There was once, in a certain village, a learned young Brahmin who had mastered the Vedas and Brahmanas and Upanishads and won golden opinions from visiting scholars. However, in that same village lived a solitary old man who seemed skeptical. An ironic smile played upon his features whenever he encountered the young Pundit on the street.
One day the question of the young man's marriage was being discussed by the village council. Actually, the villagers were simply basking in the reflected glory of the flattering marriage proposals that had come for their prodigy.
One of the village elders feigned regret saying- 'Vivaham vidyanasham! Marriage destroys knowledge. Such a pity our young man has to get married to fulfill his duty to the Manes."
The skeptical old man laughed out loud. "Don't worry, " he said, "the boy has no true knowledge. He loses nothing taking a wife. On the contrary, the gain is all on his side!"
Fearful of the old man's sharp tongue, the village elders remained silent. However, the young pundit soon came to hear of the old man's comment.
He went to confront the old man, cheered on by a group of his young acolytes.
"Sir, you say I have no true knowledge. Please examine me, asking any questions you like. Do this as a favor to me, so that I may learn my shortcomings and take measures to amend them."
"I have only one question- who are you?"
"Sir, you know very well, I am so and so, son of so and so, belonging to such and such gotra and such and such sect."
"You have told me about the relation you stand in to others- not who you are."
"Ah, I understand! You are asking me about my true Self. Sir, I know from Scripture that my true Self is the Atman which is eternal, unchanging....
"Stop! You are just parroting what you have learnt. There is no apoorvata- nothing new, unprecedented, or uniquely individual- in what you say. Hence, according to the rules of your own hermeneutics- your answer is meaningless."
"Okay, I understand your purpose. Indeed, in our Chandogya Upanishad, we see that the Brahmin who just repeats what he has learnt without understanding the inner meaning deserves to lose his head. Don't worry, I will now explain to you, using my own words and giving unique examples drawn from my own experience, that same essence I was trying to convey to you before. Thus, my answer- satisfying the condition of apoorvata- will have to be accepted by you."
"Very good," said the old man smiling ironically.
The young man began speaking. As he spoke he waxed eloquent. He was amazed by his own brilliance, he got carried away and uttered a true gem of rhetoric.
Suddenly he noticed that the old man was grinning like a devil. His own supporters were murmuring. What had happened? Curse it- I went and quoted the heretical doctrine! I had only memorized their formulation because it was the argument to be refuted (poorvapaksha) in the Brahma Sutra commentary. Carried away by my own wind of words- I have sailed into the enemy camp!
The young man laughed out loud. "See," he said, "I almost committed myself to the false doctrine, however I know the proper counter argument. Here it is- I give it to you verbatim."
"Back to parroting?!" said the old man, " where is the apoorvata here?"
"Okay, you have caught me out," said the young Pundit, 'but give me a second chance. I will go away now and meditate. When I have formulated my arguments properly such that they exhibit the apoorvata you consider so important, then I will come in front of you again. On that basis, kindly permit me to depart."
The young man went aside and began to meditate. As often as he tried to frame his thoughts in his own words, relying on his own arguments and analogies- rather than the authority of Scripture- so often he fell into error and confusion.
Finally he determined to go quietly to the nearby town and gain practice in dialectics in a place where he was unknown.
As he walked, he saw a wood cutter. He thought to himself, 'let me talk to the wood cutter and learn the secrets of his craft. In this way I can find a new analogy- one not given in the commentaries- that will have the requisite apoorvata. Thus, I will prove I am not just a parrot."
The wood cutter said, if you want to learn about my craft- try it yourself. No! That is not how you hold the axe; that is not how you stand; that is incorrect!"
"How so?" the Pundit replied, "I am cutting the wood. Indeed, as I gain strength, it may be, I will be a better wood cutter than you!"
"No," said the wood cutter, "from long experience, our caste has learned that there is a particular way to hold the axe, a particular way to cut, a particular way to carry the faggots, such that injury is avoided and wear and tear on the limbs is minimized. Furthermore, if you look at the songs we sing- their rythmn and melody are optimized for the work we do and the particular psychological strains associated with our vocation. Our dialect and manner of speech, too, is adapted to our needs."
The young Pundit learnt from the wood cutter and, after him, from the carter, the merchant, the sentry at the octroi post, the bandit, the revolutionary, the spy, the pimp, the ambassador, the scavenger, the mendicant, the aristocrat, and so on.
Finally, he had seen enough. He turned his steps homeward. No one, now, could call him a parrot in a cage- he had spread his wings and seen the world. His speech was full of apoorvata. No one could place him. No one could predict what he would say next. The old man would have to admit that whatever answer he returned to the question 'Who are you?" evidenced knowledge rather than the training given to a performing pet.
As he walked down a forest path, he heard a rustling in the bushes. Immediately all his senses became alert. He was no longer the Pundit immersed in his own thoughts, blind to the dangers of the road. He had heard stories of how tigers shadow their prey. He saw his chance. Leaping across a rain gully, he seized a hanging creeper and quickly pulled himself up a tree. In the process, some of his clothes fell away. Even his sacred thread snagged on a branch and broke.
From his vantage point he peered around. In the silence, the only thing he could hear was the tinkling of his own ornaments. Quickly, he tore them off and cast them away. There was a rustle above him. A hissing sound. Perhaps, a poisonous snake? He dropped to the ground and ran crouched through some low bushes. The tiger may be tracking him by smell. He saw a patch of mud. Quickly, he rolled in the mud. That might throw the tiger off the scent. He darted to the safety of some undergrowth. Resting there, he cast his eyes about. There was water ahead of him. Sooner or later, he would need to drink. He came cautiously forward and surveyed the scene. All seemed peaceful. Still he waited. Even when he finally gave in temptation and came down to drink, he drank quickly- alert and in a suitable posture for instant flight.
Wandering like this, he lost track of time. Suddenly he found himself on the border of a village- but was it a village of bandits or respectable men? Before he could decide, he was spotted. Farmers armed with scythes came running to the spot.
'The tiger' he said and fainted.
The good people of the village took him in. They understood that he had escaped from a tiger. They gave him water to bathe and clean clothes to wear. After he had taken his meal and was in a relaxed frame of mind, they asked him the inevitable question- "Who are you?"
He had forgotten.
The village Vaidya said- he has received a terrible fright. A portion of his soul left him when ran from the tiger. It has not found its way back to him. No doubt, when he sleeps, it will find it easier to come to him across the landscape of dreams. Let him rest."
He rested, he dreamed, his health was restored, his body became plump, his scratches and bruises faded away leaving no mark of his trauma.
Still, when they asked him the question 'Who are you?" he had to confess 'I don't know.And... I don't know why but I feel the answer to this question is the most important thing in my life. So, though you mean well, I can't agree to your proposal that I forget the past and just settle down here."
The village council assembled to consider ways of helping their guest. The carpenter spoke up. He said- 'the man is from the carpenter caste. I can tell because the way he handled my tools." The potter said- 'no he is a potter." The toddy tapper said- 'no, he is a toddy tapper."
The Pundit said- all of you are wrong. He is a Brahmin expert in Vedas and Upanishads.
The Headman replied- "No he is an aristocrat, who acquired Brahmin lore as part of his studies. However, his practical knowledge shows he must be the son of a King trained to take over the reins of administration. The merchant replied- "no, he understands bargaining and accountancy. He must be the son of a great Seth, the head of a transnational Guild,who arranged for him to receive instruction along with the Princes of the realm. This can be seen from his knowledge of the Shraman heterodox sects. This is the true explanation."
The watchman said 'What if he is a spy? Our whole village will be put to the sword if we harbor an enemy agent!"
Suddenly it became urgent to establish the young stranger's identity.
The Vidushak (detective) was called. He asked for the young man's childhood memories- the lullabies his mother had sung to him. The Vidushak saw that one of the lullabies was unfamiliar to him. It contained a clue as to the direction in which the stranger's natal village might lie. The Vidushak took the young man and set off in that direction. After various travails, the Vidushak was finally able to return the young man to his native village. Slowly he began to recognize his old friends and neighbors.
One day, he remembered the old man. He laughed ruefully- "'Who are you?'- such a simple question yet it caused me to lose my identity! Where is the old man? Take me to him. I will touch his feet and admit defeat."
But the old man was dead.
The story of the young man had become famous. A great scholar came to the village. He asked the young Pundit how he had come by knowledge of so many different castes and conditions of people. The Pundit could not reply. That part of his life was still clouded from him.
The scholar assembled the villagers and said to them- 'this young man left the village to find a fitting answer to the question 'Who are you?' Immersed in meditation, he broke the chain of Maya- Illusion- which creates a false and delusive egotism which expresses itself as greed, envy and craving. However, evil forces sought to break his meditation. Thus, he emerged from the forest not as an accomplished Yogi but in an unfinished state. His knowledge of all other castes and professions arises out of past-life experiences which continue to exist in the apurva state rather than fully fructifying. That is why though he remembers the skills and knowledge of every craft or profession he excelled in in previous lives, still everything seems jumbled together. Now, clearly, we can see that this young man's experience is a proof of Religion. How so? Well, he has memories of being a scavenger. But, he must have been a very good and pious scavenger, for he was next reborn as a wood cutter. Again his piety and good deeds as a wood cutter enabled him to rise one step higher. Even wealthy merchants, and great aristocrats can testify that he had the qualities of their own station. The fact that his final birth was as a Brahmin- shows it is the top most caste.
However, still we see he excels all others of his class even in this life, for-without taking monastic vows or practicing severe austerities- he has gained knowledge of past life experiences and thus can give a proper answer to the old man's question 'Who are you?" for the element of apoorvata that the old man requested is now supplied by his now being in an apurva state whereby the action has already been completed but the fruit is not yet in the hand. No doubt, this was the hidden meaning of the old man's insistence on apoorvata.
'In consequence, I find, this young man is fully qualified to act as the Rashtra Rishi (National Sage) for the Kingdom. Such, indeed, is my recommendation."
The young Pundit could find no fault in the great scholar's opinion. With a diffidence and humility that smacked of true spirituality, he took up the post of Rashtra Rishi.
One day a crime was reported to him. A learned Brahmin, gathering herbs in the forest, had come across a young boy of the scavenger class conducting a Vedic ceremony all by himself. The Brahmin could testify that the boy- being free of all blemishes and having the uttermost purity and spirituality- conducted the ceremony in a manner superior to all other priests of our present fallen Age.
But, was this not- in a sense- a violation of the 'closed shop' of the Brahmin caste? How could they gain food and livelihood if such practices became prevalent? What should be done?
The Rashtra Rishi said- 'whereas Scripture emphasizes attainment not birth- nevertheless, the lad should be beheaded. This is because my own experience shows that the proper course is to wait for slow promotion up the caste ladder. This prodigy has jumped the gun. Though this action is neither displeasing to the Heavens nor against the observances of Religion- still, it is still against Nature.Let him now take the ultimate promotion of pure union with the Deity and enter that realm where Nature has no claim."
The reason I tell you this story is not, however, what you might have guessed from the title. Nor will my slovenly literary style have prepared you for the surprise I mean to spring on you when I tell you my purpose here.
Strange as this may seem- I wish to reflect on the impossibility of modernist literary fiction in our present age. Whereas traditional cultures work by 'participation mystique'- abnegation of identity and full participation in the events depicted- and whereas, my generation, could still see the computer, and the internet, as being like a spectacle which draws us in- like the Matrix movies- we are dinosaurs. The new twittering/texting generation doesn't see Knowledge as being like a book that draws us in, a spectacle to which we surrender- rather, for them, technology is a servant that enables more human interaction, more sharply defined identity, apoorvata as the inescapable condition of being alive.
Why is this problematic?
Well, modern literature is related to the notion of leisure and rational recreation. It is based on the notion that while engaging with the book you do not surrender or dissolve your identity- that is 'escapism' and simply a low class dissipation- but, employ judgement and a particular judicial type of empathy, which strengthens and makes more secure your own sense of security and entitlement.
This was all very well when new information, from whatever channel, was believed to always incrementally shore up identity. This meant leisure- a period devoted to recreation because no threat is visible- could expand. Indeed, expanding leisure and rational recreation combated social phenomena founded in participation mystique- e.g the craziness of crowds.
Path dependence ceases to be a problem in an economy where rational agents act consulting only their own interests. Judgement, as a faculty, becomes a sort of social reflex. Irrationality and 'deterministic chaos' type processes tend to disappear. History itself becomes predictable. It becomes meaningful to speak of a non-eschatological meta-history. The Arts address themselves to the question of representing historical evolution in a manner constantly monitored and chastened by the critical judgement of the audience.
Then disaster struck. Knowledge, it turned out, was not incremental- rather it proceeded by somersaults. Furthermore, new types of knowledge meant that suddenly core elements of our identity could at any time be shown to be false.
Consider King Oedipus. At any moment a messenger can come before him to reveal that everything he thought he knew about himself was actually a lie. Our position is much worse than Oedipus. Messengers have already arrived from the four corners of the globe and from across the entire spectrum of the sciences, any or each of whom might have information that can show we ourselves are the culprits that we seek. Nothing is safe.
Just as some obscure Maths Journal, or Law Journal, or Science Journal might, today, have published something which makes nonsense of the Business Model of your employer- dooming you to penurious retirement- so to with our Personal Identity Model, so to speak.
There is no such thing as Leisure because we need to be monitoring so many different information channels to ensure that we are still who we think we are. True- as a distraction, not a recreation- we surrender more on more to all sorts of virtual realities. But we are like the young Pundit who thinks he is being chased by a tiger. The faulty of judgement is not being strengthened. Empathy is not being increased. There is no more 'Oliver Twist' , there is only 'Slumdog Millionaire'.
The twittering/texting generation, on the other hand, may evolve their own answer to this existential threat from information. Too late, alas, for my generation. It may that their literature will be so different from ours that we won't recognize it when we see it.
Let us suppose a world of hand held devices dependent on cloud computing delivered through a BPO type channel; except not just Business Processes but all sorts of Psychological and Personal services are also covered; then, perhaps, we will have a Knowledge enabled population whose valorization of apoorvata- novelty, not security, as the condition of life- enables them to escape the fate of the Pundit terrorized by the Tiger of Information.
For us post-modern subjects- for whom modernity is an impossible project because of the threat from information to core identity- Literature is over.For a while we can still tune into programs like 'House' or 'Fringe' or 'Numbers' or 'Lie to me' where a maverick or just plain mad savant can still put all the pieces together in time for the credits to roll. But, notice that ordinary people have no stable identity in this world. Anyone can become anything. All that is solid has, at last, really melted into thin air. There are no secure sources of identity anymore- not no master narratives, but no way of telling how we will figure in those narratives.
Why should this matter? Because Knowledge is re-inventing itself on a basis bereft of the possibility of a participation mystique. The Matrix has no place for us- no story to anchor us in it. Technology, to which life has become symbiotic, evolves such that Life belongs to those who want to live it on the basis of apoorvata, of novelty, of uniqueness.
But such a life, like that of King Solomon, is 'a treasure that can never befall another'. There still will be life- it just won't be a life transposable into literature.
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