Go the Distance

Take it apart to put it back together

In the yoga traditions every philosopher writing in the Sanskrit language is also a serious grammarian. In fact, the Grammarians form their own storied philosophical schools and are among the very earliest to see the relationship between the formation of language and the deepest human experience. They don’t get often the credit they deserve but like the Logicians (i.e., the Nyaya), the Vaiyakarana provide the armature on which all the rest sculpt their arguments.

It’s often been said, sometimes innocently but too often inadvisedly, that Sanskrit is the perfect language. The only way this might be true is to consider how Sanskrit is beholden to the rules of its grammar. Those grammatical rules have been prescriptively determined since Panini in about the 6^th century BCE codified them in his Astadhyayi, the Eight Chapters. (Do note that Panini is not, as far as I know, the inventor of the eponymous sandwich nor do we pronounce his name the same way. Say instead PA-ni-nee. ) When there are errors in Sanskrit composition one has officially left the language.

To put together (samskrta) the rich and often challenging and complex meanings of Sanskrit, we must tear it apart, bring the power of grammar to understand how to build meaning. In grammar, vyakarana, you go about ripping (-karana) things all the way (-ā) to shreds (vi-), in order to put them (-krta) back together (sam-), samskrta. Samskrta is not a language any more or less easy to understand but it is a language where every possibility of grammar has been explained to the very root.

But so many works, particularly the epic Mahabharata, are so rife with grammatical “knots” (grantha) that there are mythic stories devised to justify the mistakes. Grammar supposedly unties the knots but also knots together the elements of speech into shapes and forms that can be made into meaningful sentences. We are also warned that this is no small task.

One might be accused of being a vaiyākaraņakhasūci, that is, the kind of “grammarian who merely threads the sky” meaning one that has no idea what he’s doin’, just making stuff up. Our pal Panini (cf., 2.3-5) goes further by calling a bad grammarian a vaiyākaraņapāśa, literally, ensnared, confused, nothing less than shabby. In certain instances philosophers offer esoteric etymologies (think: hatha, ha- =sun, -tha=moon) but they know these interpretations are deliberate violation sof the rules of Sanskrit grammar. They break the rules to make another kind of point; we shouldn’t be confused by their appeal to chaos as a new entry way into meaning.

If however you hit your marks properly you might end up a vaiyākaraņahastin, that is, a “grammarian with an elephant,” literally “a hand-haver (hastin) grammarian,” ‘cause elephants have that one long hand (hasta). Now, that’s pretty good. I mean, who wouldn’t like to bring home an elephant for winning the spelling bee?

Get reallyreally good at the grammar and you might be conferred a title like vyākaranavyāghra, that’s “tiger of grammar.” Just think of how many countless solitary hours it takes, like a hungry tiger on the hunt, to reach that level of nerdom. As we say, tatra evam, etad krtam, “been there, done that.”

By now you might be thinking why all this? Or astu yathā tathā, as the great Buddhist philosopher Dharmakirti puts it in his Verses on the Means of Valid Cognition (cf., Pramāņavārttika, 2.1-4), literally “just let it be as it is.” But let us revel in Dharmakirti’s quip; he is reminding us to do the work, even when it seems so tedious and arcane. When the world seems absurd or impenetrable, well, astu yathā tatha: that’s “whatever” intoned in your best Clueless dialect. And of course Panini was right (n.b., he’s always right), a little grammar will be enough to get you in a lot of trouble but when done right becomes the way to see what otherwise would be left unseen. Who knows? You might get an elephant for a prize.

This past week I was admiring again the erudition of the Sanskrit philologist Georges Thibaut, about whom I wrote several weeks ago. Thibaut, you may recall, was the son of University of Heidelberg chemistry professor who was married to a grammarian wife, vaiyākaraņabhārya. Thibaut spent some forty years living in India, ascending to the rank of Principal of the Sanskrit College in Benares. At that level, you might get the elephant prize but surely you would have become grammar’s tiger. Sanskrit scholars fiercely defend their grammatical redoubts; for it is through grammar that we come to enrich ourselves with meaning.

Reading this past week Śańkarācārya’s masterful commentary (bhāșya) on the Vedāntasūtra, I could not help but notice that in his introduction to the text Thibaut tells us that Śańkara is most often referred to with his title Ācārya, which you see is suffixed to his name thus, Śańkarācārya. As Thibaut puts it, he is “Master Śańkara.”

To be deemed an Ācārya is no small elephant. You can’t really call yourself Ācārya, that would be presumptuous and bad manner; and it’s not just a hard-won achievement (even if it is), it’s an honor that must be conferred. Ācārya moves well past pundit (with or without the TV talking heads gig that pays you to repeat the obvious), is as distinguished as bhațța, which means something like “my’lord”, and is right up there with kavitā, “poet,” which is about the best thing anyone can be said to be. Sanskrit poets don’t break the rules, they use them to make more worlds.

But the translation “Master” for Ācārya simply will not do. First, it’s never okay to be anyone’s master, no, no, no, and while I get the idea that the Ācārya is masterful, this translation doesn’t do justice to the grammatical genius inside the word. Let’s peek further inside and, if we have to, we’ll pry open the deeper meaning by working the grammar.

We start by taking the word back to the Sanskrit root: the heart of the matter for philosopher grammarians is that everything starts in verbal roots. The secret is right before us: the universe is a verb. Nouns, adjectives, words (nominals) must originate in the roots of verbs.

Another peculiarity, often quite confusing to Sanskrit students glaze-eyed by the sheer volume of lexicographical possibilities, is that every Sanskrit verb (more or less) means not only all the things it might but also (and nearly always) “to go” and “to do.”

Somewhere near definition six or seven as you fingerstab your Sanskrit dictionary you’re going to see these two further possibilities. This is more than mere convention: it’s telling us that no matter what action we may also be performing, we’re always “going” and “doing” because those are metaphysical facts that apply to all verbs. We’re not being anything unless we’re going and doing.

Ācārya begins in the verbal root /car, which really is a go, walk, stir, move, behave, conduct oneself, practice, observe, make and render verb. In this nifty monosyllable we get both “go” and “do” as basic meanings. Things that are alive can “move” themselves and so are called cāra and inanimate things are a-cāra, because they are without movement (a- is the privative here) and not to be mistaken with ā-cāra. That long vowel makes all the difference.

Ācāra usually means conduct, a particular course or manner of action, sometimes good behavior or proper custom, tradition, even immemorial usage. An ācāra is an established rule, a revered and recognized precept or agreement. Our pals the Buddhists early on use ācāra to mean the teachings of the Buddha and our agreement with them, as if we are going along with what is being taught. Mahabharata (cf. 3.166) takes ācāra to be a rule, the sort that we all know how to do and abide by, one that shouldn’t be violated out of decorum, decency, respect for the truth it supports.

We also see this long vowel ā preceding the nominal form cāra and what’s with that? What’s the -ā mean? Leaving aside all the very cool esoteric meanings that have to do with the gods, the goddesses and their relationships, we’ll keep this simpler--- though in truth it is not.

Sometimes long vowel ā is used as separate particle suggesting assent. Think “aaaa(h), that’s it…” Sometimes, “oh my” or “alas” or even as an expletive such as ā evam manyase, “you f’in’really (ā) think (manyase) so (evam).” In the old language (Vedic), ā works like a preposition prefix that conveys the sense of being near, toward, from all sides, all around and also it can show a limit-inceptive, that is, “ever since,” “from among,” or “all the way from.”

Now we’re getting closer to what’s going on with the term Ācārya because ā also conveys the limit-conclusive meaning “as far as,” “all the way up to.” The Ācārya goes all the way, to the limit, as far as is possible, and all the way up to the shadows of doubt in the pursuit of truth.

Put it in front of a verb and ā can invert the meaning, thus /gam, “to go” while ā+/gam means to come. And in compounds ā can mean “beginning with” (e.g., ābālam, beginning with or including children) or “ending with” as in āmukti, “the final liberation.” Last (and one of my favorites), ā can work like a diminutive, meaning “a little bit” as in āpiñjarā, a little red, or even slightly visible (ālakșya), gently shaking (ākampah), or sweetly offering (ādāna).

All of this is a bit exhausting but lemme tell ya’, I have not exhausted all the stuff that one long ā can mean (and do and go) in a Sanskrit word.

Who or what is an Ācārya?

The -carya portion adds a future passive ending (-ya) so it doesn’t just mean practicing, doing, conducting oneself but to be practiced, is to be done. Thus, an Ā-cārya, is the one who will be practicing, is going to be doing what needs be all the way to the end, to the very limit, ever so subtly, as far as possible. Surely that would lead to being “masterful” but the idea is that such mastery is on-going, a way of acting for the sake of the “immemorial” that carries on, goes all the way.

The Ācārya, as the Voice tells Roy Kinsella in that Iowa cornfield in Field of Dreams, is the one who will “go the distance.”

When you go the distance for all that’s worth the going and the doing, why then you have become an Ācārya. And if that’s not enough, there will always be more because the Ācārya doesn’t stop learning because the boundary, as we know now, keeps moving.

That thing you do? Keep doing that. If you need help, find an Ācārya and learn more. But sooner or later, if you go the distance, you’ll be Ācārya.