Om Sarashwatyai Namah -- Celebration of Ma Saraswati - The Giver of Knowlege

Knowledge or Wisdom, when the ancient seers of India envisioned her, appeared as a gushing, flow of live giving water, sometimes gurgling along as a gentle stream, sometimes thunderously rushing past breaking all barriers and obstacles. Forever mobile and changing. No doubt therefore Goddess of Knowledge was named after the most important river in the history of Indian history - The Saraswati, the cradle of Indian Civilization. 

Ma Sarasawati is the Goddess of Knowledge and Arts. Today is Saraswati Puja, the celebration and the special day of worship of the Ma Saraswati.

My association with Ma Saraswati has been from childhood through the Saraswati Puja which is a significant festival for the Bengalis like the rest of India. As kids my brother and I would run to Mom with our books, so that she could place them in front of the Divine Mother for some special grace to help with our studies.  Subjects that were specially hard to me such as trigonometry  or civics found special position in the Puja, because I was convinced that I could get through them only through the Mother's grace and blessings.  There also used to be the locality pujas which were organized mainly by older children under the watchful eyes of the grown ups. 

In our young Minds, Ma Saraswati, was this benevolent deity whose propitiation was necessary to do good in studies and pass exams. So with all the respect we could muster and with eyes firmly shut in apparent bhakti, all of us kids would try to outshout each other as we chanted her mantras, for who knows what amazing blessings were in store if you could just manage to get ourselves heard.  The most common mantra we chanted was this one:

सरस्वति महाभागे विद्ये कमललोचने ।
विद्यारूपे विशालाक्षि विद्यां देहि नमोस्तुते ॥

Meaning:
1: O Devi Saraswati, the most Auspicious Goddess of Knowledge with Lotus-like Eyes,
2: An Embodiment of Knowledge with Large Eyes, Kindly Bless me with Knowledge. I Salute you.

(Taken from this page)

Of course in reality, what Ma Saraswati represents is a knowledge that is far deeper. It the knowledge of the Self, a concept that forms the core of Indian philosophy.  The meaning of world, universe, multi-verse, life itself or whatever else that is perceived or is beyond is not be sough without, but within, either in terms of the relation between the Self and the Super-self or as an identification of the Self with the Super-self, depending upon the school of philosophy that you choose to follow. Ma Saraswati is therefore the giver of divine knowledge or I would argue the only knowledge for which the soul takes the human birth. She therefore is the patron of all Gyan yogis everywhere. For isn't it Knowledge, especially Brahma Gyan, in which resides our Salvation, our enlightenment and redemption?  I dare say, it does.  The name Sarawati itself pays homage to the Ma Saraswati's role in imparting knowledge of Self to her children.  In my own personal journey today Ma Saraswati is my refuge, my inspiration, my guide.

I am amazed at the genius of our ancient thinkers and rishis who could take such a subtle concept, and impart it a persona which could bring it within the grasp of the laity like us.

Today, as my son sang the hymn - Sri Vani  Kalyani during a special prayer of Ma Sarawati, I was also reminded that my Father, the great classical singer that he was, prayed to Ma as a Goddess of the arts as well. Swami Vivekanda invoked her before his famous speech in parliament of religions. Ma Saraswati has inspired numerous  creation of arts, as music, sculpture, paintings, verses and prose. One of my favourites is a piece created by the Japanese composer Kitaro..  I leave you with the melodious strains of the superb creation that must have been graced by Ma Saraswati's blessings to have come out so nicely.

Om Sarashwatyai Namah

See Also:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saraswati

http://hinduism.about.com/od/hindugoddesses/p/saraswati.htm

Vanderlust

The memories of the early eighties in Itanagar still appear to me in a magical hue. Particularly the winter months. Itanagar was not as cold a place as was Shillong but invariably winter brought in its wake foggy mornings that turned our C-sector into a fairy land. The farm produce seemed extra crisp and tasty, and my brother and I got to wear the bright sweaters that my mom would knit for us. At schools our class teacher tended to be a trifle more indulgent and class missed on the really cold day could easily be explained away with a sniff of a stuffy nose.

However the time my brother and I looked forward the most to were the evenings after our father came home from work. He would gather the two of us near him. Cozy in our blankets and quilts we would listen to him with rapt attention as he told us exotic stories of past and present, of ancient heroes from around the world and of brave men and women of the modern world who had made the race proud. The master storyteller he was. I felt his eyes shown with the brightest twinkle when he told us the story of explorers across time. We knew of the Kon-Tiki expedition and of the Apollo Missions, of Daniken’s theories and the early explorers to Africa, of Abhedanada’s travels in Tibet and of the fabled King Solomon’s mines long before it was fashionable to know anything beyond Enid Blyton and Hindi movies. Father instilled in us a sense of wonder and perhaps a bit of fascination for the unexplored and unknown.

Explorers never had precise roadmaps when the started off on their journeys nor did they have road-signs in blue that warned them off the path that would lead them to the village of cannibals and got them headed towards the hidden jungle paradise with fruit laden trees and nectar like water. All that kept them going was their love of adventure and all that kept them alive was wit and courage. And perhaps prayers of those that wished them well. In the well know story of King Solomon’s mines the flicker in a flame helped the protagonists escape a mountain cave to which they were imprisoned. In real life, no less adventurous was Thor Heyerdahl stay in the uninhabited islet of Raroia or the crew’s tryst with the White Shark. Every wonderful detail in these stories speak of adventure and human spirit thirsting to see, to learn. True, for every Tenzing and Hillary, there is a Mallory who never made it back in blazing glory and for ever Daniken there is always a Sagan to rubbish their life’s work. But that is precisely what makes the exploration and adventure so romantic.

Today these story weave their appeal to me anew as I slowly but decidedly moved from the predicable and beaten path to a road that I haven’t traveled on before. The only support I carry is Krishna’s name in my heart and the wishes of my friends.

It is gonna be fun...

Mountain Rains

The most striking memories of my childhood are of the Mountain Rains. Those were the days when round the clock weather channels were still unthinkable and the nascent Doordarshan paid scant attention to the North East and Itanagar.

The Rains would often come without any warning. The dark clouds would suddenly roll out from behind the high mountains that surrounded Itanagar on all sides, accompanied very frequently with storm winds. Suddenly the place would come alive with chirping birds as they would fly all around in panic. The big trees would sway wildly in anticipation, I remember imagining as a kid that the branches were arms that were raised towards the sky in a kind of strange welcome. The clouds would slowly lay claim to the whole sky, blocking out the sun completely. Loud claps of thunder, that silenced every other sound in the neighborhood, would announce this victory as the entire town descended into a surreal twilight kind of darkness.

In the mountains, you can see the rains coming at you. Typically the cloud would break over a distant mountain and then you can actually see it rushing in towards you. That would signal the start the futile attempt to outrun the rains. Our house was some half way up a small hillock. My brother and I would run as fast as out small legs would carry us. It was such fun. It was almost as if God had devised an elaborate "catch-me" game for all of us mountain kids. Though we would run, I always rooted for the rain. Getting drenched in the first shower of the season, being asked by an anxious mom to change and take a hot bath and after that looking out through the netted windows as the rains lashed its fury on the tin roof of our house, are things that are etched so deep in my memory that they are part of me.

I also remember, the after the rains would be over, the whole place appeared so clean and bright. The green mountains would appear so much greener, as if mother nature, so much like our own mothers, gave them a thorough bath and clean cloths to wear. The sun would peep in occationally through the clouds creating areas of sunshine surrounded by areas that were darker. My brother and I would be out of the house before Mom even knew for another round of fun and running around until the rains came back again.

I don't know why, but while returning home last night I felt so nostalgic about that life. Maybe because I sometime feel that I just don't fit in into this life in the plains. Or maybe I am growing old. Or maybe I truly miss the rains that are not half hearted but something that just overwhelms you with its presence. Something that just won't be ignored. Something that lives on in your heart even after it has been long gone...

This post had won the first prize in my previous organization :)