In Search of the Cradle of Civilization: A book review

Once upon a time, the Aryans, utopian, blue-eyed and intellectually ‘superior’ beings of the West, invaded the Indus Valley Civilization, a peace-loving and serene settlement. Sounds like a short and simple story, doesn’t it? Unfortunately (or fortunately for mystery lovers), it isn’t that simple. The so-called ‘Aryan invasion’ has been debated extensively in the past century with various new theories coming up. Droughts, floods, massacres, diffusion of cultures are few of the theories which scholars have come up. The Aryan invasion has often been criticized citing ‘Western worldview’. ‘In Search of the Cradle of Civilization’ by Subhash Kak, Georg Feuerstein and David Frawley makes an attempt to erode the widely accepted Aryan invasion theory, and put forward the ‘Eastern worldview’ on the issue. The authors propose that the Indic and Vedic people were, in fact the same.

The book is divided into two parts: the first one elucidating the main argument regarding the decline of the Harappans, and the second one focusing on the spiritual heritage of India.

A great introduction to the book and the concepts keeps the reader gripped to the first part. The language is quite analytical, and forces the reader to question what she is reading, for every argument is unique and almost unheard of by most common readers. The first part describes the similarities between the Vedic and Indic cultures, the ambiguous definition of the word ‘Aryan’, the excavation of the Indic cities, etc. A perfect summary of the arguments is the last chapter of this part, which is named: Why the Aryan invasion never happened: Seventeen Arguments.

The second half of the book describes the cultural and spiritual legacy of India. Everything from spiritual heritage, Vedic psychology, astronomical basis of myths, and the birth of Vedic science is covered. This part focuses more on explaining the metaphorical aspect of the legends and writings, rather than the common literal aspect. Spectacular revelations about so many common legends are made, and they will leave you spellbound.

The book is quite well-written and an interesting read overall. However, it isn’t particularly neutral. It is quite focused on eroding the Western worldview, and emphasizes on this idea quite frequently. The reader, hence needs to be cautious. If you wish to read this book for research purposes, read it from a neutral point of view, without any biases. Do not get swayed by the Western view or the Eastern counterviews on the issue, rather study the evidences in both cases and come up with your conclusion. Forget the Eastern or Western worldviews, or any such other biases, and read the book from a state of mind which allows you to take in information and evidences, not opinions. The book is quite old, and a couple of theories put forward become either more substantive or unacceptable citing the recent discoveries such as Rakhigarhi or Bronze chariots. So, do not read blindly. Research, revise, understand, question and interact with the ideas in the book. That’s when it becomes fun.

What are you waiting for? Get that copy now and go on a horse ride with the ’Aryans’ to the ancient past!

A girl named Grace

That silhoutte. The perfectly curved dome-like structure on top, with the intricate carvings relieved her soul. The breeze from the windows in the chatri blew across her heart. Every evening, everything was the same, the same orange sky, the same black outline of the chatri, the same beautiful girl pirouetting to the beats of her ghungroos, and the same woman who came to see them each day.

She had been visiting the City Palace every evening since the past 10 years, just to witness the luminescent sun disappear into the folds of clouds, and to watch the rustic old chatri turn a dull black from the effervescent brown. The bright orange sky turned into a blinding black, just like jovial youth turning into the setting old age.

A girl as beautiful as Grace herself, came every evening to pour her heart out by swaying her elegant limbs. Her hands touched the wind as gently as a mother touched her child. Her feet, with the ghungroos, let out a sound as beautiful as Krishna’s flute itself. Even the dark setting sun, the radiance of the adas on her face shone as bright as Surya devta himself The tunes of her ghungroo, settled in her magn man, and her immersed soul spoke to her body through her dance steps. Her grace was immortal, timeless and ever-lasting. It would go on to stay in her soul forever.

The wheelchair creaked. The old lady was brought back to reality as her wrinkled cheeks became wet with her teardrops. Her grace persisted, but her youth had died. She was no longer her past. The girl dancing in the chatri every evening, was her, yet not her. Her physical beauty had now died, she could no longer sway her limbs and dance to the beats of her ghungroo. Her charming young self was now dead. Youth wasn’t immortal, timeless and ever-lasting like her grace. But she still came every evening. For she knew, that the girl only she saw every evening dancing in the chatri, was her. She may not be the luscious, enticing beauty she once was, but she was still graceful and dedicated. There were wrinkles on her face, but none in her soul. Her life was like a ghungroo, and its beads were now rusted. They were gradually falling off, taking a piece of her soul with them.   But she still remained the dancer she once was, and danced every single evening in her own thoughts.

Tangled Forever

Her jet black, Rapunzel-like hair,

Trickled down the tower of her soul.

But they were tangled and confused,

Just like her mind.

Her castle was filled with people,

Who wore fake smiles and fake masks.

In this ocean of heartlessness,

She had learnt to live alone.

Or so she thought.

One fine day,

When she was on her way back to her kingdom,

She met a wanderer.

The wanderer was just not like her.

Her hair just reached her shoulders,

And her smile beamed the confidence that lay underneath.

They became friends instantly.

The princess got back to her castle,

And all she could think of was the new friend she had made.

Even though she was new, she was real,

The princess felt.

As time passed,

The wanderer and the princess became friends,

Untangled each others’ minds,

And enhanced each others souls.

They stuffed their stomachs together,

And broke their hearts too,

Their passions wavered,

But their comradeship never faded.

They grew up and their paths took them to different places,

But their hearts stayed together,

And kept them connected.

They spoke every single day,

Not through the telephone,

But through their connected minds.

She’s so girly

The jet black, silky hair trickle down her shoulders, and her dark black heels make noise as she walks. Her tight pink dress shows off her lean figure, and the pink lipstick on her soft lips makes her even more attractive than she already is. The kohl, kajal and eyeshadow make her eyes bright, but somehow hide the shine of her inner self. Her hands and legs have undergone the painful procedure called waxing. They call her a ‘perfect girl’. But the desire to do more makes her doubt how perfect she truly is.

There she goes. Her overgrown pixie cut hair lingers over her eyes, making it difficult for her to see the world.  The tag of her loose, plain white t-shirt says, Zara Boys-14. Her HRX running shorts end just above her knees. Her eyeliner-less eyes have a glimmer of unconventionality. Her purple Nike shoes, with her grey socks are a total fashion disaster! The hair on her unwaxed arms sways proudly with the wind. She’s been jogging, so her luscious pink lips have a mixture of Vaseline and sweat applied on them. They call her a ‘tomboy’.

For her, she as girlish as one can be.

Who is a girl after all?

Is being a girl about how one looks? She doesn’t think so.

For her, being a girl is so much more than that. Being a girl is about having the strength to define oneself. Being a girl is all about having one’s own personality, which is determined by one’s own thoughts, and not by what the world thinks of her. Being a girl is about being confident, strong and a fighter. It’s about fighting with one’s own muddled conscience, which sways between the thoughts of the world, and the thoughts of her soul, while defining herself. The world may dictate the rules and way of living to her, but she is one who breaks all these boundaries and creates her unwavering self, and moulds herself they way she wishes to. She doesn’t allow the views of society to contaminate her imperfectly perfect self. She just wishes to be herself.

A true girl is the one who dresses up and applies makeup to satisfy herself, and not to impress the world around her. A true girl is the one who understands how beautiful her soul is and embraces her true inner beauty. On the other hand, if a pair of boxer shorts and a pixie haircut make someone feel good about herself, then that is her ‘girlishness’ defined. Girlishness is all about feeling about who you are.

Over time, being girly has been associated with wearing pink, using makeup, dressing in skirts, dresses or blouses, taking an hour to get ready, and shopping. I really think that as the world around this is changing, the outdated and restricted definition of ‘girly’ needs to undergo a change. Girlishness needs to go beyond one’s appearance and its time that being a girl becomes something beyond applying pink lipstick and wearing a pink dress. Its time that being girly becomes about embracing one’s inner self.

Princess

 O my dear princess,

This isn't a fairytale,

This is life.

Your luscious blonde hair don't reach for your knees,

And your baby pink gown is seldom seen.

The only corset that binds you is that of society.

Your glass slippers don't crack, but your heart does.

No charming princes,

No fairy godmothers,

No magic.

Just you.

Each new day comes with a new challenge,

Not with a new dress.

Your weapon isn't your gullibility,

It's the sword of your robustness.

The witch of doubt arrives each day to haunt you,

And you fight back with perfection.

So my dear princess,

Be the warrior you are.

And fight your battle everyday,

With the world.

And with yourself.

Home

The fragrance of warmth touched my heart.
And the doors of glee opened.
The arms of familiarity wrapped around me,
And the angel of dwelling kissed my forehead.
The bed of dreams floated towards me like a vision,
Translucent and vibrant.

The rustic green walls were all the same,
But their shine was new.
The snapshots on the walls appeared real,
As real as the memories they encapsulated.

 The bitterness of my cup of coffee,
Had vanished by the aura of benignity it carried.
My window pane wasn’t broken anymore,
The passage of time had fixed it.
The old chair let out a new creak.
And the torn curtains gave me a glimpse of my soul.

It was then that I realized,
My home wasn’t a building of four walls,
It was a building of four million memories.

The fierce eyes

An atheist. That’s who I am. I am the one who doesn’t pray or doesn’t like a tika on her forehead, or even the one who goes to pujas merely for Prasad. I never really question my judgment of being an atheist, for I never really feel any emotional or as they say “spiritual” connection to God, or rather shall I say idols of God. As a lover of history, I find solace and my emotional love only in historical monuments. I simply feel mesmerized when I go to any, and just exult and submit to even the not very attractive, but certainly the most beautiful monuments.

Its Navratri, and the festive season in India is in full swing. I am a huge foodie and usually attend festivals to relish the Prasad. My favourite festival of all times is Durga Puja. I have an affinity for Bengalis I guess. Be it their literature, their music, their culture, or even their food, its all a part of my heart. I go to Durga Puja every year to admire the gorgeous pandal and idol, and obviously, munch on the yummy Fish and sweets.

Every time, Durga Puja for me is about how delicious the Fish Fry was with the mustard sauce, or how the sandesh was super soft and simply yum. But this time, it was something beyond that. Something I didn’t expect it to be.

Everything was the same this year, the pandal, the food, even the location. I guess there was just something different about me. The idol, as usual, was surrounded by many other devis and our dear Ganpati bappa. When I stood at the door of the pandal, I could see just Durga maa and the devis surrounding her.

With a majestic crown on her head, and a garland of bright red flowers embellishing her neck, she sat comfortably on the fierce lion, looking stronger than it. Her ten hands each held a weapon, but the most powerful one was her eyes. Big, bold and vigorous, they stared at all who surrounded her. She didn’t look girlish, but she was certainly feminine. With her unafraid eyes, and her blood-like red garland, she merely gave vibes of female strength and power.

As I moved closer, I saw something new. A demon. Who was crushed underneath the mighty Goddess’ feet. He didn’t look afraid really, had a slight frown on his face. But Durga maa clearly overpowered him. I looked into the idol’s eyes. I felt afraid, to be honest. The strength in her eyes was penetrable even into the heart of a girl who didn’t believe in her.

I came out of the pandal and satisfied my hungry palate with a sumptuous meal of Fish fry, chicken biryani, cham cham, rosgulla, and sandesh. I enjoyed it a lot, as usual, but couldn’t get the stunning yet fierce eyes of the Goddess out of my head. I just couldn’t place what I could relate it to.

Well, it did strike me in the end. The mighty and vehement Goddess is a reflection of the women today. I have been reading a lot about the #MeToo movement in recent times, and am a huge supporter of the same. I realized that all the women standing up for themselves and protecting themselves against the hopeless harassers, are so much like Durga Maa. They have the power and the strength to stand up against all those who outrage their privacy, their modesty, their self-confidence. They have the guts to crush all the demon-like men under their feet. They are stronger than the fierce and rigid lion-like society, which attempts to overpower them, but always fails. They do sit on this lion, but with their head held high and their demeanor and willpower forcing the lion to retreat and surrender to them. That’s who Durga Maa represents now. The women of today. The women for whom fear in non-existent. The women whose ferocious eyes penetrate into the ‘physically strong’, but mentally weak hearts of the men who dare to confront them. Durga is strength. Durga is power. Durga is today. More power to the #MeToo movement. And ofcourse, Durga maa ki jai!