Tracks Across Time Into The 21st Century

Coming from the west, the contemporary traveller to India often has the sense of visiting another planet or galaxy. Many customs of practices seem alien or remote, as do their underlying beliefs and motives. If this is true of contemporary India, how much more must this sense of distance be enhanced by a visit to medieval India, its philosophy, literature and religion – a place which, like a lost city, seems surrounded by a nearly impenetrable underbrush. How to approach such a place or region, from our modern angle, without disrupting or violating its intrinsic order or measure? Clearly, if a visit is attempted, our approach must not be that of a conquistador but rather that of a student or novice eager not so much to impart as to receive instruction. In the following, these considerations will guide my steps as I shall seek to encounter and interrogate one of the great and justly revered figures of medieval India; the Marathi poet-saint and thinker Jnanadeva (whose name is often also rendered as Dnyanadeva or Dnyaneshwar). The occasion for my visit is the 700th anniversary of Jnanadeva's death (he lived from 1275 to 1296). Expressed in the Indian idiom, the occasion is the poet-saint's "sanjivan samadhi " anniversary (he took voluntary samadhi at the young age of barely 22). Accordingly, the tenor of my comments throughout will be that of a commemorative search – a search for whatever Jnanadeva may have to impart or teach to a visitor coming from afar, from my time and place.

Even at an initial glance, Jnanadeva's life-work is enticing and impressive. In his short life-span he managed to compose a major philosophical treatise (the Amritanubhava), a large number of religious poems (so-called abhangas), and an extensive poetic commentary on the Bhagavad Gita (titled, after his name, Jnaneshvari or Dnyaneshvari) – not to mention a number of shorter works. Appreciation and admiration are bound to deepen by a closer reading of these texts. As it seems to me, despite a diversity of genres, Jnanadeva's writings are held together or animated by a common concern or theme. This theme – which may well be Jnanadeva's chief legacy or message to modern visitors like us – is the centrality of love or bhakti, where bhakti does not mean an emotive sentimentalism but rather a genuine turning-about of the whole being (including mind, heart, and senses). In this respect, Jnanadeva's outlook stands in sharp contrast to that of Western modernity. In large measure, modern Western thought has been wedded to a "cognitive" project, chiefly under scientific auspices: the project of rendering everything "known" and hence amenable to (technical) control. Without in any way spurning knowledge, Jnanadeva's voice reaches us on a different level. Faithful to the teachings of the Bhagavad Gita, he gives pride of place to bhakti marga without dismissing the other paths or margas. Although a subtle mind (and despite his given name), Jnanadeva is not primarily a devotee of jnana – if by that term we mean an abstract reasoning seeking to gain universal knowledge of things. Similarly, he is not simply a "doer" or political activist in the manner of a Napoleon or Lenin – if (for the moment) we translate karma yoga in that sense. Still, over the centuries, his life and work have inspired in his homeland a large group of followers – with quite concrete practical consequences. For present purposes, I shall focus my discussion on three main topics: first, the "life-world" of life experience of Jnanadeva as the nourishing soil of his writings; secondly, the central direction of his philosophical thought, as revealed chiefly in the Amritanubhava; and finally, the popular movement inspired largely by his work: the so-called 'Warkari Panth" centered around periodic pilgrimages to the sacred city of Pandharpur.

I

Although distant in time and place, Jnanadeva's work seems not entirely inaccessible to us – for a reason: his thought and poetry, according to his own admission, have always been anchored in concrete life experience of an ordinary human not given to exotic flights of fancy. Hence, no visit to this medieval saint could be fruitful without some acquaintance with the concrete circumstance, the fortunes and misfortunes, of his life. Although surrounded by legend, much his actual life story – including his genealogy – has been transmitted to us over the centuries more or less intact, with only minor variations. My point here is not to recount in detail this life story, and the story of his ancestry – something which has been done repeatedly by competent experts on medieval India. Instead, I want to recall to our memory – in the spirit of this commemorative search – some particularly striking or revealing aspects of this story, points which may also harbour a lesson for us and our time.

As we know, Jnanadeva's life was marked by much agony and suffering. In large measure, this suffering had to do with his family situation and its disjointed place in society. James Edwards calls him an "out-caste Brahmin" – which in many ways seems an apt description. This status as an "out-caste" derived basically from certain actions of his father, a Brahmin named Vithalpant from the Deccan village of Alandi – actions which came to overshadow the entire family, including his four children (of which Jnanadeva was the second). these actions, though unconventional, were neither criminal nor (in the main) morally reprehensible; in fact, they remain religiously and existentially properly "memorable." As the story goes, Vithalpant got married at a young age to a woman named Rukmini (or Rakhumabai) who loved him dearly and in due course bore him three sons and one daughter, Of a somewhat melancholy disposition and uncomfortable with ordinary family duties – the life of "householder" – Vithalpant at one point left his family and travelled north to Banares where he joined a community or ashram of ascetic sannyasins. As it happened, however, the chief pandit or guru of that ashram – a wise man called Ramananda (or Ramashram) – shortly afterwards went on a pilgrimage through the south of India, a journey which also brought him to Alandi. There, by chance, he also met Rukmini who, in tears and great desolation, reported to him the departure of her husband. Quickly discerning the identity of that husband, Ramananda instantly returned to Banares where he ordered Vithalpant to move back to Alandi and rejoin his family. Obedient to the instruction of his guru, Vithalpant did as he was told and resumed the "householder's" life – in full awareness of the dire consequences of this move. Once back in Alandi, he and his wife were outcast or excommunicated by the ruling Brahmin elite who denounced him for mixing up "life stages" and for contaminating sannyasa with worldly family concerns. As a result of this ostracism, he and his family – as Edwards reports – spent the rest of their lives "amid persecution, ridicule, and poverty." What was most painful was the fact that the ostracism extended from the parents to their offspring – who were now literally children of nobody (as a sannyasin could not have children). Despairing of any earthly remedy for their ills, Vithalpant and his wife committed suicide by jumping into the river Ganges – in Edwards' account, they "sought penance and oblivion by drowning" – when Jnanadeva was just eight years of age. ⁽¹⁾

What I want to lift up from this story is neither the beginning (Vithalpant's departure from home) nor the ending (the joint suicide) – aspects which may raise mixed reactions. Instead, what I want to recall or commemorate here is the central drama of the story: Rukmini's unwavering love, the wisdom of the Banares guru, and Vithalpant's return to his family. As it seems to me, what the story brings into view are two radically different and conflicting conceptions of religion or religiosity and of paths to salvation. On the one side, religion denotes surrender to a distant and forbidding overlord demanding complete denial of early bonds; on the other side, it means precisely the practice – indeed the loving practice – of concrete human relations, including family or household obligations. The contrast also involves conflicting images of the divine or the deity: on the one side, God is an external overseer forever uncontaminated by human concerns and agonies; on the other side, the divine is intimately involved and actively present in worldly affairs – a presence which can be discerned with the help of a loving heart. To this extent, Vithalpant's story illustrates a central point of bhakti religiosity: that the path to God leads through the world, in an ascent of love. ⁽²⁾ The bifurcation of religious views – one should add – also implies a social bifurcation or stratification. Whereas a remote or shrouded God is held to be accessible only to a small elite of pandits or gurus, or else to a privileged priestly caste, bhakti religiosity is available to everyone in all walks of life. While the Alandi priests, in their arrogance, claimed to "possess" God by virtue of their Vedic knowledge (jnana) and rituals, Vithalpant learned that the divine can never be possessed and can be pursued or intimated through a life of giving service. ⁽³⁾

The lesson of Vithalpant's experience is further underscored and corroborated by another story dear to bhakti religiosity: a story having to do with the very origin and religious significance of the city of Pandharpur. Although not directly a part of Jnanadeva's biography, the story is more than incidentally related to the saint's life – given the fact that Pandharpur was visited in pilgrimage both by Vithalpant and his son (and also serves as permanent point of destination for all warkari pilgrims). The central figure of the story is a saint or muni (sage) named Pundalik as a young man led a very dissolute and self-indulgent life, and his behaviour showed no concern and in effect great disrespect, for both his parent. and other relatives. Later on, however, his heart was turned around and he developed into a very caring son always eager to help his aging and ailing parents. At this point in his life, a great deity – the god Vithoba – came to visit Pandharpur and on this occasion also Pundalik's home. As it happened, Pundalik at that moment was busily caring for his father, massaging his feet; noticing the approach of the deity, he did not interrupt his action but only paused long enough to throw a brick (now the heart of the main temple in Pandharpur) – teaching us that love of God is not separate from love of family, friends, and fellow-beings. In fact, to love God means precisely to love fellow-beings (beginning with those close to us). ⁽⁴⁾

Returning to Jnanadeva, I want to lift up a few instructive episodes of his life. One such episode is the story of the "Veda-reciting buffalo." Following the voluntary death of their parents, the children decided to approach the highest ranking priests in the Deccan with a plea for mercy. Thus, Jnanadeva and his older brother journeyed from Alandi to the priests in Paithan; according to the historian Mahipati, Jnanadeva was then about twelve years of age. Instead of showing sympathy and mercy, however, the Brahmins only heaped insult and ridicule on the orphaned boys, calling them ignorant beggars and illegitimate offspring of a sannyasin. At this point (according to Mahipati), a man was leading an old, worn-out buffalo on the road near the Pandits, with waterskins strapped to the animal's back. As the animal was barely able to move, its master urged it forward with violent lashings – which caused it nearly to collapse in a flood of tears. Viewing this sense, Jnanadeva – filled with pity and himself in tears – pleaded with the man to desist. Far from sharing his pity, the Brahmins only intensified their ridicule, chiding Jnanadeva for showing concern for a dumb brute while being unconcerned with higher learning, especially the teachings of the Vedas, The young boy, however, fully rose to the occasion by posing a question to the priests. Was it not precisely the teaching of the Vedas, he asked, that all life is sacred as being a manifestation of Brahman or the divine? Dumbfounded and outraged, the priests retorted that, by Jnanadeva's logic, Vedic learning should be accessible not only to Brahmins but to a brute beast like the buffalo on the road. Undismayed, Jnanadeva placed his hand on the animal's forehead and "Io! (says Mahipati) there was a deep utterance of a Vedic song coming from its mouth." ⁽⁵⁾I am not concerned here about historical accuracy but rather about symbolic significance. What the story teaches, I believe, is (again) that the divine is not the property of a learned elite, but that it is spread out as a gift. a largesse, all over creation. A Christian may recall that Jesus is reported as having told the priests in Jerusalem that God is able "from these very stones to raise up children to Abraham." ⁽⁶⁾

Another episode involves Jnanadeva's encounter with a mighty yogi named Changdeva (or Changadeva), a man reportedly endowed with uncanny magical powers – and intensely proud of these powers. As the story goes, Changdeva – whose magic enabled him to ride on a tiger with a snake for a whip – was prodded by Jnanadeva's fiercest enemy in Alandi, a fellow named Visoba Chatty, to square off against Jnanadeva in order to squash the young man's spreading reputation of saintliness. Spurred on by his numerous disciples, Changdeva decided to come to Alandi and challenge Jnanadeva to a contest of yogic powers. In response, Jnanadeva sent to Changdeva a poem of sixty-five verses, known as the Changdeva Pasashthi, a poem which – instead of dazzling the reader with exotic insights or magical tricks – simply celebrated God's infinite love for his creatures, a love humans should reciprocate with a gentle heart and in generous fellowship. On reading this poem, Changdeva felt ashamed of his conceit and self-importance. Hence, descending from his tiger he bowed before Jnanadeva and placed his head on his feet – indicating the surrender of magic to Bhakti. Again, my concern here is not with historical detail but with the story's lesson. As we know, there are today many conceited yogis in the Western world, people who have parlayed their yogic powers often into huge financial empires, Here, Jnanadeva cautions us to be on our guard. As he writes eloquently in his Jnaneshvari:

"Like a foolish farmer giving up his old business and beginning something new every day, the man overpowered by ignorance installs new images of gods often and again, and worships them with the same intensity. He becomes disciple of a guru who is surrounded by worldly pomp, gets himself initiated by him and is unwilling to see any other person who has got real spiritual dignity. He is cruel to every being, worships various stone images and has no consistency of heart."

For a reader coming from the west, these lines from Jnaneshvari as well as the Changdeva story are liable to evoke the memory of another biblical passage – Micah's pithy and timeless standard of true religiosity: "to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God." ⁽⁷⁾

There is another, final aspect of Jnanadeva's biography which deserves to be mentioned here: his own relation with his fellow-beings. Throughout his life, Jnanadeva's attitude was exemplary in its display of gentleness and forbearance, even and especially towards his heart. According to some accounts, Jnanadeva was linked in affection and perhaps love with the daughter of his archenemy in Alandi, Visoba Chati. But the story is too apocryphal, and also too much patterned on well-known romantic models, to deserve much credence. Another linkage, however, is amply attested to by historical records: Jnanadeva's friendship with the poet-saint Namadeva who was by some five years his senior. According to these accounts, the two saints first met in Pandharpur and immediately struck up a close inner companionship. While in Pandharpur, Jnanadeva became a devotee of the god Vithoba – the deity whom Pundalik had induced to stay in that city – and also commended Namadeva to the God's care. Subsequently, the two saints went together on a prolonged pilgrimage, visiting most of the holy places in northern India, including Bansres and Delhi. Following this journey, they returned to Pandharpur (in 1296) where a great festival was held in their honour, a festival – Bahirat reports – in which many contemporary saints "like Goroba the potter, Sanvata the gardener, Chokhoba the untouchable, Parisa Bhagavat the Brahmin, and others took part." It was at the end of this festival that Jnanadeva expressed the wish to return to Alandi and to enter sanjivan samadhi. On hearing this, Namadeva was desolate and in tears – but followed his friend's wish. Back in Alandi, the sons of Namadeva first swept clean the place of burial. Then, Bahirat reports: "Namadeva besmeared the body of Jnanadeva with the sandalpaste, marked his forehead with the pigment of musk, waved sacred lights and paid homage to the dearest of his heart." At the completion of the samadhi – and here I follow Mahipati's account – all bystanders were gripped by deep sorrow remembering the "sweet company" of the saint. Namadeva himself was inconsolable and requested god Vithoba to allow Jnanadeva to return to life for another meeting. And "tradition says that Namadeva and Jnanadeva again met in loving conversation" – testifying to the immortality of genuine friendship, the companionship of noble and loving hearts. ⁽⁸⁾

II

In light of his life story and especially its ending – complete absorption into the divine – it is clear why Jnanadeva is celebrated chiefly as a saint, a person whose devotion offered inspiration both to his contemporaries and to centuries to come. Still, an appreciation of his life's impact would be truncated without attention to his written works and the intellectual or philosophical outlook displayed therein. As previously indicated, Jnanadeva's writings are not esoteric treatises addressed to a small elite of Pandits (they are composed not in Sanskrit but in popular Marathi). Rather, they were nurtured by, and continually harking back to, his concrete life experience, thus giving evidence of a life reflectively lived. ⁽⁹⁾ An exemplar of humble devotion, Jnanadeva – one must note – was also a thinking saint and, moreover, an imaginatively poetic thinker, as is manifest both in his Jnaneshvari and his Amritanubhava – works which are justly famous both for their searching insights and their poetic style (and thus confound the rigid compartmentalisation of philosophy, poetry, and theology). For present purposes, I shall center my attention chiefly on the Amritanubhava, a philosophical poem written at the behest of his elder brother and guru, Nivrittinath, at a time when Jnanadeva was probably in his late teens.

In the philosophical literature, Jnanadeva is sometimes compared with the great intellectual acharyas of medieval India. Thus, according to some interpreters, Jnanadeva's thought is akin to the outlook of the philosopher-saint Shankaracharya – even to the point (as some hold) of providing nothing but a poetic decoration or embellishment of Shankara's views. Stressing the devotional or Bhakti element, other interpreters have likened his thought to the modified nondualism (vishisht-advaita) of Ramanuja, or else (though less frequently) to the strict dualism of Madhva or pure monism of Vallabha. Although suggestive, these interpretations need all to be taken with a grain of salt. On the positive side, such comparisons evince a willingness to treat Jnanadeva on a par with India's great philosophical teachers or achmyas. On the downside, however, these readings also tend to shortchange the originality or distinctiveness of Jnanadeva's view – thus also depriving modern readers of a distinct learning experience. For these and other reasons, I am inclined to agree with Bahirat when he writes that prevalent interpretations have on the whole "underestimated the distinct individuality of Jnanadeva" and that there is, hence, a need of "re-examining his philosophy independently and to set in clear relief his views on the ultimate problems of life." I also concur with his statement that Jnanadeva's opus is a living thought and not "a matter of mere antiquity or a dry skeleton of speculative games." ⁽¹⁰⁾ His writings have provided inspiration not only for Bhakti movements in his native Maharashtra; they also offer food for thought for contemporary philosophy in general.

As its title indicates, the Amritanubhava is meant to be a "nectar of wisdom" by offering readers a glimpse into the nature of ultimate experience." In the language of the Upanishads and also of much of Western philosophy, the text is meant to serve as a guide to the understanding of "Brahman" or "being" (although Jnanadeva refrains from using the term Brahman). Here a first crucial distinctiveness of his thought emerges: being for Jnanadeva is not an object of thought, but what allows thought to happen in the first place. Differently phrased: being precedes and enables acts of cognition; in a way, it operates always already "behind our backs" and even during our attempt to approach and formulate its nature. To this extent, being is not a concept but preconceptual; it is also not just a category of reason (in the sense of a Kantian "condition of possibility") but a presupposition of thinking as such. In a similar vein, being antedates method and epistemology rather than being grounded in them; in Gadamerian language, Jnanadeva foregrounds the "truth" of being over the "method" or methodology of its philosophical analysis. His text, in fact, is somewhat cavalier about the traditional methods or epistemologies (pranamas) sanctioned by classical Indian philosophy. Without dismissing them completely, he finds their validity limited and experientially limiting. Thus, sense (or sensory) experience only '"makes sense" in light of another, deeper understanding; likewise, reason is "rational" only through excess or by exceeding itself. Jnanadeva is cautious even about exclusive reliance on classical scriptural authority – a pramana strongly accentuated by the school of Vedanta and also by adhcrents of Mimamsa and Purvamimamsa. For Jnanadeva, the truth of experience is not so much validated or authenticated by scriptures; rather, scriptures gain their authoritative standing through their congruence with experiential truth. In the term of his text: "The absolute does not prove or disprove itself with the help of any norms or methods of knowledge.... The lamp lit up at midday neither dispels darkness nor spreads light." ⁽¹¹⁾

Operating behind our backs, ultimate experience antedates the division between subject and object and also the dualities of experience and non-experience and of knowledge and non-knowledge (or ignorance). For Jnanadeva, the division between knower and known is not so much a warrant of correctness or objective truth; rather, it is the derivative outgrowth of an experience which ultimately confounds and contaminates both. In the fifth chapter of Amritanubhava, Jnanadeva comments on the classical designation of being as "sat-chit-ananda", (or reality), consciousness (or knowledge), and bliss. According to Jnanadeva, these terms offer at best suggestive guideposts or clues; but they cannot be used (either singly or in combination) as objective descriptions of being – without becoming intrinsically incoherent. None of the terms is properly self-contained, since each points beyond itself (towards its other), In Jnanadeva's words: "The poisonousness of the poison is no poison to itself." In a similar way, the terms existence and consciousness (or knowledge) gain meaning and contours only by reference to their counter-terms non-existence and non-consciousness (or non-knowledge). Hence, the expression sat-chit-ananda should be seen not as offering an objective or exhaustive definition of being, but rather as a stand-in or place-holder for reflection to ward off affirmation of its opposites. For Jnanadeva, the term existence, consciousness and bliss – as used in classical scriptures – were not meant descriptively but rather as vehicles to shield being from its identification with non-existence, unconscious materiality, and pain (dukkha). To cite the Amritanubhava gain: "Being by itself, the absolute is beyond the ordinary conceptions of existence and non-existence." Such terms as non-existence, non-bliss are counter-terms or "counter-correlations" of the scriptural terms, and needed to profile the latter. Properly construed, the expression sat-chit-ananda does not "denote the nature (of being), but differentiates it from its a opposites." Looked at from this angle, the scriptural words appear as "the residues of our thought"; in the light of being itself, "they vanish like the clouds that shower rain, or like the streams that flow into the sea or the paths that reach their goal." ⁽¹²⁾

In these lines of his text, Jnanadeva clearly distances himself from an essentialist metaphysics – but without lapsing into anti-essentialism or a bland negativism. Influenced perhaps by Buddhist teachings, his text steers clear of positive affirmation – but remains equally on guard against an extreme form of "shunyavada" where "shunya" (emptiness) is reduced to a sheer vacuum or radical negativity. As is well known, a turn to emptiness in this sense is sometimes – though probably incorrectly – ascribed to Madhyamika Buddhism as inaugurated or formulated by Nagarjuna. More recently, in the context of Western thought, the critique of "foundational" (or essential) metaphysics has encouraged – in some quarters – a irritation or infatuation with a radical "antifoundationalism," where the latter term is meant to single the triumph of absence over presence, of contingency over necessity, and of artefact over (stable) nature. For Jnanadeva, the exchange of foundation for non-foundation is a bad and unwarranted bargain. As indicated, the absolute in his view cannot be definitely grasped either by affirmation or negation nor by a bland synthesis of the two. (Nor, one should add, can being be stylized into a pale ambivalence or an "undecidable" tension – to be resolved by arbitrary choice.) In the fourth chapter of Amritanubhava, Jnanadeva offers a strong and persuasive indictment of the retreat into negativism, or a purely negative "anti-foundationalism". If one asserts that the absolute "neither exists nor non-exists," he writes, one seems to allow the possibility of its non-existence. But he adds, "if the situation is such that nothing at all exists, who then knows [and can say] that there is nothing? Hence, the theory of emptiness (as nothing) appears as an "unjust imputation" to being: For, "if the extinguisher of a light is extinguished along with the light, who knows that there is no light?" ⁽¹³⁾

Shying away from epistemic description, Jnanadeva (rightly) prefers the use of poetic religious language. Regarding the relation between being and world – a relation sometimes termed "ontic-ontological difference" – his text avoids both duality and coincidence, invoking instead the image of parenting. The opening chapter of the Amritanubhava pays tribute to the loving union of Shiva and Shakti seen as "the limitless primal parents of the universe." The two deities are mutually lover and beloved, in an unending sport of love. In their loving embrace, the two are "neither completely identical nor completely different"; while trying to maintain duality for the sake of allowing embrace, their difference is "abashed to see their intimacy merging itself in sweet union." Thus, Jnanadeva says, "it is through God (Shiva) that the other is Goddess (Shakti), and without her the lord is nowhere." Just as "two lips utter but one word and two eyes give one vision," in the same way "the two (Shiva and Shakti) engender one world." ⁽¹⁴⁾ Here (I believe) it is important to pay attention to the image of parenting or engendering, as distinct from the images of emanation, on the one hand, and instrumental creation of fabrication, on the other. As presented by Jnanadeva, parenting involves a creative act whereby the union of parents gives birth to their offspring in a manner which allows the latter to be (on their own). Seen as parents, Shiva and Shakti are not abstract transcendental principles from which the world could emanate or be derived through a process of "transcendental deduction" – a process where the derivative is always already contained fully in its premises, thus being deprived of autonomous being or life. Likewise in the case of fabrication, the product is always already pre-shaped in the mind of the producer – like the shoe in the head of the shoemaker (which again denies life to the shoe). Parenting, however, implies the joining of partners, male and female, in a life-giving and sustaining union.

Jnanadeva's portrayal of divine parenting differs not only from general cosmological theories but also from more specific doctrines indigenous of the Indian tradition. One such view is the conception of "purusha" and "prakriti" as formulated chiefly by the Sankhya school of philosophy. In this view, purusha denotes something like "spirit" or "transcendental spectator," while prakriti means "matter" or "material energy." Carried to its logical conclusion, this Samkhya doctrine implies the thesis of two ultimate principles constantly at odds with each other. In his account of divine parenting and the loving embrace of Shiva and Shakti, Jnanadeva completely rejects this Manichean view with its bent toward schizophrenia as a universal pathology. A modified version of the Samkhya outlook can be found in Advaita Vedanta – provided the latter is interpreted as an essentialist metaphysics along quasi Platonic lines. In the eyes of some interpreters, Shankara's thought can be reduced (perhaps rashly) to a stark "two-world" formula, that is, to an outlook separating a realm of essences from that of appearances, a true world (Brahman) from a merely illusory world (Maya), and genuine knowledge from a spurious claim to knowledge arising from ignorance (mayavada, ajnanavada, avidya). In this reading of Vedanta, the ordinary world of human experience is merely an illusory figment of imagination which must be discarded in order to break through to true (epistemic) insight. Leaving aside the correctness of this construal, it is clear that Jnanadeva's experimental approach to thinking clashes sharply with any two-world formula. In fact, the seventh chapter of the Amritanubhava (the longest on the text) is entirely devoted to a refutation of ajnanavada or mayavada – though without any mention of Shankara (which may be telling). As Jnanadeva shows persuasively, the bifurcation between essence and appearance, knowledge and illusion is deeply incoherent and contradictory. For, if' the "true" world is really the only valid and comprehensive one, how can an apparent world even arise – without disrupting the former's truth and comprehensiveness? Moreover, banished from knowledge, how can ignorance be "known" to be illusory? In Jnanadeva's words: "How can ignorance that pales before inquiring thought, get eye-sight and see itself in the form of the visible world in front of it?" ⁽¹⁵⁾

In rejecting the two-world formula, Jnanadeva restores dignity and integrity to ordinary life experience – but without allowing it to drift into pure contingency and avidya. Faithful to his image of parenting, his text presents the ordinary world (or life-world) as the living offspring of divine union – and as such neither completely subsumed under, nor divorced from or cut adrift from, that union. In this portrayal, what links offspring and parents is neither logical derivation nor empirical causation but rather mutual love and devotion (Bhakti) – where loving care is not simply a subjective feeling but the very core of being itself. In the ninth (and next to last) chapter of his Amritanubhava, Jnanadeva describes the relation between offspring and parents in terms of "natural devotion" which is said to be a "wonderful secret" – without demanding esoteric knowledge. Commentators have linked this devotion with the doctrine of "sphurtivada," meaning devotional or mystical insight, or else the theory of "chidvilasa" which regards the world as the "sport" of being or as the sporting delight of divine union. What these concepts suggest is some kind of pantheism or (better) Pan-en-theis – but the character of the latter needs to be carefully pondered. Jnanadeva does not claim that the world, or everything in the world, is divine as such or by itself (which would be a form of immanentism), but only that it is divine "secretly" or "wondrously" – in the sense that the secret is manifest to loving eyes (which can release in things the divine power, that is, Shakti or shekinah). Without Bhakti, the world may seem to tumble into darkness and despair, but in fact, the eyes of love are never really shut – since knower and known, seer and seen are always already held in caring embrace. In Jnanadeva's words: "the non-dual enters of its own accord the courtyard of duality; and the unity deepens along with the growth of difference." ⁽¹⁶⁾

For Jnanadeva, natural devotion is an ordinary experience available to every human being, in fact to every being in the world; but it is also a "wondrous secret" deserving to be tented by a caring or loving heart. In its continually sustaining power, devotional care is not so much a distant goal which needs to be deliberately pursued or implemented; rather, it is always already there, lying in wait for humans – inviting them to settle down in its comfort. Viewed in terms of the traditional purusharthas (goals of life), Bhakti is a peculiar kind of non-goal – without being negligible or marginal to human life. Compared with the supreme goal of moksha, Bhakti offers a unique mode of liberation or emancipation: a liberation not from, but in the world, allowing humans to live freely and caringly. Here is how Jnanadeva expresses this point: for the bhakta "the enjoyment of sense objects becomes sweeter than the bliss of emancipation (moksha), and in the home of loving devotion, the devotee and god experience their sweet union." At this juncture, the glory of liberating emancipation simply serves as a sitting carpet for the bhakta's condition." Seated on this carpet – Jnanadeva concludes his poem – every human being can enjoy arnritanubhava, that is, "the festival of this nectar of spiritual experience." ⁽¹⁷⁾

III

Jnanadeva's thought, as reflected in his writings, has not been consigned to library archives. As previously indicated, his work still provides living inspiration to Bhakti religiosity both in his native Maharashtra and on the Indian subcontinent in general. The closest linkage, however, persists between his thought and a particular Bhakti movement, the so-called Warkaris, whose devotion centres around periodic pilgrimages to Pandharpur. As also stated, this linkage goes back to Jnanadeva's own pilgrimage to that city in the company of his friend Namadeva. At that time, Jnanadeva became himself a devotee of Vithoba and also was introduced to the ongoing practices of Warkari pilgrims, Following his Samadhi, both his life and writings developed in turn into primary exemplars of genuine religiosity for the Warkari movement, and also into crucial sources and focal points of Bhakti devotion. Throughout ensuing centuries and down to the present, Jnanadeva's poems or Abhangas have continued to be remembered and chanted by pilgrims in the form of popular bhajans, just as his teachings are transmitted in kirtans which combine song and dance with exegetic commentary and instruction.

Given its deep linkage with the poet-saint, the character and distinctive practices of the Warkari movement closely emulate the former's legacy. Throughout his short life, Jnanadeva was always at the mercy of the arrogance and vindictiveness of the ruling priestly caste which reduced him and his family to outcast status. Without ever reciprocating harshly or in kind, Jnanadeva's life clearly was animated by a completely different standard of castelessness, non-hierarchy, and caring human fellowship. Congruent with Bhakti devotion, this standard became a model for the entire Warkari movement. In the account of Eleanor Zelliot, there were three main features of Jnanadeva's life that carried over into the Warkari movement: "implicit criticism of Brahmanical narrowness, egalitarianism in spiritual matters, and family-centered life." These features were thoroughly embraced by his friend Namadeva who, in many ways, was instrumental in shaping the outlook and living ethos of the movement. Under Namadeva's guidance, the movement gathered in its fold an extraordinary company of saints and poets, a company which – I am still following Zelliot – reflected "almost the complete range of the populace of Maharashtra" at the time. Among others, the group included: Parisa Bhagavata, a Vaishnava Brahmin; Changdeva, the yogi turned saint; Visoba Khechara, a Shaivite and guru of Namadeva; Gora the potter who used to evaluate saints as "baked" or "half-baked"; Savata the gardener; Sena the barber; Jagamitra Naga, the banker turned beggar; Janabai, the serving maid of Namadeva; and above all, Chokhamela the Untouchable Mahar whose wife, son, and sister all wrote abhangas to Vithoba. Later, according to Zelliot, the movement even included a number of Muslims, most importantly Shekh Muhammad, the Muslim Bhakti and saint. Among later followers, mention must also be made of Ekanath, the householder Brahmin and editor of Jnaneshvari; and the Shudra poet-saint Tukaram, the contemporary of Shivaji.' ⁽¹⁸⁾

The cross-cast and socially non-exclusive character of the movement also carries over into a kind of religious non-sectarianism. Although organized in local or neighbourhood sections or dindis, the Warkaris quite freely welcome into their procession (to Pandharpur) non-members or fellow-travellers of diverse sectarian and religious backgrounds (as illustrated in Mokashi's Palkhi). This open attitude – not to be confused with syncretism – seems at least indirectly connected with the non- or multi-sectarian character of Pandharpur as a place of worship. Etymologically, the name of the city seems to go back to "Pandurang," a name of Shiva – the deity originally worshipped at that place. Arriving in the city at a later date, the god Vithoba never completely erased the earlier tradition. Theologically, Vithoba (or Vitthal) is viewed as not just an avatar but a svarup (or original form) of Vishnu-Krishna. In bhakti literature, following the god's arrival, Vithoba also was given the epithet "Pandurang". However, as Zelliot notes, the usage is perplexing: for literally, "Panduranga means the White One – a strange epithet for a black god." The perplexity persists in present-day Pandharpur, she adds, where "the temple of god Vithoba, a svarup or original Vishnu, is surrounded by temples of Shaivite gods." The situation is even more complex, however, as the manifest images of deities – Shiva and Vishnu- Krishna – appear overshadowed by awareness of the formless or hidden "otherness" of the divine. In Zelliot's words, Vithoba is "an almost quality-less god," curiously distanced from the luxuriant mythological narratives usually surrounding Hindu gods. To this extent, the reigning deity in Pandharpur, and the sacredness of the city itself, seem intriguingly placed at the crossroads between the manifest and the non-manifest, between revealment and concealment, familiarity and non-familiarity – or in Indian terminology between "saguna" and "nirguna" conceptions – which again fittingly reflects Jnanadeva's legacy. To quote Charlotte Vaudeville on this point:

"The spiritual attitude [of the poet-saints or sants] tends to blur not only the distinction between nirguna and saguna, but also the traditional distinction between Shaivism and Vaishnavism. In Maharashtra – as well as Gujrat and later on in Karnataka – it is possible to follow step by step the gradual merging of Shiva faith into the nonsectarian Vaishnava Bhakti of the sants." ⁽¹⁹⁾

The unusual character of Warkari religiosity is also reflected in the movement's relation to pilgrimage. As mentioned, central to the Warkaris' life are periodic pilgrimages to Pandharpur – but not in the same way as pilgrims travel to other holy places like Banares or Dwarka. In the general Hindu tradition, the focus is typically placed on the goal point of pilgrimage, the sacred center of worship. In the case of the Warkaris, by contrast, the situation is nearly reversed: the accent is not so much on the goal point as on the journey itself. Differently phrased: sacredness is not an extrinsic end beyond, but rather the very heart of the pilgrimage; Pandharpur inhabits the journey from beginning to end. In the words of Philip Engblom, the Warkaris' journey is "more than just a means to attain the goal of darshan of Vitthal in Pandharpur"; it carries significance itself "as a spiritual discipline." As Engblom also comments, the term Warkari comes from the root "wari" which means journeying or "coming and going." Hence, a Warkari basically (and not just occasionally) is a wayfarer or pilgrim. However, the character of this wayfaring or journeying needs to be carefully noted – especially in our age of jet travel and restless migration in the "global village." Obviously, Warkaris are not tourists or vacationers travelling to distant places for fun and exotic thrills. Nor are they simply vagabonds or aimless nomads, moving about for no particular purpose at all, except for the point of being "on the road." Although not governed by an external goal or destination – and insofar going "nowhere" – the Warkaris' journeying is not just a pointless drifting, but rather displays a kind of "discipline" by being undertaken as an act of devotion (or Bhakti). To this extent, the Warkari is a Homo vintor (in the sense of Gabriel Marcel), a wayfarer whose main concern is the search for the proper "way," and the proper manner of being "on the way." ⁽²⁰⁾

This kind of search is manifest in the general conduct of the Warkaris – which is an ordinary life conduct, though suffused with an ear for the more-than-ordinary or divine. Throughout the centuries, from the time of Jnanadeva, one of the main attractions of the Warkari Panth has been its non-esoteric and non-elitist quality and its opcnness to all walks of life. Emulating Vithalpant, most of the great poet-saints of the movement have not been sannyasins but family people or householders. As Engblom says, "they advocated the practice of the path of devotion (bhaktimarga) even while living within the entanglements and responsibilities of life in the family and in society (samsara)." Perhaps one might rephrase this statement to the effect that, precisely by leading their ordinary lives, they followed the path of devotion. Being "worldly" – though in a peculiarly non-worldly way – the Warkaris' conduct in ethical terms cannot be reduced to either transcendental or empirical (or naturalist) formulas. Journeying along the path of Bhakti cannot be captured in transcendental imperatives (along Kantian lines) from which individual steps could be deductively derived. Nor is pursuit of the path governed purely by instinct or subliminal drives. As formulated by Jnanadeva, "natural devotion" implies indeed a certain trust in human inclinations – as against their stark suppression (under the auspices of duty or sannyasa). However, instead of being geared toward vain self-gratification, inclinations here have a transformative quality – by serving as vehicles on the ascending path of love. In the words of S. V. Dandekar, a leading figure in the Warkari movement in recent times (specifically its Jnanadeva section): "Instead of killing the passions – lust, anger, etc. – one simply turns them over to Hari." ⁽²¹⁾

In our secularist age – averse to absolute principles or vistas – the distinctive worldliness of Jnanadeva and the Warkaris still deserves to be commemorated – and emulated. Especially to Western readers floundering in the wasteland of possessiveness and abstract knowledge, the journeying of the Warkaris may still convey a lesson as to how it is possible to "walk humbly with our God." Jnanadeva's short life was in its entirety such a humble walk with God. The legacy of his example has radiated through the centuries, down to our day – as only a message of love can. It is fitting to conclude these pages with lines from the closing prayer which he attached to his Jnanesvari:

And now may God, the soul of universe,
Be pleased with this my offering of words.
And being pleased may he give me
This favour in return:
That the crookedness of evil-doers may cease,
And that the love of goodness may grow in them.
May all beings experience from each other
the friendship of the heart. ⁽²²⁾

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