Tea & Sanskrit...

"Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, 

but be transformed by the renewing of your mind." 

(Romans 12:2) 

So...I'm teaching myself the Sanskrit alphabet. A good winter-by-the-woodstove activity, at least in my opinion. Call me a troglodyte, but when I read the newspaper I see that the world is carrying on just fine (or not) without my undivided attention to its pattern of never-ending ups and downs, winners and losers, gains and losses, sorrows and joys. In fact it's just as it was when I left it — and just as it will be when I glance its way again. Sure, the places and names will have changed, but the rajastic drama will be broadcasting like an endless rerun on a channel where plenty of people's attention is already riveted. 

Is mine really needed? 

For better or for worse and despite criticism, I'll continue to focus the majority of my attention on what calls to me over the world's din, and whether it leads me towards riches or poverty, fame or disgrace, a straight path or twisted has yet to be known. As is the case with everything — even the inertia I sometimes feel drawn to out of fear of the unknown.

Everything is the unknown.

 

J is in the midst of reading The Autobiography of a Yogi again and felt compelled to read this passage out loud when he found me hunched over a notebook in the kitchen with my flashcards and Rooibos tea tonight. The narrator, Paramahansa Yogananda, is a young student whose just realized he's forgotten to adequately study for his upcoming Sanskrit examination...

Feverently I reminded God of the oversight.

I set out on a walk the next morning, assimilating my new knowledge to the rhythm of swinging footsteps. As I took a shortcut through the weeds of a corner lot, my eyes fell on a few loose printed sheets. A triumphant pounce; in my hand were Sanskrit verses! I sought out a pundit for aid in my stumbling interpretation. His rich voice filled the air with edgeless, honeyed beauty of the ancient tongue.*

* Sanskrita, "polished, complete." Sanskrit is the elder sister of all Indo-European tongues. Its alphabetical script is called Devanagari; literally, "divine abode." "Who knows my grammar knows God!" Panini, great philologist of ancient India, paid that tribute to the mathematical and psychological perfection of Sanskrit. He who would track language to its lair must indeed end as omniscient."

To think that last July, a mere day before asking my Teacher for a spiritual name, I came very close to receiving one from the revered Sanskrit scholar and poet who teaches at the ashram during the summer months. By some generous miracle I'm still scratching my head over, I had been invited to take lunch at the ashram cottage with a small group that included both this wonderful elder scholar, who sat beside me, and my Teacher, who sat across from me. I kept very quiet throughout the meal, concentrating on eating with my clumsy right hand instead of my left (out of respect) and trying to hide the fact that I was shaking from head to foot and potentially about to pass out from heat exhaustion. The scholar asked my name and I told him — but as I did the thought popped into my head that it might be polite to make conversation by casually mentioning that I did not yet have a spiritual name.

Luckily, I kept my mouth shut. I was told afterwards that he most probably would have given me a Sanskrit name similar to my Western name on the spot, as he has for many other guests and residents of the ashram throughout the years. Given that my Western name is Melanie, my Sanskrit name most probably would have been Malini, which literally means, the Devi who wears a mala or garland of 50 letters of the Sanskrit alphabet (each of which represents energy in some form). 

A beautiful name — but not the right name. A lovely teacher, but not the one I'd decided could name me (and who, a day later, would.)

So by fate (and by keeping my mouth shut) my name really was to become Uma and not Malini. Even so, perhaps I will wear 50 letters of the Sanskrit alphabet someday — not as a garland around my neck, but as a garland around my mind once I've committed them to memory. I know this small feat can't even begin to scratch the surface of Sanskrit's mystical depths, but it represents one more small step in the direction I plan to go in — weaving my own pattern with this life, renewing my mind of the very knowledge I've been discovering and rediscovering, gaining and losing, for what feels like forever.