13

‘Tell me your father’s name’

Long ago in the forest-covered plains of western Kuru–Panchala, the region now known as Delhi–Haryana–western Uttar Pradesh, where the then-queenly Yamuna flowed, somebody put together a book of lectures, stories and conversations in Sanskrit on the nature of the world and the proper goals of mankind. This particular book was the grand old Chandogya Upanishad.

They say it was the sage Uddalaka Aruni who compiled it back in BCE in eight chapters. Its core idea is the ‘oneness of the One’, meaning that the supreme soul or life force, is in everything, in every direction. The most famous words in the Chandogya Upanishad are ‘tat tvam asi’ meaning ‘thou art That’. This cryptic remark is understood as saying, ‘Since everything in the world is interconnected, who do you think you are if not part of it all?’

Notably, this Upanishad says that life is a celebration; a rather wonderful party, and the presents we bring to it are ethical behaviour, goodwill to all and the habit of speaking the truth. Glum and harsh behaviour is not the correct way to repay prana, the life breath, thanks to which we’re guests at the party of life.

Just as notably the Chandogya Upanishad makes it clear that a brahmin is the highest class of human being, but it’s got nothing to do with birth and everything to do with being honest and truthful and, therefore, of spotless character and fit to guide society. Not otherwise. So the Upanishad sets a high standard for people as people and not because of their ancestry, and tells us what became of a likely lad in a small settlement in western Kuru–Panchala.

His mother, Jabala, was a single parent who worked for a living as a maid in several people’s houses. The little boy went with her wherever she did and observed all kinds of people in all kinds of homes. His mother had taught him not to touch anything that did not belong to him and not ask for anything in another’s house. The boy never gave trouble and nobody minded him trailing behind his mother. He was a shy, silent child, who had to be coaxed to talk and said ‘thank you’ solemnly if somebody gave him a stick of sugar candy or a little clay toy to pull on a string.

When he was about eight years old, his mother took on a new job, helping the local priest’s wife clean and wash her courtyard every day. The boy was no stranger to the sound of Sanskrit chants in the settlement, which seemed to him a very wonderful thing full of power and mystery. The hard-edged consonants rang in his ears with a deeply satisfying sound and he longed to know what they meant, and to address the splendid gods himself on behalf of all in those mysterious, beautiful words and meters. He learnt to recognize the rhythms of the chants, and the priest’s son with whom he went bird-nesting and swimming and played hide-and-seek in the mango groves told him the names of the meters in play, which delighted the boy. At last he had a real piece of knowledge from that world.

‘The Gayatri meter has twenty-four syllables. The Trishtup has forty-four. The Jagati has forty-eight,’ he would murmur, dying to know more. One day, the priest’s son told him the first line of the Rig Veda, the very first line of poetry known to the world.

The boy slipped off to the banks of the Yamuna, feeling instinctively that fire needed to be balanced with water. ‘Agnim-īḷe purohitaṃ yajñasya devaṃ ṛtvījam,’ he crooned in ecstasy to himself, ‘I praise Ignis, the chosen one, the priest, god and performer of sacrifice.’ The river gurgled in encouragement but that was the sweet-natured Yamuna for you, ever sympathetic to those who approached her with a secret or in trouble of some kind.

‘I want to study. I want to go to school,’ he told the river and raced home before his mother could worry.

There were visitors next week at the priest’s, students on their way to join the gurukul of a sage who lived some distance away, Rishi Haridrumata Gautama.

‘What a mouthful!’ laughed the new students in a spasm of, ‘May we be children for two minutes more?’ before they went off to school to grow up.

The boy felt his heart beating fast. He must go with them. He followed them all the way to the gurukul and saw that Rishi Gautama had a strong, sensible sort of face and the Guru Ma, his wife, smiled kindly in welcome at the new boys.

He waited for his turn to speak to the guru.

‘Sir, please may I learn with the others?’ he said.

The teacher smiled. ‘Of course, you may, if your parents permit it. Tell me your father’s name, my boy.’

The boy was dumbstruck. His father! He did not know who his father was. His mother had never once mentioned his father and he had never thought to ask.

‘Sir, I’ll be back soon with the answer,’ he said desperately and turned to leave.

When he got home, the boy ran to his mother and said, ‘Mother, who was my father? They’re asking at school before they’ll admit me.’

‘Do you want to leave me, child, and go away to gurukul?’ said his mother, with a sudden catch in her voice. She could not bear to think of her little boy leaving home.

‘I don’t want to leave you, Mother. But I must go to school. I cannot sleep thinking of it, sometimes. The rishi’s school is not far, Mother. Please will you let me go?’ said the boy yearningly.

His mother looked at his desperate face and her heart melted.

‘You have my permission to go,’ she said softly. She went to the back of their hut and rummaged around, looking for something.

The boy waited patiently, not daring to say a word in case she changed her mind.

‘Take this for your teacher’s wife. You cannot go empty-handed to a guru, it is the custom to take a present,’ said his mother, coming back with a clean cotton sari that the village priest’s wife had given her.

The boy took it eagerly, but suddenly his face fell. ‘Mother,’ he said, ‘Thank you so much for this. But I also need to know the name of my father.’

His mother sat down and looked at him steadily.

‘Listen carefully, my son. You have nothing to be ashamed of if you always tell the truth, however difficult or embarrassing it may seem. The truth about us is that I am an orphan and was sent to work as a maid when I was a little girl. I worked as a maid in many places. Not only did I have to do all the work, I had to personally look after all the guests. Sometimes this meant I had to sleep with them. I had to sleep with many men, my son. And then I had you and decided to go away and work only where I had a chance of bringing you up without having to do that. This village has been our haven since you were a baby.’

‘Mother! But who was my father, then?’ exclaimed the boy.

‘I have no clue about your father, my son. My name is Jabala. Your name is Satyakama. So tell them at school that you’re Satyakama Jabali, the son of Jabala.’

The boy looked at his mother in silence while he tried to properly understand what she had just told him and she looked lovingly back at him. He smiled suddenly, a joyous, carefree smile and touched his mother’s feet. He hugged her hard and rushed back to the gurukul, clutching the present she had given him for his teacher’s wife.

He went up to the guru, saluted him deeply and repeated exactly what his mother had said. He felt neither fear nor shame for his heart overflowed with love and respect for his brave mother. Let the guru reject him, he would look for another teacher or another or another . . .

But instead, the guru looked hard at him and then leapt up, beaming. He hugged the boy and said, ‘My child, well are you named Satyakama, the one who loves truth. Such a one as you is a true “brahmin”, who is meant to serve society. A “brahmin” upholds an ideal by his thoughts and behaviour. Anyone of exemplary character is a “brahmin”, it is an ideal, not an accident of birth. It is a mistake to assume otherwise. A “respectable” or “high” birth is of no consequence in this matter, Satyakama. Your mother has brought you up well and given you the best foundation for your nature and character—the fearless love of truth. I salute her. You shall learn everything I can teach you.’

‘And nothing was omitted in the teaching,’ says the Upanishad with satisfaction. ‘Nothing was omitted.’