INTRODUCTION
The Ecology and Myth of Water

Kapila Vatsyayan

In October 1977, the Intergovernmental Conference on Environmental Education was held in Tbilisi, Georgia (then USSR). The declaration began with the following words:

In the last few decades man has, through his power to transform his environment, wrought accelerated changes in the balance of nature. The result is frequent exposure of living species to dangers which may prove irreversible. (Final Report, UNESCO)

It was a significant coincidence that the Conference should have been held in Georgia because, by some accounts, major Indo-Aryan migrations took place from this region to the Indian subcontinent. It was men from these regions who settled in India and ultimately gave India the most complete and holistic perspective of the universe. The cosmology, the science and philosophy—in short, the total worldview—has been sustained by this civilisation through millennia. The man—nature relationship was at the core of this vision; enunciated repeatedly at all dimensions—biological, physical, psychical, philosophical, metaphysical and spiritual. All life was inter-related and interwoven. The process of transmutation and cyclic degeneration and regeneration of life was a perennial postulate.

We have come a long way since then. Despite the traditional holistic view embedded in each and every discipline, articulated through sacred incantations and systemised as ritual as a constant reminder of the need to sustain and foster the ecological balances of nature, we stand at the threshold of disaster, in a manner never before faced by man. As the Tbilisi Declaration states, man has ‘used his power to transform his environment’. We may even substitute the word ‘transform’ with words like ‘conquer’, ‘destroy’, ‘desecrate’ or ‘plunder’, so as to bring home the fact that a single factor, i.e., man, who can be distinguished from all living matter through his distinctive power to reflect, to articulate and be wise, has been the very instrument of these ecological imbalances—imbalances which threaten his very existence. one eminent scientist-philosopher put it in the context of India: ‘Even more than population explosion, the imbalances in the environment and ecology are the greatest threat to the subcontinent. We may be able to control the first, but the process of devastation we have begun in the second may bring the final doom.’ The question to be asked is what are the diverse components of the disturbance—the ecological imbalances—and what methodologies and strategies were adopted in the past to sustain these balances. Can we, even at this stage, learn any lessons from the past for equipping ourselves to face the human predicaments today?

Let us begin by enumerating the principal components of the environment most polluted, species most threatened, and how each disturbs the ecological balance. Thereafter, we can return to the worldview of the historical past, the myth, the ritual and the art of this country or, for that matter, practically all pre-renaissance cultures. The worldview is mercifully sustained by the so-called primitive societies, be it in India, Africa, Australia or America. At the philosophic-speculative level, the living continuities can be seen only in India. So today what is threatened in India and Asia, where four-fifths of humanity lives? What are we polluting and destroying, thus bringing forebodings of the annihilation of man on earth? What is the quality of life we can hope for?

First and foremost is water, the basic sustaining principle—clean water or, to use a traditional phrase, ‘pure or unpolluted (shuddha) water’— is becoming scarce. Water systems are increasingly over-exploited and polluted. Any Indian is familiar with the daily rituals which serve as reminders of the concept of pure and, therefore, holy water. No daily, monthly or annual ceremony is complete without ritual purification with water. At birth, marriage and even death, this concept is articulated, and yet we have polluted these waters of life.

Next is the pollution of the earth—Mother Earth—the floating free ball beneath the most gleaming membrane of the bright blue sky. What have we done to it? Arid lands have increased; soil which was venerated has been eroded; and infertility, sand and salt have taken over. It is estimated that in this part of the world, a million hectares are lost to desertification each year. Desecration of the bowels of the earth through excessive quarrying is common. Man’s power has asserted its most destructive tendencies and the collective greed of man has hollowed the still centre of life. Prithvi, the eternal mother, has been polluted and desecrated.

Related to the pollution of water and earth is the massive unprecedented deforestation. The Indian subcontinent has been progressively deforested: The soil’s ability to absorb and hold water has diminished. Severe floods have occurred more frequently and deforestation has affected most adversely the ecosystem of the Himalayas where our major river systems—the Indus, the Ganges and the Brahmaputra—originate. Each day, we learn of the increase in wastelands and the consequent effect upon rural life, be it in the forests of Bastar or the hills of the Himalayan range. In the language of Indian myth, this is the rape of the tree and river goddess, the vrkshikas, and the destruction of the gods of the woods, the vandevata. No wonder, the ‘Chipko’ movement and ‘Protect the Silent Valley’ is a cry of anguish. Most of all, the present destruction is a dangerous play with the mythical centre, Sumeru, or the world axis—the Himalayas.

The disturbance in water, earth, vegetation, river and mountain ecological systems, or ecosystems, has naturally threatened all manner of life—aquatic, terrestrial and celestial. Mythically, Seshanaga upholds the earth, the Ganga rides a crocodile, Jamuna a tortoise, and each is threatened. Boars and elephants uphold the earth; they too are dying. So who upholds the earth now? The birds of heaven—the swan, the Garuda and others—who carried the gods, are vanishing. So who sustains the moral and cosmic order? There can only be chaos. And worst of all, there is the pollution of the holy space—the air (vayu) and the sky which permeate and envelope all life. The tragedy of Bhopal is too close for comment, but equally demonic are the asuric chimneys of black tamsic forces which pollute the ‘lungs’ of life. Acid rains are common elsewhere and man looks in vain for the purity of the water to flow from the rainfilled clouds. Destruction is writ large on the balmy skies, once azure blue, today smoke grey.

Finally, we have polluted the holy sound, the primeval nad (sound), through the chaos of our life. Noise pollution renders man deaf to the inner voices of his wisdom. And so man aspires higher and higher, beyond the pollution of his making, to that one source which sustains all, and is yet beyond his reach—the sun (Aditya)—the giver of light in the sky and fire on earth—agni—the source of energy which appears unpollutable unlike the fuel of his making. This energy, physically and metaphysically, is man’s only ray of hope for the continuance of life.

The brief description given above can be multiplied a hundredfold to underline the disastrous effects of wind and land erosion, the infertility of soil, disturbance of ecology of aquatic, terrestrial and celestial life, and to speak of the pollution of the sushma nadi, the central artery of the Indo-Gangetic plains—the Ganga. Perhaps, these illustrative examples will suffice to convince us that stated differently, or stated in the traditional language understood by the literate and illiterate of this country, man has disturbed the cosmic order, the rhythm of the movement of the earth, water, fire, ether and agni (surya), i.e., the five elements, where interaction, interconnection and interweaving was the rule rather than the exception. The sustenance of the ecological balance was man’s first and last duty, for only then the moral order of the world rita as also dharma in their fundamental connotation could be or would be sustained. The emphasis was both on the notion of purity and non-pollution as also on ecological balance. Any assertion of greed or power disturbed the balance, and this is the story of all those who are called asuras (demons) in mythical terms. Restraint in the use of power was the central message.

My limited purpose here is to revive the collective psychical memory of this heritage; to draw attention to the myths, art and ritual, science, religion and philosophy in India, which were the strategies through which this holistic worldview of ecological balance was articulated.

Cutting across historical developments, philosophic debates, scientific controversies, religious sects and cults, the one principle which underlies and provides unity as well as continuity of vision and perception is the assertion that man is only one among all living matter; in short, the notion of the jiva. Mans life depends upon and is conditioned by all that surrounds him and sustains him, namely, inanimate, mineral and animate, aquatic, vegetative, animal and gaseous life. It is, therefore, Man’s duty to constantly remind himself—in individual and collective life—of the environment and the ecology. Such veneration is no animistic primitive fear; it is wisdom contained in the language of myth and symbol. Their efficacy lies in their capacity of multiple interpretations at the biological, societal, philosophic and religious levels. The pivot on which Indian myth moves, not unlike that of the other parts of the ancient world, is ecological balance.

Developments in Indian science, specially in mathematics, chemistry and biology, owe their systems to this holistic worldview of ecological balance. The philosophic systems, whether from the polarity of the realist Charaka or the Sankhya, assert it: The language of Indian myth and art manifest it in an unparalleled lucidity of narrative statement and depth of thought, meaning and clarity of message, which has validity, here and now.

We can discuss separately the five principal components of the environment or, in traditional language, the five basic elements—water, earth, air, space and fire—that comprise the microcosm of the biological man as also the macrocosm of the universe. However, it must be remembered that no single element is autonomous. It is in their ecological interaction that they assume significance.

Let us begin with primary elements. First is the water that sustains life—the first element of fertility and of life, whether of ocean or river, or clouds or sky. The archaeological evidence of Mohenjodaro, Harappa, Lothal and the recent excavations in Ganga valley leave no doubt about the fundamental ritual importance accorded to water and its fecundity. The Vedas devote many hymns to waters. Mythically, Varuna is the god of the waters; he is considered the great superintendent of the cosmic moral order (rita); he is the guardian of the West. In a hymn dedicated to Varuna in the Atharva Veda (IV 16), it is said:

This earth is King Varuna’s as also this great far-flung sky: the two seas are his belly (appetite); at the same time he is hidden in this little water. Even we who may cross the sky will not escape King Varuna; from heaven his spies are patrolling this earth with a thousand eyes; they scan through the earth. King Varuna sees all that is between heaven and earth and that which is beyond (them).

Perhaps there is no need to decode the myth. In saying that Varuna’s sphere is the earth, heaven and the waters, the Vedic poet is referring to an eternally known natural phenomenon of the primeval waters rising as vapour (as spies) in the sky only to descend again to earth. Understandably, the emblem of Varuna is ‘fish’, his vehicle ‘crocodile’, the wind is his breath (as Dikpala Vayu wind is the guardian of the North West). He spans boundless paths for the sun and ensures that the rivers fall into the ocean. He knows the paths of ships on the ocean and the flight of birds in the sky. He punishes those who transgress his laws.

Indeed, in the Indian worldview, as also of other ancient civilisations and cultures, life on earth emerges from the eternal waters that hold the potency of fire: the two together transform into forms of world, mineral, plant, animal and divine. From the primeval waters emerge stones in the shapes of ovoid pebbles and spheres with ammonites going back to millions of years. Many a devout Indian is familiar with banalingam and shalagramas which are sought and collected for worship. Perhaps the modern Indian has not paused to ponder over the significance of the myth of the Varuna, the vigilant superintendent and the symbolic ecological significance of the banalingam and shalagramas. Stated differently, they articulate an intuitive scientific comprehension or wisdom through a conceptual parallel in imaginative form. While on the surface, myth has a dreamlike structure, its meaning and value lie in its pointing at natural phenomenon. As has been pointed out, Indian science and philosophy, and their symbols, develop on the postulate of the perpetual movement of creation, degeneration and regeneration of the cosmos. This is quite distinct from an evolutionary model. Time and existence are conceived of as systems of interconnected cycles, not in linear terms starting from one specific divine act of creation. Resultantly, Indian cosmology tends to be circular or what was the fluid within is the ocean.

It is obvious that intuitively, without perhaps empirical verification and analysis, this is an ecological statement through metaphor of the greatest significance. The banalinga from the Narmada, i.e., the waters, and the shalagramas, i.e., the ammonite fossils coming from the mountains, are the concrete symbols of creation from the waters and solar energy. The radial lines and a projecting centre of the shalagramas point at the latter. Equally widespread is the myth that they personify the horizontally floating golden egg, i.e., Vishnu himself lying upon an undulating serpent which represents the inexhaustible primordial ocean of pralaya. The symbolic significance of these simple stones reflects a sensitive comprehension of ecology, more so when it is further said that fire rises from the waters or the sun from the ocean. In sum, the waters and these stones are a meditative help leading to a comprehension of continuous evolution and devolution process of all time and existence.

The myths of waters take innumerable other forms relating to the ocean (sagara), the rivers and the nymphs of the skies. Indian literature is replete with their names—Saraswati, Ganga, Yamuna, Urvasi or Menaka. Indian folklore sanctifies these. All these deities are members of the vast water cosmogony vital and central to Indian thought. It is no wonder that from the simplest tribal to the most sophisticated Indian, all venerate water in some form or the other. Rituals of purity of waters are known to all parts of India. The Indian is familiar with the common (but little understood today) custom of a full pitcher greeting guests and being kept at the entrance of the house. Has he reflected over what cosmic significance this may hold?

From Varuna, let us turn our attention to the great river systems of India, i.e., Indus, Ganga and Brahmaputra. Countless myths have been woven around the ecosystems of these rivers. Sensitive, meaningful stories narrate imaginatively the ecological movements. As an example, from the vast storehouse of these myths, we choose the most familiar one which has sustained Indian life and one most polluted. Our anxiety for its physical purity is obvious in the establishment of the Ganga Authority. But let us see how she dominates the Indian myth and cosmogony from the earliest times. Jawaharlal Nehru had called her a symbol of India’s age-long culture and civilisation, ever changing, ever flowing and yet ever the same Ganga. Indira Gandhi did not consider it strange that the ‘Ganga should have such an extraordinary hold on the imagination of the people of India. For millennia, she has watered and nurtured an entire civilisation, becoming a symbol of eternity, a theme of art, myth, legend and literature. The moods of rivers are fascinating to watch but even more so are the faith and reverence they evoke in the heart of millions.’ And what is the myth of the creation of this great river Ganga, and how has she captured the imagination? Ganga, like the shalagramas and the floating egg on the serpent of undifferentiated waters, continues to be related to serpents, crocodiles and aquatic life. In Indian myth and iconography, she often assumes a mermaid form protected by a hood of snakes.

If Varuna has spies in the heaven, Ganga descends from the heaven. She is the holy water in the kamandala (pale) of Brahma that purified the world; she descends from the heavens from the foot of Vishnu when he as Trivikrama traversed the three orders of space—nether, terrestrial and celestial—with his three steps; but most important, she is the drop of water from the celestial heavens which fills the ocean (sagara). The descent of the Ganga from the heavens evolves through centuries in the form of an elaborate, ecologically charged myth.

Several versions of the myth are found in the Ramayana, Mahabharata and the several Puranas, while details of the names of saints and heroes differ in many cases and sometimes become localised. Central to the myth is the connection of the ocean and the sky, and the channelisation of river systems through human effort. In traditional language, it is the story of the king of the oceans, Sagara; the Milky Way of the sky, Akash Ganga; the saint Agastya; the tapas, or austerities of Bhagiratha, the man; and the forests of the ‘locks of Shiva’.

In one version, Agastya, who in some ways is related to solar energy, once swallowed the entire ocean. Although he meant well, as he wanted to expose the demons hiding in the sea, it had the effect of depriving the earth and all beings of the necessary life-sustaining water. This made it necessary for the celestial river, a kind of Milky Way, to descend from the sky.

Now it fell to the share of another human, a pious Bhagiratha, to undertake great austerities so as to bring the heavenly Ganga to earth. He was sorely in need of water to appease the souls and gratify the ashes of his forefathers who had perished in a similar natural catastrophe of drought. Leaving the administration of his kingdom to his ministers, he left for a place in South India called Gokarna (Cow’s ear). With unflinching determination and perseverance, he practised austerities, tapas, through discipline and commitment. Eventually, Brahma was pleased and promised to grant him a wish. Bhagiratha asked the god to let Ganga descend to earth. Brahma agreed but drew attention to the necessity of soliciting Shiva’s help and grace. He feared that if the mighty river of heaven with her torrential waters were to descend directly, it might cleave the earth and shatter it. Someone would have to break the fall by receiving the gigantic cataract on his head. This only Shiva could do. Bhagiratha once again continued his austerities until the god was appeased. He stood on one leg with his arms uplifted (urdhvabahu); he practised the penance of the five fires (panchatapas) and finally Shiva appeared and acquiesced. The head of the great god took the first full impact of Gangas torrential flow. His matted hair or the jatas piled high, delayed the cascading current which then in meandering through the labyrinths of the forest of his jatas lost its force, was tamed and channelled. Its water descended gently to the Himalayas and then, majestically, to the Indian plains, and thus the earth and its creatures were rejuvenated for she was the life-giving boon.

The ecological messages of the myth are as clear as the physical reality of the course of the Ganga; Its origin in the Himalayas, whether mythically Kailash or actually Gomukha, or Gangotri, the Vasudhara falls and the rich Deodar forests through which it meanders, the several streams into which it breaks before reaching Haridvara (literally the entrance to Hara Shiva). What are sanctified in the myth are both the ecological process and the power of austere discipline to uphold the moral and ecological order and not to destroy it. Man, if he so wills, can accumulate an immense reservoir of physical and psychical energy through concentration and discipline. Tapas is the power, armour or commitment that becomes a high-power electric charge, which in a flash can cut through and melt all resistance. Today, man’s tapas lies in keeping the great river pure and clean at the source and through all its meandering journey through the forests, plains, fields, villages and cities, till it is again received by the ocean, sagara. The celestial skies are the pilgrim centres of Kailash, Gomukha, or Gangotri which must be nurtured; the locks of Shiva are the Himalayan forests which must tame the river so as to avoid wrathful floods and landslides; and the tapas of man is the exercise of his selective-discriminating power in using water for hydro-electric energy. The ecological connection between the North and the South and their interconnected systems are reflected in Bhagiratha undertaking his austerities in Gokarna in the south.

The myth is elaborated in many ways in all regions of India and throughout the Indian history. It assumes paramount significance on account of the present state of pollution. The works of scientists, programmes of afforestation, and rural and urban sewage systems have only to reach out for support and reinforcement in Indian art. Indeed, Indian architecture, sculpture and painting are forms of the most effective, aesthetically pleasing and symbolically loaded message, which is totally contemporary and a valid statement of the ecology and concern—if only it could be utilised. To use an inelegant phrase, the great temples of India ranging from Badrinath to Gangakunda, Cholipuram to the countless figures of Ganga, riding a crocodile surrounded by aquatic life, sustaining life, are the natural hoardings of mass media—only if we had the eyes to see, a mind to comprehend and ears to hear the incantation of thousands to Ganga as sukha da (giving happiness) and moksa da (bestowing salvation). Countless images and mantras lie all over India in every nook and corner from Assam to Rajasthan and Gujarat, Kashmir to Kanyakumari. Are they hollow and ineffective? Can a new meaning and significance not be given?

Surpassing in stature, beauty and ecological significance is the monumental dramatic relief of all time in Mamallapuram. It represents the celebrated myth of the descent of the Ganga in a manner which leaves an indelible impression. On a huge wall of rock rising vertically towards the clear blue skies of South India, a cosmic tableaux in relief is enacted on a space of 27 metres in length, nine in height. It is teaming with hosts of serpents, plants, animals, men, women, apsaras and gandharvas, all converging towards a natural cleft in the middle of the composition. The decisive moment of the effectiveness of Bhagirathas tapas is no doubt dramatically captured; but what is more, the series of events or ecological phases are all depicted in one setting. The celestial stream rushes down metaphorically through a cistern above the great rock. Today we imagine this stream. A giant serpent king (Nagaraja) is covered by the torrent, and moves upward in undulating movements, i.e., all aquatic life rejoice at her descent. To the right of the saint are large aquatic birds. All manner of life flocks together—reptiles, animals, birds, gods and goddesses. Here are elephants, families of perching monkeys, deer, lions, apsaras and gandharvas—all witnessing the miracle. In a superb animated sculptural style, this is the true celebration and consecration of life—asserting and reaffirming the basic kinship of all living creatures. All this is sustained by one life source, one life-giving energy; this is the universal, eternal play of matter and energy. The waters of the dried up sagara descend from the heaven to purify all.

One could go on ad infinitum not only about the myth and this serpent relief, but about the innumerable masterly examples of Ganga and of Shiva, as Ganga and Gangadhara, as a woman descending through the dance movement called gangavataran.

From the Ganga water, we must move to the first vegetative and aquatic life principle—the lotus and the snake—that, in botanical and zoological terms, are born of the waters. In mythical terms, the lotus emerges from the primeval waters, whether river or pond. It is the most important of vegetative forms born of water, connected to the mythical centre of the earth through its stem, and always above the water; its leaf is the symbol of untainted purity, its flower blossoming with fragrance. Physically, the lotus is a typical ecological statement of the processes of nature. Symbolically, it assumes the greatest importance in Indian myth, art and ritual. The metaphor of the lotus leaf, the lotus flower and stem permeates Indian literature in practically all languages. If the motif of the lotus was excluded from the Indian mantra, tantra, yantra, poetry, prose, music, dance, sculpture, monument—as the free standing pillars with inverted lotus or relief as the magnificent panels in Sanchi—or the Indian painting, the Indian heritage would be impoverished beyond recognition.

The lotus is a comparatively late entrant into Indian myth, but once it found a place, the Hindu, Jain and Buddhist art, thought and myth began to find it indispensable. In all cases, whether as a seat (asana) or as an emblem or epithet, the lotus denotes fecundity, abundance and well-being. Lotus is considered a goddess and is personified as Shri and Lakshmi, who is praised as lotus-born (padma sambhava), standing on a lotus (padmasthita), lotus-coloured (padmavarna), lotus-thighed (padmau-ru), lotus-eyed (padmaksi), abounding in lotuses (padmini), decked with lotus garlands (padmalini) and a thousand other names. We are familiar with Boddhisattva Padmapani, the female as prajna counterpart, parmita who sits on a lotus and holds a lotus. Underlying this preoccupation with lotus as symbol is the sheer physical reality of the lotus. Ultimately, the lotus and its petals are symbols of the multiplicity of form. Its centre corresponds to the centre of the universe, the navel of the earth; all is held together by the stem and the eternal waters. Tantric physiology regards the nervous system as a series of lotuses and the sacred geometry of the lotus is called the sri yantra.

The life of the waters is intrinsically related to that of other species, the first creations of nature, namely the reptiles. Just as the lotus connects earth, water and air, so also the reptiles represent that moment of transition. All ancient religions have given a special significance to the snake. The coiled and intertwined snake represents a moment in the undifferentiated condition of creation on which human life rests. The snake is the symbol of this interconnection—swift, silent, limbless and deadly. The sign of transition is vital to man, who must be assured that this world is a cohesive unity: He cannot exist either in chaos or isolation. Thus, Vishnu, at the moment before the creation of the universe, is depicted lying in a yogic sleep upon the serpent Ananta (endless) with its multiple cobra heads forming a canopy. Man and reptile as man and water, and vegetation are inter-related and interdependent.

The countless myths relating to snakes again pervade the Indian psyche in all regions, all levels of society giving rise to major cults which have great ecological significance. Its detailed unfolding could fill volumes. In art, nagas and naginis abound in Hindu, Buddhist and Jain art. In a beautiful relief of the Shunga period (Pauni, Maharashtra), beneath the Boddhi tree, the multi-headed cobra, King Muchilinda, rises up to protect the seated Buddha. Eastern India deifies the snake goddess as Manasa. Badami caves have the coiled serpent as the eternal movement of cyclic time on the ceiling and the coiled naga from the Chalukyan period is a perfect geometric statement of the lotus—naga, water and earth.

The snakes and reptiles, in a dramatic moment of biological mutation, acquire wings and become birds. They are inter-related, antagonistic and yet complementary. Intuitively, the Indian sees this ecological connection and the Indian myth provides many examples of reptiles changing to birds or reptiles and birds seemingly antagonistic to each other being vehicles of gods. Thus, Vishnu lies on the Ananta Seshanaga and he rides the Garuda. The animals follow suit and the entire range of evolution—from the hare to the lion and from the rodent to the primate—is vividly represented. They crowd the outer walls and lower lintels of Indian stupas and temples by the hundred, sometimes in processional rows, in pairs, or yet again in conjunction with trees, floral motifs, and as conjoined images of fantasy. Occasionally, they are aquatic, as in the mythical crocodile (makara) who is the vehicle of Ganga; at other times, they are of the earth or the desert, as are the elephants and lions; while others are monkeys who befriend man.

Amongst the creations of fantasy are the mythical lion or tiger, the shardula; more fearsome is the vyala, the vicious beast. These mythic animals appear either in isolation or in conjunction with dwarfs and women on temple walls, guarding sanctuaries. There are also the many-winged animals called suparnas. Each animal acquires its own symbolism, and by the fourth century they develop into a systematised pantheon closely related to the world of humans and celestials. Most Indian sculpture is structured to comprehend the world of aquatic, plant, animal and human life. Each is an aspect of the other; superficially they appear as decoration, but at a deeper level, the aquatic, vegetative and animal elements represent aspects of the human psyche. Metamorphosis and transmutation is logical and traditional. This rich abundance of nature, its manifold creations and organic coherence logically culminate in the universal fertility theme known to all ancient religions.

We must now pass on to the next most important element of environment which has provided the world with vast oceans of myth. The earth is known to all civilisations and cultures as the great mother goddess. Predating the Vedas are the figures of mother earth goddess in the form of ring stones. The Vedas dedicate many hymns to Prithvi, the Prithvisutra being one of the greatest hymns. She is invoked as born of the waters of the ocean. Surrounded by space, she is the creator and the sustainer. In the Atharva Veda, there is a prayer which draws attention once again to ecological balances and how the earth, like Varuna, is the upholder of the moral order. Like the river goddess, she represents fecundity. Truth and moral order sustain her. She is the mistress of the past and the future, and giver of life. She, who has high heights, stretches on level ground, reaches to the sea, bears herbs of manifold potency; and on whom food and crops grow, and animals roam; whom Indra from the sky fertilises, that earth is invoked as mother. Man says, ‘I am the son of the earth, the rains are my father, let him—the Lord of the rain—fill the earth for us. Oh Earth! protect us, purify us. Let people milk her with amity. Oh Earth! give us sweet words. The snowy mountain heights and thy forests, Oh Earth, shall be kind to us and we to them.’ What could be a more lucid ecological statement of the intrinsic relationship of water, earth, air, sky, sun and man?

The emphasis, as in the case of water, is on purification—purity, i.e., non-pollution. The earth’s fertility is symbolised through the image of a brimming vase, the bowl of plenty. Foliage and the lotus emerge from the bowl—the waters below, the life-giving forces of regeneration. The energy of the sun blossoms as vegetation, the sap of life (the rasa). Water, earth, plant, animal, human and the divine come together in images of the Goddess Prithvi, also identified as devi.

Prithvi, the mother earth, sustains plant life in all its multitudinous variety. Volumes could be written on the veneration of plants, forests and herbs in India. The tree is sacred to one and all. In the Himalayas, the deodara is considered the abode of the gods; one may cut a tree only at one’s own peril; when they were felled, it was with due ceremony. Plural planting was the norm. The sal is equally venerated in Uttar Pradesh, Bihar and Madhya Pradesh. The forests of deodara and sal, the flowering asoka, the bitva, the kadamba, the rudraksha, the parijata, the champak are all sacred. So are the palasa, amaltasa and ketki. The ashwath, banyan, neem, coconut, palm and bamboo are ecologically important and mythically central; herbs of all varieties, such as the tulsi, the kesar and grass—durvaghas to munja—are venerated.

Have we paused to question why the Indian psyche paid this attention to trees, herbs and plants, and related them to characters (divine, human), seasons, moods, rasas and bhavas? It is these life-giving plants and trees, where the gods dwell, who have been vital and crucial for maintenance of ecological balances, and whom we have desecrated and destroyed. Myths evolved around each and every one of these trees and plants. Ashwath was central, so also was bilva, the mango, the sal, the coconut and the bamboo. If one was the tree of life, the other was of the upturned tree of Upanisadic thought. The sal is vital to the ecological cycle of the forests of Bihar and Bastar. It is by holding the branch of the sal tree that Maya gave birth to Siddharth. The significance of the coconut tree is botanical, functional, nutritional and mythical in ritual terms. It is too well known to need recounting.

In Udaygiri, the myth of Prithvi is carved in stone. This time, varaha—the bear in mundane terms, the wild pig, the scavanger of the terrestial space—rescues her from the deluge. Vishnu Varaha rises from the waters where cosmic upheavals have taken place. In the relief, the gigantic varaha rises from the waters—seen as incised wavy patterns—unruffled and effortlessly lifts Prithvi, the mother goddess, with a garland and lotus stalk. His monumental body, in a posture of one outstretched leg, is in contrast with the delicacy and kindness with which he lifts Prithvi. A total cosmic drama is enacted in monumental proportions in stone, as in Mamallapuram, where the joviga, the myth, is recreated in plastic form of all proportions. The Udaygiri relief is another powerful statement of ecological balance where the waters, the nagas, the animals and human are interconnected. The varaha deity represents the primeval organic relationship between animal and humans—so necessary for conserving the life energy of our planet.

The tree-woman relationship dominates the Indian myth. The most functionally meaningful and inspirer of countless myths and the richest treasure of Indian sculptural motif is the vrishkika, also called by other names—yakshi, sursundari and many others. They stand against trees, embrace them and thus become an aspect of the tree articulating the interpretation of the plant and the human. The tree is dependent upon the woman for its fertility as is the woman on the tree. These vrishkikas or yakshis are the creatures of the water, earth, plant and human. No wonder at one point of time the river goddesses—principally Ganga, Yamuna and Saraswati—merged into each other. Yakshis, along with Ganga, Yamuna and Saraswati standing on their respective aquatic vehicles, the crocodile, tortoise and swan, are guardians of sanctuaries and prepare the devotee for the inner journey.

Fergusson considers them as the pictorial representation of the primitive faiths of the casteless dastus (slaves) who inhabited northern India before the advent of the Aryans. Vogel studies them as part of the naga or serpent cult. Vincent Smith speaks of them as fertility goddesses, and Coomaraswamy wrote one of his earliest books on them and their male counterparts the yakshas. They are seen in Indian art from the earliest Mauryan remains (second century BC) to the medieval sculpture and painting. They are mentioned in classical Sanskrit literature and Kalidasa focuses the plot of one of his plays, Malavikagnimitra, around the ceremony of the woman and the tree (the Asoka dohada motif). The myth in all its diversity of manifestation is an excellent example of a purely functional aspect of life being transmitted into myth. The asoka tree is known for its medicinal value in curing certain feminine diseases. Its bark and flower is used in indigenous medicine even today. The tree is essential for the natural health and regularity of women’s biological system. The myth inverts the functions and transforms it into the woman’s embrace being essential for the flowering of the asoka tree: thus the word asoka dohada, or the generic work salabhanjika (she who leans on the tree). In some parts of India, there still continues a periodic ritual where women embrace the tree and partake of its bark or flower.

The myth then enters literature, architecture and sculpture and becomes a dominant artistic motif. Viewers of Indian art will easily recall the outstanding example of the motif in Sanchi where she performs a purely architectural function as a diagonal bracket and is the symbol of the fullness of vegetation and life. She appears repeatedly in Indian art of all ages and regions as brackets or ceiling figures, isolated reliefs in conjunction with trees, plants and animals. The medieval temples of Khajuraho, Bhuvanesvara, the temples of Mount Abu and Ranakapura are crowded with these figures on the outer walls and as pillar or ceiling figures. While she is tree and plant, she is also the celestial beauty (the surasundari) and the dancer. In plastic form, she is invariably in the posture of dance and often holds musical instruments symbolising the sound of music and harmony. She is in close proximity with animals or occasionally rides them. Nameless, she is the epitome of the inherent harmony of plant, animal and human life. She is the ecological balance between the natural and the human. The yakshi is another manifestation of the goddess of the forest, the Aranyani of the Vedas. The poet invokes her:

Goddess of wild and forest who

Seemest to vanish from sight

The goddess never slays unless

Some murderous enemy approaches.

Now have 1 praised the Forest Queen,

Sweet scented redolent of balm

The mother of all sylvan things,

Who tells not but hath stores of food.

Water, earth and tree provide the basis of three distinct types of goddesses and women in myth and art. The sky, although the father, is the atmosphere which sustains other goddesses. Predominant amongst the goddesses of the atmosphere is dawn (ushas) and her companion the night (ratri). A famous hymn of the Rig Veda invokes the dawn; she is described as a dancer who appears on the stage and unveils herself. She is the provider of light and life. The verse runs thus:

Oh Ushas, nobly born

Bestow thou on us vast and glorious riches

Preserve us, evermore ye gods with blessings

(R.V., VI, 78, 6)

and again

The fire well kindled

Sings aloud to greet her

And with their hymns

The priests are chanting welcome

Ushas approaches in her splendour, driving

All evil darkness far away, the goddess.

A complementary theme is that of ratri, the night. The night too is invoked as a goddess—a devi—who is the daughter of the heavens above, who pervades the worlds, who protects all beings and gives them shelter. Later, this night is explained as coming forth from the maya (creative power) of Brahma. She is then called bhuvaneswari (the sovereign power over the worlds). The poets invoke her as follows:

With all her eyes the goddess Night

Looks forth approaching many a spot.

She hath put all her glories on Immortal,

She hath filled the waste,

The goddess hath filled height and depth.

She conquers darkness with her light.

The goddess as she comes,

Has put her sister Dawn in her place.

(R.V., X, 127, 3–8)

The dawn and the night are seen in their dual divinity. The two goddesses endlessly follow similar paths but they never cross nor is there any rivalry between them. They are indeed the divine mothers of the celestial order (rita).

Water, earth, tree and plant maintain the spatial balance of the cosmos, the night and dawn are the keepers of celestial temporal order and each is the goddess, mother, wife, woman, or girl. They are essential for the celestial or terrestrial order, the rita—a central concept of the Indian cosmology and philosophic thought. Any disturbance in the order needs penance, ritual or sacrifice for restoring order.

The earth and water, the sky and the nether-world must have a centre and hub around which the wheel moves spatially and temporally. This mythical centre is the Mount Meru or Mandara known by different names in other cosmologies. In physical geographical terms, it is the peak of the Himalayas the Kailash and the Trishul, the ranges of Kedar and Badri. They represent the central axis. The symbol of a mountain, tree or a column situated at the centre of the world is extremely widely distributed in all ancient cosmologies, specially the Orient. Corresponding to the Sumeru of Indian mythology is the concept of Haraberazait of the Iranians, Norse the Himingbjo or Mound of the Lands in the Mesopotamian tradition, Mount Tabor (Navel) and Mount Gerizim of the Palestinian tradition and Golgotha of the Christian tradition. In India, the Kailash and the Himalayas are the final journey of man’s ascension; all aspire to this goal of reaching the heights and moving inward. Ecologically important, psychically and metaphorically the mountains, their height and their being equated to the centre of the cosmos naturally led to the establishment of other parallels. For example, the cosmic tree, then the straight column, the yupa of the yajna and ultimately the building of temples, stupas and even masjids in India, as a human endeavour, recall the experience of the Himalayas, specially the Kailash.

Kailash and Mansarovar are important pilgrimage places, consecrated and revered. Man-made Kailash of Ellora, Kanchipuram and innumerable other temples concretised through rock, stone and brick, the mighty all-pervasive myths of the Kailash mountain. Again, in the myth, importance is attached to the mountain emerging from the eggshaped cosmos. The slopes of this mountain are propelled by a multitude of life—creation of the water, the vegetation of the earth, forests and fields, the animals, deers, monkeys and lions, the human gnomes, dwarfs and the flying celestials. The reality and the myth are recreated in architecture, as seen in the gateways of Amravati and gopurams of temples. Early Buddhist stupas at Bharhut, Sanchi and Amravati are an architectural statement of the myth. Indian temples, throughout the length and breadth of the country, re-live the physical journey to the Kailash through the ritual circumbulation of the temple and the pilgrimage from the outer to the inner. The metaphor is logically worked out, for the shikhara (summit) of temple rises from the hypothetical navel, the garbhagriha (the centre) to the summit.

Whether it is Amarnath in Kashmir or Badrinath or Kailash, the Himalayas are the abode ofthe gods, particularly that ofShiva. He dominates the mountains as Vishnu dominates the waters and earth. The two, along with Brahma, are the creator, sustainer and destroyer of the universe. The mythology relating to the Himalayas is naturally intrinsically connected with the Ganga and of course that other symbol of purity, virginity and austerity—Uma, Parvati and Devi. Although Shiva appears in the Vedas only as Rudra and Satrudriya, the Puranas, specially Siva Purana, are full of descriptions, myths and stories of ecological significance and meaning. In this case also, Shiva, as the Lord of the Himalayas, is everything and anything in the universe. He is the Lord of animals, Pasupati, and the lord of place, Vastospati. Significantly, among his progeny, one (Ganesha) belongs to the animal kingdom, and the other (Kartikeya) to water and fire. Kartikeya Somaskanda rides a peacock. Vishnu lies on the snake. Shiva rides the mighty bull, his friend and companion—in effect, an aspect of his nature which he must transcend. Each of these myths moves concurrently on an ecological, biophysical and psychical plane. Although each in the iconographical form is a complete ecological statement yet none can be conceived without the other. So Shiva is incomplete in art without Shakti, Vishnu without Lakshmi, and the two are complete in the fusion of the conjoined image hari-hara.

The dance of Shiva is another perfect iconographical statement of ecology. What are his emblems? Agni and deer. What are his locks? They are the forests. Whom does he hide within himself? Ganga (water). What adorns his hair? The sun and the moon. What are his garlands? Snakes. What does he wear? Tiger skin. And, what does be bring to this world? The cosmic rhythm of his damru (drum) in the incessant process of cyclic creation, degeneration and regeneration, and enlightenment of knowledge and wisdom by trampling upon the dwarf demon of darkness and ignorance, and finally he blesses with the gesture of beatitude of life. And his energy is Shakti. Without her, he is incomplete. She herself, the daughter of the Himalayas, must undergo penance and austerities. The emphasis here is, like in the case of Bhagiratha, on discipline and austerity, purity and concentration.

Before we finally reach that ultimate source of energy, the Sun, we have to pause to look briefly at two other elements: one vayu (air) and the other akasa (space). We can only mention the other deities of the skies—the Ashvinis and the Maruts. Many beautiful hymns are dedicated to vayu, the pure air. Mythically, vayu in the Vedic pantheon, is associated with Indra; he rides the same chariot with him, indeed Indra and vayu are often identified with each other. We know that Indra is the most powerful god of the skies and free spaces. Logically, just as Vishnu and Shiva are interconnected and finally conjoined as Shiva Shakti and agni, vayu and surya constitute a distinct group. The place of agni is on earth, of vayu, or Indra, in space and of surya in heaven. Vayu is the guardian of the north-western region, and thus is in close proximity to Varuna. Its indispensability is obvious. Vayu is limitless; effortlessly it crosses boundaries of land and sea, earth and water. Invisibly, it pervades all that lives, and without it, all would die; it pervades all space, crossing the ocean and continents and is higher than the reach of fire, the flight paths of migrating birds or clouds. It is the force which protects ships across the seas or down the rivers, which moves the water and the forests, which kindles and nurtures fire, drives it forward and brings rain clouds.

Finally, air is that pure breath of life (prana) through the control of which man attains a state of consciousness which is at one with the empyrean (the highest heaven—a realm of pure fire or light). Like the holy waters of the Ganga, it is also the giver of moksa (salvation), release and emancipation. Hymns and myths of such intensity could not have been created by those who feared the elements; they were created by those who were intuitively aware of the necessity to keep the environment pure and clean within men and without. The Vayu Purana elaborates upon the myth here. Vayu is like Varuna and Prithvi is the upholder of the cosmic moral order rita and dharma.

Myths relating to the skies and space are as innumerable. The most powerful amongst these is about Indra. He is the most important war god. He is naturally connected with rainfall, and hence thunder storms, and wields the thunderbolt. The consciousness of the life-giving function of clouds and thunder, and its relation with water and fire is also common everyday knowledge, and is too often taken for granted without noting its significance. The companions of Indra are the twin gods Ashvin and Marut.

Now, we describe another source of energy—fire—belonging to the nether, terrestrial and celestial worlds. We have already noted the connection between water and fire in the context of the myth of Varuna. At the terrestrial level, agni is venerated as the sacrificial fire of the yajna. The three ritual fires of the yajna represent the domestic, terrestrial and celestial fires. The altars are made in the shape of a semicircle, circle and square. This symbolically states the interconnection of three orders of energy. We may not try to find modern equivalents of biomass, biospheres and solar energy, but the parallels are not far to seek. Innumerable epithets suggest the many forms of agni.

Finally we turn our attention to that great ball of fire—the sun—to whom all aspire and which is our one ray of hope. Like water, earth, mountain and forests, the sun also dominates all mythologies of the ancient world. From the pygmies of Congo to the Pharoahs of Egypt, from the Incas of Mexico and Peru, to the fire-worshippers of ancient Iran, the sun has been a symbol of moral light. He is again rita. He assumes different shapes, names and forms in different cultures and civilisations recognised as Ahura Mazda, Shamash, Helios and of course Apollo. In India, he is surya, or Aditya. He is the first principle of the non-manifest into the manifest. Vedic rituals consecrate this light- and life-giving energy through the chanting of mantras. In the ritual or domestic routine of tribal and rural societies, agni and surya are central. Myths relating to the sun, Aditya, abound. He is the son of Aditi, who had eight sons but approached the gods with seven having cast away the eighth Martanda (the Sun). Myth and ritual on the surya, from the daily surya namaskara to the metaphysical significance of the sun representing the process of self-awareness, have been consecrated like the Ganga, Prithvi and Himalayas, in architectural edifices and sculptural statements of the deepest significance. Temples are dedicated to surya in all parts of India—Martand in Kashmir, Modhera in Gujarat, Konarak in the East. The surya is personified as the charioteer riding the seven horses, and images of the finest quality, again made ecologically valid plastic statements of the myth, are found in all parts and in all ages.

Like the ‘Descent of the Ganga’ panel at Mamallapuram, the monument of supreme beauty, juxtaposed with the first principle of the mighty ocean, the open skies shrouded by vegetation and glowing with energy, is Konarak, the Sun Temple. Will we maintain its purity physically, i.e., of the environs of Konarak, the cultural heritage, significance of the myth, by asking or pleading for light and life?

The energy of the sun and the relationship of sun, earth, vegetation and water give rise to a whole aesthetics in India where the changing seasons, the bararnasa, the nayakas, the ragas and raginis are all myths of ecology. We must end this article with a prayer of peace and well-being:

Pure and peaceful be earth, peaceful ether, peaceful heaven, peaceful water, peaceful herbs, peaceful trees, may all gods and environs be pure and peaceful; may there be purity, non-pollution and peace through these invocations.

So the lessons are obvious. Non-pollution, discipline, restraint, awareness of interdependability and inter-relatedness is taught to us through custom, daily routine, myth and ritual, but we don’t learn. We should learn before it is too late.

Reference

UNESCO (1978), Final Report, UNESCO-UNEP Intergovernmental Conference on Environment Education, Tbilsi, USSR, 14–26 October 1977, Paris: UNESCO, p. 67.