Day 271: Sir John Woodroffe, Tantra And Bengal

This subject is discussed in greater depth in chapter 9. The term tantra 'means simply a system of ritual or essential instructions' and strictly speaking refers to certain texts, related to or derived from another class of scriptures called āgama — hence the name of the company which published Arthur Avalon's books, Āgamānusandhana Samiti, the Āgamas Research Society. It was said by a commentator in the fifteenth century: 'Śruti is twofold: Vaidik and Tantrik', which shows how the Tantras were regarded as a separate kind of revelation (śruti) and a new source of authority from the Vedas. Whereas the vedic tradition is synonymous with orthodoxy in Hinduism, the position of the Tantras and their followers has always been more ambiguous; the Tantras themselves however mostly claim to be in the vedic tradition.

 A typical Tantra, according to a traditional list, should contain seven subjects including cosmogony ('creation and dissolution of the world'), worship, meditation, mantra, and the sat-karma or six magic acts. The tantric literature is divided between original Tantras, which are usually anonymous and considered to be the Word of Śiva (or other deities), and digests and commentaries by named authors. The former possibly originated from around the eighth or ninth century, but the period when Tantrism flourished was from the eighth until around the fourteenth century; it is still practised today.

 Tantras prescribe individual practices (sādhanā) aimed at the goal of personal liberation (moksa) and/or the acquiring of magic power (siddhi). With the dual goal of knowledge as inner self-realization and as mastery over nature, Tantrics seek initiations (dīksā) from a Guru who imparts oral instruction and to whom the disciple submits. Tantric sādhanā has characteristic features by which it is usually defined. Most important of these is the use of certain mental and physical objects which express or concretize, abstract principles and deities. These are: mantra or bīja (sound'seeds') accompanied by yantra (geometric patterns representing mantras and divinities), mandala (cosmos diagrams), mudrā (ritual gestures) and figurative images (pratimī). Tantric divinities are those of the wider Hindu or Buddhist pantheon but conceived in many more forms and with a special iconography important for dhyāna — mental images constructed in meditation — which accompanies outer ritual worship (pūjā). Ideas of microcosm-macrocosm correspondence underlie Tantrism, where the bipolar, bisexual divinity (Śiva—Śakti in Śaiva and Śākta Tantra) resides in the human body, and is brought into conscious union through tantric or kundalinī yoga. Kundalinī is a form of śakti — 'energy' or 'power' — the female, active, cosmogonic aspect of the divine polarity, which is conceived to permeate all things and is the most important concept of Tantra. In the theological context śakti means the activity of a deity in manifesting the cosmic cycles and dissolving them, or reabsorbing them into the Godhead.

 Eventually śakti became more significant than her consort — especially in the śākta literature that grew out of Śaiva Tantra — and the Goddess took central place, appearing in many forms and lesser emanations. Hence 'Tantra' in Hinduism became almost synonymous with Śāktism, although it originally had a wider reference, for there were tantric forms of Vaisnavism, Saivism, Buddhism and even Jainism. Today, the term tantra (or 'Tantrism') is often used generically to cover the body of metaphysical, theological and cosmological ideas along with ritual and yogic practices, which are contained in, or derive from, the āgamas and Tantras but are also to be found in other texts which do not bear that label. This is the sense in which the term is used in this book.

 The prominence of the Goddess in itself appeared sinister enough, at least to English commentators on Hinduism and Buddhism who were mostly raised, unlike Woodroffe himself, in the protestant tradition where the 'maleness' of God is not compromised by the practice of devotion to the Mother of Jesus. To this was compounded Tantra's strong emphasis on ritual, with its images and mantras — seen as 'idols' and 'magic spells'. Moreover much of the imagery was associated with death and some rites (especially those of a more magical nature) took place in the cremation ground. This gave Tantra a particularly repugnant surface and was roundly dismissed as 'necromancy'. Last but not least, there was the sexuality of Tantra, derived at least in part from its concept of bisexual divinity. The notorious pañcatattva rite, or cakra pūjā (circle worship), was the main focus of notoriety in Woodroffe's time, in which male initiates worship female partners who represent śakti, through 'five substances' or 'five true things' (tattvas). These are also known as the pañca makāra, or the five 'm's: wine (madya) meat (māmsa), fish (matsya), grain (mudrā) and sexual intercourse (maithuna) This deliberate ritual transgression was usually seen by orthodox Hindus and European observers as simply an excuse for licentiousness.

 The pañcatattva and the rites performed in the cremation ground remained secret, esoteric affairs, but the general features of tantric ritual and imagery gradually penetrated the Hindu mainstream and became allied to Vedanta philosophy. It was on this aspect of 'Tantra' that Avalon/ Woodroffe placed his emphasis. His approach was in striking contrast to that of nearly all previous European scholars who either ignored or vilified the Tantras.

~~Sir John Woodroffe, Tantra And Bengal -by- Kathleen Taylor

Day 70 : Book Excerpt : The Power of Tantra

As most modern scholars agree, the term Tantra (or “Tantrism” or “Tantricism”) does not refer to a singular, monolithic, or neatly defined category. Rather, this is an extremely messy and ambiguous term used to refer to a “bewilderingly diverse array of esoteric precepts and practices attested across much of South, Inner and East Asia from the sixth century down to the present day.” Indeed, it covers a huge range of diverse texts, traditions, and ritual practices that spread throughout the Hindu, Buddhist, and Jain communities of India, China, Japan Tibet, Pakistan, Mongolia, and parts of Southeast Asia; and it is reflected in a wide variety of different sects and schools, such as the Pāñcarātra, Sahajiyā, Pāśupata, Kāpālika, Kaula, Krama, Trika, Śākta, Nātha Siddha, Śrīvidyā and Paścimāmnāya. As André Padoux and others have argued, the abstract category of “Tantrism”—as singular, unified “ism”—is itself a relatively recent invention, and in large part the creation of Orientalist scholars and Hindu reformers writing in the nineteenth century:

Tantrism is a protean phenomenon, so complex and elusive that it is practically impossible to define it.Tantrism is, to a large extent, a “category of discourse in the West,” and not, strictly speaking, an Indian one. As a category, Tantrism is not…an entity in the minds of those inside. It is a category in the minds of observers from outside…The term Tantrism was coined by Western Indologists of the latter part of the nineteenth century whose knowledge of India was limited…Neither in traditional India nor in Sanskrit texts is there a term for Tantrism; no description or definition of such a category is to be found anywhere.

Derived from the root tan, “to spread” or “to stretch,” the term tantra has been used since Vedic times in a huge variety of different ways, signifying everything from a loom or weaving machine, to a system of philosophy, to a drug or remedy. For example, in texts like the Kālikā Purāṇa—the most important Assamese text from the tenth to the eleventh centuries that I will use extensively in this book—tantra has a very mundane meaning: typically it means any rite or form of worship of a particular deity, such as the worship of the goddess Kāmākhyā or Vaiṣṇavī (kāmākhyā tantra, vaiṣṇavī tantra, and so on). Most commonly tantra simply means a kind of text—but one that may or may not contain the sort of tantalizing and titillating things we normally associate with “Tantra” today.

In the course of my own research in northeast India between 2000 and 2008, I interviewed hundreds of priests, devotees, gurus, and holy men and received more or less as many different answers to the question “what is Tantra?” For example, at Kāmākhyā temple in 2004, I interviewed two priests and asked for their definitions of “Tantra.” The first priest laughed and tried to explain how difficult it is to define such a complex term, but then said: “Tantra is essentially mantra—the power of sound and vibration that we use to worship the goddess.” Immediately, however, the second priest interrupted, saying, “No, no. That’s not Tantra. Tantra comes from tan and man; tan means the ‘body’ and man means the ‘mind’. So Tantra is mind and body together, the whole human being in spiritual practice.” Finally, overhearing our conversation, another (non-Tantric) sādhu from Tripura came over and decided to offer his opinion on the subject. Like many non-Tantric sādhus, he had a very low opinion of Tantra, which he dismissed as a very bad, unclean (khārāp, aśuddha) thing, mostly associated with phony magic tricks to dupe the ignorant. To illustrate his point, he pulled something out of his bag that looked like dried grass. He placed a few blades of the stuff in his mouth and said, “I’ll show you ‘Tantra.’” Once the blades were wet from his saliva, they began to wave and wiggle around. He smiled and laughed gleefully “This is your ‘Tantra,” he snickered, meaning that Tantra is little more than silly mumbo-jumbo and trickery. In sum, the meanings of Tantra, even at a single site like Kāmākhyā, are not only remarkably varied but often contradictory and reflective of a complex series of historical transformations.

~~The Power of Tantra -by- Hugh B. Urban

Day 69 : Book Excerpt : The Taming of The Demons: Violence and Liberation in Tibetan Buddhism

The Rudra myth revels in a litany of violent imagery: in its account of the wild and bloodthirsty lifetimes that precede Rudra’s final birth, in how the newborn demon eats his dead mother’s flesh, in the details of his hideous visage, in the carnage and the disease he wreaks upon the world, in the descriptions of his vile palace, and in the conflagration of monstrous violence that ends his terrible reign. We are supposed to be repulsed by this dreadful demon and the bloody imagery intended to reflect the horrors of his evil ways. Yet the myth’s violence is not entirely one-sided, for the compassionate buddha also appears in the same demonic form and is equally vile in his own horrific manner. He too has massive wings, nine hideous heads, and eighteen hands bearing an array of terrifying implements. He too is crawling with spiders, scorpions, and snakes. He too breathes fire and tramples beings beneath his feet. Surely we are not meant to be repulsed by the buddha as well. There must be more to this violent imagery than meets the eye; it must not be just for the purpose of portraying evil. That the buddha shares Rudra’s terrifying aspect should give us pause.

Indeed, the myth itself states that a superficial understanding of the tantras was precisely what led Rudra to his evil and destructive end. During his previous life as Black Liberator, while studying the tantric teachings of uninhibited spontaneity, the demon-to-be took literally the words of his master, Invincible Youth, and thereby misunderstood their deeper meaning. His fixation on literal readings and surface appearances drew him into a downward spiral of egotism in which nothing else mattered. “Though he wore the outward costume of an excellent [monk],” the myth relates, “he followed a path of evil-hearted beings.” Whereas his servant, on the other hand, “despite his outward appearance as one of low rank, remained on the path to ascertaining the excellent mind.” In therealm of the tantras and their antinomian teachings, one must proceed carefully. Appearances may not be what they seem.

Early Western condemnations of Tibetan Buddhism as bloody demonolatry, such as those of L. Austine Waddell, were driven in large part by scholars’ own violent reactions against precisely the kind of imagery that fills the Rudra myth. Despite the strength of such visceral negative responses, however, the Rudra myth suggests that some forms of violence may be more complex. The extreme reactions that violence often engenders can obscure its nobler features. The superficial appearance of tantric violence, we are told, can mask a supremely compassionate intention. This chapter investigates the nature of this concealment, this disjuncture between the unsettling appearance of Buddhist violence and its hidden pacific intention. How can violence be both destructive and compassionate? How have Buddhists distinguished compassionate violence, this supremely dangerous form of virtuous activity, from its evil twin, the demonic violence we all fear and loathe? This chapter explores these questions, all the while attempting to remain open to the ambiguities that are inherent to violence.

Violence, as Hannah Arendt has observed, is instrumental by nature. It is a means to an end and as such is neither good nor evil in itself. It is justifiable only in its end, in the purpose for which it is enacted. By means of violence, one may accomplish aims that are either positive or negative. Yet violence is not just any instrument; it is the ultimate of means, the activity of last resort in the Buddhist tantras. Its methods are dramatic, and its spectacular appearance can easily distract from and obscure its merely instrumental nature. The horror of violence thereby often seems gratuitous and fundamentally evil. In spite of its powerful appearance, though, violence remains merely a morally ambiguous means. The Rudra myth involves us in all these issues, in the tensions and the concealments that lie within violence itself, and it thereby provides an opportunity for us to investigate the Buddhist approach to violence in all its complexity.

COMPASSIONATE VIOLENCE IN THE SUTRAS

On the surface, killing is forbidden in Buddhism, as is clear from the very first precept to be observed by all Buddhist devotees (upasaka): to abstain from killing living beings (Skt. pratigahtad virati). Yet what this has meant in practice has not been as simple as it might seem. The idea that killing may sometimes be permissible within Buddhism appears in the tantras, but it is by no means unique to these works. Violent rituals multiplied dramatically with the emergence of the tantras from the seventh century onward, but already the earlier Mahayana sutras had made similar ethical allowances. Even certain non-Mahyna Abhidharma and Vinaya commentaries had left the door open for forms of killing that were not necessarily negative. Such early sources distinguished moral from immoral killing on the basis of the mental intention (cetan) that accompanied the act. Killing was only immoral if it was intentional, and conversely, unintentional killing did not break the first precept. As the Samantapsdik, a fifth-century collection of Pali commentaries on the Vinaya, explains: “The intention to kill as a result of which one produces the activity that cuts off [a being’s] life-faculty is called ’killing a living being’; ’the one who kills a living being’ should be understood as the person [who kills while] possessing that intention.”

~~The Taming of The Demons: Violence and Liberation in Tibetan Buddhism -by- Jacob P. Dalton

Day 36: Book Excerpt: Vagina- A New Biography

Let’s look back again at the 1970s, where the feminism of a Betty Dodson and a Shere Hite, and the market opportunity grabbed by Hugh Hefner and his fellow pornographers in the following decades, “set” our model in the West of female sexuality.

This model of the feminist vulva and vagina— joined eventually by pornography’s elaboration of this model— was the one that was formative for women of my generation. The vagina and vulva were primarily understood as mediating sexual pleasure. What was important was technique—one’s own masturbatory technique, and the skills one taught to a partner. Feminists and pornographers alike defined the vagina and vulva in terms of the mechanics of orgasm.

But while technique is important, this model leaves a great deal out of the “meaning” of the vagina and vulva. It leaves out the connections to the vagina of spirituality and poetry, art and mysticism, and the context of a relationship in which orgasm may or may not be taking place. It certainly leaves behind the larger question of the quality of a masturbating woman’s relationship to herself.

The Dodson model of the empowered female did a great deal of good, but also caused some harm. The good is that feminism of that era had to break the association of heterosexual female sexual awakening with dependency on a man. The harm is that the feminism of this era successfully broke the association of heterosexual female sexual awakening with dependency on a man. “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle,” as one seventies-era feminist bumper sticker insisted. The feminist model of heterosexuality—that straight women can fuck like men, or get by with a great vibrator and no other attention to self-love, and be simply instrumentalist about their pleasure—turned out to have created a new set of impossible ideals, foisted, if through the best of intentions, upon “liberated” women. Feminism has evaded the far more difficult question of how to be a liberated heterosexual woman and how to acknowledge deep physical needs for connection with men. As nature organized things, we ideally have a partner in the dance. If we don’t have a partner, there is attention we should give to self-love as self-care. It does not solve straight women’s existential dilemma, the tension between our dependency needs and our needs for independence, simply to declare that the dance has changed.

The harm of this model of female sexuality is that it reaffirms a fractured, commercialized culture’s tendency to see people, including “sexually liberated women,” as isolated, self-absorbed units, and to see pleasure as something one needs to acquire the way one acquires designer shoes, rather than as a medium of profound intimacy with another, or with one’s self, or as a gateway to a higher, more imaginative, fully realized dimension that includes and affects all aspects of one’s life.

Recent data collected in 2009 by sociologist Marcus Buckingham, drawn from multicountry surveys, show that Western women report lower and lower levels of happiness and satisfaction, even as their freedoms and options have grown, relative to men. Both feminists and antifeminist commentators sought to find answers for this broadly confirmed trend: feminists sought to argue that it was inequality or wage differences in the workplace and the “second shift” at home—but the surveys were adjusted to account for sex discrimination. Antifeminist commentators argued, of course, that this was all the fault of feminism, making women seek fulfillment in professional spheres unnatural to them.

I think it is very possible, judging from the tremendous amount of data we have seen about what women need psychologically, which they are generally not getting, that they are saying they are dissatisfied because the “available models of sexuality”—the post-Dodson, post-Hefner, post-porn, married, two-career, hurried, or young and single drunk-with-a-stranger-in-a-bar-or-dorm-room models—are, long term, just plain physically untenable. These models of female sexuality—left to us by a combination of pressures ranging from an incomplete development of feminism in the 1970s, to a marketplace that likes us overemployed and undersexed, to the speeding up of sexual pacing set by pornography—doom women eventually to emotional strain caused by physiological strain. These models of female sexuality are simply extremely physically, emotionally, and existentially unsatisfying. (This model of sex may well doom Western heterosexual men in other ways, deserving of their own book.)

Now that we know that the vagina is a gateway to a woman’s happiness and to her creative life, we can create and engage with an entirely different model of female sexuality, one that cherishes and values women’s sexuality. This is where the “Goddess” model comes in, a model that focuses on “the Goddess Array”—that set of behaviors and practices that should precede or accompany lovemaking. But where is a “Goddess” model to be found in contemporary life?

My search to locate a working “Goddess” model led me first into the past, into the historical differences between Eastern and Western attitudes toward female sexuality. Of course, women were subjugated in the East as well as in the West, but in two cultures in particular—the India of the Tantrists, about fifteen hundred years ago, and the Han dynasty of China about a thousand years ago—women were, for a time, elevated and enjoyed relative freedom. These two cultures viewed the vagina as life-giving and sacred, and, as I noted, they believed that balance and health for men depended upon treating the vagina—and women—extremely well sexually. Both cultures appear to have understood aspects of female sexual response that modern Western science is only now catching up with.

~~Vagina- A New Biography -by- Naomi Wolf