Rescuing the religiosity of love and compassion
THESE days, I often experience the pain of being reduced to an outsider — yes, an outsider in a society that reduces religion to a mere identity-marker for separating one from the ‘condemned’ other, equates it with loudly demonstrative symbolism and uses it for purely instrumental political objectives. Think of the time we are living in. The inauguration of the Ram temple in Ayodhya on January 22, 2024, is likely to be reduced to yet another spectacle and seen as an extraordinary achievement of the ruling regime for restoring ‘lost’ Hindu pride. Yes, everything — even a supposedly contemplative moment of spiritual reflection — has to be big, loud and demonstrative these days. It is, therefore, not surprising that a political party striving for power in West Bengal can think of reducing the act of reciting a complex, multi-layered and nuanced text like the Bhagavad Gita to a politically engineered event. Imagine one lakh devotees reciting it in Kolkata’s Brigade Parade Ground! Is this crowd really interested in comprehending the significance of Krishna’s conversations with Arjuna in the battlefield of Kurukshetra? Or is it yet another form of political assertion — a symbol indicating the arrival of the ‘Hindu Rashtra’?
Yes, I find myself an outsider amid this loud assertion of religion, be it through the ideology and practice of triumphant Hindutva, or, for that matter, any other form of fundamentalist religious doctrine; and the naked marketisation of religious festivals — say, Durga Puja in West Bengal or Diwali in north India — through corporate and political sponsorship, and the lavish gift industry. Indeed, religious nationalism and neoliberal consumerism seem to have formed an instrumental alliance in contemporary India. From the flow of money to the might of muscle power, or from hyper-nationalist sensations to some sort of sadistic pleasure in castigating the constructed ‘enemies’, there is everything in this assertive and demonstrative religion. However, what is missing is what all spiritual seekers strive for — the music of meditative silence, self-purification and inner quest. But then, in a society where even the newly emergent babas and gurus seem to be in synchrony with this sort of politicised and instrumental use of religion, is there anyone to understand the pain of ‘outsiders’ like us?
Well, my discomfort with this sort of loud religion does not mean that I have ceased to become religiously musical. I am not speaking of scientific determinism or soulless secularism. Likewise, I am not creating a hierarchy — ‘rationalists’ vs ‘believers’, or ‘reason’ vs ‘prayers’. In fact, my modernity — and it has also been shaped by the contributions of Gandhi and Tagore — has never prevented me from engaging with, say, Buddha and Christ, or Upanishadic prayers and Sufi tales of love and redemption. I have always believed that the violence implicit in the technocratic/instrumental logic of modernity cannot be combated without the religiosity of love and compassion. However, what is tragic is that what is going on in the name of religion has nothing to do with this sort of emancipatory religiosity that overcomes all sorts of fragmentation, sees the ocean in the wave and heals our wounded/divided selves. Instead, the political manipulation of religious identities in the name of ‘nationalism’ is inherently violent. It will not be entirely wrong to say that this sort of religion is in tune with the idea of the authoritarian/militaristic state. For instance, it is quite unlikely that the likes of Ayatollah Khomeini, or, for that matter, the proponents of the ‘Talibanisation’ of culture will ever understand the poetic wisdom of Jalaluddin Rumi. Or, for that matter, it is difficult to believe that the likes of Nathuram Godse are ready to appreciate the significance of Buddha’s compassion or Mirabai’s prayers.
Amid this obsession with religious identities and associated politico-cultural violence, I feel like recalling the forgotten truth. Beyond the catchy slogans of religious nationalism, beyond the inauguration of gorgeous temples and inflated egos of the politically sponsored priestcraft, I begin to contemplate on three distinctive features of the religiosity of love and compassion. First, the acknowledgement of the permanence of ‘impermanence’ makes us humble. Yes, nothing lasts forever; everything is impermanent. The emperor will die; the beauty queen will be reduced to a skeleton; and one who is a celebrity today will be forgotten tomorrow. None can escape this fundamental truth of impermanence, even though our egos tend to delude us and make us extremely possessive about power and glory. Second, the futility of egotistic pride is yet another truth. Amid the oceanic vastness (what else is God except this infinite emptiness without any form or shape?), our egos are like fleeting and temporal bubbles. However, our inflated egos — from the egos of authoritarian masters to the egos of modern nations — prevent us from realising this fundamental truth of existence. The roots of violence lie in this illusory pride. And third, our deepest and finest prayers emanate from this realisation. These prayers aim at love, empathy and compassion. And with these redemptive prayers, we seek to experience the glimpses of the infinite — beyond temples, mosques and churches.
This quest can never be reduced to a politically engineered and aggressive crowd behaviour. It is sacred; it is not a ‘nationalist’ slogan; it is not a ‘victory march’; instead, it is pure meditative silence. It doesn’t require a magnificent temple. It can happen anywhere. It doesn’t require any ‘badge’ or ‘uniform’. In fact, it needs freedom from all armours. It is high time we began to save the religiosity of love and compassion from the unholy alliance of political engineers, state-sponsored ‘spiritual’ leaders and hyper-nationalist ‘devotees’.
