Just a place to jot down my musings.

Saturday, December 21, 2013

The beloved who is near and hidden

It’s been far too long since I translated any Persian, so here’s a poem by the master of masters, Mawlana Rumi, in the simple but beautiful rajaz muthamman meter:


ay bā man-o penhān cho del, az del salām-at mīkonam.

ای با من و پنهان چو دل از دل سلامت می کنم
تو کعبه‌ای هر جا روم قصد مقامت می کنم

Hey you, who’re with me and are yet hidden, like my heart—
my heartfelt greetings to you!
You’re the Ka‘bah: wherever I go, I head straight for your place.

هر جا که هستی حاضری از دور در ما ناظری
شب خانه روشن می شود چون یاد نامت می کنم

Wherever you are, you’re present, as the supervisor within us from afar;
The bed-chamber is flooded with light when I remember your name.

گه همچو باز آشنا بر دست تو پر می زنم
گه چون کبوتر پرزنان آهنگ بامت می کنم

Sometimes I briefly alight, like a friendly falcon, upon your arm;
Sometimes I head for your roof, like a pigeon fluttering its wings.

گر غایبی هر دم چرا آسیب بر دل می‌زنی
ور حاضری پس من چرا در سینه دامت می کنم

If you’re absent at every moment, then why do you injure my heart?
And if you’re present, then why do I try to ensnare you in my bosom?

دوری به تن لیک از دلم اندر دل تو روزنیست
زان روزن دزدیده من چون مه پیامت می کنم

You’re far from me physically, but there’s a window from my heart onto yours;
From that stolen window, I send you a message, like the moon.

ای آفتاب از دور تو بر ما فرستی نور تو
ای جان هر مهجور تو جان را غلامت می کنم

O sun, from afar do you shine your light upon me;
O you, who are life to all abandoned by you, I serve you as a slave.

من آینه دل را ز تو این جا صقالی می دهم
من گوش خود را دفتر لطف کلامت می کنم

I give to the mirror of my heart your lustre;
I make my ears a record for your delicate words!

در گوش تو در هوش تو و اندر دل پرجوش تو
این‌ها چه باشد تو منی وین وصف عامت می کنم

In your ear, in your mind, in your exuberant heart
Whatever may be, you’re mine—
thus do I generally describe you.


Friday, December 20, 2013

On imagination, meditation, and bringing-into-being

In this fascinating interview, Tanya Luhrmann addresses the tremendous importance of imagination in religious traditions such as American evangelism. The idea that religion is “belief”, the affirmation of the truth-value of some proposition, is a particularly Western, Protestant, understanding of religion, and is profoundly different from the religious experiences of people from, say, the dharmic traditions. (Or for that matter, from the experiences of Orthodox Christians.) Luhrmann says about kataphatic prayer:
It makes what is imagined in the mind more real. In kataphatic prayer you are saying that certain of your mental images are significant, and you are making these images more sensorially rich, you are allowing yourself to imagine them more vividly. The demand of religion is to teach you that the world as you know it is not the world as it is—and to teach you the capacity to see the world as it is, as something good. So you’ve got to make what is imagined real, and you’ve got to make it good.
The obvious response of the outsider to something like this is to describe it as clearly false, or “merely” imagined. And in a certain sense, the outsider is right: it is the believer who has imagined a particular religious experience into being, for which there is most likely no objective correlate. But Luhrmann argues that this attitude misses the heart of the experience as the insider experiences it: as something real, indeed as something more than real—because they create a new reality for the insider. It makes the insider more likely to feel loved, and thus to become more loving. Luhrmann thinks that something like this may even help reverse the erosion of social ties that people complain about today.

A number of Luhrmann's ideas squarely fit in with late medieval South Indian Hindu thought as is described in More than Real: A History of the Imagination in South India by David D. Shulman.

Shulman focuses on the importance given in medieval South India to the force of imagination: to the fact that human being are at their core imaginative creatures, who shape reality by imagining it together. 
  • Sometimes this imagination is internal to the person: Shulman tells the story of an impoverished devotee of Śiva who constructs in his mind a temple so beautiful that Śiva prefers to dwell there instead of in the vast granite temple that a king has built for him (said to be the Kailāsanātha temple of Kanchipuram). 
  • At other times, this imagination is intersubjective: Shulman describes in great detail a performance from the Kūḍiyāṭṭam dance-drama tradition of Kerala, in which a solitary skilled dancer transforms an empty, prop-less stage into a story-universe through the combination of his gestures and through the shared imaginations of the entire audience. 
Worship is imagined in the same way—by imagining our iṣṭa-devatās in our minds and by that very act bringing them into being. The word used for bringing-into-being is bhāvanā, a word borrowed from Mīmāṃsā ritual hermeneutics that refers to the power of a sacrifice to bring into being its fruit.[*]

Shulman points out that the philosophical and theological systems in which these systems developed in South India were staunch defenders of ontological realism, but of course not of physicalist, materialist reductionism. (Paradoxically, it was Advaita Vedānta that was fairly skeptical of the positive power of imagination.) He writes, comparing 16th-century India and Europe:
In Europe, the ancient dichotomy of mind and matter hardened into a fully desubjectified theory, or evolving set of theories, about the status of objects within an external, natural world. In India, the dichotomy is itself questionable, and the metaphysics of inner and outer took another course. Broadly speaking, in one conceptual system the imagination became increasingly associated with pathology, while in the other it tended to be understood as therapeutic. (p. 278)
Suspension of disbelief is the wrong way to think about what's going on here (at least in the Indian context; it may well hold for Luhrmann's evangelicals). We don’t lie to ourselves about something being there when it isn’t; we construct it with our mental acts—and by doing so, we make it real.

And towards the end of the book, Shulman also touches very briefly upon Ibn ‘Arabī, in whose vast work khayāl, “imagination”, is profoundly related to the structure of the universe and to the relationship between man and God.


[*] This explains the use of words like bhāvayāmi in much devotional Carnatic music. The singer-devotee is trying to actualize the deity in the minds of all those present at the performance. 

Tuesday, May 21, 2013

And the winner of the mostest ugliestest word goes to …

… “winningest”!

Seriously, who on Earth (or in America, to be precise, since to my knowledge nobody outside the US actually uses this linguistic abomination) thought that this word makes any sense? Did its coiner pause to reflect, even for a moment, about whether the structure of the word hung together in any coherent way? Or whether the meaning the word was intended to have (a) needed a single word to express it, and (b) was in fact expressed in some sensible way by this word?

And now, the New York Times, of all places, uses it. Admittedly, it’s only its Magazine section, but why oh why would someone use this horrid, cumbersome word at all?

If there was an annual competition for “hideousest word of the year”, “winningest” would be the winningest word.


Wednesday, May 15, 2013

Grammar and God

One of the most famous verses in Sanskrit is the opening verse of Kālidāsa’s Raghuvaṃśa:


vāg-arthāv iva sampṛktau vāg-artha-pratipattaye |
jagataḥ pitarau vande pārvatīparameśvarau ||

Here, Śiva and Pārvatī are seen to be inextricably intertwined like a word and its meaning.

Another verse I came across today expresses a similar relation, but between different pairs of upamānas and upameyas:


rāsa-vilāsa-vilolaṃ smarata murārer mano-haraṃ rūpam |
prakṛtiṣu yat pratyayavat praty-ekaṃ gopikāsu sammilitam ||

May you remember that enchanting form of Mura’s Conqueror,
        dancing around playfully in the Rāsa-līlā,
        united individually with all of the milkmaids,
                like a suffix with flexional bases.

As may be imagined, this is the opening verse of a grammatical text: the Prakriyā-sarvasva of Mēlpattūr Nārāyaṇa Bhaṭṭatiri, who is most famous for his composition of the Nārāyaṇīyam addressed to Kṛṣṇa. As to why Kṛṣṇa should be seen as a suffix (which, in English at least, sounds like it’s subordinate somehow to the word to which it’s added), it’s because the Pāṇinian tradition of grammar sees the suffix’s meaning as dominating the word’s meaning. Moreover, a suffix can be added to far more words than a word can take suffixes, and so it has greater “freedom of union” in that sense. Finally, and conveniently, the word for suffix, pratyaya, takes masculine gender, while the word for flexional base, prakṛti, takes the feminine gender.


Monday, April 29, 2013

Looking back in space and time

The 17th-century Syrian poet Fatḥ Allāh Ibn al-Naḥḥās (فتح الله ابن النحاس) was regarded as one of the two best poets of his time. Although this particular period of Arabic literature has been ignored and disregarded as an age of decadence, prolixity, and baroque ornamentation (the so-called ‘aṣr al-inḥiṭāṭ, عصر الانحطاط), it is becoming increasingly clear that this is a case of people selectively rewriting history by privileging certain parts and certain elements over others. 

I’m not taking a definite stance here because I don’t know enough about both sides, but after having read Ibn al-Naḥḥās’s beautiful qaṣīdah “He saw blame pouring in from all sides, and it scared him” (ِرأی اللومَ من كلِّ الجهات فَراعَهُ), I think we do ourselves a great injustice by writing off a giant period of time as entirely lacking in poetic merit. This one line, where Ibn al-Naḥḥās talks about how he is forced to leave Aleppo after a scandal involving him and his (male) beloved, is just gorgeous:



فَرُحْتُ وَسَيْري خَطْوَةٌ وَالْتِفاتَةُ ❊ إلى فائتٍ مِنْهُ أُرَجِّي ارْتِجاعَهُ

So I left; and every for’ard step was a glance backward
Looking for a lost past, whose return was the thing I craved.

I’ve committed the cardinal sin of trying to emulate the rhythm of the ṭawīl meter in English, which I fear has straitjacketed my translation. But perhaps this may give you some sense of how cleverly, and poignantly, Ibn al-Naḥḥās is able to play with the ideas of looking backward in space—towards a city he loves, in which dwells the young man he loves, who has chosen not to come bid him farewell; and in time—towards a past when they were together, when all was well. And, perhaps most interestingly, with the idea that looking vainly backward in space for his missing beloved is also looking vainly forward in time for a lovers’ reunion that will never be. 


Friday, April 26, 2013

Appayya Dīkṣita on figurative language

(This post is a draft, and I will likely edit my translations below, multiple times.)

In his Vṛttivārttika (“An Explication of Linguistic Operations”), Appayya Dīkṣita briefly outlines his theory of semantics, focusing on the processes by which words give rise to different meanings. As befits a good ālaṅkārika, literary theorist, in the post-Ānandavardhana universe, he accepts three such operations: 
  • abhidhā“denotation”,
  • lakṣaṇā“figuration” or something similar, and 
  • vyañjanā“suggestion”
This work of his, though, only defines abhidhā and lakṣaṇā. Does that mean the Vṛttivārttika is incomplete? Or is it the case that Appayya wanted to focus only on these two, postponing discussion of the often-problematic vyañjanā? Things are unclear, but what we do know is that in his other works (see the many articles by Yigal Bronner on Appayya) Appayya wants to reduce the role taken up by dhvani in poetics, and it is possible that this also means he wants to give abhidhā and lakṣaṇā more importance than post-Mammaṭa alaṅkāraśāstra permits.

Now, Appayya Dīkṣita argues that there are seven subtypes of lakṣaṇā. (This is one more than Mukulabhaṭṭa defines in his Abhidhāvṛttimātṛkā. One reason Mukulabhaṭṭa was so expansive was because he entirely denied the existence of a separate linguistic operation called vyañjanā, trying instead to bring it entirely under the domain of lakṣaṇā. I wonder what this says about Appayya’s intentions?) He offers examples for each of them, and some day I will try to list them all out systematically. For now, though, I restrict myself to his last two subtypes of lakṣaṇā, both of which he exemplifies using the single verse offered below.

ā pādam ā cikura-bhāram aśeṣam aṅgam 
ānanda-bṛnda-lasitaṃ sudṛśām asīmam |
antar mama sphuratu santatam antarātmann
ambhoja-locana tava śrita-hasti-śailam ||

śuddha-sâropa-lakṣaṇā yathā ‘ā pādam’ iti | atra bhagavad-aṅgeṣv ānanda-kāritvena ānanda-padasya sāropa-lakṣaṇā | ānanda-karaṇe itara-vailakṣaṇya-dyotanaṃ phalam |  ānanda-kāriṇi viṣaya-nigaraṇena “ānando ’yam” iti prayoge sâdhyavasāya-lakṣaṇā | ānandâvyabhicāra-dyotanaṃ phalam  ||

From feet up to thick, curly locks,
May Your entire body
        shimmering endlessly with clusters of pure bliss
        for those with blessed sight,
shine resplendent eternally within me,

O Indweller of my soul,

Lotus-eyed Lord 
         who lives atop Elephant Hill!

Śuddhā sâropā lakṣaṇā is exemplified in the verse that begins with the words ā pādam. Here, the word ānanda (“bliss”) refers to the Lord’s limbs through sâropā lakṣaṇā, because of their being causers of bliss. The result is the illumination of the impossibility of any other thing being an instrument of bliss.


The word ānanda refers to a causer of bliss through sâdhyavasāya-lakṣaṇā via the usage “it is bliss”, because in that case the topic at hand (i.e., the causer of bliss) gets wholly subsumed by the description (i.e., bliss). The result of this is the illumination of the total non-deviation of bliss from the causer of bliss.


What Appayya Dīkṣita does not mention is the source of his example verse. It turns out to be the 105th, and last, verse of the Śrī Varadarāja Stava, his long, highly poetically ornate praise-poem dedicated to Lord Varadarāja, the form of Viṣṇu manifested in the temple icon at Elephant Hill in the city of Kanchipuram, Appayya Dīkṣita’s hometown.

Saturday, April 20, 2013

“Two things stand like stone”

The words of the Australian poet Adam Lindsay Gordon ring especially true in these times:


Life is mostly froth and bubble;
Two things stand like stone—
Kindness in another’s trouble,
Courage in your own.


Monday, April 8, 2013

“Practical” Universities

David Brooks has a new column out in the New York Times in which he argues that online education will force a transformation of universities. Drawing on Michael Oakeshott, he argues (or really, just states) that universities today offer two kinds of knowledge: technical (the what) and practical (the how). Brooks claims that, because technical knowledge can easily be transmitted online, we will see people gravitating towards MOOCs where they pick up “just the facts, ma’am” from star online teachers. However, since practical knowledge can only be picked up from experience, he thinks that universities will shift increasingly towards offering this sort of irreplaceable knowledge.

Leaving aside the merits and demerits of Brooks’s piece, I am quite intrigued that he ignores another, crucial, kind of knowledge that universities offer: the why. Now sometimes this knowledge seems like anti-knowledge from the outside, because it is about limits, about ends, and about asking the right kinds of questions. But these are critical issues to think about—admittedly, not for everybody, but for society as a whole. A city full of carpenters, or of philosophers, is not a city but an unnatural monoculture.


This is all the more surprising because a threefold distinction of knowledge was known to Aristotle, who called them epistemē, technē, and phronesis. (Of these three, phronesis directly overlaps with Brooks’s practical knowledge; while technē seems to largely make up, but not exactly correspond to, technical knowledge.) A polis needs all three to flourish. I am curious to know where Brooks thinks epistemē will be found in his post-MOOC world.





Wednesday, April 3, 2013

On deduction, induction, and abduction (aka “Sherlock Holmes and the Mysterious Case of Fat Ted”): Part One

I had a mini-meltdown in my favorite bookstore last night. “Never judge a book by its cover,” or so they say, but when a book by an academic psychologist claiming to help us become more like Sherlock Holmes in our reasoning states on the inside flap that Sherlock Holmes used “logical deduction” to solve his cases, I jolly well reserve the right to judge the book by its inside flap. Yes, I realize that these things are seldom written by the authors themselves; and it is almost certain that some harebrained editor probably wrote that absurdity; but the Amazon reviews make it clear that the author herself is quite confused about the differences among deduction, induction, and abduction. Worse yet, there are now reviews of this book in places like the Boston Globe that continue to perpetrate this abominable deception that Holmes used logical deduction. Really, if you want to teach people to reason correctly, you’d better start with the rectification of names.

I have no time right now to flesh this out, but I most certainly will get to this in the next few days. Once my hands stop trembling. 

(Bonus points if you can “logically deduce” where I’m going with this series of posts based on its title!)

Thursday, March 21, 2013

Lightness and heaviness

Re(re)ading Gwendolyn Lane’s translation of Bāṇabhaṭṭa’s masterpiece Kādambarī, I suddenly recalled a fascinating anecdote about how Bāṇa decided to permit his son Bhūṣaṇa to complete the work. I fear I cannot remember the source of the tale.

The story goes that Bāṇa was on his deathbed without having completed the Kādambarī, and wished to entrust one of his sons with the job of finishing it. But how to decide which one would be worthy of the challenge? He called them both to his bed, and, pointing to a small stack of firewood nearby, asked them to describe it.

The elder son (whose name escapes me, and perhaps history too) said: 
śuṣkaṃ kāṣṭhaṃ tiṣṭhaty agre
“A dry piece of wood stands in front.” 

The younger, by name Bhūṣaṇa, came up with this: 
nīrasa-tarur iha vilasati purataḥ
“A sapless tree manifests itself before me.”

Both statements are factually correct, but only Bhūṣaṇa’s possesses the lightness (lāghava) and multiplicity of meaning that Bāṇa so prized in his work. Specifically:

  • The two statements are both 16 morae long, but Bhuṣaṇa’s version crams 14 syllables in by using light syllables throughout (except at the beginning and the end). His brother’s, on the other hand, uses 8 syllables, each one heavy.
  • The elder brother’s statement attempts to repeat in three consonant clusters, but two of these are the same, being the heavy and somewhat unattractive ṣṭh cluster. Bhūṣaṇa does not have any clusters at all, but lightly dances amidst repetitions of s, t, l, and r.
  • Bhūṣaṇa’s first word, nīrasa, evokes the literary concept of rasa (about which Amazons’ worth of paper and Superiors’ worth of ink have been spilled).
  • Bhūṣaṇa’s statement can be understood as referring not just to the firewood that his father has asked about, but also to his elder brother who lacked literary judgement but who stood before him in time and in the hierarchy of the Indian family.


Bhūṣaṇa was given the privilege of completing Bāṇa’s work. Scholars hold, however, that his effort lacks the mastery of his father’s. History is the harshest critic of all.


Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Grammar and enclitic pronouns

natvā sarasvatīṃ devīṃ śuddhāṃ guṇyāṃ karomy aham |
pāṇinīya-praveśāya laghu-siddhānta-kaumudīm ||

Having bowed down to Goddess Sarasvatī,
        pure and virtuous,
I compose the Laghusiddāntakaumudī as an introduction to the Pāṇinian system.

With this invocation to Sarasvatī, Goddess of Knowledge, does Varadarāja begin his Laghusiddhāntakaumudī, the “Brief Moonlight of [Grammatical] Principles”. Varadarāja’s work is an annotated, abridged version of Bhaṭṭoji Dīkṣita’s Siddhāntakaumudī, which rearranges the whole of Pāṇini’s Aṣṭâdhyāyī into a format that is pedagogically usable by the student. The English translation of the invocation to Sarasvatī does not capture an interesting ambiguity in the original: the adjectives “pure and virtuous” could [and therefore did!] describe the Laghusiddhāntakaumudī itself.

Much can be said about this work, but for now I wish to note just one pair of verses from its haL-anta-puṃliṅga-prakaraṇa, the chapter on (the declension of) consonant-final masculine nouns:

śrîśas tvâvatu pîha dattāt te me ’pi śarma saḥ |
svāmī te me ’pi sa hariḥ pātu vām api nau vibhuḥ ||
sukhaṃ vāṃ nau dadātv īśaḥ patir vām api nau hariḥ |
so ’vyād vo naḥ śivaṃ vo no dadyāt sevyo ’tra vaḥ sa naḥ ||

May the Lord of Śrī protect you and me;
        may He give delight to you and me.
That Hari is the master of you and of me;
        may He, All-Pervading, guard you two and us two.

May the Lord grant happiness to you two and to us two;
        for Hari husbands you two and us two.
May He defend y’all and us;
        may He bestow auspiciousness to y’all and to us;
        He is to be served by y’all and us here.

Why would this verse show up in a grammar text? Because the underlined forms are the enclitic forms of the first- and second-person pronouns! This verse contains examples of the enclitic pronouns for the second, fourth, and sixth cases, in the singular, dual, and plural, in that order. These optional forms are permitted by a small set of Pāṇinian sūtras:

  • yuṣmad-asmadoḥ ṣaṣṭhī-caturthī-dvitīyāsthayor vāṃ-nāvau [Pā 8.1.20]
  • bahuvacanasya vas-nasau [Pā 8.1.21]
  • te-mayāv ekavacanasya [Pā 8.1.22]
  • tvā-mau dvitīyāyāḥ [Pā 8.1.23]

Pā 8.1.20 permits the use of vām and nau in place of the regular second- and first-person pronouns, respectively, in the sixth, fourth, and second cases. (As stated, this is a general rule, utsarga, that applies to all these pronominal forms regardless of number.)

Pā 8.1.21 then carves out an exception (apavāda) to this rule, saying that in the plural, the forms vas and nas, respectively, should be used. [These are indeed cognate with Spanish vosotros and nosotros and French vous and nous.]

Pā 8.1.22 carves out another apavāda, saying that te and me should be used in the singular. (Thus, taking these two exceptions together, we automatically restrict vām and nau to the dual.) But this rule, while being an apavāda to Pā 8.1.20, is in itself an utsarga.

Pā 8.1.23 is the apavāda to Pā 8.1.22 in turn, saying that tvā and  should be used in place of te and me for the second-case forms of the singular pronouns. 

This is an extremely brief look at one of the ways in which the Pāṇinian system works, by creating utsargas and apavādas. One of the side-effects of this is that no Pāṇinian rule can be understood in isolation from all other rules, for everything interacts with everything else. 

To know the whole, know the parts; to know the parts, know the whole.


Why pearls, and why strung at random?

In his translation of the famous "Turk of Shirazghazal of Hafez into florid English, Sir William Jones, the philologist and Sanskrit scholar and polyglot extraordinaire, transformed the following couplet:

غزل گفتی و در سفتی بیا و خوش بخوان حافظ

که بر نظم تو افشاند فلک عقد ثریا را


into:

Go boldly forth, my simple lay,
Whose accents flow with artless ease,
Like orient pearls at random strung.

The "translation" is terribly inaccurate, but worse, the phrase is a gross misrepresentation of the highly structured organization of Persian poetry. Regardless, I picked it as the name of my blog for a number of reasons: 
1) I don't expect the ordering of my posts to follow any rhyme or reason
2) Since "at random strung" is a rather meaningless phrase, I decided to go with the longer but more pompous "pearls at random strung". I rest assured that my readers are unlikely to deduce from this an effort on my part to arrogate some of Hafez's peerless brilliance!

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Cambridge, Massachusetts, United States
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
—W.H. Davies, “Leisure”