence, the rejection of it also has to be philosophical. It was this philosophical task that was undertaken by 19thcentury Indian thinkers. I have argued that there is a misunderstanding of the West in India. For instance, Indians analysing the 19th and the early 20th centuries fail to recognise that the Western insistence on its superiority in India paradoxically coincided with confessions and assertions about its decline in the West, such as that by Oswald Spengler. Indians may have failed to factor in the phenomenon of the decline of the West, yet they did not receive this superiority of the West, projected by colonialism, passively and directly, as feared by Bhattacharyya in his essay, discussed in the previous chapter. Instead, they seem to have received it in a more complex and often convoluted manner. This complexity will elude one, if like Bhattacharyya, one focusses more on the enslaved nature of the native self. There is an imperative need to move away from wailing about the slavery of the spirit and proceed towards identifying the active and positive side of the native self, and factor its activity at the border in negotiating the other. Modern Indian thinkers claiming the superiority of Hinduism at the time of their subjugation is a paradox that enormously complicates our understanding of this assertion. To make sense of it, let us turn to a similar predicament in the West. While responding to Spengler’s confession of the decline of the West, Western political philosophers like Leo Strauss make claims about the superiority of the West, in a manner similar to Indian

44  Self and other thinkers like Vivekananda. Here, it is necessary to recognise that this superiority is claimed in a long-drawn-out way by Strauss. He says: Spengler understood by the West one culture among a small number of high cultures. But the West was for him more than one high culture among a number of them. It was for him the comprehensive culture. It is the only culture which has conquered the earth. Above all, it is the only culture which is open to all cultures and which does not reject the other cultures as forms of barbarism or which tolerates them condescendingly as ‘underdeveloped’; it is the only culture which has acquired full consciousness of culture as such. Whereas ‘culture’ originally and naively meant the culture of the mind, the derivative and reflective notion of ‘culture’ necessarily implies that there is a variety of equality of all high cultures. But precisely since the West is the culture in which culture reaches full self-consciousness, it is the final culture. . . . (1964: 2) Let us consider the possibility that there is similarity between thinkers like Vivekananda and Strauss. Both make claims about superiority against the immediate background of decline – of Hinduism in the case of Vivekananda and the West in the case of Strauss. Further, the claim that is made is not a straightforward one. It has premises that are ambiguous and do not fit into the argument. Nevertheless, superiority is claimed in the conclusion. So, there is a need to understand Vivekananda’s attempt along these lines.3 How did one contend with these claims of superiority that were prevalent then in the West and what are the options before the Indians? They could have said no, we are different, or we are all equal or we are superior to you. Vivekananda, instead of taking the second option, claimed a combination of the first and the third. Vivekananda’s deviation from his teacher’s catholicity or equality of all religious experiences has to be seen in the context of responding to the claims made by colonialism. So, there is a need to make a distinction along the line that Vrinda Dalmiya has taken. While conceding that Vivekananda’s ‘love is framed essentially by structures of colonialism and nationalism’, Dalmiya argues that Vivekananda’s attempt ‘was primarily a spiritual search that got inflected by identity politics and the consequent need to reclaim a positive value for indigenous spiritual systems’ (2009: 230). Dalmiya and those like her differ from scholars like Tapan Raychaudhuri, who severe any relation between Vivekananda and the West, which is the dominant culture of the day. Raychaudhuri writes that Vivekananda had nothing to do with ‘society or polity’, and that his ‘encounters with West are overshadowed by his deep conviction, based on

Other in the relation between Swami Vivekananda 45 his life-experience, that in his chosen field of endeavour he had nothing to learn from the dominant culture of the day’ (1988: 220). Dalmiya, h ­ owever, concedes an involved engagement with politics, the West and colonialism associated with Vivekananda. In light of all this, I propose that there is a need to locate Vivekananda at the border of India and the West with the following discussion. This discussion consists of how he has responded to the other in the form of colonialism and how he was benefited by the other. Vivekananda’s attempt at positing a hierarchy within the philosophical systems is fundamentally related to his engagement with the claims that colonialism makes. By providing this broader context for Vivekananda’s construction of a hierarchy, is it possible to see this as a new and additional dimension in his thought, rather than merely a deviation from his teacher’s assertion of the equality of all religious experience? This shift, of moving away from equality and including hierarchy as a further dimension, which was, as I argue, necessitated by the context of colonialism, may now be explored more closely. In other words, we may ask if it is possible to move away from the sequential temporality inhabited by Sharma and Sarkar, where the disciple moves away from his teacher to a new simultaneous temporality and a fresh position, wherein both hierarchy and equality exist together, though serving different purposes. In making this distinction, I concede that there is a greater potential for clarity while admitting the sequential order rather than the simultaneous order. There is also a danger of confusion in applying the simultaneous order of temporality, particularly when confronted by new claims from the West. Here, we may take a step beyond Nandy’s characterisation of Vivekananda as a ‘divided’ man, and claim that he is instead a ‘troubled’ man. This ‘trouble’ consists of ‘the real threat’ that Nandy has correctly registered, the threat from ‘the West within, particularly the attractiveness of Christianity and Brahmoism to the young babus, rather than the colonial system’ (1973: 73).4 However, unlike Nandy who does not distinguish between the ‘young babus’ described above, and Vivekananda, claiming both to be ‘divided men’, I would distinguish between the two and reformulate Nandy’s principle to claim that Vivekananda was ‘dealing with more divided men’, that is, the ‘babus’. In this context, it might be useful to consider him a troubled man, perhaps a more troubled man who is dealing with the divided men of his times. Using the term ‘troubled’ seems to offer a better way to understand him, particularly the inconsistencies, confusions and ambiguities he displays. This is only a suggestion, a possibility rather than a final conclusion. Perhaps the doctrine of hierarchy was formulated as a response to colonialism, with the purpose of bringing about a dialogue in place of a monologue. First,

46  Self and other it denied the colonial masters’ assertion of our inferiority, or at least denied that we are inferior in all respects. Instead, it offered to concede their superiority in materialistic terms or in the realm of matter, while admitting our inferiority in this realm. In addition, it also claimed that we are superior in spiritualistic terms or in the realm of spirit. This gambit forced the need to enter into a barter system, and therefore elicited the conditions for dialogue in place of a hegemonically imposed monologue. Therefore, the hierarchy that Vivekananda and his predecessors and successors posit has to be seen in the light of these subtexts rather than be read as a text in isolation. Let us read the following passage of Vivekananda with this in mind: My way is good for me, but not for you. My way is called in Sanskrit, my ‘Ishta’. Mind you, we have no quarrel with any religion in the world. We have each our Ishta. But when we see men coming and saying: ‘This is the only way’, and trying to force it on us in India, we have a word to say; we laugh at them. For such people who want to destroy their brothers because they seem to follow a different path towards God – for them to talk of love is absurd. Their love does not count for much. How can they preach love who cannot bear another man to follow a different path from their own? If that is love what is hatred? We have no quarrel with any religion in the world, whether it teaches men to worship Christ, Buddha, or Mohammed, or any other prophet. (1994: vol. 3: 131–2) This standpoint and claim of Vivekananda is true to his teacher’s thesis of equality of all religious experiences. The trouble, however, begins in the very next sentence. He continues: ‘Welcome, my brother,’ the Hindu says, ‘I am going to help you; but you must allow me to follow my way too. This is my Ishta. Your way is very good, no doubt; but it may be dangerous for me. . . .’ (1994: vol. 3: 132) So, here, Vivekananda is making a case for difference. At the same time, he is countering a dominant hierarchy, which, with its notion of superiority, threatens this difference and takes one away from one’s path to devotion, from one’s Ishta. Thus far, Vivekananda’s claims remain unproblematic, even though his argument may not fit in well with the tenets of his guru because nothing is dangerous to Ramakrishna. The problem arises from the fact that Vivekananda assigns to Hindus the role of guardians supervising and custodians in charge of ensuring this equality. This is extraneous to the equality he has just claimed. This assignation of the role of custodians to

Other in the relation between Swami Vivekananda 47 the Hindus institutes another hierarchy, though a hierarchy less vehement than the one it replaces. This aspect of Vivekananda’s gambit is problematic. While Sharma and Sarkar see in Vivekananda a radical departure from his teacher with regard to the equality of all religious experience, Amiya Sen feels that the difference between Vivekananda and Ramakrishna is only in degree and not in kind, when he writes: There is in both Ramakrishna and Vivekananda, perhaps more so in Vivekananda, an apparent contradiction between their professed Catholicism and Universalist appeal and the guarded but not unconcealed faith in the superiority of Hinduism. (1993: 335) Sen further explains: This dichotomy appears more pronounced in the latter [i.e., Vivekananda], possibly because of his greater public exposure but it is difficult in any case to escape the observation that in his missionary work, Vivekananda tends to project simultaneously, a two-fold image of himself before his audiences. On the one hand, he professes to have raised his listeners beyond constraints of narrow sectarianism and considerations of private ego; on the other hand, he was also clearly inspired by the religious and moral superiority of ancient Hinduism. An important point to remember however in this context is that when using the term ‘Hindu’ or ‘Hinduism’, Vivekananda seems to indicate a much broader term of reference than that used by his Master. Vivekananda’s utterances, probably more so in the West than back home, often carry a distinct political slant which one suspects was not entirely unintended. It is quite futile and far-fetched to look for blatant expressions of patriotism in Vivekananda but this ipso facto does not rule out the flowering of the delicate political sentiment. (1993: 335) Unlike Sharma and Sarkar, Sen uses words like ‘contradiction’ or ‘dichotomy’, which suggest opposite views held at the same time. He also moves away from the sequential temporality used by Sarkar and Sharma to a simultaneous one, signalling this movement by using the term ‘simultaneously’. This echoes the point that I have made above. While acknowledging that Vivekananda was confronting the implacable institutions and structures of colonialism, I now bring into this discussion an earlier attempt in India – or two linked attempts – to engage with the other. These are the Buddha’s engagement with Brahmanism and Samkara’s

48  Self and other engagement with Buddhism. Like Vivekananda, who was accused of being a Westerner, Samkara was similarly accused of being a Buddha in disguise – prachannabuddha. How did Samkara engage with Buddhism or how did Buddhism engage with Brahmanism? Were they also ‘troubled’ – a ‘troubling’ that could lead to confusion – as in the case of Vivekananda? What were the differences between their contexts and the modern context of colonialism? Bringing in this other dimension shifts our discussion from the present thematic of India and the West, and the apparent dichotomy this pairing evokes between tradition and modernity, to a different pairing – of modern India and classical India. There have been no attempts in previous scholarship to explore or comparatively analyse these two pairings or combinations in conjunction with each other. This needs to be done. As a way of initiating such an exploratory analysis, let me make another beginning. One of the ideological programmes attributed to Vivekananda, and conceded by his admirers as well as his critics, was his attempt to transform the Hindu idea of the salvation of the individual, which Ramakrishna endorsed, to the idea of the salvation of the people and the nation. Vivekananda states: Do you feel for others? If you do, you are growing in oneness. If you do not feel for others, you may be the most intellectual giant ever born, but you will be nothing; you are but dry intellect, and you will remain so. (1994: vol. 2: 307) Sen, referring to Vivekananda’s move away from individual salvation, writes: Nowhere is Vivekananda’s departure from the Hindu ascetic tradition as pronounced as in his disapproval of the great emphasis placed on attaining personal mukti. The true ascetic was not necessarily one who consumed his mind and flesh in the perennial search for the illusive Brahman but one who also brought to bear upon his work, tenacity, strength of character but above all, a sense of social mission. (1993: 337) To support his argument, Sen quotes Vivekananda, who declared: The poor, the illiterate, the ignorant, the affected, – let these be your God, know that service to these alone is the highest religion. (Sen 1993: 337)

Other in the relation between Swami Vivekananda 49 Sil, who is critical of Vivekananda, nonetheless admits that Vivekananda ‘preached equality . . . espoused the cause of the poor, the downtrodden, and the women’ (1993: 47). Another source that supports this contribution by Vivekananda is a ‘recurrent’ narrative about Ramakrishna in the Katha¯ mrita, which Sarkar quotes from: Shambu Mallik wanted to talk about hospitals, dispensaries, schools, roads and tanks. . . . Giving just alms at Kalighat, not seeing Kali herself (Laughter). . . . So I told Shambhu, if you meet Iswara, will you ask him to build some hospitals and dispensaries? (Laughter). The bhakta will never say that. He will rather say, Thakur, let me stay near your lotus-feet, keep me always near you, give me pure bhakti. (Sarkar 1997: 288) With reference to the tension between Ramakrishna’s and Vivekananda’s respective attitudes in this regard, and Vivekananda’s effort to solve the problem, Sarkar writes: Vivekananda’s ‘greatest triumph lay in re-orientating the outlook of his brother disciples from ideas of personal salvation to a sympathetic comprehension of the needs of the world’ [Swami Gambhirananda, History of the Ramakrishna Math and Mission, pp. 123, 117–18]. He had to fight, in a way, against an entire Hindu tradition in which charity might at times be considered a part of the dharma of the king or the householder, but where the sanyasi’s principal ideal was individual moksha, not [the] improvement of the world. (1997: 347) This shift from individual liberation to the service of the people is not only seen as a positive contribution made by Vivekananda, but also as a deviation from the tenets of his teacher. Vivekananda often refers to the Buddha as the preceptor of this idea. The move from the individual to the collective is a substantial one, and it diverges from the precepts of both Hinduism and Ramakrishna. The philosophy preached by the Buddha and the Christian idea of service may both have contributed to it. There is another facet of Buddhism that eluded the attention of Vivekananda and others, both before and after him, and yet is of enormous significance in the modern context. A concern for other communities and giving precedence to their welfare over that of one’s own community are not moral attributes found in Hindu texts. For example, Kautilya or Manu or even the two epics are all clearly interested only in the welfare of their

50  Self and other own societies. The Advaitic idea of oneness, which may be considered to give rise to a similar moral framework, is too abstract and does not, in any case, operate at the societal level. The authors of these texts and ideas are essentially presenting strategies to combat other societies.5 However, concern for the other and for neighbouring societies are both found in the theses of the Emperor Ashoka (whose historical dates are approximately 265–238 BCE; see also Raghuramaraju 2013). Here, I return to the claim I made at the beginning – that there are important writers in modern India (e.g. Vivekananda, Aurobindo, Mohammed Iqbal, M. K. Gandhi and B. R. Ambedkar). Their importance lies not only in what they wrote, but also in the impact they had on society. Their writings are an important body of knowledge, but they are not in a systematic form. At least in some cases, there is a possibility of systematising these writings. This has been done for some, such as Akeel Bilgrami (2006) and Ramchandra Gandhi (1983) on M. K. Gandhi; J. L. Mehta on Aurobindo (2004) and Krishna Chandra Bhattacharyya (1974); and Alam Khundmiri on Iqbal (2001). An undertaking like this has precedents in the history of philosophy, for instance, Plato for the dialogues where Socrates figures prominently, Badarayana for the Upanishads, Nagarjuna for the sayings of the Buddha and St. Augustine and St. Thomas Aquinas for the sayings of Christ. This academic task is important and awaits further attention from modern Indian writers. In the absence of this, there is an ongoing process in Indian society where frequent attempts have been made to convert these writers into icons of modern India, by referencing them with titles such as ‘Swami’, ‘Yogi’, ‘Mahatma’, ‘Maharishi’, ‘Gurudev’ or ‘Baba’. However, these titles are symbolic referents from traditional discourse. It is important to acknowledge that this attempt has been productive and successful. The other immediate reason for the need to convert these writings into texts is the prevalent tendency of people in India to perceive these writers and engage with them at a purely emotional level. This can be monitored by creating broader academic pluralistic platforms, where different ways of looking at these writers are debated. Such a ‘project of conversion’ involves the recognition of various stages within the trajectory of transmutation. To meet the need to convert or ‘rewrite’ these writers into authors, it is necessary to rigorously evaluate their individual contributions. This is a complex and long-drawn-out process that needs to be pursued seriously, systematically and carefully. In this context, these different phases of modern Indian scholarship can be deciphered, though not in chronological order. The other important issue has been the underlying essentialism that marked discussions amongst Indian scholars concerning the impact of the West on India. While allowing that Indians have derived a certain amount of knowledge from the West, it is at the same time vital to reject

Other in the relation between Swami Vivekananda 51 the assumption of purity and essentialism that might underlie such an idea. The notion that the outside contaminates or even overpowers the inside must be rejected at the outset. There are two conceptions that control this formulation. One is the conception of learning and the other of learning from the outside. Learning from the other is incontestably a subset of learning. Each society should be capable of learning, and such learning can be from others. The idea of self-sufficiency is not necessarily good, and can indicate traces of puritanism and theoretical essentialism. There is a real need to recognise the internal debates and changes taking place within Indian society. As we have seen, there were debates within Indian society in classical times, and in the process of debating there were instances of mutual transformation. For instance, Samkara, while responding to Buddhist criticism, incorporated several structural aspects of it in his conceptualisation of Advaita. The strategy of presenting an argument to substantiate a point is a Buddhist contribution.6 Hence, the tendency to incorporate ideas from the other is entirely familiar and historically indigenous to Indian thought, and may be extended to include a broader set of ‘others’ in the case of the West. Once this is recognised, the arguments of scholars like Hacker are reduced in significance. Having interpreted Vivekananda’s crafting hierarchy within Hinduism as a response to the other in the form of colonialism, let me explore another instance of his dealing with the other. Having systematised the discussions on the relation between Vivekananda and his teacher Ramakrishna and located Vivekananda in relation to colonial claims, I shall now study his relation with the other that is outside the colonial axis. Vivekananda and the Other: One way of assessing Vivekananda’s legacy and his contribution is through the concept of the ‘other’, examining the way he and those subsequent to him responded to it. Classical Indian philosophical systems, despite their alleged politically incorrect views and practices, display great ingenuity and variety in dealing with the ‘other’. As alluded to in the introduction, arguments are merely instruments in debating with the ‘other’. The ‘other’ is larger than logic or arguments. So, in the order of hierarchy, it is the ‘other’, ‘other’ as different. Debate is a process that establishes the relation between one and the other, in order to negotiate the difference. Argument and logic become tools to assist in this intellectual task. For instance, the Vedas, the Upanishads and Brahmanism were the ‘other’ to Buddha. Subsequently, Buddhism became the ‘other’ to Samkara. However, the ingenuity of Vivekananda lies in dealing with a different form of ‘other’, one that is different like the ‘other’ not only from within the Indian tradition, but also from the outside. This ‘other’ is the West with its modernity, which arrived in India through colonialism. To explore this meant laying out a comparative path between the West – the

52  Self and other outside ‘other’ – and India. Here lies the fundamental contribution of those like Bankim and subsequently Vivekananda. Having acknowledged this, one could admit that it is necessary to pay a little attention to understanding the history and nature of this ‘other’, before we embark on understanding its relation on the path of comparison with India. Western modernity that arrived in India disinherited its past and began with a tabula rasa clearly formulated by John Locke. Locke was only providing vocabulary and details to Descartes, who clearly and ruthlessly dictated the need to disinherit the premodern. Modernity in the place of its origin eliminated its internal ‘other’. Subsequently, it turned towards outside societies like India to accomplish the same. Colonialism is an instance, a superficial one at that, of fulfilling this deep-seated psychological craving for modernity. Thus, for the modern, societies like India become the second instalment of a different ‘other’. In contrast, or at least in variation to the above, modern Indian thinkers undertook two important, though not often recognised, onerous tasks. They, too, took the West as their other, thus claiming parallel parity; in addition, they recalled their premodern tradition. This, in turn, posed a double threat to the projects of modernity and colonialism. The ingenuity of modern Indian thinkers like Vivekananda can be assessed around this axis. Now, one should examine some internal aspects to this discussion. As discussed earlier, there are two aspects when an ‘other’ from the outside enters: one is its arrival and the other is its reception. The reception can be one of combat, which can result in either driving it out or surrendering to it. Or, the inside can surrender without resistance. It can also be one of negotiation, in which case it lies in between surrender and rejection of the outside ‘other’. One can see this in the way a host receives a guest into their home. The guest is honoured, received inside and is treated well; in fact, better than the inmates of the house. Yet, he or she is not treated at par with the insiders. They are physically in and ceremoniously treated with special attention, yet they are not inside as there exists a mental boundary that parks them outside. Thus, the site of receiving is equally significant. Moving away from the site of entry, let us pay careful attention to the site of reception to assess the contribution of those like Vivekananda. There is a need to turn our attention away from dealing with the outsider where one is inclined more towards the outside. This calls for laying bare the political grammar of the relation between the insider and the outsider, particularly India and its outsiders. In an interesting and creative way, modern Indian thinkers like Vivekananda did not allow easy access to colonialism to eliminate the ‘other’ in India. Instead, they offered, though with varying success, creative combinations that had far-reaching, though not systematically claimed,

Other in the relation between Swami Vivekananda 53 implications. This is evident in the incident narrated by Vivekananda’s brother Bhupendranath Dutta. According to Dutta, Haramohan, who was Vivekananda’s classmate at the college of General Assembly’s Institution, Calcutta, reported the following incident: One day our European professor was cross with the students. The students could not understand the state of trance referred to by Wordsworth. He banged the table, stamped the footstool with his boots and at last went out of the class-room in disgust. At this juncture I was going out of the class-room on some errand. But I saw Rev. Hastie, the Principal coming towards the class-room. So I returned to it and then heard Hastie’s lecture. He said, ‘Mr. so-and-so says that the boys are stupid and do not understand Wordsworth and his trance. Perhaps he himself does not understand the poet. While concentrating on the beauty of Nature Wordsworth had some experience of that ecstatic state.’ Then he concluded by saying that there was a man living in Dakshineswar who often experienced a state of bliss through the kind of trance referred to by Wordsworth. ‘You go and see him.’ That was the first time that the students of the class heard about Ramakrishna. Bhupendranath Dutta, Patriot Prophet, Chapter IV, ‘Social Environment’ (http://www.vivekananda.net/ ReminiscenesOnSwami/BhupendranathDatta.html) A close scrutiny of this narration reveals several interesting and closely imbricating layers, such as the following: There was difficulty in explaining the ideas of trance in Wordsworth. While this is attributed to the Indian students from Calcutta by the teacher, the principal of the college nevertheless concedes the probable incompetence of the teacher in comprehending this idea, thus neutralising the cultural variance as a factor that came in the way of understanding the poem. He instead suggests that the students go and meet Ramakrishna in Dakshineshwar, who frequently experiences a similar trance. This reveals how, while the natives are ignorant of something internal, it is known to the outsider from the West. The outsider, who in this case is a Reverend, a Christian, by acknowledging a person from another religion and bringing it to the notice of the students, acts as a catalyst, thus alerting them of their amnesia of their surroundings. Moreover, Ramakrishna Paramahamsa is a real person experiencing trance, not a fictional character or one from history long past. It is a case of the real coming to the rescue of fiction. The consequences of this return have been enormous in the making of the modern phenomenon called Vivekananda. This is an instance of consequences falling outside the domain of intension. While the Reverend meant to teach them

54  Self and other Wordsworth, he inadvertently contributed to the making of a phenomenon called Swami Vivekananda. However, recognising this magnitude will be compromised if we do not take into consideration facilitators, in this case, the Reverend, and in the larger case even colonialism. The way in which this instituted difference is used by post-independent India still remains open. One way is to move away from wailing against the oppression of the ‘other’, and expend energy in strengthening the intellectual borders of one’s society so that the ‘other’ is seen not only as an invader, but also as an enabler.7 The notion of self that is available in Vivekananda is not the one whose spirit is in slavery a la Bhattacharyya. While it may not be the self that has achieved svaraj, it nevertheless is an active self. It is able to listen to the other who is an enabler, follow the advice and direction of the other and perhaps go beyond the intentional domain of the other. While the intention of Reverend Hastie may have been to make the students come back after visiting Ramakrishna and understand the poem better, this did not happen. Vivekananda did not return to accomplish this task envisaged by his principal. He stayed back with Ramakrishna and his visit developed into a long-lasting relationship. This relationship is not merely governed by conformity, and imitation is generally associated with the relation between teacher and disciple. There are many deviations in the disciple’s movement. The relationship grew substantially and became remarkable. The phenomena of Vivekananda largely fell outside the intentionality of the Reverend. This is a phenomenal achievement undertaken by the self under colonial influence. In addition to highlighting the slavery of the spirit, there is a need to factor the attempt by this self in negotiating with the other at the border between the self and the other. In sum, therefore, we need to take stock of what is available in terms of 19th-century Indian thought and writing, and begin the process of arriving at a rigorous evaluation of Vivekananda through comprehensive incorporation of a variety of debates. The complexity of the tasks before us poses several new intellectual challenges to Indian academics and scholars writing on India. This is essential, given the state of scholarship in India. Such an understanding, if achieved, offers inestimable rewards. Most importantly, it enables a philosophical retrieval of the 19th century in India for the present moment, which is in dire need of it. There is a need to classify the work done during the 19th century. Unless this is done, the situation will be similar to that of a community dinner, where the first batch of people have completed eating but the next batch cannot enter, because even though the food is ready, the used plates need to be cleaned. Having highlighted the overlaps in figuring out Vivekananda, and the ingenuity in dealing with

Other in the relation between Swami Vivekananda 55 both the inside and the outside, let me in the next chapter take for discussion how Gandhi interpreted the Gita and how, here too, the other plays a fundamental role.

Notes * This chapter was published in Indian Economic and Social History Review, April to June 2015, no. 52, pp. 185–205, as ‘Universal Self, Equality and Hierarchy in Swami Vivekananda’. 1 If Vivekananda had not deviated, he would have been a mere follower, blindly emulating his teacher; but if he did deviate, then that would be considered problematic as well. While accepting that he deviated and that is objectionable, there is a need to be clear about pointing out this difference. Rejecting this difference as an aberration has to follow a clear statement regarding the preference of a desirable relation between the teacher and the pupil. This ought to have been done. 2 Nandy, in his essay ‘The Final Encounter: Politics of the Assassination of Gandhi’, shows how a similar attempt by Gandhi to bring structural change in Indian society costs him his life (1980: 70–98). 3 In addition to this external Western axis to Vivekananda’s attempt at instituting hierarchy, it also can be seen as inhabiting an internal path of those like Samkara in Brahma-sutra-bhasya, in Madhvacarya’s work Sarva-darsana Sangraha, where hierarchy amongst different systems is posited. Also see Andrew Nicholson (2010). 4 Sumit Sarkar sees Vivekananda as faced with ‘insurmountable tensions’ that made him ‘perpetually oscillate between exuberant calls to action and moods of introspection, in a pattern that is particularly relevant for us because it helps us to understand why an ultimate anchorage in Ramakrishna remained so indispensable’ (1997: 355). 5 The ideal of Vasudaika kutumbam, often used to argue for the inclusiveness of Hindus, is outside the claim that I am making. There is a difference between treating everyone as one whole and placing others’ welfare before one’s own. The latter idea was explicitly and clearly formulated by Ashoka. 6 With regard to Advaita, an influential school of Hindu philosophy, T. R. V. Murti propounds: The development of the AdvaitaVeda¯nta offers us a close parallel on the a¯tma tradition. The Upanisads affirm Brahman (Absolute Spirit) as the sole reality of the world. The Upanisadic seers reach this absolutism not so much through reasoning as by inspiration. They are more suggestive than systematic. The Advaitism (Non-dualism) of Samkara is established on a dialectical basis by the criticism of the Sa¯nkhya, the older Veda¯nta and other systems. For its dialectical technique the Veda¯nta is clearly indebted to the Ma¯dhyamika. (2010: 9) Thus, Buddhism has drawn from the Upanishads for its methodology of systematising the dialogues of the Buddha, and Advaita has incorporated the Buddhist dialectical technique. 7 Another version of how the other enabled is brilliantly captured in Raj Kapoor’s movie Mera Nam Joker, on the relationship between student and teacher. In this, there is religion, seduction and repentance.

3 Other in the relation between Mahatma Gandhi and Bhagavad Gita*

Mahatma Gandhi is often remembered within the public imagination as a prophet of non-violence. This identification can be strongly anchored and rightly qualified as reviving a fundamental ethical principle of Jainism (along with Samkhya), one of the heterodox schools of Indian philosophy. Jainism provides philosophical justification to the ethical principle of non-violence. According to Jainism, ahimsa (non-violence) entails strict refraining in thought, word and action from any kind of injury to any form of life. The rational, according to the canonical texts of Jainism, says Jayendra Soni, behind the rule of non-violence is based on self-reflection and self-experience that is further extended to other living beings. Soni quotes a Jaina text, Su¯yogada, where it says: . . . exactly as it is not nice to me if I am wounded, struck, threatened, beaten, hurt, hit hard or killed with a stick, a bone, first, a clod of earth or a potsherd – (yes) even if just a hair of mine is pulled out I feel vividly the injury which causes me suffering and fear of it – so too, know this, all higher beings, all plants, all lower animals, all other living beings if wounded . . . or killed with a stick . . ., indeed even if just a hair of theirs is pulled out, feel vividly the injury which causes them suffering and fear of it. If one has recognized this, then (it is certain that) no higher being, no plant, no lower animal, no other living being may be beaten, commanded, subdued, strained (or) killed. Truly I say: the venerable saints who were, who are and who will be they all say, they speak, proclaim, explain the following: no lower animal, no plant, no other living being may be beaten, commanded, subdued, strained or killed. This is the pure, constant, eternal teaching proclaimed by those who know, because they understand the world. In this way a monk renounces violence against living beings. . . . (Soni 2014: 30–31)1

Other in the relation between Mahatma Gandhi 57 So, we have in Jainism the form of universalising one’s personal experience of acceptance or rejection, through the principle of equality to the experiences of others, to provide justification to establish ethical principle of non-violence. With this philosophical background in Jainism, reading through Gandhi’s collected works, I get the feeling that he is culturally rooted in Jainism of a certain popular version and inherits Hindu ideals at a social level. He applied to the social and political spheres, particularly in the freedom struggle, the ethics that he practised at an individual level, or sadhana. This philosophical school not only advocated non-violence, but also provided a metaphysical foundation for this ethical principle. Gandhi becomes a modern icon by reviving this classical philosophical idea and ingenuously presenting it in a modern idiom, accessible even to common people. He, thus, skilfully expands the terrain of availability of this classical concept to include not only those that practise Jainism or are trained in philosophy, religion and theology, but also the common people. This move of making philosophical ideas available to the public is an important contribution of Gandhi. In addition to this democratic gesture, there is something adventurous about his attempt. He embarks on this project against the backdrop of India’s freedom struggle, growing Hindu–Muslim polarisation in the 1930s and 1940s culminating in Partition, and with a pervading acceptance of the inevitability of violence in social and political life in the world. Not many believed that the British would leave India, though they desired it in varying degrees. Reading the history of this period lays this bare. For instance, it is reported that in 1907 the Indian National Congress met at Surat in Gujarat where the moderates estimated that India would achieve independence over the next two or three centuries. So, the process that culminated in 1947 had to go through several instalments of hope, marginal achievements and several rounds of struggles in various places, before reaching the national and international levels. There was progress; there were also glitches and obstacles. Looking at this history from the point of view of instalments of success will be qualitatively different from making a register of these from the vantage point of 1947. The other thing that was considered impossible was non-violence as a political instrument to achieve independence. This is a common belief held by many. Nonviolence as a political instrument and India’s freedom were not considered a possibility together. Against such a jarring backdrop of impossibility, Gandhi brings non-violence to the centre stage of Indian politics. At a theoretical level, Gandhi seems to ask those who found the indispensability of violence in politics the question: what is the purpose of politics? Is it to bring people together or make them fall apart? If the former, then

58  Self and other non-violence discharges this task and not violence. Similar to that of making a case for non-violence, Gandhi introduces radical move in moving from God is truth to Truth is God. This chapter will discuss some important interventions that are ingenuously introduced by Gandhi. While this provides a wall to hang this chapter, let me use as the frame two contentious claims regarding the impact on Mahatma Gandhi. As in the case of Vivekananda, in the life of Gandhi too it is an outsider who directed him to read the Bhagavad Gita. In the larger context of scrutinising the relation between the self and the other, and how the former negotiated the latter, this chapter begins with the discussion of two available ways of locating the self in relation to the other. One by A. L. Basham, who claims tradition to be the core influence on Gandhi; the other is the claim made by Hacker that dissenters to modernity within the West are primary influence on Gandhi, and Gandhi’s own admission that it is two Englishmen, the outsiders, who induced him to read the Gita. He read it in England, and that too in translation. The chapter points out how this inducement, though operating outside the intended realm of outsiders, impacted him and shaped his intervention in India’s freedom struggle. Scrutinising the idea of impact – taking it outside the conventional reading of this term as dominating on the self that is under the impact or the self receiving is more or less passively – the chapter lays bare the complexities of the process and various stages of impact on the subject. In this context, it discusses complexities of Gandhi’s relation with Gita. This includes Gandhi’s attempt to dissociate violence from Gita. This instance show how, in the case of Gandhi, the complexity of the self negotiating the other falls between taking the self as either merely passive or merely active. 1 Impact: Let me begin with Basham. Locating the exact point of the influence on Gandhi, he says, ‘Gandhi’s debt [was] not to ancient India in general, but to those aspects of Hindu culture which were preserved and emphasized in the Gujarat of the 1870s and 1880s, and to those ancient Indian texts which he is known to have read and admired in his earlier years’ (2006: 19). In this context, Basham, however, acknowledges how Gandhi ‘himself in many passages of his voluminous writings admits his debt to certain Western sources, notably the Gospels (especially the Sermon on the Mount), Tolstoy, Thoreau, and Ruskin’ (2006: 19). Without minimising these outside influences on Gandhi, Basham nevertheless draws our attention to ‘how far Gandhi accepted the doctrines of these sources in their own right . . . and how far he looked on them as merely confirming and systematizing attitudes and values which he had obtained at home’ (2006: 19–20). He claims right in the beginning that certain ‘elements in the religious life

Other in the relation between Mahatma Gandhi 59 of nineteenth-century Hinduism may have prepared the ground for some of Gandhi’s ideas’ (2006: 20). Basham admits in the end, one ‘feature of Gandhi’s teaching for which we can find no Indian prototype is his doctrine of the spiritual and moral value of manual labour’ (2006: 39). This he derived from Christianity. The other ‘non-Indian’ moral value is his ‘championship of equal rights for women’. This can be traced to ‘Western feminism’ (2006: 40). Finally, ‘Gandhi’s objection to mechanized twentieth-century life has no counterpart in the attitudes of ancient India. . .’ (2006: 40). Apart from these, Basham says that ‘several of Gandhi’s concepts are fully in keeping with Indian tradition, and were probably developed from ideas which he absorbed in his childhood and youth, fertilized and brought to fruition by his contact with the West’ (2006: 40). In Basham’s portrayal of Gandhi, the West, which is an outsider, plays only a marginal role, and he identifies those exact aspects of tradition that played a significant role in shaping his personality. In contrast, Hacker claims that non-violence ‘was first discovered by Gandhi in Tolstoy’s writings’ and he ‘later attached it to traditional Indian ideas of ahimsa¯ ’ (1995: 308). While the impact of the outside on Gandhi is marginalised by Basham, it is seen as central by Hacker. Further, while Basham focusses on the childhood phase, Hacker’s focus, on the other hand, is the adulthood of Gandhi. 2 The nature of the self before coming in contact with the other who is an outsider: Without undermining the claims of both, let me bring into this analysis Gandhi’s own admission about how he was encouraged to read the Gita by two Englishmen, and his psychological state at that time as confessed by him. First, the psychological state of his self before he encountered this text in the year 1889. According to his own admission: (i) He ‘was twenty years of age at that time’ (Collected Works of Mahatma Gandhi [CWMG] vol. 33: 83); (ii) he ‘had not yet fully understood the significance of non-violence as a principle of dharma’ (CWMG vol. 33: 83); (iii) and he ‘learnt the principle of using love to win over even an enemy, from a poem written by Shamal Bhatt, the eighteenth-century Gujarati poet’s couplet, “Let him offer water, and a good meal to eat” ’ (CWMG vol. 33: 83–4). The truth of the message in this poem, according to Gandhi, is return good for evil. This message appealed to Gandhi’s heart, though it ‘had not suggested’ to him ‘the principle of compassion for all creatures’ (CWMG vol. 33: 84); (iv) earlier to this, he confesses, ‘I had even eaten meat before that time while I was still in India’ (CWMG vol. 33: 83). This is because he was under the prevalent belief ‘that it was one’s duty to kill snakes and other such creatures. I remember having killed bed-bugs and other insects. I remember killing a scorpion once’ (CWMG vol. 33: 84). It is another matter that all this later changed drastically. He says, referring

60  Self and other to the subsequent transformation, ‘I think that we should not kill even such poisonous creatures’ (CWMG vol. 33: 84). Of the earlier days, he says: In those days I believed that we would have to fit ourselves to fight the British. I used to murmur to myself the lines of the poem beginning ‘Is it any wonder that the British rule over us?’ My eating meat was for the purpose of fitting myself for this fighting in future. These were the views I held before I left for England. (CWMG vol. 33: 84) What helped Gandhi initially, to abstain from eating meat and keep other sins at bay, is not the reading of scriptures, as he himself admits, but his ‘desire to keep, even at the cost of my life, the promise which I had given to my mother . . . My love of truth has saved me in many difficult situations’ (CWMG vol. 33: 84). So, in the hierarchy of things, acceptance of truth is at the top, which resulted in him rejecting violence and practising non-violence. Here, let me point out that while Basham has rightly focussed on the exact influences of tradition on Gandhi, there is something that is problematic in his interpretation about the fallow or hibernating and the explicit or dominant impact of tradition. If we juxtapose the impact of tradition on Gandhi before he came in contact with the outside West, we do not find the impact of tradition operating on him in this psychological state, except for his strict adherence to the promise to his mother. So, it is clear from this that the impact of tradition was at least not in operation on him. It began with the inducement from the outside, in the form of the two Englishmen. Here, one needs to carefully demarcate the purview of the site, intention and agency of the outside impact, and the extent of the use of this incident. The ingenuity of Gandhi lies in making use of the outside to undertake his own projects. This ingenuity will elude us, if we do not take into consideration the importance of the other. Now, let us discuss various stages of how Gandhi used the encouragement. I have elaborately discussed this to highlight that the important relation between Gandhi and Gita is the seminal contribution of an outsider. 3 Gita and Gandhi: Having discussed the relation between Gandhi with Gita, and then with non-violence, now let me start discussing the complex issues relating to Gandhi and Gita. The first one is: Gandhi advocated non-violence and in Gita Lord Krishna induces the reluctant Arjuna to fight a war that involved violence. This second position, in

Other in the relation between Mahatma Gandhi 61 direct conflict with the first one, becomes clear as all who interpreted Gita accepted it as a text that endorses war. Those like Tilak (CWMG vol. 37: 175) and Savarkar (CWMG vol. 37: 82) accepted this conventional reading and recommended the use of violence in their fight against the British. The violent dimension of the Gita was used to incite the weak slavish natives to become strong and fight against the British. This underlying association of the text with violence attracted many towards it, making it a text to rally around. As a useful aside, this text has been interpreted by many other modern Indian thinkers, who either directly or indirectly participated in the anti-colonial freedom struggle for independent India. This includes Bankim Chandra Chatterjee, Balgangadhar Tilak, Sri Aurobindo, Swami Vivekananda, S. Radhakrishnan, Vinoba Bhave and B. R. Ambedkar (see also Minor 1986). Perhaps, after the Brahma Sutras there is no text other than this, which so many thinkers during a particular period rallied around. There are many who rallied around it along with Gandhi, which makes Gandhi’s relation with the Gita more contested and complex. What distinguishes other interpretations of the Gita during this period from Gandhi’s interpretation is that in most other thinkers, while recalling this classical text in addition to spiritualism, the social aspect, namely, combating colonialism, and making a case for India’s independence looms large. Gandhi, however, did not accept the conventional reading of the Gita as endorsing violence. It is against this formidable background that Gandhi embarks on an unprecedented hermeneutical adventure to claim – with concrete textual evidence – that the Gita actually decries violence, not endorse it. This move has both hermeneutical importance as well as political relevance. Gandhi’s interpretation of the Gita is not merely an academic exercise, though his interpretation is radical even by rigid academic standards. This text is not merely one amongst other texts in his life and career. It is a major influence on his life. There are two additional aspects that distinguished Gandhi’s engagement with this text: (i) the impact of the text on his personal life and (ii) his different, even radical, way of interpreting the text that is different from both conventional and contemporary interpretations. 4 Clearing the ground: In a discussion of Gandhi’s interpretation of the Bhagavad Gita, there is an imperative need to focus attention both on Gandhi and Gita, though not necessarily in the same measure. This necessity will be kept in mind throughout the discussion. There is also a need to bring in the context of Gandhi’s work on Gita in particular and Gandhi’s location in general, to understand better even the transcendental ideas

62  Self and other that Gandhi evokes in this text. These considerations prevail in the following discussion. Before justifying his interpretation of the Gita as a text of non-violence, he offers a clarification. He explains that the qualification for understanding the meaning of the Shastra is ‘one must have a wellcultivated moral sensibility and experience in the practice of their truths’ (CWMG vol. 33: 85), thus privileging morality and experience. It is from the point of view of these two requirements that Gandhi embarks on adjudicating the controversial issue that prohibits Sudras, who form a large section of the population, from studying the Vedas. This moral block – a serious exclusion – has become the centre of critical attention for many. Gandhi takes on this controversy right in the beginning. There are two issues in Gandhi’s dealing with this problem. One is denying Sudras access to the Vedas. This can be solved by going against conventional practice and making the Vedas accessible to them. Gandhi does not take this route. Nor does he agree with the view that denies Sudras access to the Vedas. It is in this context that he brings in the two qualifications of morality and experience. So, Vedas are not accessible to all. Yet, he does not accept the present practice and seeks to modify it. He says that ‘injunction against Sudras studying the Vedas is not altogether unjustified’. The reason for this is a Sudra is a ‘person without moral education, without sense, and without knowledge’. A person like this ‘would completely misread the Shastras’ (CWMG vol. 33: 85). Thus, a Sudra is a person ‘without moral education’, and those who lack moral sensibility and experience in the practice of truth cannot read the Shastras. Close scrutiny of this argument reveals that moral education and experience in the practice of truth are a deductive premise that Gandhi brings in right at the beginning as a solution. Reiterating this, he later clearly declares that in addition to moral sensibility and experience in the practice of truth, ‘It is stated in Gita itself that everyone, whether a woman, a vaisya or a sudra, can acquire spiritual knowledge, if they are devoted to God’ (CWMG vol. 37: 76). So, the Gita can be read by anyone who meets these three qualifications, and it has nothing to do with any caste being barred from reading the Shastras. Gandhi also reiterates this in Chapter 2: The Gita . . . was written not for the learned, but for all the four castes – rather, all the eighteen castes – to read and understand. It was written for the Sudras, the Bhangis, and for women – in fact, for all classes. (CWMG vol. 37: 92) Later, at another place, he also says, ‘The Bhagavad Gita says that women, Vaisyas and Sudras, and all other classes of people, can win freedom’

Other in the relation between Mahatma Gandhi 63 (CWMG vol. 37: 121). Extending the purview of the accessibility of this text beyond all castes, he declared that this work can be read by ‘persons belonging to all faiths. . . . It does not favour any sectarian point of view. It teaches nothing but pure ethics’ (CWMG vol. 37: 328). He also goes to the extent of declaring that Krishna does not lay caste as a condition for salvation. Instead, he places total surrender to himself, whether ‘man or woman, vaisya or sudra or one born among wicked people – in a family of the most wicked chandals’. All these people can and will ‘attain the supreme state’ (CWMG vol. 37: 265). The orthodoxy made studying Vedas the condition for realising God and denied women, Vaisyas and Sudras access to the Vedas, thereby refusing them the opportunity to realise God. Gandhi rejects this outright by pointing out that Krishna, the Lord himself, ‘tended cows as a boy in Nanda’s family and did the work of a Sudra’ (CWMG vol. 37: 265). Pointing out the contingent relation between studying the Vedas and realising God, he refers to Shri Krishna, who says, ‘Even if Vaisyas and Sudras are not able to study the Vedas they can certainly attain the blessed state. Anyone who, though ignorant of the Vedas, knows Brahman, and has a pure heart is certain to attain this state’ (CWMG vol. 37: 265). Underlying these assertions is the move to distinguish between the essential and the contingent. He endorses Sudra as a quality and finds the association, historically, of a caste or a group as Sudras, to be contingent and a serious aberration. This move not only provides many from the existing Sudra caste access to the sastras, but also disqualifies many from the existing upper castes from having access to the scriptures. What is important to note here is that Gandhi does not embrace the modern notion of equality in this context. Rather, while remaining outside modernity and its discourse of equality, he seeks to democratise it by retaining hierarchy between those who are qualified to access the sastras and those who are not. Further, underlying this move is the choice between revolution and reform. The former demands the rejection of the present and the given, whereas the latter, while allowing one to retain the present, forces one to modify it, thereby making it reformist. A reformer, even while embarking on social engineering, has to understand what is given, to be able to reform social evils. This forces reformers to have a responsible but critical attitude towards the given. It is this version of revolution that underlies modernity’s attitude towards its past. Modernity in the West did not discuss the past. It rejected its past from its own self-evident premises. To return to Gandhi, the nature of reasoning underlying Gandhi’s argument needs to be understood to make sense of his view. Subsequently, he makes two further moves. He concludes, ‘Hence anyone who offers to interpret the Shastras must have observed the prescribed disciplines in his life’ (CWMG vol. 33: 85). He warns that a mere ‘mechanical observance

64  Self and other of these disciplines is as futile as it is difficult’ (CWMG vol. 33: 85). While admitting that there is a need to have a guru to pursue the study of the sastras, he however bemoans the fact that ‘gurus are rare these days’ (CWMG vol. 33: 85). In this context, he makes a subtle but significant move when he advises ‘regular study of books in regional languages which are steeped in the spirit of devotion’ (CWMG vol. 33: 85). While reading the sastras in Sanskrit requires the help of gurus who are hard to find, this according to Gandhi can be overcome with less risk by studying books in regional languages. The interesting thing about this solution is related to the availability of people experienced in the practice of truth. This brings him nearer to the common man’s practice of truth and their understanding of the sastras, and takes the reading of these texts away from the monopoly of experts and pundits, thus making the reading of the sastras considerably less elitist. While making the sastras accessible, he however is quick to remind, ‘There are, however, principles for the guidance of the common man.’ This guidance consists of ‘any interpretation of the Shastra which is opposed to truth cannot be right’. For instance, anyone ‘who does not find the principle of non-violence in the Shastras is indeed in danger’, though ‘his case is not hopeless’ (CWMG vol. 33: 85). Gandhi is avoiding both extremes of making it a privilege of a fixed caste or castes or denying it to a particular caste, and opening it to all. He instead treads the middle path, where he lays down specific qualifications to circumvent the possible danger of misinterpreting the sastras. Having made his standpoint clear on the relation between the reader and the text, Gandhi makes his next move and brings yet another relation into the discussion. This is regarding the relation between truth and nonviolence. Truth, he claims, ‘is a positive value’, whereas ‘non-violence is a negative value’. He adds that ‘truth affirms. Non-violence forbids something which is real enough. Truth exists, untruth does not exist. Violence exists, non-violence does not’ (CWMG vol. 33: 85). Elucidating a close and even a constituent relation between truth and non-violence, he says, ‘Even so, the highest dharma for us is that nothing but non-violence can be . . . The latter is necessarily contained in the former’ (CWMG vol. 33: 85–6). While admitting that non-violence may not be as ‘evident as truth is’, he however says that ‘one may try to discover the meaning of the Shastras without believing in it. But the spirit of non-violence alone will reveal to one their true meaning . . . ’ (CWMG vol. 33: 86). Bringing into the discussion a different and even contradictory characterisation of non-violence and truth to the one held above, he mentions that a sage who had realised truth has said, ‘Violence comes of illusion, it avails not. Non-violence alone is true.’ However, in both these contrasting

Other in the relation between Mahatma Gandhi 65 cases, Gandhi declares that without ‘non-violence, it is not possible to realize truth’. Highlighting the centrality of non-violence, he says that the ‘vows of brahmacharya, non-stealing, and non-possession are important for the sake of non-violence’ (CWMG vol. 33: 86). This, he claims, will help one in realising it in oneself. ‘It [non-violence] is the life’s breath of truth. Without it, man is a beast. The seeker after truth will discover all this very early in his quest, and then he will have no difficulty at any time in understanding the meaning of the Shastras’ (CWMG vol. 33: 86). Having turned away from gurus and high languages like Sanskrit, Gandhi relates sastras to the domain of regional languages and the experience of the seeker of truth. He makes a further move by relaxing the relation between text and its literal meaning. He says that the ‘second rule to be followed in determining the meaning of a text in a Shastra is that one should not stick to its letter, but try to understand its spirit, its meaning . . . ’ (CWMG vol. 33: 86). Having made the relation between text and its literal meaning contingent, and ascertained the spirit of the text to be imperative, he relates this to the local ‘context’. Though this move looks ordinary and it has not been theorised either by Gandhi or by subsequent scholarship on this work, it nevertheless carries substantial departures. Let us list various stages of this procedure as advocated by Gandhi. Gandhi prepares the ground judiciously before he relates the text to the context. He then makes two more significant moves to dissociate some practices advocated by the sastras. He refers to Tulsidas’s Ramayana, which according to him ‘is one of the greatest works because its spirit is that of purity, compassion, and devotion to God’ (CWMG 33: 86). He, however, refers to an important injunction in this text, where it is held that ‘a Sudra, a dull-witted person, a beast, and a woman merit chastisement’. Rejecting this, Gandhi claims that ‘Rama not only never raised his hand against Sita, he did not even displease her at any time’ (CWMG 33: 86). In the context of eulogising Rama, Gandhi claims two things that are interesting. One, he seeks to bail Tulsidas out by saying that ‘Tulsidas merely stated a common belief’. Subsequently, however, he says that perhaps ‘Tulsidas himself, following the practice of his time, used to beat his wife; what even then? The practice does not cease to be reprehensible’ (CWMG vol. 33: 86). What is evident in this is the privileging of truth and not the practice. A wrong practice, even by those considered great, does not merit emulating it. Thus, truth is independent of its practitioners. Summing up, Gandhi declares, ‘In any case his [Tulsidas’s] Ramayana was not composed to justify men beating their wives, but to display the character of a perfect man, to tell us about Sita, the noblest among chaste and devoted wives, and to delineate the ideal devotion of Bharat.’ While

66  Self and other accepting these from his version of Ramayana, says Gandhi, ‘The support which the work seems to lend to evil customs should be ignored’ (CWMG vol. 33: 86). Having established Gandhi’s rejection of exclusivist access to sacred texts, let me now discuss his interpretation. 5 Violence to non-violence: There are two apparently conflicting positions in Gandhi. One, he is the strong votary of non-violence and Bhagavad Gita had an enormous impact on him. In Gita, Lord Krishna induces Arjuna, who was reluctant to fight war, to fight. War involved violence. So, there is a conflict between Gandhi’s adherence to non-violence and his acceptance of Gita. Gandhi resolved this conflict through a long hermeneutical exercise. This exercise that eluded the attention of many scholars on Gandhi offers a radical interpretation of Gita that rejects the all existing interpretations of this sacred text. He embarks on this task by bringing two important variables into the discussion. One is internal to the text and the other external to it. The internal one is trigunas typology in Gita, namely, sattva, rajas and tamas. The three gunas are internally related to each other, but they are organised in a hierarchical order where sattva is at the top, tamas is at the bottom and rajas is in between these two. If sattva is the privileged guna and war belongs to either rajas or tamas, then Gita cannot be advocating the sattva on the one hand and war and through war violence on the other hand. This is not acceptable. Gandhi solves this problem by retaining the first claim that Gita privileges sattva while rejecting the second claim that it endorses violence. He maintains that the Gita advocates sattva, hence it cannot accept violence. Having made this larger claim, Gandhi consolidates his interpretation that the Gita does not endorse violence. On the contrary, it advocates the practice of sattva, which is closer to non-violence. He tries framing a response to Krishna’s advice to Arjuna to fight the war and not abstain from it. This is perhaps the most contentious issue influencing those who interpret the text as advocating violence. Here, too, Gandhi takes recourse to other cardinal virtues such as non-attachment or nishkamakarma.2 Krishna asked Arjuna to fight in the war to move him from the tamasic to the rajasic state. Arjuna’s reluctance is not because of his sattvic nature, as he had fought often enough in the past (CWMG vol. 37: 13). The reason for his reluctance is not non-violence but attachment towards his kinsmen. When Arjuna is reluctant to kill, Krishna reminds him that he has already committed violence. Having started on this course, he needs to see it through till the end. Here, let us note that Gandhi distinguishes inaction from nonviolent action.

Other in the relation between Mahatma Gandhi 67 Gandhi clearly prefers violence or rajas if the choice is between rajas and tamas, though he is clear and consistent in advocating the doctrine of non-violence. Given this standpoint, Gandhi sees in Krishna an attempt to save Arjuna from relapsing into tamas or inaction. He says that it was this that made Krishna ask Arjuna to take to violence. So, Arjuna has already committed violence, and he is now relapsing into inaction by refraining from fighting. Gandhi says that he is ‘clouded by ignorant attachment’ (CWMG vol. 33: 87). Instead of this regression, given the circumstances, despite non-violence being the best option, Krishna persuades Arjuna to fight to save him from this regression. In an effort to circumvent regression, Krishna persuades Arjuna to at least maintain the status quo. This is clearly evident when Gandhi says: If a passenger travelling in a train which is running at a speed of forty miles an hour suddenly feels an aversion to travelling and jumps out of the train, he will have but committed suicide. He has not in truth realized the futility of travelling as such or of travelling by train. Arjuna was in a similar condition. Krishna, who believed in non-violence, could not have given Arjuna any advice other than what he did. (CWMG vol. 33: 87–8) While this contextual necessity made Krishna advice Arjuna, this however, says Gandhi, cannot be universalised and cannot be taken as Krishna endorsing violence. Making this clarification, Gandhi says, ‘But to conclude from this that the Gita teaches violence or justify war is as unwarranted as to argue that, since violence in some form or other is inescapable for maintaining the body in existence, dharma lies only in violence.’ On the contrary, clarifies Gandhi, ‘The man of discriminating intellect . . . teaches the duty of striving for deliverance from this body which exists through violence, the duty, that is, of striving for moksha’ (CWMG vol. 33: 88). Non-violence is generally contrasted with violence. However, Gandhi’s idea of non-violence is in a triangular relation with violence and inaction. This is reminiscent of three gunas – tamas, rajas and sattva – in Samkhya. Thus, the concept of non-violence is contrasted not only from violence, but equally, if not more, from inaction. This is important because while the contrast between violence and non-violence is evident, what is not emphasised is Gandhi’s further contrasting of violent action from inaction. He says in Young India on 11 August 1920 that if ‘there is a choice only between cowardice and violence’ he would advise ‘violence’ (CWMG vol. 21: 133). Thus, Gandhi clarifies his stand, depicting the Gita as advocating nonviolence, and explaining the reason and the context behind Krishna’s

68  Self and other advice to Arjuna to fight. He does this by pointing out that violence is to be preferred to inaction, though non-violence is the first preference. This thus rejects the charge that there is inconsistency between Gandhi’s endorsement of non-violence and following the ideals of Gita. Having used this internal variable in changing the interpretation of Gita, Gandhi turns to an external variable that falls outside the text, namely, the context of narrating the epic Mahabharata that contains Gita as a part. Let me discuss this in the following. Referring to the context of the epic Mahabharata, Gandhi says, ‘Vyasa wrote his supremely beautiful epic to depict the futility of war’ (CWMG vol. 33: 87). Because the context of narrating the epic, which was originally called Jaya, meaning victory, is to dissuade the successors of Arjuna, who are threatening to kill all serpents, about the futility of war, particularly the Kurukshetra where there were no winnings except killing of people. Taking on those who interpret the Gita as endorsing violence, he says: When I was in London, I had talks with many revolutionaries. Shyamji Krishnavarma, Savarkar, and others used to tell me that the Gita and the Ramayana taught quite the opposite of what I said they did. I felt then how much better it would have been if the sage Vyasa had not used this illustration of fighting for inculcating spiritual knowledge. For when even highly learned and thoughtful men read this meaning into Gita. . . . (CWMG vol. 37: 82) Gandhi asks, ‘What can we expect of ordinary people?’ (CWMG vol. 37: 82). Let me point out here that though Tilak, his political guru, believed like Krishnavarma and Savarkar that the Gita preached violence, Gandhi does not include him along with them. He, however, does refer to Tilak later and declares his differences with him. Referring to the verse in Gita ‘Everyone follow a path which leads to Me’, he says: This verse has a history behind it. When Tilak Maharaj was alive, he had cited this verse in the course of a discussion about violence and non-violence. I had argued that we should bear with a person who might have slapped us. In reply, he cites this verse to prove that the Gita upheld the principle of ‘tit for tat’. That is, we should act towards a person as he acts towards us. I cling to the reply which I gave to him then. (CWMG vol. 37: 175)

Other in the relation between Mahatma Gandhi 69 Gandhi thus makes his stand clear on the issue of the Gita’s stand on nonviolence, with those like Krishnavarma and Savarkar and even his revered guru, Tilak. He adds: If what we describe as the very quintessence of all Shastras – as one of the Upanishads, can be interpreted to yield such a wrong meaning, it would have been better, for the holy Vyasa to have taken another, more effective, illustration to teach sacred truths. (CWMG vol. 37: 82) Tracing the reason behind the readers’ firm conviction in Arjuna and Shri Krishna to Vyasa’s ‘vivid’ portrayal of them, he adds, ‘The historian-author, moreover, gives histories of cities, communities, and individual characters, and claims that he is describing a battle in which the best men of his age took part’ (CWMG vol. 37: 82). Reproaching this creative and astonishingly original feat of Vyasa for giving the reader a deceptive feeling of historical realism, he laments, ‘How much better it would have been if the revered Vyasa had not adopted the method which he did’ (CWMG vol. 37: 82). While admitting that reproaching the great sage is impertinent of him, he says, ‘But what should one seeking to serve truth do? What must one do if one sees an error? It is not wrong to draw attention, in all humility, to what one feels to be an error. This thought remained in my mind for many years’ (CWMG vol. 37: 82). With this at the back of his mind, a worried Gandhi thought of reading the epic Mahabharata to get a better understanding of the ‘atmosphere of the age in which the Gita was written and the good and the evil influences at work at that age’ (CWMG vol. 37: 82). He read the Gujarati version of the epic while in jail. This became a turning point in his understanding of this great epic. It was then that he understood the allegorical sense of the epic, beyond the historical sense that it evokes, which is due to the ingenuity of Vyasa’s depiction of characters. Referring to his realisation that the illustrations that Vyasa used are very beautiful, he says: Just as in Aesop’s Fables, and in Tales from the Panchtantra, the authors have created conversations among birds and animals to impart moral teaching, so in the Mahabharata virtues and vices are personified, and great moral truths conveyed through those figures. The description of the battle serves only as a pretext. (CWMG vol. 37: 82) Earlier in his work, too, he had held the view that ‘physical battle is only an occasion for describing the battle-field of the human body. In this view

70  Self and other the names mentioned are not of persons but of the qualities which they represent’ (CWMG vol. 37: 76). If we take this into consideration, then says Gandhi, we will realise that ‘the Mahabharata was not composed with the aim of describing a battle’. Rather, the ‘author has cleverly made use of the event to teach great truths’ (CWMG vol. 37: 82). Given the tricky nature of the plot and the literary style, if the reader is not on ‘his guard, he may be misled. The very nature of dharma is such that one may easily fall into error if one is not vigilant’ (CWMG vol. 37: 82). In support of this adventurous interpretation, he says that the subject of the Gita is neither a ‘description of the battle’ nor a ‘justification of violence’ (CWMG vol. 33: 87). He then gets into debating mode by saying that ‘it is difficult to reconcile a few of the verses with the idea that the Gita advocates non-violence, it is still more difficult to reconcile the teaching of the work as a whole with the advocacy of violence’ (CWMG vol. 33: 87). In this context, Gandhi makes yet another radical move when he says that the characters in the Gita cannot be taken as ‘historical persons’. Rather, he says: I believe that Dhuryodhana and his supporters stand for the Satanic impulses in us, and Arjuna and others stand for Godly impulses in us. The battle-field is our body. The poet-seer, who knows from experience the problems of life, has given a faithful account of the conflict which is eternally going on within us. Shri Krishna is the Lord dwelling in everyone’s heart who is ever murmuring. His prompting in a pure chitta, like a clock ticking in a room. If the clock of the chitta is not wound up with the key of self-purification, the in-dwelling Lord no doubt remains where He is, but the ticking is heard no more. (CWMG vol. 33: 88) He extends this further when he says: I do not wish to suggest that violence has no place at all in the teaching of the Gita. The dharma which it teaches does not mean that a person who has not yet awakened to the truth of non-violence may act like a coward. Anyone who fears others, accumulates possessions, and indulges in sense-pleasures, will certainly fight with violent means, but violence does not, for that reason, become justified as his dharma. There is only one dharma. Non-violence means moksha. And moksha means realizing Satyanarayana. But this dharma does not under any circumstances countenance running away in fear. In this world which baffles our reason, violence there will then always be. The Gita shows the way which will lead us out of it, but it also says that we cannot

Other in the relation between Mahatma Gandhi 71 escape it simply by running away from it like cowards. Anyone who prepares to run away would do better, instead, to kill and be killed. (CWMG vol. 33: 88–9) Further, Gandhi disaggregates the composer of the text from the text itself by pointing out the overlaps between them. He claims that the text – in this case, the poem – should be considered ‘greater than its author’. The differences are as follows: (i) the author may not ‘necessarily have closer conceptions of all its possible implications’ and (ii) the author may not follow ‘in his own life the truth which he utters in his moment of inspiration’. This discrepancy accounts for the ‘lives of many poets’ being ‘at variance with the teaching contained in their poems’ (CWMG vol. 33: 87). Having made this crucial distinction, Gandhi claims: That the overall teaching of the Gita is not violence but non-violence is evident from the argument which begins in Chapter II and ends in Chapter XVIII. The intervening chapters propound the same theme. Violence is simply not possible unless one is driven by anger, by ignorant love, or by hatred. The Gita, on the other hand, wants us to be incapable of anger, and to attain to a state unaffected by the three gunas. Such a person can never feel anger. (CWMG vol. 33: 87) What is important here is that Gandhi takes on the colossal task of undermining the endorsement of war, thus violence and ventures, or one might say adventures, into claiming that Gita endorses sattva amongst the three gunas, the other two being rajas and tamas. A sattvic person does not get angry and cannot commit violence. Gita advocates sattva, hence it cannot accept violence. Gandhi, therefore, concluded that not only does the Gita not endorse violence, it on the contrary advocates the practice of sattva, which is closer to non-violence. Gandhi undertakes this long and arduous journey, makes several exegetical moves, interprets differently both by using internal resources within the text and outside it, also offers reasons for rejecting the conventional interpretations that associated Gita with violence. So, there is this long journey where a weak Gandhi tries to overcome this state through his reading of Gita. At the beginning of this long journey, he admits that he was mentally weak. If this is so, then Basham’s claim that tradition influenced Gandhi does not tally with this state of Gandhi. Even if he was influenced by tradition, the intensity of this influence was not strong rather it was weak. So, Basham’s claim that Gandhi was influenced by tradition is not completely tenable for the reasons he gives. Moving further, one of the important influences that enabled Gandhi to

72  Self and other overcome this state was his reading of Gita. Here, he was induced by two outsiders to read this text. Though he was induced by an outsider to read Gita, he makes active intervention into the reading of the text. There are two points here that need to be mentioned. The relation between Gita and Gandhi that was enabled by these two outsiders falls outside the relation that is highlighted by Hacker. Hacker highlights Gandhi’s relation with the West. This relation between Gita and Gandhi that falls outside Hacker’s account enables Gandhi to have a local access with Indian society. This access that is not factored by Hacker enables Gandhi to bolster his relation with non-state society in India. This form of relation eluded the attention of Hacker, as he sought to exhaust Gandhi in his relation with the West. Gandhi’s relation reveals a complex graph. He moves from the state of weakness to be enabled by an outside other; he then uses this resource to actively negotiate modernity, West and premodern India. This sociological fact needs to be factored before we make moral assessment of this intervention. Otherwise, our moral conclusions will acquire discounted form not because of the deficiency at the moral level, but because the social axioms from which moral conclusions are drawn are not properly factored. 6 Truth: I will now leave this long discussion on non-violence and move on to another important idea, which has not become as prominent in the public imagination. This is the idea of Truth. Between Truth and nonviolence, Gandhi gave more importance to the former. He himself admits this in a letter to Ranchhodlal Patwari: By instinct I have been truthful, but not non-violent . . . I put the former in the first place and the latter in the second place. For, as he [a Jain muni] puts it, I was capable of sacrificing non-violence for the sake of truth. In fact, it was in the course of my pursuit of truth that I discovered non-violence. (1950: 3) Given the primacy Gandhi accorded to Truth, there is a need to retrieve the importance of the idea of Truth and install it at the centre of public discourse. Truth in Gandhi’s hands undergoes a radical and fundamental transformation. First, he makes a massive move when he swaps the relation between God and Truth, reversing ‘God is Truth’ to ‘Truth is God’. These statements need not be read as establishing identity but as consisting of part and whole. Let us identify the underlying algorithm in these statements. In the earlier formula, Truth becomes a subset of a whole that is God. Strictly speaking, this makes Truth available only to those who believe in God. Truth thereby becomes a part, an instrument in the

Other in the relation between Mahatma Gandhi 73 hands of religion and theology. It remains inaccessible to those who do not believe in God. So, non-believers are outsiders to Truth. Therefore, for someone who wants to embrace Truth, it becomes mandatory to believe in God. This prerequisite may discourage, if not become an impediment to, many who want to access Truth. For instance, there are atheists like Gora who are followers of non-violence. Thus, non-believers are not admitted into the domain of Truth. Moreover, there is another problem with this formulation, as rendering truth within the domain of religion, one may have to face the possibility of different claims of truth, different contested and conflicting claims of truth. Resolving these will be not only difficult, but also unviable as each claims to their own version of truth. The change that Gandhi embarks on, the swapping that he initiates, removes this obstacle. With this move, God becomes either identical with or a part of the Truth. This makes Truth accessible to both those who believe and those who do not, thus enormously extending the purview of the domain of Truth and accomplishing extensive inclusions. There is a need to recognise the radicalness of this move by Gandhi. While his idea of non-violence has its roots in classical Indian philosophy, he in a way neutralises this relation and brings the concept into the centre stage of modern society in an unusual way, at a remarkable time. But what he does with regard to Truth is very radical, and that tremendously enlarges the domain of Truth. The series of radical departures Gandhi introduces overlaps with the intention of the two Englishmen who inspired him to read the Gita. However, his ingenuity lies in using the opportunity provided by the two Englishmen to his advantage. Gandhi seems to have moved from the state of tamas to the state of sattva. Further study is required to verify if he bypassed the rajasic state or went through it. This is a long and interesting journey. Some stages of it finds a weak Gandhi, in the state of tamas, feeling the need to become strong and desiring violence, the stage closer to rajas. Finally, through a long process, he embraces non-violence, the state of sattva. This is yet another instance of the other from the outside enabling the colonised self. Gandhi effectively made use of this opportunity to reach the state of Mahatma. This is no mean achievement, given the slavery of the spirit inflicted by colonialism. He not only is received as a Mahatma – which is not an achievement at the individual level but refers to over personal self, maha atma – but also acquired credibility at the social, national and international levels. More importantly, he succeeded in gaining the admiration of his adversaries. While recognising this achievement, one should remember the contribution of the other. We should also remember the seminal contribution of those like Tagore in the making of Mahatma. Otherwise, it is akin to

74  Self and other knowledge of the tree without knowing the seed of the tree. In factoring the long journey, Gandhi took one way to decentralise the idea of Mahatma, turn it away from it becoming a transcendental ideal, and making this available to the common people is to acknowledge the contribution of those like Harilal Gandhi, Mohammed Jinnah and B. R. Ambedkar. One way to look at their relation with Gandhi is between a question paper setter and a student who is taking an exam. They have set tough questions to Gandhi. Harilal posed serious questions from close angle, that is, within the family, reminding the father about his traditional role as a father; Jinnah was asking the nature of new arrangement for Muslims in a new nation; and Ambedkar posed the question of the predicament of those who are treated not as part but as apart. These are tough questions that gave Gandhi an opportunity to convert his potentialities into actualities. In this sense, the contribution of these need to be greatly acknowledged. Gandhi did not seek to defer these internal questions until the outsider is sent out and India gets freedom. Instead, he took them simultaneously. We need to make serious attempts in going through these questions carefully and the answer script thoroughly before marking the grade. This is an instance of a colonised self, like Gandhi making active use of the opportunity provided by the other who is from the outside. Having recorded the slow but substantial movement of the spirit that was in slavery to negotiating the other, who is an enabler, let me in the next chapter discuss how two native selves engaged in a debate between each other about some important issues concerning modern India. This is available in the debate between Tagore and Gandhi. This calls for moving away from the relation between the native self and the outside other to the relation between two native selves in debate with each other.

Notes * A section of this chapter was published in Bloomsbury Research Handbook of Indian Ethics, edited by Shyam Ranganathan, Bloomsbury Academic, London, as ‘Ethics of M. K. Gandhi: Non-violence and Truth,’ pp. 341–356. 1 Su¯yogada, also says Soni, lists the violent deed that arise out of: (1) purposeful violent deed, (2) purposeless violent deed, (3) militant violent deed, (4) accidental violent deed, (5) a violent deed through an optical illusion, (6) an act that occurs in untrue speech, (7) in unallowed acquisition, (8) in (a bad) mood, (9) in pride, (10) in doing wrong to friends, (11) in deception, (12) in greed, (13) in prescribed action. (in Soni 2014: 31) 2 Here, let me add that often anasakti is interpreted along the moral axis of not being attached to the fruits or consequences of actions. This does not often enable us to see the cognitive aspects behind the moral axis. I think what anasakti

Other in the relation between Mahatma Gandhi 75 suggests or argues is not that you should not bother about the consequences or fruits of action. If so, one might well ask, then why act? The answer in the Gita is not that actions are good in themselves or that they do not need justification from the fruits of action, as is the case with deontology. The answer concerns the cognitive competence of the action. If you move your attention from the action and turn towards its results, you will not be able to concentrate on your next action, as your attention will be distracted. If your concentration moves from A1 to R1, it has to return from R1 in order to come back and perform A2. In this process, the performance of A2 will be less as compared to A1, and the result of R2 will consequently be less than R1. So, nishkama seems to operate more at the level of cognitive competence of actions by turning attention away from the fruits of actions. There is a need to focus on the underlying cognitive aspects and not merely operate in the moral realm. Concentration, rather than detachment, is the more overriding aspect in nishkamakarma. The moral idea of detachment is a subset of the larger idea of concentration. Yoga, which is union with God, is a state of distractionlessness. In our eagerness to highlight the moral aspects, we should not neglect the cognitive aspects that sustain the moral aspects.

4 The colonised self’s climb towards svaraj Revisiting the debate between Mahatma Gandhi and Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore Having highlighted, in the two previous chapters, the colonised self’s attempt at overcoming the state of slavery enabled by an outside, let me in this chapter record this self’s climb towards svaraj. This will be accessed while examining the performance in a debate between Rabindranath Tagore and Mahatma Gandhi. The overall thrust of this chapter is to relocate some discussions on modern India within the format of a debate to reassess its nature and, in the process, identify limitations, highlight differences and acknowledge the efforts from modern India. While working on modern Indian thinkers and society, I was often reminded of Shashi Tharoor’s The Great Indian Novel. It was only later that I began to see the connection between the novel and my work. Indian literature, unlike Indian social and political theories, struggles to direct attention to some crucial aspects of Indian society that elude the attention of theoreticians. The great epics of India – the Mahabharata and the Ramayana – have become useful in this endeavour. Against the backdrop of colonised Indian society, there are many who see Indian nationalism as being derived from the West (Partha Chatterjee 1986). There are others who speak of pre-colonial Indian society in the past tense, much like the premodern West, despite the fact that it continues into the present. Yet others, like Sri Aurobindo, argued that the impact of colonialism was merely confined to the surface while the core remained Indian. However, it is this novel that drew my attention to the epic nature of modern India. The war and the people that the Mahabharata fictionalised may not have been great; however, the poet Vyasa made a great epic out of it. Two wars – in which few nations belonging to two or three continents participated, many of them with some amount of reluctance and indirectness – pass off as world wars. Given this variance between reality and its representation, the novel seems to suggest that modern Indian society is an epic reality that awaits an epic writer. While this may or may not have been Tharoor’s intention, what is interesting is that it provides a lens of imagination through which

The colonised self’s climb towards svaraj  77 one can see the epic nature of Indian society. One way to approach Indian society from this perspective is to bring in the format of debate to reassess modern India. The three tasks of this chapter are: (1) to recall the nature of a debate; (2) to identify different stages of the colonised self’s attempt to overcome the state of slavery; and (3) to understand, through the frame of debate, the predicament of the debate between Mahatma Gandhi and Rabindranath Tagore, published initially as Truth Called Them Differently. It was Tagore who gave the prefix ‘Mahatma’ to Gandhi, or at least began referring to ‘Gandhi as the “Mahatma” as early as February 1915’ (Bhattacharya 1997: 4) or ‘popularised it’ (Sen 2005: 92). Elucidating the ‘true meaning of the great word Mahatma’, Tagore says: It implies the emancipated soul that realizes itself in all souls. It means the life that is no longer confined within itself, but finds its larger soul of Atman, of Spirit. Then, in such realization, it becomes Mahatma. For it includes all spirits in itself. . . . [It is the] great universal spirit, the Mahatma, whose activities are for the whole world, is not for any confinement, or limitation, but for the universe. . . . The Infinite Soul, whose activities are boundless and whose dwelling place is in the hearts of all human beings, he is the Mahatma. (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 10–11) In justification of designating Gandhi as Mahatma, Tagore says: Offer him the throne of all India, he will refuse to sit on it, but will sell the jewels and distribute the money among the needy. Give him all the money America possesses, and he will certainly refuse to accept it, unless to be given away for a worthy cause for the uplift of humanity. His soul is perpetually anxious to give, and he expects absolutely nothing in return – not even thanks. (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 12–13) Almost in a prophetic mode, Tagore says that ‘Gandhi . . . is a liberated soul. If anyone strangles me, I shall be crying for help; but if Gandhi were strangled, I am sure he would not cry. He may laugh at his strangler; and if he has to die, he will die smiling’ (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 13). The concept of a maha atma neighbours the idea of an over-personal self. This is the notion of self that is inclusive in a transcendental manner. So, this is not a designation or a title, like Rao or Dr, which are prefixed to a particular individual and to a particular empirical self. Gandhi seems to have immediately seen the chasm between these two notions of self – the

78  Self and other particular and the over-personal – and the large distance to be bridged to reach the over-personal self.1 Sensing the arduous nature of this, Gandhi seems to have sought the help of Tagore, who he called ‘Gurudev’. By using this phrase, he seems to address Tagore: if you want me to be mahatma then you be my guru to lead me from my present state of particular self to the state of over-personal self. By doing so, he implicates the poet in this onerous task. Thus imbricated within the historical stage, let us see how each performed their role in an ingenious and interesting way. Some of this is explored in Truth Called Them Differently; there is very little discussion on this book. I trace the reason to the larger absence of debates in modern India and the pervasive presence of the colonised self that is not capable of participating in a debate. The non-availability of debate is the larger reason why this book, except in a few instances, eluded the attention of scholars. I will begin by laying bare the format of a debate.

I Debate and its predicament: To recall, the self, the other and the relation between the two constitute the three structural aspects of a debate. The last requires one to perform the cognitive tasks of translation and critical comparison of two rival positions. Structured forms of debates in Indian philosophy can be traced to the post-Buddha period.2 I have in my work (2006) discussed how this debating tradition has since faded away. There is a consensus regarding the agency – both internal to the tradition and external to it – causing this fading away.3 In Raghuramaraju 2006, I explain how the elements in a debate during this period have become like the body of Jarasandha, torn apart by Bhima on Krishna’s advice. Having identified the growth and decline of debate, let me use the format of debate, between the self, other and the border, to examine certain significant developments in modern India during colonialism and understand the predicament of debate as an intellectual practice.

II The self in the format of a debate is active; it might lose but it is autonomous and free. In contrast, the colonised self is not autonomous and free; it is a self that is in the state of slavery and is not capable of debate. The colonised self – as depicted by Bhattacharyya in particular and postcolonial literature in general – is not capable of accessing or participating in debate. In order to access these, the self needs to know how to deal with the other; but in its present state of slavery, it is incapable of this task. In contrast to the gloomy and hopeless situation of slavery of the spirit, as articulated

The colonised self’s climb towards svaraj  79 by Bhattacharyya, the two incidents involving Vivekananda and Gandhi allowed us instances where the colonised self has started accessing the other who is an enabler. This made us look at the colonised self differently. Now, let me turn to debates in the contemporary times – for instance, the one on the differences between Tagore and Gandhi, described by R. K. Prabhu and Ravindra Kelkar (1961). This edited collection puts together some crucial aspects on which Tagore and Gandhi differed. K. J. Shah (1984) refers to this volume, which has been long out of print. Ashis Nandy (1994), Amartya Sen (2005), Sabyasachi Bhattacharya (1997) and Bindu Puri (2015) have all in their own ways discussed the differences between Tagore and Gandhi. I have also discussed Nandy’s analysis of Gandhi and Tagore (see Raghuramaraju 2006). Bhattacharya’s edited volume (1997) provides more comprehensive material on the debate. The differences between the two great men are important, as their arguments fit into the format of a debate, dating back to the time when India was under colonial rule. Setting the stage for the debate between Tagore and Gandhi, Kakasaheb Kalelkar (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961) explains how Rabindranath Tagore taught them to be ‘self-respecting and behave in a dignified manner, in spite of constant and unmerited humiliation’ (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: iii). According to him, Gandhi’s entry took place at the time when Sri Aurobindo ‘retired’ from active politics and Tagore withdrew from the national movement. It was ‘during this dark period of confusion, frustration and intense introspection’ that all eyes turned to Gandhi, ‘who with his handful of unlettered and unsophisticated workers, organized a few thousands of indentured Indian labourers to resist successfully in a nonviolent manner, the oppression of the Whites in that God-forsaken land’ (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: v–vi). Tagore maintained that Gandhi’s call for non-cooperation was ‘political asceticism’ (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 19). Voicing his concern about this exclusivism, he advocated for the ‘true meeting of the East and the West’. He warns that shutting the door to the other will not enable us to express our love, which is the ‘ultimate truth of soul’. The idea of ‘noncooperation’ he felt ‘unnecessarily hurts that truth’ (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 21). Opposing the idea of non-cooperation, he pleaded with Gandhi to ‘let India stand for co-operation of all people of the world. The spirit of rejection finds its support in the consciousness of separation, the spirit of acceptance in the consciousness of unity. India has ever declared that Unity is Truth, and separateness is maya’ (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 22). Conceding that the ‘West has misunderstood the East which is at the root of the disharmony that prevails between them’, he maintained that the solution does not lie in misunderstanding the West (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 23).

80  Self and other Instead, he pleaded for a ‘disinterested medium of intellectual co-operation’, through which one can gain ‘true perspective of the human world’; ‘realise our own position in it; and have faith in the possibility of widening and deepening our connection with it’. Speaking of non-cooperation that relapses into isolation, he says, ‘The dark stars are isolated, but stars that are luminous belong to the eternal chorus of lights’ (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 27). There are two misgivings in Tagore’s criticism of non-cooperation. It is not ‘dignified enough for the India of his vision’ and that it is a doctrine of ‘negation and despair’. Responding to these, Gandhi clarified that noncooperation does not carry the meanings feared by Tagore (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 36–7). Reinforcing his point, Gandhi brings into the discussion both positive and negative descriptions of liberation. There is ‘mukti (emancipation)’ and the ‘Buddhist nirvana (extinction)’. While mukti is positive, the latter designates the ‘negative side of Truth’. Gandhi alleges that in highlighting the negative aspect of non-cooperation, Tagore has not recognised the importance of the positive sides of negation. This, according to him, is tantamount to ‘the Poet’ doing ‘an unconscious injustice to Buddhism’. Both positive and negative, according to Gandhi, are important in describing nirvana (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 39). Clarifying that non-cooperation or Swadeshi is not an exclusive doctrine, he maintains it is universal and it carries the ‘message to the world’ (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 80). He reminds Tagore that in discharging the universal message of Indian culture we should not forget the present deplorable condition of India. To quote him: India must learn to live before she can aspire to die for humanity. The mice which helplessly find themselves between the cat’s teeth acquire no merit from their enforced sacrifice. (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 81) The other contentious issue between them is Gandhi’s claim that Rammohan Roy would have been a greater reformer and Lokmanya Tilak a greater scholar, ‘if they had not to start with the handicap of having to think in English and transmit their thoughts chiefly in English’ (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 24). Contrasting these two with Chaitanya, Kabir, Nanak, Guru Govindsingh, Shivaji and Pratap, he claims that these were greater men than Rammohan Roy and Tilak. Though the ‘comparison is odious’, Gandhi concedes that each is great in ‘their own way’. However, the effect Roy and Tilak had on the masses is not as permanent or far-reaching (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 24). Tagore strongly protested against Gandhi’s effort to ‘cut down such great personalities of Modern

The colonised self’s climb towards svaraj  81 India as Rammohan Roy in his blind zeal for crying down our modern education’ (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 28). Gandhi compares Nanak, Kabir and other saints of medieval India with Roy and Tilak, and finds the latter lacking close personal relationships with common people because of their English education. Tagore, on the contrary, contextualises them when he says: They were great, because in their life and teaching they made organic the union of the Hindu and Muhammadan cultures – and such realization of the spiritual unity through all differences of appearance is truly Indian. In the modern time, Rammohan Roy had that comprehensiveness of mind to be able to realize the fundamental unity of spirit in the Hindu, Muhammadan and Christian cultures. Therefore he represented India in the fullness of truth, and this truth is based, not upon rejection, but on perfect comprehension. (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 29) While Tagore contextualises the contributions of the medieval saints and reformers in relation to the modern reformers, Gandhi distinguishes them and highlights the contribution of the former group. He alleges that English is studied only because of its ‘commercial’ and ‘political value’ (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 34). This, he asserts, ‘crushed and starved’ the vernacular. The destruction of the vernacular due to the encroachment of the English is like one’s ‘house to be walled in on all sides’ and one’s ‘windows to be stuffed’. Without supporting exclusivism and isolation, as alleged by Tagore, he declares: I want the cultures of all the lands to be blown about my house as freely as possible. But I refuse to be blown off my feet by any. I refuse to live in other people’s houses as an interloper, a beggar or a slave. (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 34) The issue flares up more as Gandhi calls Roy a ‘pigmy’. This hurts Tagore, as he reveres Roy as a ‘giant’ (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 105–6). Gandhi clarifies this and says that Tagore’s criticism that he called Roy a pigmy was not true and was ‘picked up from table-talk’. He insists that he has not made such an allegation directly, though on one occasion at Cuttack when someone mentioned Roy as an example of one who has attained the highest culture with Western education, Gandhi did say that Roy was a ‘pigmy compared to the unknown authors, say of the Upanishads’. This contextual characterisation is ‘altogether different from looking upon Rammohan

82  Self and other Roy as a pigmy’ (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 114–15). Bhikhu Parekh, in a personal conversation, made an interesting distinction to highlight the difference between Gandhi and Tagore regarding Roy. The distinction is between sudharo and suddhi, that is, reform and regeneration. Reform, says Parekh, is external while regeneration is internal. Gandhi is for the latter and he found Roy following the former. This, according to Parekh, is the larger reason for Gandhi’s attitude towards Roy.4 The third important issue for the debate between Tagore and Gandhi is regarding the burning of foreign clothes. Tagore was totally opposed to this call given by Gandhi. He thought that this concerns economic aspects and should be left to the experts in that area. He also believed that it was not a good symbolic representation of the form of protest when he says that svaraj is ‘not concerned with our apparel only – it cannot be established on cheap clothing; its foundation is in the mind . . .’ (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 65). Further, Tagore found the burning of clothes to be unsuitable as a form of protest, when there are several Indians who are without clothes and are ‘shivering’ (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 66). While Tagore the poet talks like a politician and social scientist, Gandhi’s replies to these charges has a poetic tinge. He replies by saying that in ‘burning my foreign clothes I burn my shame, I must refuse to insult the naked by giving them clothes they do not need instead of giving them work which they sorely need’ (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 79). The other issues on which they had serious differences include Gandhi’s plea that everyone should spin for an hour every day. This, according to Gandhi, will connect all with the people of India. This Tagore found it takes us backwards. Gandhi’s claim that the earthquake in Bihar was the punishment for the practice of untouchability. Tagore found this explanation to be anti-rational and endorsing superstition.5 An interesting part of this debate between Tagore and Gandhi is that each presented very different views on the same issue. They responded to each other, highlighting neglected aspects in each other’s interpretation. They also learned from each other, and in the process improved and strengthened each of their standpoints. In engaging with the other’s points, they circumvented the danger of one view, however noble, being taken at face value and followed without scrutiny. Instead, this difference has provided an opportunity to deliberate on different aspects of the issue and not lapse into blind following. In this process, Gandhi at times becomes poetic, when he says that he wants to release Sita from the prison of Ravana or that burning of foreign clothes is burning shame. This is an instance of transcending one’s own self and entering into the self of the other, particularly one with whom you differ, a kind of parakaya pravesam.

The colonised self’s climb towards svaraj  83 This is one level of their engagement. Here, difference is important. But there is another, more fundamental level, and it provides the stage to enact this difference – the close personal relation between Tagore and Gandhi. Not recognising this underlying aspect would make their debate a failure. Tagore confesses that for him differing from ‘Mahatma Gandhi in regard to any matter of principle or method’ is ‘extremely distasteful’ (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 105–6). There is nothing wrong in merely expressing difference; however, doing so made his ‘heart shrink’. In contrast, joining hands with the Mahatma, for whom he had so much love and reverence ‘in the fields of work’, would have given him joy. Tagore, in a contemplative mood, attributes the difference he had with Gandhi to God when he says that it is ‘God’s will that man’s paths of endeavour shall be various, else why these differences of mentality?’ (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 105–6). Referring to the differences he had with Tagore, Gandhi says that disagreements need not lead to displeasure. If that is so, then, ‘since no two men agree exactly on all points, life would be a bundle of unpleasant sensations and therefore a perfect nuisance’ (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 108). Moreover, says Gandhi, ‘frank criticism pleases’ him. Further, the disagreements made their ‘friendship’ grow ‘richer’. Agreement is not the ideal precondition for friendship. One, however, has to ensure that there is no ‘sharpness’ or ‘bitterness’ in expressing the disagreements. He admits that there is no unpleasantness in the ‘Poet’s criticism’ (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 108). Gandhi sees the entire debate not as a competition but as complementary (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 109). The climax of their deep bond of friendship is evident during Tagore’s trip to meet Gandhi who was on a fast. After the historic fast was broken, Mahadev Desai asked Tagore to recite his poem from Gitanjali that Gandhi is fond of. Tagore said that in the presence of the Mahatma he had forgotten the meter that he set for his own poem, but sang it like never before. This showed the extent and intensity of love and friendship between them. There are two levels to the discussion between Tagore and Gandhi – one, the clearly stated differences, and the other, the underlying mutual love and friendship between them. Looked at from the point of view of the second level, the differences are not between two individuals opposing each other but as two individuals, designed by God as different beings, wrestling with an idea from two different points of view. These crucial aspects failed to be noticed even by those like Kalelkar, who in the context of underplaying the differences between them says that it ‘was really surprising that only on very few occasions they felt like entering the lists and openly opposing each other’ (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: viii–ix). This is not true, as they did differ with each other. What is interesting, however,

84  Self and other is that Kalelkar’s statement is driven by the fear that this difference can be treated as a falling apart. While recognising this danger, instead of denying differences, we need to see how they differed but did not break their close connection. What sustained this is the underlying mutual love and admiration they had for each other. This is important, as Kalelkar himself admits that though these differences have ‘deeply pained’ many of their followers, they nevertheless welcomed it as a ‘great education’ to find out ‘for our people and our minds weighted the utterances of both and tried to find out between the two contested claims, where the exact truth lay’ (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 1ix). Sabyasachi Bhattacharya, another editor of the debate between Tagore and Gandhi, recognises these two levels in this engagement. He does not iron out the differences, but admits that they had ‘differences on fundamental philosophical question, which led to disputation about many political, social and economic matters’ (1997: 2). However, they accepted cordially the other’s right to differ. Through this, says Bhattacharya, they succeeded in taking the political debate to a ‘high philosophical plane’ (1997: 21). These differences on public issues never affected, as far as one can judge from the letters, their personal relationship (1997: 2). This is because of the nature of their relationship, which is not ‘based on just mutual admiration’ and their differences did not affect their ‘personal relationship’ (1997: 2). At the end of his introduction, Bhattacharya refers to Nehru who, while referring to the differences, remarks that no ‘two persons could probably differ so much as Gandhi and Tagore’. However, Nehru also claims that both had ‘so much in common’. Nehru attributes this to the ‘richness of India’s agelong cultural genius, which can throw up in the same generation two such master-types, typical of her in every way, yet representing different aspects of her many-sided personality’ (Bhattacharya 1997: 36). Bhattacharya questions if this debate between Gandhi and Tagore is a ‘typical’ representation of Indian culture. According to him, this is a case of ‘a kind of intellectual solitude’ of two individuals surrounded by the ‘want of kindred spirits in their society and times’ (Bhattacharya 1997: 36–7). This cannot be claimed to be a civilisational trait. After delinking the bond shared by the two men and Indian culture for purposes of analysis, Bhattacharya insists that their ‘debate forms a part of a more wide-ranging discourse which exceeds the immediate issues of the day, and touches and blends with concerns and values which have been at the core of civilizations on other times and other places as well’ (1997: 37). In support of this claim of other times and other places and not of a debate rooted in Indian culture as envisaged by Nehru, Bhattacharya quotes Romain Rolland’s observation in a letter he wrote to Tagore in 1923: ‘the noble debate’ between Gandhi and

The colonised self’s climb towards svaraj  85 Tagore he said, ‘embraces the whole earth, and the whole humanity joins in this august dispute’ (Bhattacharya 1997: 37). Here, let me closely analyse Bhattacharya’s attempt to snap the relation between modern debates and the culture of debate in India as suggested by Nehru, and through Rolland, move the discussion away from Indian culture into the universal realm. Instead of snapping this relation or questioning if this modern attempt is a typical representation of the classical, I would claim the following. On the surface it may indeed not be a typical representation. But on closer scrutiny, it is typical if you see this as an ingenious attempt to revive the classical debate that had declined over a period of time. This process of revival passed through various stages: the first stage in which the state of the slavery of the spirit as articulated by Bhattacharyya; the second stage in which the enslaved self, with the help of the other, is learning to deal with the other at the border; and finally self-learning to debate with the other, displaying the capacity to look differently at one’s own affairs and the ability to overcome the state of slavery. Closer scrutiny reveals that this debate has retained the classical form while dealing with modern themes. So, this modern instance can provide the base to retrace the legacy to the idea of debate during the classical era, with the modern agenda of reform. In addition to relating this instance to the whole of humanity, we also need to relate it to its roots in the classical practice of debate. Here, Bhattacharya’s position about universal concern is closer to Tagore’s on the non-cooperation movement. My position is closer to Gandhi’s, whose position was that we need to settle our issues before relating our self to the world. Bhattacharya’s failure to see this point about the revival of the debating culture is intriguing, as both Tagore and Gandhi in particular, use classical philosophical ideas. Tagore alludes to the classical idea of unity in truth and separation as maya, which is an idea of Advaita (in Prabhu and Kelkar 1961: 22). Gandhi refers to the Hindu and Buddhist designating of mukti as positive and negative, respectively. Not seeing this dimension of classical Indian philosophy is a serious limitation in Bhattacharya. It is another matter and a larger problem that philosophers in India are not making these ideas from classical India available in a new idiom and putting them in circulation to be used by social sciences and literatures in India. But the fact remains that what statesmen like Nehru could see, eluded the attention of the economic historians.6 To sum up the discussion, the debate between Tagore and Gandhi for a long, long time eluded the attention of academics in India despite being available in print. There is a variance between theory and reality, the latter being larger than the former. There is also a need to move from this

86  Self and other situation to a position where this is reversed, in other words, made akin to the variance between epic and epic reality referred to at the beginning of this chapter. This can provide a rich resource to take a fresh look at the developments in India and will slowly reveal its epic nature. Thus, this chapter pursues the format of debate, highlighting the border and the other, to understand better some of the contributions made by modern Indian thinkers. This helps gain a better understanding of modern Indian society, particularly its epic nature, which had not been factored in so far in scholarship. Embarking on this trajectory, and taking into account later developments, makes me move partially away from classical concerns. Part I began by laying bare the nature of slavery of the self and the plea for svaraj. I have pointed out the mismatch between reality and the ideal. Subsequent chapters have elaborated how the colonised self, influenced by the outside, undertook a long and arduous journey of overcoming the slavish state by reinvigorating indigenous resources. This is observed in the lives of Vivekananda and Gandhi, and extends to the public domain of modern independent India. The last chapter in Part I laid bare various stages in the colonised self’s climb towards svaraj. Moving on from the individual or interpersonal domain, Part II discusses interesting aspects of the social realm in India.

Notes 1 There are two issues that need our attention. Gandhi embarks on the arduous journey from the individual self to the over-personal self not by leaving the institution of the family, the path usually followed by earlier sages and seekers, but by remaining within the folds of family. Gandhi’s son, Harilal, did not understand the nature and consequences of this new combination that his father was experimenting with. For him, it is something like questions in the examination that are from outside the syllabus. So, we need to relook at the relation between father and son against this larger background and not reduce it to an ordinary quarrel. This is possibly one of the reasons for strained relations between father and son. Harilal Gandhi’s point to his father seems to be that he being a father – particularly as he remained within the family – should have taken care of his children as he chose to remain within the family. Gandhi did not want to discharge this duty, as he was preoccupied with the idea of the mahatma that transcends, and in some cases even negates, the empirical self. 2 I often wonder why Plato’s work is called Dialogues when it is in the format of a debate. 3 See Kalidas Bhattacharyya (1982), S. N. Dasgupta (1982), M. P. Rege (his Introduction in Daya Krishna et al. 1991), P. T. Raju (1985), Aurobindo (1972), Michael Dummet (1996) and Sorabji (1996). 4 I am thankful to Bhikhu Parekh for this insightful comment.

The colonised self’s climb towards svaraj  87 5 For more discussion on the issue of earthquake in Bihar, see Makarand Paranjape (2011) and Amita Chatterjee (2013). 6 Bindu Puri (2015) describes the debate between Tagore and Gandhi and traces Gandhi’s ideas of the individual to Yoga through the work of Shyam Ranganathan and makes connections to Akeel Bilgrami’s work on Gandhi. She makes use of the idea of the debate, but does not reflect on the structure of the general debate.

Part II

Border

5 A thin border between the premodern and the modern in India*

Part I highlighted how colonised individuals made use of the outside that is beyond the purview of power and oppression. In other words, there are two aspects of the other: other as an oppressor and other as an enabler. While postcolonial discussions largely factored in the first one, they either did not recognise the second aspect or did not account for it. One of the reasons for this is their preoccupation with the self and how the self is enslaved by the other. There is a need to recognise another dimension – of the other as an enabler. This requires identification of parts in the enslaved self that can receive positive aspects from the other. A completely enslaved self, as depicted by Bhattacharyya, will be further enslaved and will not be able to receive anything positive from the other. Working outside the relation of the self being oppressed by the other, the next two chapters in Part I discussed the nature of the relation between self and the other, where the latter enabled the former in the life of Vivekananda and Gandhi. This is made possible by recognising not only that aspect of the other apart from the one as an oppressor, but also the border between the self and the other. In order to recognise this border activity, we moved away from the academic circles inhabited by Bhattacharyya and looked at thinkers in the public domain like Vivekananda and Gandhi. The last chapter in this part discussed Tagore and Gandhi debate about the internal aspects of India, thus revealing various stages in the colonised self’s climb towards svaraj. In Part II, the first two chapters discuss the variance between modern West and modern India in the realm of society and politics. The last chapter discusses problems with regard to social change in Indian society. In this context, I show how academic circles have received what is in front of us in society, and highlight problems associated with this reception. This chapter discusses the relation between the premodern and the modern in Indian society, by looking at the relation between the village and the city. In this context, it elucidates the variance between Indian society and Western society, by highlighting the thin border between cities and villages in India

92  Border and how that is different from villages and cities in the West. This shows how Indian society defied the Western canon, and how this difference or defiance eluded the attention of academics, on or in India. While equating Advaita with Indian philosophy is politically problematic, there are certain remnants of this sophisticated philosophical school that underlie Indian thinking. This school of Indian philosophy profoundly teaches us to see what is not there in front of us and not see what is there. Samkara established that the empirical reality is maya, and transcendental reality, that is, Brahman, is the real Reality. Has Advaita philosophy managed to adequately capture this trait from India and provide a clearly formulated principle as opposed to the phenomenon that is already existing, albeit in a scattered manner? Or does it provide an axiom from which this phenomenon is created and derived? This is an open question that will not be pursued here. What will, however, be pointed out in this context is that at least on some intellectual levels there is a tendency to prefer extremities that do not either consequently or programmatically enable one to see what is in front of them, but see or at least vaguely see what is not in front of them. Scholars in India have embraced this path at least in some, if not all, important discussions in social sciences and philosophy. Western theories and society have become the new Brahman and Indian society has remained mere maya to them. Indian debates or discussions on secularism in the country are a good example of this (see Raghuramaraju 2011, particularly the chapter on secularism). However, despite being allowed influence from the outside, literature, films, mass media, consumers and a large part of civil society did not lose sight of what was in front of them. In contrast, social theory in India, preoccupied with the new absolute or Brahman called the West, surreptitiously fulfilled their cultural urge to lose sight of what is in front of them during colonial or even postcolonial times. This chapter discusses three models of the relation between the premodern and the modern, or more specifically village and city, as available in Descartes, the philosopher; Rabindranath Tagore, the poet; and A. M. Shah, the social scientist. I will conclude by exploring how to view the modern public sphere in India that accounts for and has been accounted for in the interaction between the West and India. Let me begin with a discussion on the presence of the modern city in the West, as clearly elucidated by Descartes in his attempt to disinherit the premodern as a precondition to enter modernity. He says: . . . there is not usually so much perfection in works composed of several parts and produced by various different craftsmen as in the works of one man. Thus we see that buildings undertaken and completed by a single architect are usually more attractive and better planned

A thin border between the premodern and the modern in India 93 than those which several have tried to patch up by adapting old walls built for different purposes. Again, ancient cities which have gradually grown from mere villages into large towns are usually ill-proportioned, compared with those orderly towns which planners lay out as they fancy on level ground. Looking at the buildings of the former individually, you will often find as much art in them, if not more, than in those of the latter; but in view of their arrangement – a tall one here, a small one there – and the way they make the streets crooked and irregular, you would say it is chance, rather than the will of men using reason, that placed them so. And when you consider that there have always been certain officials whose job is to see that private buildings embellish public places, you will understand how difficult it is to make something perfect by working only on what others have produced. Again, I thought, peoples who have grown gradually from a half-savage to a civilised state, and have made their laws only in so far as they were forced to by the inconvenience of crimes and quarrels, could not be so well governed as those who from the beginning of their society have observed the basic laws laid down by some wise law-giver. (1985: 116–17) This account by Descartes, the father of modernity, is a wonderful and fascinating description of how a city should be. To begin with, Descartes is against gradual growth of cities or societies, as that hampers perfection and prefers these to be planned by a single individual instead. Underlying this account is the need to disinherit the past, dismantle it and start absolutely afresh. This is clearly laid down in Locke’s theory of tabula rasa and man in the state of nature – other philosophical synonyms of this term. Thus, the exit of the premodern is the precondition to the entry of the modern. The beginning of the modern is a disinfected and sharply demarcated public space with clearly laid down rational rules. This public space allows the private, its interests and preferences, but only to those that strictly conform to the instrumental rationality and nothing outside it. There is a homogeneous relation between public and private within modernity. Anything that is private is not allowed, particularly those that belong to the premodern. This arrangement is brilliantly choreographed within the liberalism of both Benthamite and J. S. Mill’s traditions. Mill comes up with the distinction between the public and the private, or the other-regarding and the self-regarding. It is important to remember that the allowing of the private precedes the reducing of actions to utilities. Utilities that give pleasure invariably meet the requirement of measuring through felicific calculus. So, it is not as if liberal utilitarians are first interested in the private sphere, and then offer the utilitarian doctrine – it is, in fact, the other way around.

94  Border The reduction of actions, either private or public, into utilities, ensures that both types of actions, particularly the former, meet the requirement of modern reason. While Mill, contra Bentham, is willing to allow quality to utility, he, however, would not at all concede in any form the premodern. This strict adherence to keeping the premodern outside the boundaries of the modern qualifies them to be the champions of modernity. They made sure that the premodern remains outside. This is why David Hume had to remain outside mainstream utilitarianism, as he had made a case for customary morality. Modernity demands that these draconian decisions be implemented within its boundaries and has largely succeeded within the West.1 It was carried by colonialist advances towards the non-West, where it sought to accomplish the same task but succeeded only partly. There are many in societies, like India, who have exaggerated this with generalisations and have graded the paper while the examination is still on. Interestingly, the dissenters against modernity too have joined the modernists in this procedural lapse. However, unlike in the West, in societies like India, large social and political spaces have remained outside the purview of modernity. Similar to equating the answer sheet with the question paper, or worse, the syllabus, or even the subject, the success of modernity is equated with Indian society. The latter is larger than what is covered by modernity. The physical space of the premodern not only is larger, but has also deceptively eluded the attention of modernity. Seen under the floodlights of modernity, the academic activity in India did not account for those that remained outside these bright lights, nor did it focus attention on activity at the borders. I shall come to the philosophical aspect later in the chapter. In contrast to the clear description by Descartes that I began with, let us look at how Indian society has responded to the canon set by modernity. Let me discuss two versions, one by Tagore, the poet, and the other by sociologist A. M. Shah, to get an idea of the Indian scene. While presenting a critique of the city right at the beginning of his short essay ‘City and Village’, Tagore says: The standard of living in modern civilization has been raised far higher than the average level of our necessity. The strain, which such rise of standard makes us exert, increases in the beginning our physical and mental alertness. The claim upon our energy, again accelerates its growth; and this, in its turn, produces activity that expresses itself by the rising of life’s standard still higher. When this standard attains a degree of great deal above the normal, it encourages the passion of greed. The temptation of inordinately high living, normally confined to a negligibly small section of the

A thin border between the premodern and the modern in India 95 community, becomes widespread. This ever growing burden is sure to prove fatal to any civilization, that puts no restraint on the emulation of the self-indulgent. (1924: 215) In contrast to modern civilisation made available in the cities, villages, says Tagore, are closer to nature. Comparing them to women, he argues: Villages are like women. In their keeping is the cradle of the race. They are nearer to nature than towns; and are therefore in closer touch with the fountain of life. They have the atmosphere which possesses a natural power of healing. It is the function of the village, like that of women, to provide people with their elemental needs, with food and joy, with the simple poetry of life, and with those ceremonies of beauty which the village spontaneously produces and in which she finds delight. But when constant strain is put upon her through the extortionate claim of ambition; when her resources are exploited through the excessive stimulus of temptation, then she becomes poor in life, her mind becomes dull and uncreative; and from her time-honoured position of the wedded partners of the city, she is degraded to that of maid-servant. While, in its turn, the city, in its intense egoism and pride, remains unconscious of the devastation it constantly works upon the very source of its life and health and joy. (1924: 219–20) It must, however, be noted that though the village is a public space, it does not meet the standards of the modern definition of the public space. Here, let us remind ourselves that the ‘village’ has a ‘long age’ in premodern societies and modernity seeks to relegate it to the past, thus terminating its existence in order to enable modernity to make its entry. This sequential relation between the age-old village and city prevents their coexistence and almost makes them mutually exclusive, both spacially and temporally. Going against this canon, in Tagore we have an account of moralising the virtues of the village in the context of highlighting the vices of the city. Keeping aside this moral dimension, what is interesting to me is the assumed underlying relation between the village and the city. The preoccupation with the moral might make us not recognise the social dimensions, which are significant. To begin with, in his account, unlike the mutual exclusion between the village and the city, the former is envisaged as coexisting with the latter. This repudiates the canon set by modernity. Further, there is a moral dimension which can be problematic for the kind of identification he proposes and the comparisons he offers. I would like to focus

96  Border on the social dimension. Having pointed out this contesting variation in Tagore, let me now bring into the discussion his account where he goes one step further and recommends an interesting relation between the village and the city. He says: People, as a whole, do and must live in the village, for it is their natural habitation. But the professions depend upon their special appliances and environment, and therefore barricade themselves with particular purposes, shutting out the greater part of universal nature, which is the cradle of life. The city, in all civilizations, represents this professionalism, – some concentrated purpose of the people. That is to say, people have their home in the villages and their offices in the city. We all know that the office is for serving and enriching the home, and not for banishing it into insignificance. (1924: 222) This makes a case for the coexistence of both village and city. While maintaining a critical gaze on the moral intentions of the author in criticising the city and eulogising the virtues of the village, the use of patriarchal comparisons notwithstanding, this account gives us a different combination. Here, let us note two things. One, Tagore recognises the massive entry of modern consumerist culture that threatens to wipe out the village culture. This is evident when he says that ‘Kuvera . . . represents the multiplication of many whose motive force is greed. . . . But the goddess, Lakshmi, who is the Deity of prosperity, is beautiful. . . . By some ill-luck, Lakshmi has been deprived of her lotus throne in the present age, and Kuvera is worshipped in her place’ (1924: 220). Two, he is making a moral case in favour of the village or a compromise between both. As already indicated, it is these moral aspects that drew the attention of some. Going against the grain, I want to focus on the structural aspect of this combination, namely, the envisaged coexistence of both village and city. While Tagore seems to be worried about the threat to the village by the city, the eminent sociologist A. M. Shah expresses a different worry. He too reports the coexistence of village and city in India, when he says that an ‘important commitment of urbanisation in India is that villages located outside the boundaries of a city get included in it over time’ (2012: 17). This was part of his special address at the IDRC-TTI workshop on rural-urban linkage, at the Institute of Rural Management, Anand, on 21 August 2012; a revised version was later published under the title ‘The Village in the City, the City in the Village’ (2012). The uniqueness of Shah lies in being possibly the first person to capture how cities are located outside the villages. This is important. This is also different from the studies on

A thin border between the premodern and the modern in India 97 villages, on cities in India and those that discussed the movement, perhaps an inevitable one, from the village to the city. For instance, regarding the country-town nexus, Dipankar Gupta points out the discrepancy between the factual domain and the ‘theoretical cum analytical frameworks’. He claims that while the factual domain, that is, villages, are ‘undergoing major changes’ both economically and culturally, in contrast, the ‘conceptual’ level remained largely ‘unchanged’ (2005: 751). This is a good observation, as he contests the conventional binary between stagnant village and changing city. He highlights the movement from the former to the latter. Notwithstanding this departure, Gupta, like the conventional account, assumes the physical distance between village and city in India. While there are villages that are away from cities, most of the cities in India are not away from the villages, but are extensions of the villages. This physical togetherness and coexistence eluded the attention of Gupta. Krishna Kumar presents a similar picture in the context of education, where he shows how village stands for ‘from’ and city for ‘to’ (2014: 39) as most of the migration takes place from village to city. This is a feature of the temporality of moving from one place to another. Also, this one-way movement is absolute. In this context, there is a need to factor in the spacial aspect of cities being together with villages. This togetherness between the village and the city makes the distance, between from and to, too short. It will be similar to that of sending an email to one’s own account, where there is sending and there is receiving but the mail does not move from one place to another. This different totality makes the nature and function of cities in India different from cities in the West. This eludes the attention of both Gupta and Kumar. However, it is important to recognise this as it presents a different relation between the premodern and the modern in India. Unlike Gupta and Kumar, Shah claims that ‘contrary to the general view that urbanisation involves migration of people from the village to the city, it also involves migration of people from city to the village’ (2012: 19). Shah concludes by saying that ‘ . . . there are false images of the relation between the rural and the urban society and, in turn, of Indian society and culture in general. This needs to be corrected’ (2012: 19). This simultaneous coexistence of village and city or town is distinctly different, even opposed, to what Descartes desired. While Shah, the social scientist, takes more than three quarters of a century to realise this aspect of Indian society, Tagore, the artist, articulated it much earlier. Further, while Shah seems to concur with Tagore about the coexistence of two incompatible social spaces, there is a subtle but significant difference between them. Shah reveals some interesting facets where the village seems to threaten the city.

98  Border This is there neither in Tagore, who is preoccupied with the reverse threat, nor in Gupta or Kumar, whose primary concern is migration from village to city. Making a plea for the need to study the ‘impact of these village enclaves on city life’, Shah says: I may mention only one well-known impact. The village cows, buffaloes, donkeys, pigs and other animals roam around the city streets and even arterial roads. They cause traffic jams, and damage cars and other vehicles. Their droppings and urine foul the streets. They attack pedestrians, sometimes resulting in serious injuries and even death. (2012: 18)2 Introducing two other factors – religion and democracy – into the discussion, he says: The problem seems to defy solutions. Cows are sacred and get fed by devout Hindus; they are overfed during festivals. They also eat all kinds of garbage, even waste paper and plastic sheets. The owners of these animals live in the village enclave. They have become a vote bank, and often behave arrogantly, sometimes even violently. They and their animals cannot be removed. (2012: 18) To reinforce his point, he narrates another instance of this intrusion. I may narrate in this context the experience of the Delhi School of Economics (DSE) about the land on which it is located. After this land, belonging to the nearby Chandrawal village, was acquired in 1950 or so, its title was disputed. When I was the director of the DSE in 1973–75, I used to receive summons about it from the court. The peasants of Chandrawal also claimed the grazing rights on this land. They used to bring their cattle for grazing even during the teaching hours. Their women came to cut grass on the open space. After the women had bundled the cut grass, she would ask one of our gardeners to lift the bundle and put it on her head. The woman and the gardener, face to face, exchange giggles. The Chandrawal peasants never allowed us to lock our gates, and threatened to kill our watchmen. The distinguishing teachers and students were experiencing the village in the city. (2012: 18) This graphic account gives us a counter-narrative from the social scientist. The impact of the village on the city – an aspect largely muted in discussions

A thin border between the premodern and the modern in India 99 on the nature of the city or modernity in India – gives us a different picture of the coexistence. Listed along with the one from Tagore, it gives us a contrasting and even a spectacular portrayal of Indian society. This picture, however, eluded the attention of social scientists in India, who are preoccupied with the binary between village and city and the movement from the former to the latter. Shah himself admits this when he says: The architectural, economic, social, cultural and political changes that take place in these village enclaves in cities should be a subject of research. It is easy to dismiss them as slums, but that would be shirking the responsibility of understanding the nature of this increasingly important segment of urban society. More generally, even after a village is included in the city, the problem of rural-urban linkage remains and makes the categories “rural” and “urban” even more fuzzy than we have known them to be for long. (2012: 18) This assessment of the state of affairs in social sciences further explores the reasons behind the apathy in analysing Indian society. One is that they have been preoccupied with the mutually exclusive model and the theories based on it. It is clear from Shah’s account that this has not taken them any further.3 Shah recognises the living reality status of the premodern village, not merely to eliminate it as in Descartes or for fear that it will be eliminated as echoed in Tagore. I am not only referring to the village cluster that Shah refers to, where the village is included after the growth of a city. I am saying that except three or four, all the cities in India are situated just outside the village. To make a slightly different use of Foucault here, the clinic, mental asylum, prison and other such excluded institutions from the premodern in societies like India exist right in the centre of the city, sometimes performing destructive functions like not enabling the growth of cities or dirtying the roads. They also provide an important alternative in an interactive manner, as do the villages in India. For instance, while learning speed and growth from the city, the narrow roads of the village, in turn, teach the city how to go slow. Further, modern town planners, while widening the roads, deface building facades as Laxman did to Surpanaka. The premodern, in turn, seems to react by encroaching on to public spaces, occupying roads for small shops and other such. One of the greatest sites of modern protest against modernity takes place at the site of traffic jams, which significantly occur at traffic signals. This counter provides a radical alternative and psychological comfort. It is this unconscious underlying structural contribution that seems to be at the root of cities craving to be nearer the village.

100  Border This coexistence seems to give rise to a tendency where cities, despite inconveniences and threats, seem to at least unconsciously crave the proximity of the village. They want to be away from village, yet remain next to it. This seems to help the cities overcome their insecurity. It is this psychological necessity that positions them together, forcing an interesting relation between village and city, between the premodern and modern in India that is unprecedented. More importantly, the cities seem to feel insecure without a village nearby, hence their proximity to the village. This is despite the fact that villages do not enable the progress of the city. While modernity seems to wrench out the premodern, the premodern in a subversive way seems to turn itself like a wrong thread of the bolt. This is best exemplified when one watches SUV vehicles forced to move at a snail’s pace on a narrow road, not in a village that is outside the city but in a village that is right inside the city. There is a need to further explore this psychological tendency. These villages are not slums in the cities, but they belong to the premodern that coexists with the modern. The village I am referring to is different from the idea of slum highlighted by Ashis Nandy. Referring to slums, Nandy says: . . . the urban slum consists of people who are uprooted and partially decultured, people who have moved out of traditions and have been forced to loosen their caste and community ties. That does not mean that slum has no access to cultural traditions. Often the resilience of cultures is seen in the most dramatic fashion in the urban slum. Two processes are central to an understanding of this resilience. First, the slum recreates the remembered village in a new guise and resurrects the old community ties in new forms. Even traditional faiths, piety and kinship ties survive in slums, wearing disguises paradoxically supplied by their own massified versions. The slum may even have its version of classicism. It is not what classicism should be according to classicists, but what classicism often is, when bowdlerized and converted into its popular versions for easy digestion and saleability in a market. Second, the slum creates its own culture out of the experiences of the slum itself; out of the close encounters between the different time periods and diverse cultures telescoped into the slum; out of the impact of ‘strange’ communities, ethnicities and world-views on the individual; and out of interactions with the alien world of impersonal institutions that have begun to penetrate even the more sleepy South Asian Communities. (1998: 6–7)

A thin border between the premodern and the modern in India 101 The purpose of highlighting this variance is at a sociological level and not to take a moral or political stand. I do not, for instance, claim that this difference is preferable.4 Elucidating the phenomena should precede the discussion of the problem that arise from the phenomena. The reason for my highlighting this variance is not to advance my preference for it. I find in this variance not virtue but a de facto virtue. There is a possibility, through closer negotiations, to arrive at developments where the difference is converted into a virtue. My purpose here is only to highlight the existence of the variance, and point out that social scientists in India have failed to see what is before them. This observation is corroborated by those like Shah. One of the reasons why they failed to see what is before them is their preoccupation with and training in the theoretical models that brilliantly capture the realities within the West. This is what underlies the public sphere in India. There is a public sphere in the West that excludes the premodern. The exit of the premodern is a prerequisite to the entry of the modern. In contrast, India provides an instance where this modern canon is not adhered to. Rather, it provides a different combination where the public sphere, such as the city, had to coexist with premodern social institutions like villages, as is shown in Tagore and Shah. This is not to ignore the violence the city exercises on the village, as pointed out by Tagore. Extending this, I have argued how this Indian combination reveals some interesting instances that await theorisation. While this complex picture defies the modern canon, social scientists, as confessed by Shah, have failed to see what is before them. The underlying reason for this inability to see the city in conjunction with the village, but instead to see the village and then the city, is not the individual incompetence of those who engage in social theory. Nor is it due only to their fascination for Western theories or the impact of colonialism. There seems to be a larger cultural trait lurking behind this.5 As mentioned right in the beginning, there are two important aspects in Advaita Vedanta. One is to see what is not there, namely, Brahman. The other one is not to see what is there as that is maya or illusion. I have no problem with the first one, whereas the second one is problematic. It is problematic as it disturbs the viewing of the present. While we seem to have rejected Advaita, the underlying aspects, though in a modified sense, seem to have survived. One instance of this survival is not seeing what is before us. So, this disguised form of the Advaita trait seems to be in operation within social theory in India. Rather than seeing this as arising out of Advaita, I would want to claim that Advaita has philosophically captured this cultural trait of Indians. Instead of problematising how Advaita is equated as Indian philosophy and explicating the underlying politics,

102  Border I would like to explore the success of Advaita in its capturing this cultural trait. While most social scientists in India have maintained a safe distance from philosophy, particularly from Indian philosophy, if my argument has some validity then there is a need to revisit these brands of philosophies from the subcontinent to refurbish and revitalise social sciences in India. There is an additional need to read Western philosophy, particularly Descartes, more closely, to understand better what is before us. I want to highlight how social theory in India has delayed realisation, when some of the findings were anticipated much earlier in literature. Social scientists may have to take another look at the need to relate themselves to the literary domains, thereby saving a lot of time. This will enable social theory in India to avoid equating the question paper with the subject. Having highlighted this variance in social reality and elucidated the thin border between the city and the village in India, in the next chapter, I discuss the variance in Indian democracy and those who sustain it. The next chapter moves from discussing the ordering of the premodern and modern institutions in India to the relation between premodern people and modern institutions.

Notes * A modified version of this chapter was published in The Public Sphere from Outside the West, edited by Divya Dwivedi and V. Sanil, by Bloomsbury Publishing, London, 2015, pp. 128–140, as ‘In Search of Suburb: Exploring the Relation between City and Village in India’. 1 Here, I am aware of those claims that show how in post-industrial societies, cities carried many aspects, or remnants or residues from pre-industrial times. See the works of Gideon Sjoberg’s ‘The Post-industrial City’ (1955) and Louis Wirth’s ‘Urbanism as a Way of Life’ (1938). My main focus is not premodern traits within modernity, but structural location of the premodern and modern, and the relation between philosophical claims of modernity and changes in social reality. 2 Like Shah’s reference to the sociology of urination on the streets and their detrimental effect on the life of people, Sudipta Kaviraj refers to the politics of urinating. He reports: An English daily once printed an amusing photograph of a common street scene in Calcutta. It showed a municipal sign proscribing urination with the order ‘Commit no nuisance’, and a row of unconcerned citizens right underneath engaged in this odious form of civil disobedience. . . . There can be some interesting speculation about whether the defiant citizens knew English . . . (2011: 239) What is problematic here is not only the language, but also the implementation of political packages. 3 This feature of cities in India eluded the attention of Kaviraj, while listing three domains of the admixture of the ideas of public and private in the city of Calcutta (2011: 243).

A thin border between the premodern and the modern in India 103 4 Asked in a different context, I might prefer the clarity associated with the Western model of mutual exclusion of the village and the city or the premodern and the modern. This is despite the fact that there is lot of violence associated with this transformation. Further, there is reductionism in this combination. 5 Instead of development, I would like to bring dislocation to the centre of discussion on development and critique of development. Dislocation brings more comprehensive dimensions to the debate and sheds clearer light than development.

6 Modern democracy and premodern people*

Like Descartes in the previous chapter, this chapter begins with another modern philosopher and a liberal, J. S. Mill. Mill set the canon for democracy. He allowed non-literates as participants in the democratic process, but like Descartes, did not permit the premodern to enter it. Similar to that of the previous chapter, this chapter too demonstrates how Indian democracy is sustained by those from the premodern, thereby defying the modern liberal Western canon. I begin by discussing Javeed Alam on the relation between democracy and non-literates in India, before moving on to theoretically capture premodern society and its people. I use the works of Alam Khundmiri, E. M. S. Namboodiripad and Akeel Bilgrami for this purpose. All four had different kinds of relations with the Left movement.

I The data discussed and vast canvas covered in Javeed Alam’s Who Wants Democracy (2004) contains a radical thesis, which he claims is ‘incompatible’ with the liberal doctrine. The data and the canvas covered in his book lays out how Indians succeeded in participating in and delivering decisive electoral judgements. He reports how a new picture of ‘Indian democracy’ began to take shape, while ‘merely’ listening and ‘occasionally’ seeking ‘clarifications’, when the faculty at the Centre for the Study of Developing Societies, Delhi, ‘were excited with the tabulated figures emerging from the cross-polity survey conducted immediately after the 1996 parliamentary elections’ (2004: xv). He says that the picture of India was ‘unlike what [he] had read or heard about from people, and very different from the courses on democracy in India that [he] had taught’. He adds that the picture that was emerging before him was both ‘disturbing’ and ‘fascinating’. It was disturbing because the actual champions of democracy,

Modern democracy and premodern people 105 the literates and the educated section, were moving away from ‘processes that inform democracy in India’. What is surprising, on the other hand, is that those who are considered incapable of comprehending the virtues and desirability of democracy are, in fact, ‘coming to the fore to defend democracy’ (2004: xv). Instead of scuttling the process of democracy, this actually led to democracy having ‘deeper roots over the last fifty years’ (2004: 10). Intriguing and surprising as it might seem, this is backed by data (2004: 10). Reinforcing this process of deepening democracy, he points out that democracy in India seems ‘to have finally become internal to the political consciousness of people’. This form of political governance is no longer an act of faith that is trusted from the outside, but is increasingly becoming ‘a choice made by the people’ (2004: 18). As already pointed out, Alam repeats that the elite, on the contrary, are moving away from democratic practices (2004: 18). Before elaborating on the disturbing aspect of the picture, let me mention how Alam presents a contrast. He says: ‘Here, we have a comparative puzzle. Studies based on cross-polity surveys and other types of similar aggregate data from different parts of the world have very clearly shown that the survival of democracy is negatively related to the persistence of illiteracy, poverty and oppression and related features’ (2004: 28). Extending this puzzle, he further adds, ‘. . . democracy in India survives not despite the illiterate and the poor but due to their pressures for the democratic polity’ (2004: 33). The contrasting picture that India provides, he acknowledges, is incompatible with the experiences outside India. ‘If a software programme on democracy, based on informed notions, were to be created and compared with democracy as viewed in India, the result would be incompatibility’ (2004: 130). This is because ‘Indian democracy presents us with paradoxes, though in relation to its own history, there are no anomalies. It has been successful, following a path of its own. And there has been a huge resurgence of popular aspirations, but curiously, without any change in the old structural mould’ (2004: 130). One of the main reasons for this incompatibility or paradox of the picture of democracy, according to Alam, is ‘the persistence of widespread poverty and mass illiteracy, along with consistency of democratic commitments on the part of the poor’ (2004: 130). In his conclusion, Alam discloses, somewhat abruptly, his discomfort arising from the overlap between theory and reality. Democratic experience in India adds a new dimension to the theories on the subject. Ever since John Stuart Mill, it has been universally assumed that the non-literate and the poor are not equipped to become a part of democratic deliberations (2004: 130). He quotes the exact passage from Mill, who makes literacy a necessary qualification for participating in democratic deliberations: ‘In

106  Border Representative Government, Mill is clear that “universal teaching must precede universal enfranchisement” ’. Making a direct comparison between theoretical positions and the picture of reality before him, Alam says that democracy in India ‘is pronouncedly different from the Western systems and their historical experiences where only normalized and neutralised individual persons in accord with the ideology of individualism have been admitted as legitimate members of the polity, as citizens’ (2004: 131). Thus, there is a difference between democracy in India and in the West. However, I want to argue that democracy in India, which in Alam’s reckoning is different from the West, is not very much so if we closely read Mill’s discussion. Let me discuss the larger passage from Mill from which Alam uses only part of a sentence. Mill does say that it is: . . . wholly inadmissible that any person should participate in the suffrage without being able to read, write, and, I will add, perform the common operations of arithmetic. Justice demands, even when the suffrage does not depend on it, that the means of attaining these elementary acquirements should be within the reach of every person, either gratuitously, or at an expense not exceeding what the poorest who earn their own living can afford. If this were really the case, people would no more think of giving the suffrage to a man who could not read, than of giving it to a child who could not speak; and it would not be society that would exclude him, but his own laziness. When society has not performed its duty, by rendering this amount of instruction accessible to all, there is some hardship in the case, but it is a hardship that ought to be borne. If society has neglected to discharge two solemn obligations, the more important and more fundamental of the two must be fulfilled first: universal teaching must precede universal enfranchisement. No one but those in whom an a priori theory has silenced common sense will maintain that power over others, over the whole community, should be imparted to people who have not acquired the commonest and most essential requisites for taking care of themselves; for pursuing intelligently their own interests, and those of the persons most nearly allied to them. This argument, doubtless, might be pressed further, and made to prove much more. It would be eminently desirable that other things besides reading, writing, and arithmetic could be made necessary to the suffrage; that some knowledge of the conformation of the earth, its natural and political divisions, the elements of general history, and of the history and institutions of their own country, could be required from all electors. (2001: 164–5)

Modern democracy and premodern people 107 So, non-literates are not admitted to vote, thus making literacy a precondition for voting. In his attempt to show how the Indian experience is incompatible both with Mill’s views and the Western experience, Alam does not take into consideration how Mill continues his argument where he dilutes this necessary condition. Mill continues the discussion and says that: . . . these kinds of knowledge, however indispensable to an intelligent use of the suffrage, are not, in this country, nor probably anywhere save in the Northern United States, accessible to the whole people; nor does there exist any trustworthy machinery for ascertaining whether they have been acquired or not. (2001: 165) Though indispensable, it however was not accessible to the entire population, except in Northern United States. Hence, insisting on literacy as a necessary condition for suffrage, though desirable, is not possible. Moreover, insisting on this condition will further ‘lead to partiality, chicanery, and every kind of fraud’ (2001: 165). Thus, he concludes by asserting that it is better that the ‘suffrage should be conferred indiscriminately, or even withheld indiscriminately, than that it should be given to one and withheld from another at the discretion of a public officer’ (2001: 165–6). This, in a significant way, dilutes the earlier stand where literacy is made the precondition to suffrage. The dilution is made at two levels. First, by making literacy not too difficult – Mill says that ‘reading, writing, and calculating’ need not be difficult and it would be easy for: . . . everyone who presented himself for registry that he should, in the presence of the registrar, copy a sentence from an English book, and perform a sum in the rule of three; and to secure, by fixed rules and complete publicity, the honest application of so very simple a test. (2001: 166) At the second level, he makes a significant move by shifting from literacy as a precondition to literacy accompanying universal suffrage. To quote Mill: This condition, therefore, should in all cases accompany universal suffrage; and it would, after a few years, exclude none but those who cared so little for the privilege, that their vote, if given, would not in general be an indication of any real political opinion. (2001: 166)

108  Border There is a significant difference between making something precede and to make it accompany. Preceding is an aspect of sequential temporality and is more rigorous than accompanying. So, in the course of this long discussion, Mill dilutes the initial claims of the argument. However, Alam takes into account only the first part of the argument to claim that the Indian instance of democracy is different from that in the West. If one takes into consideration the subsequent stages of Mill’s discussion, one may not find a difference between the Western and Indian experience of democracy with regard to literacy. However, it is another matter that the Indian experience would not meet other conditions, such as the modern notion of liberty, rights, equality and freedom, which Mill in particular and modernity in general would insist upon as qualification for democracy. Alternatively, modernity will not allow premodern domains within democracy, whereas these are present in Indian democracy. Alam has not clearly distinguished these two kinds of requirements. So, Mill allows non-literates, though not premoderns, to participate in the democratic process. This is evident in the passage from Mill, often quoted by postcolonial writers. Mill, in his On Liberty, says: Despotism is a legitimate mode of government in dealing with barbarians, provided the end be their improvement, and the means justified by actually effecting that end. Liberty, as a principle, has no application to any state of things anterior to the time when mankind have become capable of being improved by free and equal discussion. Until then, there is nothing for them but implicit obedience to an Akbar or a Charlemagne, if they are so fortunate as to find one. (1970: 136) Alternatively, modernity will not allow premodern domains within democracy. However, these are present in Indian democracy. Alam has not clearly distinguished these two kinds of requirements. In the writings of liberals, such as Bentham and J. S. Mill, the obsession with unity that preoccupied Social Contract Philosophers is considerably toned down. However, the fact remains that liberals, given their normative project of individualism and liberty, do not positively promote community difference. It is in this context that George Crowder (1994), in debate with Isaiah Berlin and Bernard Williams (1994), raises the question regarding the relation between liberalism and pluralism. For him, not: . . . only does pluralism provide no support for liberalism, it positively undermines the liberal case, since it is always open to the pluralist to ask, why not the illiberal option? A question arises whether pluralism,

Modern democracy and premodern people 109 far from implying liberalism, is even compatible with the reasoned justification of liberal norms. (1994: 304) The overriding normativity of liberalism, which includes individualism and liberty, is incompatible with the cultural aspects crucial to pluralism. While accepting Crowder’s critique of liberalism, what is important to keep in mind is the brand of pluralism that Crowder is referring to. While he makes a clear case for the illiberal option, he does not make a similar case for opting for the premodern. Despite this, Alam’s thesis of Indian democracy, as falling outside the Western experience, can be further scrutinised by closely reading his reaction to this novel experience. He says that the Indian picture is both fascinating and disturbing. The success of democracy in India by premodern people could be one reason for his feeling disturbed. The people who are ‘deepening democracy’ in India are those from premodern institutions handling modern institutions like democracy. Though fascinating, this is incompatible, paradoxical and deeply disturbing for Alam. A possible reason for this could be the underlying implication, one that unwittingly enforces non-literacy, thereby falling outside modernity which Alam is an uncompromising advocate of. This is despite his ‘radical rejection’ of what he calls in his earlier book ‘entrenched modernity’ (1999). He rejected this dominant version of modernity rooted in Descartes, but declared that this ‘rejection, simultaneously strengthened the belief that modernity is not only irreversible but also desirable’. ‘Central to this belief’, says Alam, is ‘the Hegelian precept that there is no going back in history’ (1999: vii). This prompted him to look for ‘alternative trajectories of modernity’ (1999: vii). He found the version of modernity in Spinoza to Marx acceptable (1999: 16). While the social phenomena he has covered are real, the instance of this reality falls outside the theory he uses. The tension between these two, which can be detected in Alam, is symptomatic of the osculation between the real and the rational. The rational is indomitable in modernity. The emptiness of this exclusive reasoning was clearly and comprehensively felt by Hegel, who undertook the Herculean task of negotiating both the real and the rational. The shadows of these negotiations loom over social theory even now. This has its impact on the practices of social sciences in India, or at least a part of the discipline. In this sense, Alam is like a thermometer for at least some parts of this diverse and massive discipline in, and perhaps also on, India. I have identified the variance between Indian and Western democracy. I have also highlighted the overlap between modern theory and premodern social reality in India, as depicted in Alam. In the next section, I discuss Alam Khundmiri, who began as a Marxist but gradually moved

110  Border towards social reality and away from modern theories that did not capture the complexity of society.

II The tension between the real and the rational is available in Khundmiri, who too had been involved with Marxism. He was a founding member of the Communist Party of Andhra Pradesh. Besides being a serious scholar of Urdu literature, he was a first rank philosopher. His philosophical essays, particularly his essays interpreting Mohammad Iqbal, are exemplary. M. T. Ansari, in his introduction to the edited volume of Khundmiri’s essays Secularism, Islam and Modernity: Selected Essays of Alam Khundmiri (2001), says that ‘his life had three major stations, corresponding to his three primary preoccupations: as one of the founder-members of the Comrades Association, as a lecturer in the department of philosophy, and as a respected and accepted member of the Hyderabadi literati, he was always in the thick of most of the thought and action in Hyderabad’ (2001: 10). Towards the end of his introduction, Ansari reports a ‘re-cited’ incident from his friends: . . . an infuriated Alam [Khundmiri], angry at an angry friend: while travelling in a car, and his friend were inconvenienced by a religious procession with drums and all. To his impatient and irritated friend’s comments bemoaning the fate of the people, Alam [Khundmiri] flared up: Why? Are they not people? What makes you think that they don’t know what they are doing? (2001: 26–7) The idea underlying this conversation is the discounting, if not distortion, of real people through the use of ideology or even one’s own intellectual norms. There is also an underlying inability to distinguish norms from facts. Recognising a social fact does not necessarily amount to or entail enforcing it as a norm. Accepting the success of democracy in India by non-literates need not amount to enforcing it. It is a tendency to conflate these two that one sees more than occasionally in various practices of Indian social theory (for more on this, see Raghuramaraju 2011). In addition to this underlying assumption, Khundmiri is ready to concede autonomy for a religious procession. While his friend is complaining about the procession obstructing his path, Khundmiri dramatically brings to his notice his denying agency to the people who are taking part in the procession. Khundmiri began as a radical Marxist, as a founding member of the Comrades Association in 1939, which was, according to Ansari, ‘disseminating Marxist ideology. It also functioned as a front for the Communist

Modern democracy and premodern people 111 Party of India in its formative phase and was a key factor in starting and intensifying the Marxist movement in Andhra Pradesh’ (Khundmiri 2001: 10). However, despite having deep roots in the left movement, commitment to amelioration of the people and an active role in political struggle, it was his desire to identify with the common man that made him turn away from Marxism. In a way, this is an instance of moving closer to social reality, without necessarily endorsing everything in it. Khundmiri, unlike Alam, is ready to move away from theory to be closer to the people. But this does not necessarily amount to endorsing the views of the people he wants to be close to. It is this reverse shift that is of great interest to me, as all this is happening within the larger ambit of Marxism, to Marxists who form an important section of ideology both on the intellectual terrain and as a political force. Thus, Khundmiri is not saying that his friend is right and those who have taken out the procession are also right, nor is he saying that both are relatively right. He is only pointing out the trespassing of the liberal norm of autonomy by those who are modern. In an existential manner, and not methodologically, he is pointing out the other side of modernity – the universal aspect of modernity and not its provincial side. Should everyone accept what you claim to be the truth, or should everyone be recognised as having truths along with the objective truth? If one accepts the latter, one can then moderate each truth. Khundmiri might be interested in this second version, and may be contesting the first one because of its underlying provincialism. In other words, he seems to point out that modernity is integrating its own standpoint with the neutral one. It is at one stroke claiming its own and the neutral to be the same. Thus, it is an instance of not following the strict rule of academic bureaucracy. So, strictly speaking, the instance of Khundmiri is not the same as the instances in the huge corpus of amazing scholarship in the methodological discussion.1 His voice does not fit into this thickly inhabited area, and it is necessary to recognise its freshness, novelty and radical thesis. One possible way is to accept that it is not rejecting the modern, nor is it endorsing the non-modern or premodern. It is throwing light on the twin aspects of modernity, namely, rationality as an end for everyone and autonomy of every experience. There is a need to focus on this and not leave this instance unattended, or worse, absorb it within the methodological discussion by not recognising the radical thesis. This, in a way, would facilitate a better and, possibly, a different understanding of the Indian experience and the Indian case. I have decided to discuss these four theorists – Alam, Khundmiri and the next two, E. M. S. Namboodiripad and Akeel Bilgrami, who are all closely associated with Marxism and the left movement in India – in order to highlight this radical critique of modernity. In this context, I want to

112  Border foreground the India that is left out, the India that is richly and differently captured by the left.

III Namboodiripad left a remarkable impression both as a politician and as a theoretician. He stunned the world by forming the first elected government run by a communist party anywhere in the world by becoming the Chief Minister of the state of Kerala in southern India. I will confine my discussion here to his work The Mahatma and the Ism, of which all chapters except the last were published as a serial in the monthly journal New Age, during 1955–1956. With ‘necessary revisions and additions’, it was published as a book in 1958. This book is important for two significant academic reasons. One, notwithstanding the ideological commitment of the author, it is perhaps the best assessment of Gandhi that I have come across. Assessment is subtly but significantly different from a descriptive account. It demands a firm, objective, balanced and critical terrain. He relates Gandhi to Marxism, which is important, given that they are positioned so antagonistically to the point of discontinuity. Namboodiripad laid a path that allowed for comparing and contrasting Marxism and Gandhi. The interesting aspect about this oft-neglected book is how Namboodiripad steers clear of the path chosen by many Marxists in India, who think little of Gandhi or dismiss him outright. Namboodiripad, while criticising Gandhi from the left standpoint, highlights his achievements, and moreover, recommends to the Marxists what they can and necessarily need to learn from him. Two, it anticipates subsequent analysis by Partha Chatterjee (1986), who points out how the bourgeoisie made use of the radical critique of Gandhi on modernity. Unlike most of the Marxists who did not think much of Gandhi, Namboodiripad, while maintaining his criticism of Gandhi, however admits or at least concedes the following. He says that the: . . . one point of departure between Gandhi on the one hand, and all other politicians of those days on the other, was that, unlike the latter, Gandhi associated himself with the masses of the people, their lives, problems, sentiments and aspirations. Politics for him was not a matter of high level debate among erudite politicians; it was a matter of selfless servants of the people associating themselves with everything that is of the people. This characteristic feature of Gandhism in action was already visible in the South African struggle in which . . . Gandhi drew inspiration and sustenance from the simple and devoted action of the common people.

Modern democracy and premodern people 113 It was this passion for close association with the common people, this desire to familiarise himself with living conditions and problems of the people, that made Gandhi slowly evolve a technique of political work which was as different from the technique of the ‘extremists’ school as that of the ‘moderate’. (1958: 19) (emphasis in the original) Later, Namboodiripad points out that though Gandhi: . . . did not rouse the people against imperialism, landlordism, and other forms of oppression, he spoke of the miseries of people, the inequality that existed in the country, the necessity of redressing the grievances of people. There was not one section of people whose problems he did not study, whose miserable conditions he did not bring out, for whose comfort and solace he did not plead with his audience. It was this that enabled him to attract the various sections of the poor and downtrodden masses. (1958: 36) Of the two extremes of politics, the high and low, he assigns to Gandhi the latter extreme that enabled him to associate with the ‘people’ and ‘everything that is of the people’. While he associated with the ‘simple’ and ‘common people’, his ‘selfless’ and ‘devoted action’ dictated his politics. Though others too exhibited selflessness and devoted action during this period, what perhaps eluded them was the extreme that Gandhi chose. Gandhi, unlike others, either intuitively or strategically, used his sense of realism, or more specifically social realism, while others were more preoccupied in competing to enrich their resources of idealism along with moral and political principles. It is this aspect of a proportionate balance between realism and idealism that enabled Gandhi’s reach of the common people, coupled with appropriate timing. It is indeed remarkable that Namboodiripad captures this brilliantly like nobody else. While this realism, or a balanced proportion of realism and idealism, enabled Gandhi’s access to the common people, it must however be acknowledged that it was Gopal Krishna Gokhale, the liberal, who suggested to him a tour of India before he could undertake his political programme.2 This helped Gandhi in two ways. One, it provided him an opportunity to make necessary changes to his learning from experiences in South Africa and England. Two, it provided him with an insightful experience of India and its people.

114  Border Namboodiripad recognises a close association between Gandhi and the common people; the contingent relation between being close to people and raising larger problems of economic exploitation; and the difference between immediate real problems and larger economic issues. More specifically, it points out the difference between the particular and even an aggregate of particulars that is alluded to on the one hand, and the general that is bereft of the particular on the other. Along with this distinction, the subtext of these passages reveals an important identification of these concepts. While Gandhi is identified with the former, Marxism in India seems to be identified with the latter. It may not be an exaggeration to assert that Namboodiripad is complaining, reproaching or even chiding the Marxists for not reaching out to the people like Gandhi did. This is despite the fact that they are for the people and that they are radical, unlike Gandhi who is at the most a reactionary reformer. The underlying project of Namboodiripad’s book lies in identifying the failures of Marxism rather than highlighting the success of Gandhi. Namboodiripad’s acknowledgement of Gandhi’s successes is eventually to enrich the Marxist project in India. This is of paramount importance to the author as a practising Marxist and a Marxist politician. Looking at it from this angle would reveal the anxiety behind these statements. There are two ways of viewing this anxiety: to trace the roots of this failure either to the Marxist doctrine or to the practice of Marxism in India. The principal, even underlying, anxiety of Namboodiripad is the failure of the Marxist rhetoric against imperialism or landlordism to draw the attention of the people. Gandhi stands out in stark contrast with his success in identifying himself with the common people and their suffering, across the country. I shall come to the idea of suffering a little later. I now raise a larger theoretical issue regarding the relation between concepts and explanations of reality by these concepts. Let us look at the relation between Marx’s use of class and his explanation of society. Most often, the relation is taken to be a necessary or an indispensable one. While reading Marx or Marxists, one gets the feeling that the idea of class is fundamental to Marx. There are several instances where, despite the allegation that he has used class in different senses, he gives the impression that class is the most crucial concept, an invariant idea, without which one cannot understand society. Seen through this prism, one feels overwhelmed at times, and tends to view class as a foundational or even an ontological category. However, seen from another point of view, particularly the varying and at times loose ways of using class, it does give the impression that the idea of class undergoes variations in describing or explaining different stages of society across history. Not only do classes get modified, transformed and realigned, but they also get obscured and

Modern democracy and premodern people 115 evanesce in the process of history. So, class is neither invariant nor everlasting.3 Class in Marx is not an analytical category that can be used as an axiom, but a descriptive tool that may be put to different uses. In this point of view, the concept of class is less rigorous than what has been accorded to it in subsequent discussions. Thus, one can perhaps see that there is a contingent relation between class and social explanation. Assuming that there is a society which has no classes, one need not – rather should not – use class to explain that society. Obviously, Marx would not – or should not – insist that one should use the category of class to describe his own utopian idea of classless society. So, class must be used as an analytical tool to explain societies having classes. By the same logic, at least hypothetically, it need not be used to explain a society that has no classes. It is this logical argumentation that follows from his own use of class, which he seems to have not followed, particularly while explaining Asian societies.4 So, I would say that one of the great contributions of Marx has been to present realistic explanations of societies rather than idealistic accounts that deflect one’s attention, moving social theory closer to fiction. The latter can greatly compromise a radical project of social change aimed at minimising, and eventually eradicating exploitation and removing human suffering. Following Marx’s commitment to social realism is to admit the variance between Indian society and the society that Marx had before him, namely, the capitalist Western society. There has been some discussion on the idea or phenomenon of class in capitalist societies and the idea of caste in Indian society. Most of the time, however, the discussion is twisted and in a way broken, by looking at the variance and invariance between Indian and Western societies. While there are some who argue that there is no variance, some others do see variance between Indian and Western societies. For instance, Western society is a class society, in the sense that it has clearly laid-down classes, whereas in India the non-class variable too plays an important role. Instead of focussing attention on class, it may therefore be useful to look at it from the perspective of Marx’s concern for social realism. What is more important for Marx is social realism, with which he was taking on the idealists of his time. The idealists were interested in examining not real society, but the idealisation of it, which took their account closer to fiction and away from reality. Marx’s agenda seemed to be to reject these prevalent idealist schools of thinking. He appears to be using class as an analytical tool. In treating it as a tool – and by bringing in another variable, namely, social realism, into the discussion, the focus shifts from class, achieving a better account of social reality. In this changed configuration, concepts such as class become tools to analyse social reality. I want to locate the concerns of the two Marxists, Khundmiri and Namboodiripad,

116  Border in this context. I think the problem they seem to face has to do with the changed social scenario, while dealing with concrete issues. It is in this context that they find people like Iqbal, in the case of Khundmiri (2001), and Gandhi, in the case of Namboodiripad (1958), lending more credence to the aspirations of people in India. The other issue that has a bearing on Alam is his ambivalence that the successful contribution of Indian voters has to do with the larger issue of Marxism. For Marx, people from the premodern will disappear with the passage of time. In contrast, for Gandhi, these are real people who may change but may not necessarily disappear with the time. Alternatively, these common people may move, even move away, but not radically change or even disinherit their past. Conceding that Marx is right about change, specifically historical changes, I would like to critically scrutinise his idea of time. There is a marked difference between time that is past, which he brilliantly explained post facto, and time in the future. I think that while time in the past tense is a long duration or durée in the Bergsonian sense, there are two limitations in regard to his use of time in the future tense. His understanding of time in the future is abbreviated, the act of abbreviation mediated through the strategy of controlling various stages of time. He also tends to use a deterministic sense of time. His abbreviated and deterministic account of time with regard to the future is at variance with his understanding of time in the past tense. If he treated future time like he treated the past, then perhaps he would have, like Gandhi, acknowledged that these ordinary people are not going to disappear soon, though they may eventually disappear. But this will not happen immediately or deterministically. The eventual may not be immediate, nor can it be definitely predicted. For Gandhi, these ordinary people, including those who are premodern, are a part of living ways of life. For Marx, on the contrary, their way of life is a transitory one. In the ongoing march of history, they move from one station to another, driven by historical forces and processes. Their life is not static for Gandhi either. It does change, but gradually and less deterministically. The change is more with respect to incorporation, assimilation and selection than swayed by the outside. They do move, but not necessarily away from the circle of their daily ‘recurrent’ path. They are largely people whose life has less of Wi-Fi. With marginal impact, these people possess a strong core. Given this difference at the sociological level between two kinds of people – those belonging to the modern West and India – there are two ways of looking at the lives of these ordinary people by Marx and Gandhi. Unless we distinguish the variance at the sociological level, we are unlikely to capture the significance of the difference at the hermeneutical level. Fundamentally, there are two notions of time in operation: a transitory notion of time and an absolute notion of time. While Marx seems to

Modern democracy and premodern people 117 operate with the first version, Gandhi deploys the second. This appears to be another discomfort faced by the two later Marxists, Khundmiri and Namboodiripad, while practising Marxism in India. While Marx seems to have used class as an analytical tool that is best suited to modern Western society, Gandhi seems to have used it only partially. But Marxists in India, who did not distinguish between Marx’s concern for a realistic account of social reality and his use of class as a handy analytical tool to achieve it, seem to have conflated the two. The resultant complexity can be traced to this conflation. I have argued elsewhere that this sociological fact is more significant than normative preference (Raghuramaraju 2011). Marx’s primary concern is social realism. He found class to be a suitable category to capture the reality better, thus making it an explanatory tool. In a changed scenario, for instance, when it comes to understanding Indian society which is still primarily agrarian and only witnessing the beginning of capitalism, if the social realism of Marx remains important, then, rather than viewing it through the lens of class, it may be more effective to look at it through categories other than class, to arrive at a realistic picture.

IV Let me now return to Namboodiripad’s use of Gandhi. As I have already explained, his main interest in his book is not Gandhi, but Marxism. On closer scrutiny, one can detect that the aspect Namboodiripad refers to while discussing Gandhi’s success with the common people from different walks of life, is their suffering. But one could ask: Does Gandhi identify these people only with their suffering? This is a necessary identification for a Marxist who totalises exploitation. Does Gandhi too inhabit this terrain? The underlying assumption behind Namboodiripad’s portrayal of Gandhi’s success is his ability to understand and identify with the common masses. I find this to be problematic. In order to highlight this. I need to bring into the discussion a fourth thinker, Akeel Bilgrami. To return to Gandhi, he is preoccupied with truth. To repeat Gandhi’s declaration that he is prepared to compromise on non-violence but never on truth, he says: By instinct I have been truthful, but not non-violent . . . I put the former in the first place and the latter in the second place. For, as [a Jain muni put it] I was capable of sacrificing non-violence for the sake of truth. In fact, it was in the course of my pursuit of truth that I discovered non-violence. (1950: 3)

118  Border There are two points here. Gandhi is obsessed with truth and he has succeeded in understanding the masses. Inadvertently at least, there is a danger in assuming that the masses speak only truth. Alternatively, if the masses speak not only truth but also non-truth, then one might ask whether Gandhi can understand them. The category of truth may not sufficiently understand the reality that has both truth and non-truth or untruth. Let me narrate an incident from my village. Way back in 1980, one of the nationalised banks was asked by the government to give loans to farmers. A bank official came to our drought-prone village, Sri Bommarajupuram in the Chittoor District of Andhra Pradesh, and disbursed loans to 10 families for the purchase of Ongole cows. This breed of cow feeds on more than 40 kilogrammes of green grass a day, besides other things. While six of the families did not purchase a cow, the other four who did had a horrible experience trying to feed the cows with large quantities of green grass. The same bank official came to the village six months later for a routine inspection. He reached the village by 11 in the morning. The farmers, one by one, took him on foot to where their cows were. It was almost four in the evening by the time he had inspected five cows. The official asked whether the other cows were there, to which the villagers nodded their heads and insisted that he inspect them. He told them he had full faith in them. The smart farmers who had moved the same cow to different sites by another route noted that he had certified that all 10 cows had been inspected. I am narrating this incident to highlight the cognitive capacity of the villagers and not to portray them as bad, nor to celebrate immorality. Here, I would like to use a subtle distinction made by Bilgrami between the cognitive and the moral. He says that a liar knows more about truth than the truth-teller. To quote: There is a palpable mistake in collapsing the cognitive value of truth into the moral value of truth-telling, a mistake evident in the fact that somebody who fails to truth can, in doing so, still value truth. That is to say, the liar often values truth and often values it greatly, and precisely because he does so, he wants to conceal it or invent it. The liar indeed has a moral failing in that he disvalues truth-telling, but he still values truth, and what he values in doing so therefore cannot be a moral value. . . . To put it very schematically and crudely, truth has to be a more abstract value than a moral value because both the (moral) truth-teller and the (immoral) liar share it. (2006: 263) So, a liar too values truth even though he is not a truth-teller. It should follow that along with the truth-teller, a liar also possesses the desire and the

Modern democracy and premodern people 119 capacity to know truth. In pointing this out, Bilgrami makes us recognise values, and the exercise of certain cognitive capacities to pursue that value in a liar. This he does without morally endorsing the telling of lies. So, a lie, though not morally acceptable, nevertheless presupposes cognitive value and capacity. Taking the discussion a little further, I would like to add that the common people of India possess the capacity to tell both the truth and a lie. Gandhi is preoccupied with truth. Namboodiripad claims that unlike Marxists in India, Gandhi succeeded in relating to the common people. While agreeing with Namboodiripad, I however want to point out that given Gandhi’s preoccupation with truth and the common people’s dual capacity for truthtelling and telling lies, his understanding of these people can have its limitations. This limitation is due to his not taking seriously the act of telling a lie, especially as this vice acquires a renewed status in Bilgrami’s argument. Without rejecting Namboodiripad’s claim about Gandhi, I would like to consider it as similar to Plato’s definition of wisdom. Wisdom, Plato says in his dialogue Republic, is the right belief grounded on immediate knowledge of the meaning of goodness in all its forms. For Plato, wisdom is still a belief and not a form of reflected knowledge. He distinguishes between immediate and reflected knowledge and relegates wisdom to the domain of nonreflected knowledge that is closer to belief. So, Gandhi’s understanding of the villagers or common people in India is not an account of knowledge, nor is it incorrect. It is a right belief, an intuition, grounded on immediate knowledge. This experience Gandhi gained from his tour of India. (For the Buddhist origins of this mode of understanding empirical India and merely meditating on transcendental truth of the Upanishads type by Samkara and Vivekananda, see Raghuramaraju 2013.) So, Gandhi’s knowledge of the common people is similar to the idea of wisdom in Plato.5 This level of engagement with Indian society and its people takes us away – as is the case with the thinkers we have discussed above – from preestablished theories or even ideologies, and into the lives of people. Here, it is necessary to recognise that these people are less governed by the vagaries of time, as is perhaps the case with those in the West. It is the space that dominates their lives. They move, sometimes move away, but are not governed by linear movement. In moving away, they get swayed by the outside. This is also due to the limitations, and even oppression, by the inside. There are also instances where these non-literate people do not know how to deal with encroachments from the outside, as with farmers being given bank loans from the outside. What is further evident is that they become agents of differently receiving the outside, in this case, the bank. We will not be able to understand them if we see in the past tense what is occurring at the present time.

120  Border This chapter highlighted how the self from the premodern contributed to the functioning of modern institutions like democracy in India. The previous chapter highlighted the overlapping between the modern and the premodern in Indian society, thus widening the gap between them, unlike a clearly demarcated border between the modern and the premodern in the West. The next chapter discusses another important aspect of Indian society, namely, discussion of caste in a Kannada newspaper.

Notes * This chapter was published in Marx, Gandhi and Modernity: Essays Presented to Javeed Alam, edited by Akeel Bilgrami, 2014, pp. 267–81, Tulika, New Delhi, as ‘Ideology and Social Reality’. 1 Methodological relativism or pluralism is a second-order strategy to accomplish this huge task. The core problem is to synthesise the rational with the real. The other combinations that have been tried in this process are rationality in the plural and the real; or rationality in plural and the real in plural. The problem persists, but what is noteworthy is its challenging nature. 2 I find it difficult to understand how someone like Gokhale, who is branded a liberal, suggested to Gandhi the need to tour premodern India. I do not find anyone in the West who is liberal and makes a similar suggestion. Either we need to understand liberalism differently in India, or there is something amiss with this branding. In this context, I also find myself treating Ambedkar as modern when he turns towards Buddhism. There seems to be a tendency in the modern times to classify these figures in precasted categories, where these are locked tightly but a significant part of the body dangles outside. 3 For different notions of class and its varying uses, see Ollman (1968). 4 There is an interesting explanation, an innovative and superb example of creative imagination in social theory by Sudipta Kaviraj (unpublished), where he defends Marx’s interpretation of the Asiatic mode of production. He suggests that rather than taking his interpretation of the Asiatic mode of production to be a positivistic social explanation of Asian societies, one should see it as seeking an imaginary opposite of the capitalist society that the West then was. While admitting the hermeneutic richness of this interpretation, I would, instead, appeal to extend ideas from Marx’s own writing rather than impose external contrasts (1988: 7). 5 Given this, there is a need to look further at Bilgrami’s thesis where he projects Gandhi as providing examples. The nearness or distance between Gandhi and the masses needs to be looked at differently in configuring him as an exemplar.

7 Social space and time Calibrating radical ideals in a reformist model

Chapters 2 and 3 of Part I discussed how the colonised self dealt with the other, thus highlighting the activities at the border. In this context, I have pointed out the cognitive capacity of the self in dealing with the other at the border, particularly given its own predicament of being under the impact of colonialism. The next chapter discussed how two colonised subjects engaged in a serious and intense debate, thus revealing the cognitive capacity to discuss their internal affairs. Moving away from the individuals, Chapters 5 and 6 turned towards Indian social reality, highlighting how the premodern and the modern coexist in India; how most of the modern cities are extensions of premodern villages; and how modern democracy is sustained and maintained not by the modern educated elite but by those from the premodern. It is evident from the above discussion that the picture in front of us in India is neither that of a premodern society nor that of a modern one. It is somewhere in-between, where the modern and the premodern are engaged in a tug of war of sorts. First, there is a need to identify the simultaneous existence of these two incompatible social realms, which are not only in constant interaction, marginally assimilating and co-opting, but also resisting and combating each other. In the process of combating, the direction of the pull and push is important to determine which side is gaining ground. However, what is also equally, if not more, important is the duration of this combat. The modernist seems to have past tensed a present continuation, as is evident from the policies and the extent of their importing models from the modern West. To return to the notion of duration, this chapter discusses one of the aspects of duration with reference to social change. In this context, this chapter engages with Gopal Guru and Sundar Sarukkai’s paper ‘Publicly Talking about Caste: A Report on Jâtisamvâda in Prajavâni’ (2014). While identifying the various subtexts that work as scaffoldings for Guru and Sarukkai’s narration, I make some extensions and ultimately use the academic context and the resources they have ingeniously facilitated, to make an additional point at the boundaries of their

122  Border text. Thus, in this chapter, I highlight how one can claim much more than what Guru and Sarukkai have, how certain things that they have highlighted can be extended and how I would like to add some more using their infrastructure. The paper reports a sustained discussion on an important social issue and evil practice in India, namely, caste and the practice of untouchability. This discussion takes place in Prajavâni, a bhasha newspaper in Kannada. There are several important subtexts that form the scaffolding of the narration. These remain invisible and implicit. I will highlight them to reinforce the point made. The first part of the paper reports a debate that took place in the Kannada newspaper. This forms a bridge of communication between the two languages, between a bhasha spoken in one state of India and English. This is significant as it is the bhashas that form the cultural federalism of India. Often, what happens in one region may remain unknown to the others, even to neighbouring regions.1 In addition, this may not even be known to a large section of English readers both within and outside India. This reporting is an attempt to enable those outside the Kannada readership to access what has happened in Kannada regarding an important topic in India. As a reader, I will highlight a subtext in the nature of this narrative. I do this especially because the authors have left it implicit and there is a need to make it explicit. At the outset, let me mention the distinction between understanding something, rejecting something and understanding something, to reject it gradually. For both Socrates and Upanishads, knowledge consisted in knowing what is already there in each one. So, knowing is not knowing something new but discovering what is already there. The purpose of philosophy in these schools is to enable discovery of the universals, for instance, Forms in the case of Socrates and Plato and Brahman in the case of Upanishads. It is in this context that Socrates assigned to philosophers the role of the midwife. Modernity in the West rejected the premodern and proposed a mutual exclusion between the modern and the premodern. This, as already discussed in the earlier chapters, is clearly available in Descartes, who executes this programme through a novel logic of exclusion, excluding everything from the premodern. The situation in modern India is different from these two approaches. This chapter discusses the different nature of understanding that calls for paying attention to other factors such as time and procedures. I elaborate on this by discussing Guru and Sarukkai’s report, which aims to work at the level of a complex maze. One aspect of this operation is that while retaining the autonomy of activities at the bhasha realm, it traverses English and possibly other bhashas as well. The nature of this relation, particularly the elevated parts, is significant and should not remain invisible.

Social space and time: calibrating radical ideals in a reformist model  123 I highlighted this aspect, because by its very nature this report – on the complexity of caste and the extensive debate on the subject – tends to draw the attention of social scientists in India. While the message is clear, the scaffolding on which this message rests is important, too. Without highlighting the underlying scaffolding, the reporting in its present form makes it easy for social scientists to respond by referring to the field studies undertaken by social sciences on caste in India, particularly the village studies undertaken at the instance of Ford Foundation for their own internal requirements. In an interesting essay, Babu C. T. Sunil (2013) locates the origin of studies on villages in India to the British leaving India subsequent to Independence. He says, ‘When south Asian countries were under the British colonial power, the US was not able to enter into these countries’ (2013: 114). Then, he adds another interesting point, ‘Once the south Asian countries achieved independence, and China was closed off by the ascendency of communists, American interest shifted from China to south Asia’ (2013: 114). Sunil claims that this is the ‘political context when the Ford Foundation entered south Asia’ (2013: 115). He argues: In short, the village studies in different areas brought a clear-cut picture of Indian villages that was needed for the Ford Foundation and the US. From the Chinese experience, the US realised that the Asian villages were the cradle of communism. Thus, major agenda behind the sentimental approach towards India by the Ford Foundation and the US was nothing more than an attempt to resist the spread of communist in Asia because they considered India as the major or the strategic location in south Asia. (2013: 117) Thus, he relates village studies in India to the ‘academic outcome of the Ford Foundation and the US agenda of putting in place a “rural development programme” to stall peasant revolt in the Indian villages’ (2013: 117). The initiative undertaken by Guru and Sarukkai can be seen as radically different from the present pervasive works on village studies. The radical posture can be located in shifting focus from the methodology that is surrounded by the Ford Foundation ideology to regional and local concerns, voices and representation. This initiative can be seen as making contingent the relation between village studies and Ford Foundation, and establishing the relation between village and local concerns.2 It can further complicate and highlight the complexity of the phenomenon of caste by holding the debate in Indian languages, in this case, Kannada. Holding the debate in Kannada or in any other bhasha is important as it is the medium, or more

124  Border importantly the terrain, where most of the reality of caste is lived, experienced, expressed, formulated, sustained, maintained and endured. So, discussing caste at the bhasha level has more direct impact than a debate in English, despite the fact that extent and availability of liberal space is more in English. However, it has to follow the trickle-down effect to reach the site of oppression, and that indeed is a long and arduous route. Given this, the language factor enormously complicates the issue and leaves the preparedness of social science research in India wanting. This goes beyond what is claimed in the report in drawing the attention of social scientists, their responses and the available archives. It can be said that instead of field studies on caste that highlight important aspects of this social phenomenon, we can see how these accounts and debates from the regions can validate or contest them in turn. Following the trajectory initiated by Guru and Sarukkai,3 we can undertake initiatives where works written in English on Indian themes and society can be validated by those from the bhashas. For example, writings on thinkers like Swami Vivekananda, Sri Aurobindo, Mahatma Gandhi, Bharat Ratna B. R. Ambedkar and Mohamad Iqbal, by contemporary thinkers like Ashis Nandy, Partha Chatterjee, D. R. Nagraj, Alam Khundmiri and others can be validated by scholars from various bhashas in India. For instance, a Bengali scholar’s take on Nandy’s interpretation of Aurobindo or Chatterjee’s depiction of Gandhi by a Gujarati or even a Telugu scholar will give us better evaluation of these thinkers and their English interlocutors. This can provide a different, rich, interesting and productive engagement that has far-reaching implications in enriching the contemporary discipline in and on India.4 In a way, the report by these two sensitive scholars belonging to two different disciplines – political theory and philosophy – largely belongs to the realm of furthering the present understanding of caste. I have pointed out more than they have claimed in the report. While discussing limitations surrounding issues like caste in English, it is necessary, however, to admit the serious drawbacks, even failures, in post-Independent India, to discuss these problems at the regional level and that of the bhashas. This is more so, given the strong presence of both region and bhasha in India. Here, let me make two other related points. One, there is an interesting relation between caste and hierarchy. Caste is one aspect of hierarchy. So, rejecting caste may or may not be tantamount to rejecting hierarchy, as the latter has other aspects in addition to caste. For instance, there is hierarchy between literates and non-literates within modern society that is based on principles of equality. The relation between caste and hierarchy is the relation between part and the whole. Keeping this in mind, we need to clearly state whether one is against caste or against hierarchy. Otherwise, this can

Social space and time: calibrating radical ideals in a reformist model  125 lead to confusion or misunderstanding, and more important, even to consequences not intended originally. For instance, while critiquing caste, one is using arguments from equality. So, this can be seen as contesting or rejecting hierarchy along with caste. There is another reason. Even if we accept that one is contesting not only caste, but also hierarchy, based on its opposite, equality, we still need to address the question of what is the idea of equality that is being used. Is it a liberal notion of equality, of giving equal opportunities prospectively or demanding equality retrospectively? Or is it the Marxist critique of equality that rejects the liberal idea of equality, according to which, in an unequal society, giving equal opportunity eventually leads to promoting inequality? These are questions that go beyond caste and bring other issues like gender and class into the discussion. The other important point is that caste in India is inhabited by the circular notion of time. Sociologists like M. N. Srinivas and historians like Romila Thapar brilliantly repudiated the colonial characterisation of Indian society as stagnant. Srinivas demonstrated the upward mobility in the form of sanskritisation. Thapar explicated the underlying political interest of colonial scholarship that depicts Indian society as ‘unchanging’. There is a subtle problem here. In contesting stagnation, they have highlighted the changing aspect of Indian society. So, change contested stagnation. However, change is one aspect of circularity or the circular notion of time. Alternatively, in repudiating the allegation about stagnation, these social scientists highlighted the opposite of stagnation, namely, change. Away from these oppositional necessities, there is a need to recognise that caste is imbricated in the circular notion of time. Circularity does not necessarily remain stagnant; it moves, though without moving away. Even when it moves away, it does not break the circularity – only its location. For instance, those who were living in villages may continue the village habits and pattern, even after they have moved away to a town or city. It is the linear notion of time that breaks the circular notion. However, the linear notion of time still retains order and conformity. In fact, the order in the linear notion is more rigid than in the circular. In the circular, one can deviate and get back without losing much. Those that deviate in the linear model lose substantially and may have to put in extra effort to compensate for what was lost. Freedom from circularity does not mean avoiding order in the linear notion of time.5 Further, most premodern institutions like villages have a structure where individuals do not make fundamental choices. The individuals in the premodern communities are something like what Alasdair MacIntyre describes as ‘man-as-he-happens-to-be’. People belonging to first-order communities are qualitatively different from those who form communities through contract. Choice is the basis of contract. Pre-choice is the

126  Border foundation for premodern communities. All these underlying subtexts need to be unpacked and excavated, to comprehend the complexity of the problem of caste. Having highlighted the scaffolding on which the above report rests, I will now make use of the context and academic infrastructure provided by Guru and Sarukkai to bring into the discussion a crucial idea that seems to have larger implications. Let me at the outset point out that this is not confined only to the discussion of this report, but is relevant even outside of it. This is to do with the concept of time and procedures. While further understanding the nature of caste is of significant importance, there is something that needs to follow this understanding, in order to remove these evils. It is true that we have not made much headway or the progress has not matched up to the expectation, in removing these social evils. Apart from reasons that have been covered in the debate in Prajavâni and also outside it by several people, what is not explicitly kept in mind is fixing a time frame to remove these social evils. This is particularly important as there is a difference between modern Western experience and the Indian experience. This difference is not at a normative or political level of borrowing or not borrowing, desirability of borrowing or irrelevancy of borrowing, but is at a sociological level. Let me explain this. To reiterate the point made earlier, modernity in the West clearly and ruthlessly disinherited the premodern. While modernity of a liberal version allows dissent between or amongst two or more views, they will not allow realities from the premodern within the domain of modernity. They disinherited the premodern in instituting the modern. Descartes, the father of modernity, clearly formulated this when he embarked on his novel logic of exclusion of the premodern from the modern. He excludes through the criterion of certainty all that is non-cognitive – which consists of everything that is given, the entire past. Modern self, therefore, is purely and exclusively a cognitive self. Within the modern theories, the non-cognitive comes to be constructed as the ‘other’ to be excluded. Further, hoisting the flag of modernity that embodies cogito, reason and certainty, Descartes embarks on excluding the following: childhood (as it is the domain governed by appetite and teachers rather than reason – the latter he identifies as the domain of adults) (1985: 117), language (1985: 113), history (to him, the past is like travelling which takes us away from the present), oratory, poetry (poetry is the ‘gift of mind rather than fruits of study’ (1985: 114)), moral writings of pagans (1985: 114), customs and evolutionary growth of societies (he rejects gradual growth of societies) (1985: 116). He even rejects classical logic and mathematics, as they are ‘mixed up with’ all sorts of things (1985: 119–20). These are aspects that Descartes excluded from part of the premodern Western social reality.

Social space and time: calibrating radical ideals in a reformist model  127 Further, as already quoted in the first chapter, Descartes excludes from the modern everything from the premodern. The modern West largely inhabits this mainstream canon. Let me brand this an exclusive and radical model of society. Modern Indian society is different from this radical model. Like the radical model, it has modern ideas and institutions, but unlike the radical model, Indian society also contains within itself several aspects from the premodern. Given this social fact and the nature of time and space, the model of Indian society may be branded a reformist one.6 The nature of this model is related to the temporal aspect of simultaneity between the premodern and the modern. This, in turn, forces us to pay careful attention to the notion of time. There is a consensus amongst both radicals and reformists regarding the depth and extent of social evils. Corruption is a new item in this basket. These evils are neither superficial nor infrequent. These can be dispensed with in a radical model of society, where the past and the premodern have been disinherited. But the Indian model is different, and hence cannot easily execute this. The simultaneous existence of the modern and the premodern forces us to embrace the reformist path, where the notion of time is different from the Western notion of sequential time. This, in turn, does not allow radical attempts to remove the premodern and at most permits a radical revisit. For instance, in addition to other modern Indian thinkers, Ambedkar does not reject the premodern but revisits Buddhism. One way of tracing Ambedkar’s attempt that I construe as a radical revisiting is through the following analysis. To make a different use of Gokhale here, as mentioned earlier, it was Gokhale, who despite being a liberal suggested that Gandhi undertake a tour of India before embarking on his political programme. This prompted Gandhi to revisit and consolidate what he had learnt from his experiences in South Africa and England and in India. The tour also enabled him to gain a positive insight into India and its people. The remarkable aspect of Gokhale’s recommendation is that it placed Gandhi on the path trodden earlier – first by Adi Samkara, and then Swami Vivekananda. Gandhi discarded the saffron garb of Vivekananda, took up white from Sri Aurobindo, combined it with homespun khadi and set out on a political pilgrimage. This form of pilgrimage owes its roots to Buddha, and is quite different from a spiritual retreat into the forest to meditate on transcendental truths prevalent during his time, the path often chosen by rishis. Gokhale was instrumental in guiding Gandhi on to this ancient path. Samkara emulated this path initiated by the Buddha while Ambedkar undertook a radical revisiting of it. The availability and coexistence of the premodern makes or forces the modern in India to be confined to revisits, or at most radical revisits, of the premodern. This distinguishes the modern in India from the West. The

128  Border variance, however, should not deter us from borrowing or accepting ideas and values from the modern West. Rather, we can see in this instance how what is borrowed from the outside is put to domestic use resulting in something different. Given the extent of these problems, we have to pause and reflect on how much time we need to eradicate them, or more importantly, what should be the time frame to accomplish this. Considered from this viewpoint, sitting in dharnas, demanding immediate and instant solutions, will not accrue long-term results. On the contrary, these attempts will seem unrealistic and will facilitate the evil moving, often surreptitiously, from one domain to the other. This is very aptly captured in the debate and covered in the report when Guru and Sarukkai say, we: . . . have specific examples of discrimination based on caste [that] allows us to gauge the dynamics around caste. For example, the discussion on caste in cities was an important indicator of the kinds of experiences which people from different castes faced. In particular, the information about gated communities are now strongly and publicly becoming what we can call as ‘casted-communities’ is an important one in the context of understanding the dynamics of caste in urban areas today. (2014: 29) The surreptitious migration of this phenomenon is not only due to the lack of understanding, as forcefully pointed out in the report. One reason is the simultaneous existence of both the premodern and the modern in India, unlike in the Western radical model. Indian society, therefore, cannot mechanically follow solutions from the West. Instead, Indians need to identify a different temporality and a different notion of time that is related to the reformist model. This calls for not only reflecting on the nature and extent of the problem and enlarging our understanding of it, as suggested in the report, but also focussing on the temporal dimension involved. How much time will it take to remove it, as it will not disappear immediately, unlike in the radical model of society? There is a difference between showing seriousness about the issue and protesting and demanding its immediate removal. While endorsing the former, I am vary of the latter.7 This difference can cost the well-intended politics of dissent dearly. This may be the reason why Ambedkar did not render Dalits to modernity but inhabited them in Buddhism. Further, this may be the underlying reason for him to take 27 years between his decision to leave Hinduism and embrace Buddhism (also see Raghuramaraju 2011). There is a need to recognise the use and operation of fundamental concepts like time, space and causality in understanding Indian society. There is a difference between understanding

Social space and time: calibrating radical ideals in a reformist model  129 something, rejecting something and understanding something to eventually reject or remove it. This distinction calls for the need to have a sociological account of conservative social reality for the better success of social change in a reformist model. In addition, we need to have a better and different understanding of time and be diligent about evolving methods and formulating clear procedures, even if it takes time, in order to eradicate social evils. Without this, there is the danger of radicalism inadvertently lapsing into miracles. Laying down realistic procedures governed by causality will help distinguish miracles that are non-causal from radicalism. In my reading, this aspect is closely and perhaps causally related to the present failure of removing it, or is behind the phenomenon of migrating into new domains surreptitiously. This feature of time, along with the complex idea of space that underlies Guru and Sarukkai’s report, can enable us to understand Indian society better. So, a mere understanding of social evil in the West is enough, as they rejected their premodern which contained the evil; in contrast, given the coexistence of both the modern and the premodern in India, we need to, in addition to understanding the evil, evolve procedures to remove it. In this response, I have attempted to highlight the nature of the subtexts that act like scaffoldings. Additionally, I have used the academic infrastructure made available by Guru and Sarukkai in their report, to draw attention to the importance of the concept of time in dealing with social evils in the Indian society. Cities, democracy and the radical model of society in the West represent, even replicate, a Cartesian model that excludes everything from the premodern. In contrast, these ideas in India seek to coexist with, if not be sustained by, the premodern. It is necessary to understand this difference, which is possible only if we factor in the relation and the nature of modernity in the West and identify the overlaps, particularly at the borders between the modern and the premodern in India. Further, there is a need to critically scrutinise this difference and identify the positive and negative aspects. The first two chapters of Part II discussed the overlap between the premodern and the modern in Indian society, and the last chapter highlighted the need to pay more attention to calibrate the extended areas of evil and the projected ideals. In this context, it highlighted how there is a need to pay more attention to the notion of time, laying down procedures that lend pragmatism to accomplishing desirable results and achieving goals.

Notes 1 Unfortunately, this is despite the establishment of institutions like Sahitya Akademi to provide linkages amongst different Bhashas in India.

130  Border 2 There is a deep difference between works translated into other languages, like Plato into English or into Telugu or from Kannada to Tamil, and books on subjects that belong to one region or language in another language. For instance, writing in English on a topic like caste, which is largely expressed in bhashas. 3 Let me make a clarification here by way of providing a background to the relation between the two authors of this report. Gopal Guru belongs to the social sciences, political theory to be more specific, and was earlier responding to three essays by other social scientists, two of them from political theory. These are Partha Chatterjee (2002), Peter de Souza (2002) and Ramachandra Guha (2001). The discussion was about the crisis in social sciences in India. To the best of my knowledge, till Sarukkai the philosopher responded to Guru, there was no response to him from within the social sciences. This could, among a myriad other possibilities, mean that they agree with Guru’s allegations. Social science scholars need to reflect, self-reflect on this silence or state the follow-up action, if they agree with Guru’s reading of the much-debated crisis in social sciences in India. It is in this context that one finds a philosopher like Sarukkai initiating a larger debate by responding first to Guru. This is followed by a response from M. S. S. Pandian (2008) and by me (Raghuramaraju 2010) to Guru. So, this is not merely a debate between two scholars, but also between two disciplines. More importantly, it is a philosopher who initiated a larger debate on an important text that for few years remained without response. The debate between Guru and Sarukkai published in EPW has now become the much-discussed book The Cracked Mirror. This is the background to the present debate. In this context, I want to point out another radical departure that surrounds the discussion in Prajavâni in The Cracked Mirror. 4 This is the idea behind the translation project that I edit, Porugununchi Telugu Loki: Charcha Kosam, Vimarsha Kosam (From the Neighbours into Telugu: for Debate and Criticism) published by Emesco. This series plans to publish books on contemporary India, translating them from English and other Indian languages into Telugu. Inaugurated by Ashis Nandy, this project is focussed on eliciting a critical response from the bhashas towards works in English and other Indian languages. This activity of translating one bhasha to another and into English also demands a competence in one or more languages. Just like a field study requires the researcher to live with a community, this requires the knowledge of another bhasha to develop deeper research. The knowledge of other bhashas can enable debate and discussion in that language, thereby retaining the autonomy and enriching the plot. This can further open up interesting avenues in both directions. The additional capacity can provide rational ways of opening the boundaries of social science towards the literatures and the arts. 5 To make better sense of the difference between circular and linear, let us bring in another distinction. There is a subtle difference between eating food served in a traditional Indian home and eating at a buffet. In the case of the former, one does not always choose the food that one eats; someone else does, depending on the availability and desirability. The choice and freedom to eat is considerably less, in this case. One is also served on the ground. In contrast, a buffet gives one a lot of choice, but this also comes with additional responsibility. First, one has to know what is available, what is to be served or more importantly, what not to serve. One also has to strike the right balance between how much is transferred from the table to the plate and how much to eat. In this process, one should avoid eating either too much or too little. All this calls for knowledge

Social space and time: calibrating radical ideals in a reformist model  131 and experience, without which the choice associated with this form of eating is in vain or can result in disaster. There is an additional task of holding the plate in the hand simultaneously. So, linearity comes with additional demands, which must be kept in mind. 6 Yet another difference at the sociological level between Indian and Western society is that technology has had far more impact on Indian society than science. This is in contrast to the scene in the West, where the impact of science is equal to if not more than that of technology. This has serious implications on social processes in India. 7 In this context, let me discuss a recent movement against corruption to highlight the disproportion between the extent of the problem and the spectrum of solution. The Aam Aadmi Party (AAP) brought corruption to the centre stage of Indian politics. The AAP has awakened the Indian public eye to acknowledge what is in front of them. The underlying subtext of this gaze is that it made people realise that they can handle this social evil, and even acknowledge the capacity to remove it. Thus, the capability, particularly the ability for action, has contributed substantially to this new sight. With this axiom in place, it is time to move on to more nuanced internal details. There is a fracture between the claimed quantum of corruption by AAP and the symbol they project as an instrument to clean it. The solution falls short of the extent of the problem. If corruption is as rampant as claimed, then the broom – AAP’s symbol – is a weak dusting tool to completely rid the nation of it. It is as futile as treating cancer with paracetamol (for more on this, see Raghuramaraju 2014).

Conclusion

This book began by laying bare the format of a debate, using it to highlight the ideas of the self, the other and the border; referred to different relations between self and the other in the postcolonial discussion; and recalled two incidents that played a fundamental role in the lives of Vivekananda and Gandhi, both involving a timely trigger in the form of an outsider. These outsiders were instrumental in turning Vivekananda’s attention to Ramakrishna Paramahamsa and Gandhi’s to the Gita. I also have discussed two important layers in a debate between Tagore and Gandhi, a thick personal bond and ideological differences that govern the format of a debate. Taking a cue from this, I examined the subject philosophy as located at the borders of the inside and the outside. The border should be neither too thin nor too thick, more like a parapet. So, the role of philosophy is to mediate between the outside and the inside. Most philosophers, in both India and the West, seem to have performed this task brilliantly, be it Plato, Aristotle, Augustine or Aquinas from the West, or Buddha, Samkara and the most recent ones like Vivekananda, Gandhi and others from India. With this perspective on philosophy, I located both modern Indian thinkers and society at the borders of both the inside and the outside. To this task at the border, I have added another by introducing a distinction between rejecting the outside and receiving the inside after rejecting the outside, to locate the ingenuity of Gandhi and others. While rejecting the other is governed by political correctness, receiving the inside after rejecting the outside involves ethical responsibility. The ingenuity of modern Indian thinkers thus lies in their activity at the border. Operating at the border is a delicate task, and requires a different cognitive capacity: capacity to know one self, to know the other and more importantly, to calibrate the self and the other. This calibration is larger than translating the texts and ideas as one needs to factor in different contexts. It also involves tilting, sometimes more towards the inside and at other times more towards the outside, resisting and not yielding. There is

Conclusion 133 a need to assess the performance of the thinkers at the border, particularly to understand the lesser-known aspects of these well-known writers. In this context, I have made a claim for building academic scaffoldings to convert writers from India into authors in the modern sense of the term. By establishing this philosophical platform, I have highlighted the overlapping between Western and Indian societies. Recognising the continuity between village and city will throw a better light on understanding the difference in this instance from India. The recognition of this difference will make us realise that we need to formulate different solutions to deal with this Indian situation. Similarly, I have highlighted how the radical thinkers from the left have, in different degrees, recognised the variance in Indian society. This is evident in Alam’s reluctant realisation that, unlike in the West, democracy in India is sustained by non-literates; in Khundmiri’s moving away from theory to be nearer to the people; in Namboodiripad’s crediting Gandhi for expressing the aspirations of the common people; and finally, in Bilgrami’s distinction between truth-telling and the liar, the need to recognise the cognitive competence of the common people of India. The next chapter uses the academic infrastructure, made available by Guru and Sarukkai, to highlight the need to discuss social evils like untouchability in the bhasha realm. Thus, in Part II, I have covered the institution of the village in a unique conjunction with the city in India, explored how common people have sustained modern institutions like democracy and then having set the stage at a sociological level, discussed the nature of social evil in Indian society as curated by Guru and Sarukkai. Modern Indian writers like Vivekananda and Gandhi, discussed in Chapters 2 and 3, respectively, made a positive use of the other who is an outsider and returned to rejuvenate their own social spaces and contributed to the anti-colonial struggle. In contrast, the academic scholars like Bhattacharyya, discussed in Chapter 1, relapse into obscure nativism or remain either unclear or inconsistent in formulating the idea of svaraj. Similarly, social theorists, discussed in chapters in Part II, show how they have not been able to capture the complexity of Indian society. Their scholarship, which largely consist of Western scholarship, did not enable them to see what Indian society is in front of them, that is, while Bhattacharyya relapses into nativism, the social theorists allowed themselves to be swayed by the outside. Both, belonging to Indian academia, failed to effectively negotiate the border which is handled by modern Indian writers in an ingenious manner. In this work, I have tried to bring in a different definition of philosophy –­ philosophy as located at the border, read modern Indian society and modern Indian philosophers from this philosophical perspective, and in the process highlighted the overlapping. In addition to depicting other as an oppressor, I tried to emphasise how the other can be an enabler. One can

134  Conclusion also try to see the other as a guest, as a midwife in the Socratic sense or even as a teacher who sets tough questions to bring into actuality the potentialities in their pupil. The overall interaction between the premodern and the modern in India is complex, extensive and a continuous process. It is similar to that of activity in the deep seas; or in the sun; or at the micro-levels of life. Kurukshetra may not have been such a big war, though it is made out to be an epic by the poet Vyasa, while two wars in the 20th century where only two or three continents participated are known as the World Wars. What is in front of us is an epic reality that awaits an epic writer to capture its complexities.

References

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Index

Adi Samkara 2 Advaita 26, 28, 51, 85, 92, 101, 102 agnosticism 25 ahimsā (non-violence) 41, 56, 59 Alam, Javeed 7, 104 – 6, 108, 109 Ambedkar, B. R. 33, 61, 74 Andrews, C. F. 28 Annihilation of Caste: The Annotated Critical Edition (Ambedkar) 33 Ansari, M. T. 110 apoha theory of knowledge 3 Aquinas, Thomas 27 Aristotle 15, 21, 23 Aurobindo, Sri 28, 32, 50, 61, 76 Banarsidass, Motilal 11 Basham, A. L. 28, 42, 58 – 60, 71 Belur Math 37 Berlin, Isaiah 108 Bhagavad Gita 56 – 75 bhashas 7, 122 – 4, 133 Bhattacharya, Sabyasachi 79, 84 Bhattacharyya, Gopinath 11 Bhattacharyya, Kalidas 12, 33 Bhattacharyya, Krishna Chandra 1, 11 – 31, 50 Bhatt, Shamal 59 Bhave, Vinoba 61 Bilgrami, Akeel 7, 50, 104, 117 – 19 Brahman 63, 92 Brahmanism 40, 48, 51 Brahma Sutras 61 Brahmoism 45 Brown, Judith 3 – 4 Buddhism 3, 40 Buddhist nirvana 80

Chāndogya Upaniṣad 42 Chatterjee, Bankim Chandra 61 Chatterjee, Partha 35, 112 Christianity 38, 41, 42, 45, 59 classicism 100 cognitive capacity 132 colonialism 28, 29, 32, 33, 43, 51, 52, 54, 101 colonised self 76 – 87 ‘The Concept of Philosophy’ 24 corruption 127 Crowder, George 108 cultural slavery 16 Dakshineshwar temple 37 Dalmia, Vrinda 44 Dasgupta, Probal 12 democratic polity 105 Desai, Mahadev 83 Descartes 92 – 4, 97, 99, 102, 104, 109, 127 Deshpande, S. S. 12 divine consciousness 24 Dummet, Michael 33 Dutta, Bhupendranath 53 empirical thought (ET) 25, 26 entrenched modernity (1999) 109 European Enlightenment 41 fanaticism 13 Fanon, Frantz 1, 3 Foucault 3, 39, 99 freedom struggle 4, 57, 58, 61 French Revolution 4

142 Index Gandhi, Gopalkrishna 35 Gandhi, Harilal 74 Gandhi is Gone: Who Will Guide Us Now? (2007) 35 Gandhi, M. K. 1, 12, 30, 34, 50, 56 – 87; ingenuity 4; ingenuity of 60, 73; non-violence 5 Gandhi, Ramchandra 12, 50 Goel, Dharmendra 13 Gokhale, Gopal Krishna 113, 127 The Great Indian Novel (Tharoor) 76 Grotius 18 Gupta, Dipankar 97 Guru, Gopal 7, 121, 124, 126, 128, 129 Hacker, Paul 41 – 3, 51, 59, 72 Halbfass, W. 42 Hegel 21 – 3, 41, 109 Hind Svaraj 12 Hinduism 36 – 8, 47, 51, 59 Hindu–Muslim polarisation 57 Hume, David 22 Indian National Congress 57 Indian Philosophical Quarterly (1984) 12 indigenous culture 17 individualism 106 inequality (IE) 15 Iqbal, Mohammad 110 Jainism 56, 57 Jâtisamvâda 121 Jinnah, Mohammed 74 Kant, I. 12, 24, 25, 27 Kautilya 49 Kelkar, Ashok 13 Kelkar, Ravindra 79 Khundmiri, Alam 7, 50, 104, 109 – 11, 117 Killingley, Dermont 43 Kothari, Rajini 13 Krishna Chandra Memorial Volume (1958) 12 Krishna, Daya 32 Kumar, Krishna 97 liberalism 93, 108, 109 Locke, John 52

maha atma, concept of 77 Mahabharata 68 – 70, 76 The Mahatma and the Ism 112 Malkani, G. R. 12 manual labour 59 Marxism 110, 111, 114, 117 Marx, Karl 12 Mehta, J. L. 50 metaphysical entity 24 Mill, J. S. 42, 104 – 8 Mimāṃsā systems 40 modern democracy 104 – 20 modernity 13, 63, 94, 122 modern self 126 Mohanty, Jitendranath 12 Moitra, S. K. 12 moral sensibility 62 Mueller, Max 28 mukti 48, 80, 85 Mullick, Mohini 13 Mundaka Upanishad 21 Murti, T. R. V. 12 Namboodiripad, E. M. S. 7, 104, 112 – 14, 117, 119 Nandy, Ashis 34, 38, 40, 79, 100 Nationalist Thought and the Colonial World: A Derivative Discourse? (1986) 35 native self 18 neo-Hinduism 41, 42 nishkamakarma 66 non-cognitive knowledge 27 non-cooperation 80 ‘non-Indian’ moral value 59 non-violence 56, 57, 64 – 7, 72, 73 non-violent campaigns 4 Oberoi, J. P. S. 13 Olson, Carl 34 On Liberty (Mill) 108 Orientalism (1979) 43 parakaya pravesam 82 Paramahamsa, Ramakrishna 32 – 55 Parekh, Bhikhu 82 Patwari, Ranchhodlal 72 Plato 119, 122 political governance 105 political radicalism 14 political transformation 21 postcolonialism 1

Index  143 Prabhu, R. K. 79 prachannabuddha 48 Prajavâni (Kannada newspaper) 7 Prasad, Rajendra 13 premodern and modern India 91 – 103 premodern people 104 – 20 The Principle of Modern KantInterpretations 12 ‘Publicly Talking about Caste: A Report on Jâtisamvâda in Prajavâni’ (2014) 121 pure objective thought (POT) 25, 26 Puri, Bindu 79 puritanism 51 Pūrva systems 39 Radhakrishnan, S. 39, 40, 61 radical ideals 121 – 31 radicalism 129 rajas 66 Ramakrishna-Vivekananda tradition 37 Ramayana 76 Rao, Raghavendra 13 Raychaudhuri, Tapan 33, 44 reformist model 121 – 31 Rig Veda 20, 21 Rolland, Romain 84, 85 Rousseau, J. J. 14, 15, 22 Roy, Arundhati 33, 34 Roy, Rammohan 38, 81 Ryle, Gilbert 35 Sacred Books of the East (Mueller) 28 sadhana 57 Said, Edward 1, 3, 43 Sāṃkhya system 39 Saran, A. K. 12 Sarkar, Sumit 34, 36, 37, 49 Sarukkai, Sundar 7, 121, 124, 126, 128, 129 sastras 64 satkaryavada 15 sattva 66 sattvic person 71 ‘Schopenhauer and Hindu Ethics’ (Hacker) 41 Secularism, Islam and Modernity: Selected Essays of Alam Khundmiri (2001) 110

self-consciousness 44 self-knowledge 24, 27 self-subsistence 26 Sen, Amartya 79 Sen, Amiya P. 33 Shah, A. M. 6, 92, 94, 96, 98, 99 Shah, K. J. 12, 79 Sharma, Jyotirmaya 34 Shastras 62 Sil, Narasingha 34, 37 slavery 13, 19, 20, 29; consequence of 17; of spirit 1, 11 – 31 Social Contract (Rousseau) 18 social reality 126 social space 121 – 31 Socrates 122 Songs of the Creation 21 Soni, Jayendra 56 Spengler, Oswald 43 spiritual thought (ST) 25 Srinivas, M. N. 125 Strauss, Leo 43, 44 Sudras 62, 63 Sunil, Babu C. T. 123 surface deterioration 32 Sūyogada 56 svaraj 1, 6, 11 – 31, 54, 76 – 87, 91 ‘Svaraj in Ideas’ 11 Swadeshi 80 Tagore, Gurudev Rabindranath 76 – 87, 92 tamas 66 tat tvamasi 42 Thapar, Romila 125 Tharoor, Shashi 76 ‘The Concept of Philosophy’ 27, 28 theoretical essentialism 51 “The Pyramid vs. the Ocean Circle” (1946) 33 Tilak, Balgangadhar 61 transcendental thought (TT) 25 – 6 truth 64, 72, 73 Truth Called Them Differently (Tagore) 77, 78 ultimate truth of soul 79 universalism 36 unthinking conservatism 16

144 Index Upanishads 2, 21, 50, 51, 118, 122 utilitarianism 93, 94 Vaisyas 62, 63 Vedas 62, 63 violence 64, 66, 67 Visva-Bharati Quarterly 11 Vivekananda, Swami 1, 28, 32 – 55, 61 Vyasas 69, 76

war politics 5 Western feminism 59 Western modernity 52 Who Wants Democracy (2004) 104 Williams, Bernard 108 The Wonder That Was India (Basham) 28 Young India 67