Temperatures have reduced by 10° here, thanks to the rain. But I was wrong about Ganga turning muddy in effect. Untarnished, unblemished she flows with the same divinity as described in our mythology.
Why do we call our literature ‘mythology’? Myth, in its very essence means lies. मिथ्या, that which is fiction.
Our literature is not fiction. It’s history. Why then is there the question of belief? Why does our literature demand belief in order to make itself recognizable as history? I am not talking about the metaphorical tales and legends here. Say, why do we doubt the reality of Rama’s resolve or Bhishmapitamaha’s valour?
I’ve mulled over that for a long time and to the best of my knowledge the only valid answer I see is, it’s the sheer ignorance that we harbour about our ancestry that births this disbelief. We are woefully unaware of where we come from.
We ought to explore more, but in the inside. Our quest for knowledge must begin from the within; only by recognizing ourselves and the purpose of our existence should we be able to make any sense of the world’s existence.
I was an ardent follower of the dictum ‘ignorance is bliss’; the more I knew of the world and its working, the more depressing life became. By the mellifluously flowing Ganga I sit, under the long shadows cast by the magnificent Himalayan hills, dazed by the realization that ignorance feels like bliss only when we are lacking the knowledge of self.
आत्मग्यान: such a radiant word
I can only know you by knowing me
I can only accept you by accepting me
I can only love you by loving me
Hence goes my voyage of self discovery 🌻