Swati Chopra's Blog: Woman of Spirit, Woman of Words

As I understand it, a ritual is the formulaic doing of something, the performance of an act, which might have religious, social, or cultural significance. It is usually nested within a larger tradition that is linked with the life of a community, and in many Asian contexts would have been sustained over centuries, through direct transmission from one generation to the next. The rituals that cluster within the collective memory of a community might be for them crucial markers of their identity. They are signifiers of their ‘way of life’, and might also become ‘the way things are’. Incidentally, to my ears, ‘ritual’ carries an echo of the Sanskrit term rta – ‘that which is’.

India’s ancient culture continues to inform our present. I should say many ancient cultures, with their rituals, memories and nuances, which have thrived on a common civilisational bedrock. Those born into Sanatan Dharma – ‘the eternal way’ – can trace not just rituals and rites of passage, but also social practices, attitudes and perspectives, across the ocean of time to circa 1500 BCE, when the Vedas were being composed in the Himalayas and along the banks of the sacred rivers of the subcontinent.

Ancient cultures often make the mistake of ignoring the spirit of a ritual while clinging to its form, thinking that it is what is important in terms of preserving their culture. In reality, this hollows out the culture by taking away its most important aspect – the wisdom, the realisation of a truth, which was what led to the formation of the ritual to commemorate or remember it.

Remembering the spirit of tradition can help us innovate with the form and transform it into something that is meaningful for us today. For instance, ancient rituals that considered the relationship between human beings and nature sacred meant that nature was not exploited. This would be one area where one would wish to revive the memory of sacredness, where rivers were goddesses, and forests and mountains were abodes of spirits and deities. One needs to rediscover the attitude that saw the sacred in stones and animals, in rocks and rivers, where every particle, every being, had the spark of the divine.

At a time when India is rushing headlong into a culture of consumerist materialism, there is also a need to revisit our traditional lifestyles that had inbuilt in them a low carbon footprint, consumption that was need-based and not greed-based, and an ethic of taking only as much as was needed. It took its core from spiritual values, where frugality and simplicity were encouraged and actively cultivated. In the spirit of innovating with tradition, there is much in India that needs to be rejuvenated today.

Every December, on the day of the full moon, an Indian ancestress is celebrated inSri Lanka. She is Sanghamitra, daughter of Emperor Ashoka, who along with her brother, Mahendra, helped establish the Buddha dharma here in the third century BC. She is also revered as the one who brought a branch of the original Bodhi tree, under which the Buddha attained enlightenment, and which continues to be a powerful sacred presence in ordinary people’s lives even today.

On Sanghamitra Poya (‘poya’ is a full moon day), on 10 December this year, there is a festive atmosphere in Anuradhapura. Multitudes dressed predominantly in white arrive from far and near. They camp in the lawns of the ancient city, circumambulate its magnificent stupas, and bathe in its manmade tanks. The high-point of the day is a visit to the Bodhi tree, reverentially called ‘Sri Mahabodhi’, as if it were a deity in its own right.

That feeling grows as one steps onto the path that leads up to the tree. People carry flowers, coconuts, incense, and lengths of cloth to offer to Sri Mahabodhi. The crowd intensifies as one enters the compound that houses the tree, and one spots people sitting on the ground, in groups or alone, reciting mantras or simply praying.

The tree itself is cordoned off from the ‘general public’, and officiating monks scurry up and down the steps leading to it with devotees’ offerings. The larger tree in the enclosure is an offshoot of Sanghamitra’s tree, which one can still spot behind, distinguished by its lighter bark, as if whitened by age. In popular culture, Sanghamitra is always shown holding the sacred branch and it is in this context she is referred to on this day dedicated to her, as the loudspeakers come on and eminent monks take to the microphone.

Another branch that Sanghamitra brought with her was that of the nuns’ sangha, and along with it the opportunity for women to step outside patriarchal roles designated for them and into the spiritual freedom of the renunciate’s life. This branch withered away, unlike the Bodhi tree, and disappeared for a thousand years until its revival in recent times. At the Sri Mahabodhi, this renaissance is evident in the presence of several women in robes. Though not full-fledged nuns, they have taken for themselves the option of an alternative to worldly life, one that can be as liberating as it can be difficult to pursue.

In their courage in choosing this solitary path, not supported in the same way as monks’ organisations in this predominantly Buddhist country, these women keep alive Sanghamitra’s pioneering spirit. In their attempt to forge their own spiritual destinies, they appear to be true inheritors of Sanghamitra’s legacy.

India today seems to be in a fevered rush to embrace uninhibited consumerism and mindless materialism. Evidence of this is all around us – in the lifestyles we aspire to, what we value in our lives, and the ideals we pass on to our children.

I wouldn’t say spiritual values have been lost entirely. But there are signs of erosion, most evident in the loss of balance between the four aspects of life – dharma (ethical living), artha (wealth creation), kama (pursuit of pleasure), and moksha (liberation spirituality). Each had its place in the matrix of life, which is no longer the case, with artha assuming precedence over everything else.

A spiritual-cultural blueprint for the ‘good life’ exists in India, one that is in accordance with nature’s values of co-operation rather than competition, nurture rather than consumption, of taking only that which is needed and nothing more. We need to remember it today, not only because it makes spiritual sense in terms of cutting out the ‘noise’ of grasping, but because the earth cannot continue to sustain lifestyles that burden its resources.

‘Eco-literacy’ has a deeper meaning than merely information about the earth’s ecology. Scientist and philosopher Fritjof Capra defines it as “forming of networks, sharing resources, cycling matter continuously, using solar energy to drive the ecological cycles, developing diversity to assure resilience, forming networks nesting within networks, and so on”. In this complex, non-linear web of life, in which everything is interdependent and matter moves in cycles, no single variable can be maximised. In fact, maximising a single variable is defined by scientists as the ecological understanding of stress.

Our pre-globalisation way of life, still alive in parts of the country, had much of this holistic wisdom woven into it. Informed by the principles of integration, frugality and balanced living, it was an eco-literate lifestyle where all constituent variables were optimised, not maximised. According to it, the ‘good life’ was a balanced, mindful, meaningful, healthy life.

Individual wellbeing was assured through an ayurvedic cuisine that linked properties of food, seasonal variations and methods of cooking with individual constitutions, and yogic disciplines regulated physical, emotional and spiritual well-being. Principles of frugality required not wasting, and reusing rather than throwing away.

The emphasis was on balancing, not maximising, the variables of one’s life. Santosh dhan (‘wealth of contentment’) was cherished over material wealth, explicated in this couplet by Kabir, ‘Sai utna dijiye, ja mein kutumb samaye, / Main bhi bhookha na rahoon, sadhu na bhookha jaye.’ (Lord, give me only as much as is needed to feed my family, / May I not go hungry, and neither the sadhu who comes to my door.)

We may not be able to replicate this lifestyle exactly as it once was, in a pre-industrial, agrarian society. What we can do is not forget this ancient wisdom, and rethink and re-imagine it in our contexts. A new blueprint is needed to meet the needs of our times, and it must have woven into it this valuable understanding of life.
Women Awakened: Stories of Contemporary Spirituality in India

Sheikha Cemalnur Sargut is a rare woman Sufi master who speaks candidly about her experiences on the path. SWATI CHOPRA met her in Istanbul, at the Turkish Women’s Cultural Association office of which Sheikha is president.

Swati: What, according to you, is the path of the Sufi?

Sheikha: For me, to be a Sufi can be explained with an example given by my teacher. ‘I have two types of eyeglasses. The first for seeing things that are near, the second for those that are far. Being a Sufi means wearing both magnifications simultaneously.’ When you are dealing with worldly matters, you simultaneously know that you are in front of Allah. Whoever you are dealing with, you know you are dealing with Allah.

In this state, you don’t see suffering as suffering, but as honey. In Turkish, bela is suffering and bal is honey. The words sound the same.

The word ishq, which is deep love for Allah, is compared with the love between Majnu and Laila. Majnu worked for Laila’s father. Once, Laila was serving food. When it was Majnu’s turn, she pushed his plate away. Majnu was ecstatic. Others asked him, ‘You say Laila loves you. Why did she not serve you?’ Majnu said, ‘Would she treat me like everybody else?’

Swati: You are saying, transform the way we look at suffering?

Sheikha: Anything that comes from Allah is like a letter. In Medina recently, in front of the Prophet, I was praying for everybody. In the end, I remembered my son and prayed for a baby for him. Just then, I was pushed hard. I felt as if the Prophet was telling me, ‘You are in front of me. Why are you thinking of your son?’ I can’t tell you how happy I felt, like Majnu. I know He does not want to give me to anybody else. If you realise that suffering comes from love, then it is like a letter, to say ‘hello’ to you.

I cannot love Allah; He can love me. I can understand that He loves me, and I can feel love.

Swati: Our love can only be a reflection of His love?

Sheikha: Yes. At the time of Qayamat (apocalypse), each of us will be asked, ‘Who owns everything in this world?’ If you know that everything belongs to Allah, then you have died before you have died. The Quran says that the owner of jannat or paradise is Ridwan, ‘contentment’. So, if you accept whatever Allah gives you, you are in paradise. And when you say anything belongs to me, you are in hell. You have nothing.

Grasping is a psychological state comparable to hell. Is this also in terms of people and relationships?

In the Dars-e Masnavi by Mevlana Jalaluddin Rumi, there is a beautiful story. Prophet Nuh (Noah) was building his ark, but his son did not support him. Nuh turned to Allah, ‘Why doesn’t my son believe me? Isn’t he my son?’
Allah responded, ‘Why is he your son? I only gave him to you for one lifetime, in which your job was to teach him to love me. Love him, but he is not your son.’ If you understand this, it is a beautiful life!

Swati: How can we turn on that switch of awakening?

Sheikha: We need a murshid or teacher. Without our murshid, we are nothing. We must surrender before our murshid, be without nefs, ego.

Swati: Do we find the teacher, or does the teacher find us?

Sheikha: The teacher will find us. In a story from the Masnavi, one fish says to another, ‘There must be a sea somewhere. Everybody is talking about it.’ The other fish says, ‘Let’s ask the murshid.’ When they go to the murshid, they are told, ‘Everywhere is the sea! There is nothing but the sea.’

The first quality of a murshid is that they must practise in their daily lives the moral values given by Prophet Mohammad. What the teacher speaks is not important. It is how she lives that is important.

The murshid has to live in the world and the after-world in this world. If you are living in this world, then you should not leave it and go and think about Allah. You should live this life and the hereafter separately. Also, the teacher must take you to Allah, not to himself.

Swati: When did you decide to dedicate yourself to the spiritual path?

Sheikha: I fell in love with my teacher when I was four, in a dream. Later, I became interested in philosophy. It was the worst time of my life. I asked my mother, ‘Why do they never live what they say?’ I saw what Nietzsche and Schopenhauer wrote, but they were not happy. My mother gave me the Masnavi, and I came to Mevlana (Rumi). My life changed. I was 19.

Before you reach Allah, you must annihilate yourself before your sheikh or teacher. We have a word for this, which means ‘melting in your sheikh’. You don’t exist. Then, the sheikh supports your journey to the Prophet.

At first, you might think you know the Prophet, but you don’t. You realise that the Prophet is there always, but because of your ego, you cannot really see him. When I understood this, I fell in love with the Prophet. I began to learn about him. Then, I realised there is no Prophet, only Allah. Then, you go to Allah. You begin to see Him everywhere. Even when you are alone, you are aware of this.

The term“awakening” has long been used to denote the experience of spiritual realisation — of self, reality, God, emptiness. It has been described as a point of transition, where a limited way of seeing and being is altered because of an immense opening up that happens in one’s consciousness.

Conditioning, barriers, perceptions — filters and masks through which one normally responds to the world — are knocked off and consequently whatever one experiences feels raw, direct, deep and true. Distinctions between self and the other and self and the world cease to exist, leading to a profound experience of interconnectedness. There are no thoughts in the conventional sense. Whatever arises naturally subsides without causing the mind to ripple after it. There is peace and stillness, and often, bliss.

The analogy of death is often used to describe an awakening. For the “old” way of being dies forever, one is no longer who one used to be in the moment before the awakening. Something dies so that something new can arise. In the case of awakening, it is the blinkered, afflicted self that dies, even as one is born anew into a radically changed way of experiencing oneself and the world. In some cases, this “death” seems to become mirrored in the individual’s body through physical pain and a loss of control. The mind, shorn of the crutches it used to manoeuvre its way through the world, appears to have collapsed. Mystics have at times been mistaken for madmen simply because they are liberated of the conditioning and social graces with which we “sleepers” operate.

Herein lies a dilemma for the awakened one. How to integrate their awakening with their worldly lives? For, the transformation of awakening appears to be so total that there is no going back to what one was prior to it. It is as if one’s eyes have been blown open and one can never go to sleep, to unknowing, again. Some find the balance in taking on the responsibility of sharing their journeys with others, becoming gurus and teachers. Others might continue to live everyday lives, their awakening informing every aspect of their being and conduct.

What about awakening itself? Is it like a thunderbolt, direct and immediate, or is it gradual? On close examination, one finds that it is really a process, a river that unfolds and undulates through the individual’s experiences. The actual realisation might occur in a flash, but often it is part of a process that includes questioning, perhaps working with a teacher, or self-study, and chipping away at emotional and mental blocks.

Even if an initial awakening happens through a thump on the heart or the activation of the point between the brows by a master, it often needs to be backed up with inner work. At times, the awakening might happen in stages, spread over a period of time, assisted by circumstances and teachers. And while the ultimate realisation might be similar, the paths through which people have arrived to it are myriad and many-hued, as varied as humankind itself.

Women Awakened: Stories of Contemporary Spirituality in India

In a recent statement, the Dalai Lama has attempted to demystify the seemingly esoteric system of reincarnate lamas in Tibetan Buddhism. Here is a look at the system’s spiritual roots, and why the Dalai Lamas of Tibet might soon become a part of history.

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“I am held to be the reincarnation of each of the previous thirteen Dalai Lamas of Tibet, who are in turn considered to be manifestations of…the Bodhisattva of Compassion… I am often asked whether I truly believe this…when I consider my experiences during this present life, and given my Buddhist beliefs, I have no difficulty accepting that I am spiritually connected both to the thirteen previous Dalai Lamas…and to the Buddha himself.”
– Tenzin Gyatso, the 14th Dalai Lama of Tibet

Reincarnation in Tibet is not only a matter of religious belief. It has struck deep roots in its lived culture and led to a unique system of spiritual leadership most popularly exemplified by the Dalai Lama. Eminent teachers of Tibetan Buddhism are believed to re-enter the world upon death, in fresh bodies, to carry on their work. In a statement released on 24 September 2011, the Dalai Lama explains this phenomenon, “There are two ways in which someone can take rebirth: under the sway of karma and destructive emotions, and rebirth through the power of compassion and prayer.”

Conscious Rebirth

The ‘conscious reincarnations’, called tulkus, are identified through an elaborate process that includes clues left by the predecessor, divination, a search among plausible children taking into account auspicious events at birth, and an examination of selected candidates through signs such as familiarity with the deceased’s belongings and attendants.

The recognised child, usually three or four at this time, is installed in his predecessor’s position with much celebration. Then begins a rigorous course of study – training in spiritual disciplines, scriptures, philosophy and practices particular to the lineage. Once the tulku matures in age and understanding, he takes over the responsibilities of his predecessor.

It might be argued that any child put through a couple of decades of concentrated spiritual training will grow into a wiser human being. While this may be so, little tulkus usually display a keen aptitude for scriptural study, metaphysics and meditation, as also equanimity, balance and quality of concentration not common in other children of their age.

The Dalai Lama, who has an abiding interest in modern science, has said that he is willing to consider scientific proof that debunks reincarnation but that until then he would continue to believe in it. He has talked about his tutor, Ling Rinpoche’s reincarnation, who, at age two, crawled to the Dalai Lama’s room on his own and laid a ceremonial scarf on the bed!

Bodhisattva’s Vow

The key to understanding conscious rebirth is a word the Dalai Lama uses in the opening quote – ‘bodhisattva’. In his words, “Superior bodhisattvas, who have attained the path of seeing, are reborn…due to the power of their compassion for sentient beings and based on their prayers to benefit others.”

The Buddhism of Tibet – Vajrayana – itself a branch of Mahayana, is essentially the way of the bodhisattva. The bodhisattva is the Buddha-to-be, who has chosen to delay his release from samsara for the sake of everybody else. Nirvana for oneself is unthinkable when countless others continue to suffer, and the bodhisattva in his deep compassion, chooses to return with only one motivation – to help as many beings, in as many ways, as he can.

For the young tulkus, it is an inspiring focus to develop in life. Where one’s raison d’etre, reason for being, has nothing to do with personal ambition, high-flying careers, or even families and children, like most of us. Every practitioner of Vajrayana, in fact, attempts to cultivate this attitude of compassion and dedicates his spiritual practice for the welfare of all beings.

Uncertain Future

Recognising the potential for manipulation in the tulku system, suitable checks and balances were put in place. These, along with everything else in the matrix of Tibet’s culture, were dealt a massive blow with the invasion of Tibet and the subsequent flight of the Dalai Lama out of Tibet in 1959.

One reason that has prompted the Dalai Lama’s recent statement is his concern about the politics that will be played with his reincarnation. His concern at the imminent subversion of a spiritual ideal that lies at the very heart of Tibetan Buddhism has prompted him to consider ending the institution of the Dalai Lama.

“When I am about ninety I will consult the high lamas of the Tibetan Buddhist traditions, the Tibetan public, and other concerned people who follow Tibetan Buddhism,” he says in the statement, “and re-evaluate whether the institution of the Dalai Lama should continue or not.” Because a bodhisattva operates from a motivation of concern and service to the other, the Dalai Lama seems to have handed over the choice of his reincarnation to the other as well.

In one of the last decisions of his present life, he once again evinces what has been a lifelong commitment – pointing to the need to innovate with tradition, let go of aspects that are no longer tenable, and keep an open mind to the endless possibilities of life.

The Dalai Lamas of Tibet face an uncertain future. But they carry a valuable message for us in this age of materialistic greed, encapsulated in this prayer the Dalai Lama recites every day:

For as long as space endures,
And for as long as living beings remain,
Until then may I too abide,
To dispel the misery of the world.

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Swati Chopra is the author of ‘Women Awakened: Stories of Contemporary Spirituality in India’; ‘Dharamsala Diaries’; and ‘Buddhism: On the Path to Nirvana’. Website: www.swatichopra.com

One of the first, and lasting, impressions of Istanbul – ancient capital of empires – is the call to prayer. It rings out simultaneously at the appointed times from various mosques, old and new, that dot the city. Though the tone and pitch of the voices of the muezzins might vary, they share a quality of passionate intensity that inspires a response in all those that hear it.

For those of the faith, the call is to drop their work of the moment and turn to God. Because it happens at regular intervals through the day, one could say it is really a ‘return’ to God. One spends one’s time doing whatever one is required to do, personally and professionally, but five times a day, for a few moments, one turns within. It is a remembrance not only of God but of one’s own true nature, which one is liable to lose touch with in the busy-ness of one’s day.

Walking through the old quarter of Istanbul that stretches along the Bosphorus Strait towards the Sea of Marmara, one cannot help but marvel at the fact that this geographical area has been in constant human habitation since 660 BCE. Because of which it has also been a repository of diverse faiths and wisdom traditions, from the Greek and Roman religions, to Christianity, and since the fifteenth century, of Islam.

In old Istanbul, this multilayering of faiths and their parent civilisations is most apparent in the architecture. While the obelisks in the Hippodrome bespeak a Greco-Roman past, and the Blue Mosque and the Suleymaniye Mosque its Islamic Ottoman ancestry, the Hagia Sophia (‘Church of Divine Wisdom’) which started off as a church, moulted into a mosque, and is now a secular museum, mirrors the city’s own history.

Stepping into the Hagia Sophia’s cavernous central hall, one is filled with a sense of infinite space. The neck arches and the head tilts backwards to take in the expanse of the giant dome that caps the building, as the eye attempts to focus on the wisdom etched in golden calligraphy at its centre. The experience is not unlike that of childhood wonder at the immensity of the night sky studded with innumerable stars. Cocooned in awe, one can easily ignore the milling crowds of tourists and return to an interior space that can feel as vast and deep as the soaring silence of the domed space above.

It is said that all the later mosques of Istanbul were built in the style of the Hagia Sophia. Indeed, one feels a similar sense of space in the Blue Mosque just across from the Sophia. It is an active mosque, and so its centre is blocked for worshippers, with visitors being restricted to the periphery by a wooden railing. As the faithful congregate, one too can join in, in one’s own way, using this outer sanctum to retreat into the one within, igniting one’s consciousness with prayerful remembrance.

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Swati Chopra writes on spirituality and mindful living. Her most recent book is 'Women Awakened: Stories of Contemporary Spirituality in India'. Website: www.swatichopra.com

Satyagraha literally means an insistence on truth. If we consider the movement against corruption that has gripped India's national imagination today as a contemporary satyagraha, we must also be willing to examine the truth and all its constituents, beginning with ourselves.

The truth of any situation is usually contextual and relative. It depends on which part of the elephant you are standing next to, as illustrated in the popular story of the blind men and the elephant. The one who touched the tail thought it was a rope, the one its legs thought it was a tree, and so on, demonstrating how individuals can have their own circumstantial truths.

There does exist a larger concept of truth – an overarching principle, philosophy or set of values that most human beings respond to and agree to accept. These include the ‘goodness’ of kindness and compassion, the ‘wrongness’ of wilful infliction of violence, and so on. These can fluctuate according to the times and prevalent cultural norms, for example the belief in the sanctity of life, which might include all life for some and only human life for others.

There is a Truth beyond this, too, which has been referred to as ‘perennial philosophy’ –the kernel embedded at the heart of all wisdom traditions. It is the belief that there is a Truth that powers and underlies reality, and whose ‘suchness’ remains unaffected by the events and circumstances at any given time. What this Truth is, and how it can be experienced, is interpreted and explained by wisdom traditions in diverse terms.

Which of these levels of truth are we dealing with in the satyagraha against corruption? Clearly, perennial Truth is ever-present and needs no insistence to establish. Seeking it is the journey of a lifetime (or lifetimes) the spiritual aspirant commits to undertake. However, it is not divorced from other quests for truth, including the one related to practical truth, which might be relative to persons and circumstances.

To exist and survive for as long as it has, we must accept that the culture of corruption is not just out there, practised by a few bad guys. We have all been complicit in its perpetuation in some form or another. And we can all be complicit in its eradication as well, provided we begin by questioning our own motivations and actions.

This is so because one cannot presume to question another if one does not know one’s own truth. We must ask ourselves, ‘Am I incorruptible? If not, what is it that prompts me to indulge in any form of corruption? Because it will make life easier? Because I will have more money? Because I do not want to suffer the consequences of my actions?’ And follow it up with, ‘Am I willing to give this up?’ Only when we have established this truth within, can we presume to embark upon the crusade to root out corruption without.

Swati Chopra writes on spirituality and mindful living. Her most recent book is 'Women Awakened: Stories of Contemporary Spirituality in India'. Website: www.swatichopra.com

A recent Bollywood film was feted, along with its cinematic accomplishments, for its extensive and unabashed use of abusive words and bad language. There were many who found this cathartic, refreshing, even liberating. In a sense, the said film is a reflection of the reality. We have to keep our ears open to realise the prevalence of abusive language, and perhaps many of us have used it ourselves. Cuss words have become so endemic to our society’s vocabulary that at times they seem to be used as commas and full stops, even as endearments among friends.

On the spiritual path, one of the first, and perhaps the most important, qualities we attempt to cultivate is mindfulness. The process of doing it occurs at multiple levels. Perhaps, in the beginning, mindfulness is restricted to the time we spend meditating, or chanting a mantra, or doing whatever our core practice is. Gradually, like a drop of paint infusing a bowl of water, the rest of our life cannot but become tinged with this quality of wakefulness, awareness and attentiveness.

It is said that karma begins in the seed of the thought, and it is at this innermost level that mindfulness must become established and operational. When this happens, we realise that it is really an integrated quality — we cannot be mindful of our breath or emotions, for instance, without also becoming aware of our behaviour, language and conduct. Like the operating system in a computer, mindfulness comes to determine our entire experience of the process of living.
Which is why when we speak words that evoke crude sexuality casually, out of habit, or in frustration, it belies a painful lack of mindfulness. Not merely of social propriety, but a dimension of life that might not be apparent usually, but which thrums just beneath its surface and powers it — the unstruck note upon which the melody of life is hinged, and which, when disregarded, leads to inner discordance and disharmony.

The use of abusive language, therefore, might not just be a benign bad habit that we know is “not nice” but never get around to actually kicking. It indicates an ignorance of the sacredness of the “word”, inherent in both its meaning and its sound.

In most wisdom traditions of the world, the word is venerated, perhaps because it is the most effective way in which human beings communicate with each other. The word is also the vehicle for the teachings of truth, imparted by prophets, seers and saints over millennia and recorded in scriptures and texts. The word is worshipped, quite literally, in several traditions where a holy book is placed at the centre of the seeker’s universe, because it contains revealed wisdom thought to be channelled from a divine source, or which is the fruit of a seer’s own spiritual odyssey.

In Indic wisdom traditions, the intriguing concept of Nadabrahman goes a step further and equates sound with the Supreme Entity. If one translates “Brahman” as the underlying matrix of life, the ground of reality, then Nadabrahman could be understood as sound as an expression of that reality and also as a possible means of experiencing it.
One way of doing this is through a conscious chanting of mantras, which are collections of not just invocatory words but have woven into them specific seed (beej) sounds. These, like Om, hreem, shreem, phat, and so on, are thought to contain within them, like seeds, the potential of creating specific vibrations within and around the chanter. In tantric practice, they are used to invoke and energise the human body, comprising chakras, nadis and the kundalini.

In fact, mantra recitation has been seen as a credible spiritual path on its own, called mantra yoga or mantra sadhana. The fact that most teachers might prescribe mantras in conjunction with other practices to evolve a balanced path for the seeker in no way detracts from their transformative effect, both vibrationally and as tools that aid an experience of truth.

An engaging example of the effect of unceasing mantra recitation unfolds in the 19th century mystical Russian story, The Way of a Pilgrim. In it, the narrator is so moved by the words “pray without ceasing” that he decides to do precisely that and begins to recite a simple Jesus’ prayer in the manner of a mantra, turning it upon his in-breath and out-breath. His fascinating pilgrimage is towards a continuity of attention, and he feels transformed both by the prayer and by the unbroken awareness that develops as a result.

A modern-day twist to mantra yoga, in my view, lies in “affirmations”. Affirmations attempt to create, mindfully, personal scripts that are positive in nature and affirm wholesome emotions which are repeated through the day to bring oneself to equanimity and well-being. In doing so, affirmations attempt to harness the energy of the word to create a fulfilling experience of life.

For me, this is the use of language that is truly empowering and liberating. So, the next time the urge to cuss comes up, I hope you will just say Om.

— Swati Chopra is the author of 'Women Awakened: Stories of Contemporary Spirituality in India', 'Buddhism: On the Path to Nirvana', and 'Dharamsala Diaries'. She can be contacted at www.swatichopra.com

There are so many misconceptions and misunderstandings prevalent about spirituality that I thought it necessary to explore what it actually is.

As I understand, and I am no guru, just a seeker on the path, spirituality is a way of seeing things radically differently from what we have been used to, from birth until now.

It is an uncovering of layers, a peeling away of blindfold upon blindfold, in order to begin seeing things as they actually are. To get as real as possible, which is why viewing spirituality as some sort of an exotic, other-worldly pursuit, is to completely miss the point.

Since the goal is an unconditioned knowing, of the big truth that underlies everything, if you wish, the process of getting there is not only seminal to the endeavour, it is its very heart. This is the reason why spirituality is often described as a path, a search, a seeking or a journey. Many who have walked this path have come to the conclusion that the path is the goal, the destination is implicit in the journeying, that we have reached when we realise that there is no reaching. Only walking.

The reason for this is, spirituality is about constant, unrelenting practice. Not the popular clich� of passive navel-gazing, but a deep commitment to and a persistent engagement in the task of clarifying one’s perception and purifying one’s being. Anyone who has ever tried to not retort with anger when provoked, or find compassion for anybody other than oneself or one’s loved ones, can imagine how mammoth a task it might be to completely root out all afflictive emotions and replace them entirely with positive and wholesome mental states.

Why is it so difficult, though? Most of us have heard often enough that we must be good, we mustn’t be mean, we mustn’t lie, we must help others. And yet, how many of us can truly say that all the choices we make are governed by selflessness, humility, compassion and love, especially if it involves people who are not our loved ones, and who might have even harmed us or harboured ill-feelings towards us?

Even if we think we are all of the above, good and kind that is, how many of us can truly say we are completely and absolutely happy, that we don’t need another thing or person or circumstance to make us feel complete and fulfilled? My hand will certainly not rise in response to this question!

So, one could say that spirituality and its practice is not just about “doing good”, it is also about being good, in the sense of being happy, balanced, peaceful and fulfilled. And to get there, we need to realise the reality of ourselves and of life. We’re back to the blindfolds. They need to come off.

What are these blindfolds I keep referring to? They are limited ways of seeing and relating that one might attribute to individual conditioning, the habit patterns we have developed over time, the memories, emotions, desires and revulsions that drive us for most of our lives. As a result, what is known as “original mind”, our basic nature, becomes clouded, and we live in ignorance of our own potential for clarity, goodness, joyousness.

Over the centuries, different wisdom traditions have shown different ways of taking off the blindfolds, perhaps to cater to the diverse needs and abilities of humankind. Some paths have made use of the energy of our emotionality, like the bhakti and Sufi traditions, some of the physical to refine mind and being, like the branches of yoga and tantra. Still others, like Buddhism, have focused on the mind and its cognitive and imaginative capabilities. And there are many more, all of which have acted as rafts to ferry us to new shores of knowing since times immemorial.

Whatever be their prime path of practice, most wisdom traditions emphasise recognising and eliminating the “ego”, for this might just be the tightest blindfold of all. It does not quite mean the dictionary meaning of ego as in “pride”. Rather, it refers to an erroneous perspective that identifies too tightly with our body-mind-personality, and blinkers us to the larger truth of who we are, like a frozen wave that believes it is independent of the ocean. It only needs the warmth of the sun for it to realise the truth that it is one with the ocean.

In the same way, we are all waves in an ocean of “interbeing”, to borrow an exquisite term from Zen master Thich Nhat Hanh. Even as we create our worlds around ourselves, we remain inextricably interlinked to everyone and everything. The way we live, what we consume, how we behave, what we buy — every action affects the ocean of consciousness we inhabit with everybody else. This is why spiritual practice can never be about “I” alone.

As the wave merges back into the ocean, or at least realises it is not separate from it, it has found a way of being that is vast, open, free. All blindfolds are, finally, off.

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The author has written 'Women Awakened: Stories of Contemporary Spirituality in India', 'Buddhism: On the Path to Nirvana' and 'Dharamsala Diaries'. She can be contacted at www.swatichopra.com

Women Awakened: Stories of Contemporary Spirituality in India