As other bhakti sects, the Mahānubhāvs practise an exclusive devotion to one God, though not denying the existence of other gods. Mahānubhāvs, however, are different and separate from Mahārāṣṭrian Hindūs since they avoid all eclecticism restricting their worship to Parameśvar and his five manifestations. The ascetic must cultivate a burning longing (ārti) for Parameśvar. After Cakradhar's and Guṇḍam RāỊ's death, the essential mood of Mahānubhāvs' religious life has been ‘desolation’ (viraha) at the ‘absence’ (asannidhān) of God. The feeling of desolation is described as extremely intense: adepts are said to faint from grief, and some devotees become almost mad. Even if one dies or actively kills himself/herself out of suffering at Parameśvar's absence, he or she is said not to be subject to the consequences of suicide, normally leading to a hellish rebirth (Sūtra-pāṭh 10.232; 13.85). The theme of viraha is especially characteristic of Kṛṣṇa bhakti movements1 and the Mahānubhāvs are no exception (though their desolation is for Cakradhar and Guṇḍam RāūỊ's absence rather than for Kṛṣṇa's absence).

This theme of devotion to an absent God leads to a theological crux: how can one attain liberation if the ‘presence’ (sannidhān) of an avatār of Parameśvar is indispensable in order to attain it and yet no other avatār of Parameśvar has manifested since the end of the thirteenth century? A possible solution lies in the acceptance of Dattātreya's eternal avatārhood, given the popular belief that he unexpectedly manifests himself under disguise as an authoritative guru or yogin (Rigopoulos 1998: 100-101).

The essays presented in this volume constitute a progression from general considerations related to the ‘etic’ (in the Geertzian sense of the word) approach to South Asian cultural productions, to peculiar and detailed investigations of them. Such a sequence is meant to develop a renovated and systemic approach, through which these specific cultural materials should be interpreted: materials not to be read in isolation, nor with an overemphasised concern for cultural relativity. Rather, they should be viewed as meaningful examples of sophisticated intellectual and cultural procedures to be included into a broader comparative discussion, also in order to increase the quality and the depth of such debate. The following studies are therefore arranged as above, fitting specific materials into larger analytical frameworks.

Let me now mention some of the technicalities concerning the essays: since the materials here collected are the products of a long term research period, there are some divergences related to editorial criteria. I apologize for any inconveniences this may cause to the readers. Also, I have to state that previous versions of the chapters of this volume came out in print: Chapter 1 initially appeared as F. Squarcini, India and Europe : At the Dawn of a New Hermeneutic Era, in K. Preisendanz (ed.), Expanding and Merging Horizons. Contributions to South Asian and Cross-Cultural Studies in Commemoration of Wilhelm Halbfass, österreichische Akademie Der Wissenschaften, Wien 2007, pp. 3-21; Chapter 2 as F. Squarcini, Traditions against Tradition.

The name of Purandara, a Cārvāka philosopher, was unknown to modern scholars before 1914. It was from the editio princeps of Vādidevasūri's SVR that they came to know of a work called Paurandaraṃ sūtram along with an aphorism quoted from it: pramāṇasya gauṇatvād (sic) anumānād arthaniścayo durlabhaḥ. The SVR, however, does not seem to have attracted much attention. P.D. Gune in his introduction to the edition of Dhanapāla's Bhavisayatthakahā (1923) refers to a verse which mentions, among others, Akalaṅka and Purandara. He then quotes from the marginal notes on a passage found in a MS of Pupphadanta's Tisaṭṭhimahāpurisaguṇālaṃkāra which identified Akalaṅka as nyāyakārakartā and Purandara as cārvākamate granthakartā. G. Tucci noticed this reference and mentioned it in a paper in 1925. None of them refers to the SVR.

The aphorism quoted in the SVR was also found in Abhayadevasūri's TBV, first published in 1924 with a variant reading: pramāṇasyāgauṇatvād, etc., though there is no mention of Purandara in this work.

The aphorism itself, however, was not a discovery. It was known from the first edition of the NM (1895) but it was not attributed to any work called Paurandaraṃ sūtram. Prabhācandra also cited this aphorism in the PKM but spoke of the Cārvāka-s in general, not specifically of Purandara. Later it was found that others too had quoted the same aphorism without, however, naming Purandara.

The publication of the TS and TSP (1926) was an epochmaking event in many respects.

A cursory glance at the grammatical literature belonging to the Pāṇinian tradition shows a strong influence of Patañjali on the development of grammatical thought. This influence continues throughout the history of Pāṇinian tradition until the time of Nāgeśa (18th century) and his followers. However, the Kāśikāvṛtti stands out as a unique grammatical text within the trimuni tradition on account of its non-affiliation to the Mahābhāṣya of Patañjali. Though a casual comparison of both the texts evinces similarities both of text and content, making one feel, at first blush, that the Kāśikāvṛtti has largely drawn upon the Mahābhāṣya and has incorporated the modifications suggested by Patañjali into the text of the Pāṇinisūtra, a careful study reveals that the Kāśikāvṛtti not only differs from the Mahābhāṣya at certain places, but also shows influence of non-Pāṇinian grammatical traditions. Way back in 1886 Kielhorn remarked that the authors of the Kāśikāvṛtti were acquainted with the Cāndra grammar and that they made use of it while writing their commentary. A few other scholars took up the issue further and discovered influence also of other non-Pāṇinian systems such as the Kātantra and the Jainendra on both the text of Sūtrapāṭha adopted by the authors of the Kāśikāvṛtti and their commentary.

With this background in mind, if we study the section dealing with the Pratyāhārasūtras (psū) in the Kāśikāvṛtti, we arrive at similar results.

This book has sought to map some of the relationships between religion, the state and advanced capitalism in different political and social arenas across the globe. In India, accelerated and uneven modernization following the nation's economic liberalization in the early 1990s provides an interesting context to examine these relationships, specifically given the significant rise of Hindu nationalism in this period. Hindutva (loosely “Hindu-ness”), an ideology advocated by Hindu nationalist movements, exerts significant influence in parliamentary politics and arguably more insidiously, in social life in contemporary India. Although it has been argued that modernization and associated secular practices have repressed religion from public life, since the 1980s we have seen a deprivatization process of religion in many places in the world (Casanova, 2006). This chapter follows on this perspective and discusses the ways religious expression may adapt to and diffuse through public spaces and practices of modernity with regards to the political projects of Hindutva and consumer mobilization more specifically.

We consider the ways Hindu assertion diffuses through the consumption of information, images, sounds and goods. The saturation of popular media and consumer practices with Hindu cultural markers has in many ways constructed forms of “Hinduness” as “Indianess,” particularly among the urban middle classes. Through the construction of a Hindu normalcy, the operation of power with nonhegemonic and non-Hindu groups is made less visible and thus unchallenged.

If the way to a persons's heart is through the stomach, then the way to the soul of a civilization may be through its dietary practices. Examining the food habits of a people has been a staple among anthropologists, some of whom, like Mary Douglas (1966), in her piece on Jewish dietary laws “The Abominations of Leviticus,” have ventured into interpreting the food taboos and dietary restrictions encoded in ancient texts. The ancient Indian literature on dharma devotes considerable attention to matters of food: what kinds of animals and vegetables may or may not be eaten, from what sorts of people one may or may not receive food, what types of conditions make food unfit for consumption, and so on. Such practices have drawn considerable attention among scholars; what has been ignored, however, is the vocabulary used to indicate food prohibitions, a vocabulary that may give us new insights into the ancient Indian world. And that is the focus of this paper.

The dharma vocabulary of food proscriptions contains four words: abhakṣya, abhojya, anādya, and apeya. In this paper I will focus on the first two, abhakṣya and abhojya, which alone underwent significant semantic developments and assumed technical meanings. Apeya is restricted to liquids, principally milk. Anādya is, relatively speaking, the most frequent term in the vedic literature occurring a total of nine times, often in the metaphorical sense that the Brāhmaṇa should not be eaten by the king: brāhmaṇo 'nādyaḥ.

The Double Genealogy of Non-Violence in India

This paper begins and ends with reflection on India, and on the place of Gandhian ideas about non-violence as a form of political action. The literature on Gandhi and on his place in the study of non-violence is voluminous. One among the many questions that remain open about Gandhian thought and action is the way in which violence and non-violence are connected in his politics. The argument developed in this paper is that Gandhian ideas and practices about non-violence have a double genealogy. One genealogy is connected to Indic ideas about asceticism, avoidance, and abstinence, and in common with other ascetical traditions, relies on the moral virtues and special powers associated with the restraint of bodily appetites. The other genealogy has a different relationship to the world of the senses, of sexuality, and of power, and draws on Indic ideas about kingship, sacrifice and martial prowess. This latter tradition is not especially anxious about doing harm to sentient life and draws its ethics from the militant logics of sacrifice and warfare in Indic thought. These two genealogies themselves become blurred in the traditions of warrior asceticism in India; hence this paper also explores warrior asceticism as a living source for the politics of militant religiosity in India today.

Non-Violence As a Form of Action

Hannah Arendt's reflections (1958) on the difference between action and behavior may provide us a good beginning in thinking about the double genealogy of Gandhian non-violence.

Hemacandra, respectfully called kalikālasarvajña (the omniscient one of the Kali era), was not the first Jain author to write about the Cārvāka/Lokāyata. Long before him Haribhadra had dealt with this system of philosophy in his ṢDSam, SVS and LTN. So had Siddharṣi in his UBhPK. However, some passages in Hemacandra's works contain something of special interest in connection with the Cārvāka.

A passage in the AC runs as follows:

Hemacandra mentions six systems of philosophy:

1. Syādvādavādin or Ārhata (i.e. the Jain), 2. Śūnyavādin or Saugata (i.e. the Buddhist), 3. Naiyāyika or Ākṣapāda or Yauga, 4. Sāṃkhya or Kāpila, 5. Vaiśeṣika or Aulūkya, and 6. Bārhaspatya or Nāstika or Cārvāka or Laukāyatika.

Why Hemacandra excludes Mīmāṃsā, Vedānta and Yoga is rather puzzling. Haribhadra in his ṢDSam begins with a short exposition of the Buddhist system and proceeds to deal with Nyāya, Sāṃkhya, Jain, Vaiśeṣika, Mīmāṃsā, and Cārvāka. He too excludes Vedānta. But his inclusion of the Cārvāka seems to have been an afterthought. Having concluded the section on the doctrine of Jaimini (i.e. Mīmāṃsā), Haribhadra suddenly remembers that some scholars preferred to treat Nyāya and Vaiśeṣika as a single system and, according to them, the number of the āstikavādin-s is five, not six (v. 78).

Introduction

When we define culture, we usually refer to past monuments and sculptures, literature, paintings etc. as tangible expressions, and music, dance, religious rituals, etc. as intangible expressions of art and culture. Cuisine (another expression of taste specific to each ethnic group) is also part of culture. Along with other countries situated between India and China, Cambodia participates in both influences. But in the era of globalization (when fast food tends to be a way of life), consumerism attached to fashion in the sense of a more casual way of living determines the trend that you must follow, such as a fashion show or a landmark of modernism or economic development in the form of high-rise buildings. How can we Cambodians manage and preserve our cultural resources, which are specific to our identity? The tragic social and political disruptions through the two communist regimes, especially from 1975 to 1991, deprived Cambodia of its traditions, continuity and intellectuals. It created a new situation characterized by a vacuum between the past (that the Khmer Rouge wanted to obliterate) and the present which lacks direction, concept and vision. This chapter presents the author's personal reflection on issues of cultural resources and heritage management in his home country, Cambodia, and addresses, in particular, his views on government legislation policies and the sustainability of unmitigated tourism development.

The Nature and Purpose of Renunciation

In examining the contents of the Saṃnyāsa Upaniṣads, the first, and possible the most significant, issue I want to explore is the Brahmanical self-understanding of the meaning and nature of renunciation. What is the purpose of renunciation? What theological definition of a renouncer's status does the Brahmanical tradition provide? How does that definition affect other significant elements of the Brahmanical religious world? The Saṃnyāsa Upaniṣads do not deal with these issues explicitly. A well-developed theology of renunciation, however, underlies their discussions of such central issues as the rite of renunciation and the rules governing a renouncer's life. It is this theology that I want to explore in this section, drawing on information provided by these and other Brahmanical texts.

A point that we need to bear in mind as we explore the Brahmanical theology of renunciation, however, is that the very institution of renunciation as a single entity was the creation of the same theology (Sprockhoff 1976, 288–95). There were many lifestyles and institutions of holiness, old age, and separation from society in ancient India. Evidence of these institutions is found in the Saṃnyāsa Upaniṣads themselves. The Laghu-Saṃnyāsa Upaniṣad, for example, contains a rite for withdrawal from society in the case of a person who recovers from a lifethreatening illness. Such a withdrawal was probably connected with the rite in extremis described in several major Upaniṣads.