The Spirit of India
The opposition of East and West, reduced to its most simple terms, is basically identical to that which one often likes to establish between contemplation and action. We have ourselves already explicated this subject time and again, and we have examined the different standpoints one may adopt to view the relations between these two terms. Are these really two contraries, or should they not rather be two complementaries, or yet again should there not, in reality, be between them a relation, not of coordination, but of subordination? We will here, therefore, only very rapidly summarise these considerations, indispensable to anyone seeking to comprehend the spirit of the East in general and that of India in particular.
The viewpoint that consists in purely and simply opposing contemplation to action is the most exterior and superficial of all. The opposition clearly holds in appearance, but it cannot be utterly irreducible; moreover, one may say as much for all the contraries which cease to be such as soon as one rises beyond a certain level, wherein their opposition has its entire reality. He who speaks of opposition or contrast speaks at the same time of disharmony or disequilibrium, that is to say something which cannot exist but form a particular and limited viewpoint. In the totality of things, equilibrium is made of the sum of all
disequilibria, and all partial disorders, no matter what, combine in the total order.
When considering contemplation and action as complementary, one already assumes a more profound and true viewpoint than the preceding one, because the opposition is therein found reconciled and resolved, these two terms in a certain way balancing off each other. It is a question then of two equally necessary elements which are mutually complete and dependent, and which constitute the double activity, interior and exterior, of one and the same being, whether this be everyman taken individually or humanity viewed collectively. This conception is certainly more harmonious and satisfactory than the former; if one were to hold to it exclusively, one would be tempted, by virtue of the correlation, thus, established, to place contemplation and action on the same plane, so that one would only have to strive to hold the balance between them as steady as possible without ever posing the question of a possible superiority of the one in relation to the other. Now, indeed, this question has always come up, and in what concerns the antithesis of East and West we can say that it consists precisely in that the East maintains the superiority of contemplation, while the West, and especially the modern West, conversely affirms the superiority of action over contemplation. It is no longer here a question of viewpoints, each of which could have its own raison d'être and be accepted at least as the expression of a relative truth. A relationship of subordination being irreversible, the two conceptions in confrontation are really contradictory, thus, exclusives the one of the other, so that necessarily one is true and the other false. We must choose, and perhaps the necessity of this choice has never been imposed with as much force and urgency as in the present circumstances; perhaps it will impose itself even more forcefully in the near future.
In those of our works alluded to above, [2] we have shown that contemplation is superior to action, as the immutable is superior
to change. Action, being only a transitory and momentary modification of being, cannot have in itself its principle and sufficient reason. If it does not cling to a principle which is beyond its contingent domain, it is but pure illusion. And this principle from which it draws all the realities of which it is capable, as well as its existence and its very possibility, can only be found in contemplation, or, if preferred, in knowledge. Similarly, change, in its most general sense, is unintelligible and contradictory, that is to say, impossible, without a principle from which to proceed and which, by the very fact that it is its principle, cannot be subjected to it and is, therefore, necessarily immutable. And that is why in Western Antiquity Aristotle affirmed the necessity of an 'unmoved mover' of all things. It is obvious that action belongs to the world of change, of 'becoming'. Knowledge along allows us to leave this world and the limitations which are inherent therein, and once it attains the immutable, it itself possesses immutability, for all knowledges are essentially identification with its subject. It is precisely of this that Occidentals are ignorant, who, so for as knowledge is concerned, envisage only a knowledge which is rational and discursive, therefore indirect and imperfect, that which one might call a knowledge by reflection; and which, more and more, they value-even this inferior knowledge-only in the measure that it can directly serve practical ends. Engaged in action to the point of denying everything that goes beyond it, they do not perceive that this very action, thus, degenerates, by default of a principle, into an agitation as useless as it is sterile.
In the social organisation of India, which is but an application of metaphysical doctrine to the human order, the relations between knowledge and action are represented by those of the first two castes, the Brāhmanas and the Kṣatriyas, whose proper functions they are respectively. It is said that the Brāhmaṇa is the type of fixed beings, and that the Kṣatriya is the type of mobile or changeable beings. Thus, all the beings in this world, according to their nature, are principally related to one or the other, for
there is a perfect correspondence between the cosmic order and the human order. It is not, of course, that action is forbidden to the Brāhmaṇa, nor knowledge to the Kṣatriya, but they befit them in a certain manner by accident and not essentially. Svadharma, the true law of caste, in conformity with the nature of the being to which it belongs, lies in knowledge for the Brāhmaṇa, in action for the Kṣatriya. That is why the Brāhmaṇa is superior to the Kṣatriya, as knowledge is superior to action; in other words, spiritual authority is superior to temporal power. And it is by recognising its subordination in relation to the former that the latter will be legitimate, that is to say, that it will really be what it should be. Otherwise, becoming separate from its principle, it cannot but operate in a disorderly fashion which will end in fatal ruin.
To the Kṣatriya normally belongs all exterior powers, since the domain of action is the exterior world; but this power is nothing without an interior, purely spiritual principle, which incarnates the Brāhmanas' authority, and in which it finds its only valid guarantee. In exchange for this guarantee, the Kṣatriyas must, with the help of the might they wield, assure the Brāhmanas the means of accomplishing in peace, sheltered from trouble and strife, their proper function of knowledge and teaching. This is what is represented in the figure of Skanda, the Lord of war, protecting the meditation of Ganeśa, the Lord of knowledge. Such are the normal relations of spiritual authority and temporal power. And if they were always and everywhere observed, no conflict could ever arise between the two, each occupying the place which must be due to it by virtue of the hierarchy of functions and beings, a hierarchy in strict conformity with the nature of things. We can see that the place given to the Kṣatriyas, and consequently to action, while being subordinate, is far from being negligible, since it covers all exterior powers, at once military, administrative and judicial, which is synthesised in the royal function. The Brāhmanas have to exercise only an invisible
authority, which, as such, may be unknown to the vulgar, but which, is nonetheless the principle of all visible powers. This authority is like the pivot around which all things turn, the fixed axis around which the world completes its revolution, the immutable centre that directs and regulates the cosmic movement without itself taking part in it. And this is what is represented by the ancient symbol of the swastika, which is, for this reason, one of the attributes of Ganeśa.
It should be added that the place which must be give to action will, in the event, be more or less large according to circumstance. This is, indeed, as true of peoples as of individuals; and whilst the nature of some is mostly contemplative, that of others is mostly active. There is undoubtedly no country where the aptitude for contemplation is as widespread and as generally developed as India. And that is why India can be considered the supreme representative of the Eastern spirit. Conversely, among Western peoples, most certainly it is the aptitude for action that predominates for the majority of men. And even if this tendencies were not as exaggerated and deviant as it presently is, it would nevertheless subsist, such that contemplation could never here be more than the affair of a very limited élite. This would suffice, however, for all to return to order, for spiritual power, quite the contrary to material might, is not at all based on number. But, at the present time, Occidentals are in reality mere men without caste, not one of whom occupies the place and function best befitting his nature. This very disorder, it is necessary not to conceal, is spreading rapidly and even seems to be gaining on the East, although it still affects it only in a very superficial and much more limited fashion than could be imagined by those who, only knowing more or less Westernised Orientals, are not themselves aware of the small importance these have in the wider reality. It is not for that less true, though, that there is a danger here which, despite everything, risks being aggravated, at least temporarily. The 'Western peril' is not an empty phrase, and the
West, which is itself its first victim, seems to want to drag humanity, total and entire, into that very ruin by which it is threatened through its own error.
This peril is that of disorderly action, because it is deprived of its principle; such an action is but in itself a pure nothingness, and it can only lead to catastrophe. Yet it will be said that, if this exists, it is because this very disorder must finally return to that universal order, of which it is an element, with as much claim as all the rest; and from a higher point of view, this is strictly true. All beings, whether they know it or not, whether they will it or not, totally depend on their principle for everything they are. Disorderly action is itself possible only through the principle of all actions, but because it does not recognise the dependence that it has on it, it is without order and without positive effectiveness, and, if one may so put it, it only possesses the lowest degree of reality, the one that is closest to pure and simple illusion, precisely because it is furthest from principle, in which alone resides absolute reality. From the viewpoint of principle, there is only order; but, from the viewpoint of contingencies, disorder reigns, and, where earthly humanity is concerned, we are in an epoch when this disorder appears to be triumphant.
One may ask why it is thus, and Hindu doctrine provides, with the theory of cosmic cycles, an answer to this question. We are in the Kaliyuga, in a dark age when spirituality is reduced to a minimum by the very laws of the development of the human cycle, bringing a sort of progressive materialisation through different periods, among which it is the last. By human cycle, we means here only the duration of a manvantara. Towards the end of this age, everything is merged, the castes are mixed even the family no longer exists; is not this exactly what we see around us? Must we conclude from this that the present cycle is effectively drawing to its end, and that soon we will see breaking the dawn of a new manvantara? We would be tempted to believe
this, particularly if we think of the growing speed with which events rush along; but perhaps this disorder has not yet reached its ultimate point, perhaps humanity must descend even lower, in the excesses of a totally material civilization, before being able to climb back up again towards principle and towards spiritual and divine realities. However, it matters little; whether it be a little earlier or a little later, this descending development that modern Occidentals call 'progress' will find its limit, and then the 'black age' will end; then will appear the Kalkin avatāra, the one who is mounted on a white horse, bearing on his head a triple diadem, sign of sovereignty over the three worlds, and holding in his hand a sword flaming like the tail of a comet. Then the world of disorder and error will be destroyed, and by the purifying and regenerative power of agni all things will be reestablished and restored in the wholeness of their original state, the end of the present cycle being also the beginning of the future cycle. Those who knows that it must be cannot, even at the heart of the worst confusion, lose their immutable serenity. However, irksome it be to live in an epoch of trouble and almost general obscurity, they cannot be affected by it deep in themselves, and it is here that we find the strength of the true élite. Undoubtedly, if the darkness should continue to spread more and more, this élite could, even in the East, become reduced to a very small number. But it is enough that some preserve integrally the true knowledge to be ready, when the ages are completed, to save all that can still be saved from the present world and become the seed of the future world.
This role of conservation of the traditional spirit, with everything that it implies in reality when we understand it in its most profound sense, the East alone can at present fulfil. We do not wish to say the whole of the East, since unfortunately the disorder stemming from the West may reach it in certain of its elements. But it is only in the East that there still survives a true élite, where the traditional spirit rediscovers itself with all its
vitality. Elsewhere, what remains of it is reduced to those exterior forms whose significance has already, and for a long time, been all but misconstrued; and, if something of the West can be saved, this will only prove possible with the aid of the East. Yet again, it is necessary that this aid, to be effective, find a point of support in the Western world; and these are precisely those possibilities which it would at present be most difficult to define.
Whatever the case, India has in a certain sense, in the whole of the East, a privileged position due to the relationship that we have in mind, and the reason for this is that, without the traditional spirit, India would no longer be anything. Indeed, Hindu unity (we do not say Indian unity) is not a unity of race or language; it is exclusively a unity of tradition. They are Hindu who effectively adhere to this tradition, and they alone. This explains what we said before about the aptitude for contemplation, more general in India than anywhere else; the participation in tradition, indeed, is only fully effective to the degree that it implies an understanding of doctrine, and doctrine consists primarily of metaphysical knowledge, since it is in pure metaphysical order that is found the principle from which all else derives. That is why India appears more particularly destined to uphold to the end the supremacy of contemplation over action, to oppose with its élite, an insuperable barrier to the encroachment of the modern Western spirit, to preserve intact, at the centre of a world troubled by constant change, an awareness of the permanent, the immutable and the eternal.
It must be understood, however, that what is immutable is the principle itself, and that the applications which it produces in all domains can and even must vary according to circumstance and epoch, for, while principle is absolute, the applications are as relative and as contingent as the world to which they relate. Tradition allows adaptations that are indefinitely multiple and various in their modalities. But all these adaptations, as soon as they are made strictly according to the traditional spirit, are
nothing but the normal development of certain consequences that are eternally contained in principle. It is, therefore, only a question, in all cases, of making explicit what was hitherto implicit, and, thus, the basis, the very substance of doctrine, always remains identical under all the differences of exterior form. The applications can be very varied; such are, notably, not only the social institutions, to which we have already alluded, but also the sciences, when they are truly what they must be. And this shows the essential difference that exists between the conception of these traditional sciences and that of the sciences such as have been constituted by the modern Western spirit. While the former derive all their values from their attachment to metaphysical doctrine, the latter, under the pretext of independence, are narrowly close in upon themselves and can at best pretend to surge ever forwards, without, though, either leaving their bounded domain or pushing its frontiers back a single pace, a movement which could perpetuate itself in this way indefinitely without our being one jot more advanced in the true knowledge of things. Is it from an obscure feeling of helplessness that the moderns have come to prefer research to knowledge, or is it simply because this endless research satisfies their need for incessant agitation which wills to be an end in itself? What could Orientals make of these empty sciences the West claims to bring them, when they possess other sciences incomparably more real and vast and about which the least effort at intellectual concentration teaches them much more than all these fragmentary and scattered views, this chaotic accumulation of facts and notions which are connected only by more or less whimsical hypotheses, laboriously set-up only to be at once overthrown and replaced by others with no better foundation? One must not praise too inordinately, in the belief that this compensates for all their shortcomings, the industrial and technical applications to which these sciences have given birth. No one dreams of contesting that they have at least this practical usefulness, even if their
speculative value is rather illusory. But this is something that would never really interest the East, since it puts too little value on these totally material advantages to sacrifice its spirit to them, because it knows what is the immense superiority of the viewpoint of contemplation over that of action, and that all things that pass are but nothing in the sight of the eternal.
The true India for us is not, therefore, that more or less modernised, that is to say Westernised, India as dreamed of by some young people raised in European and American universities, and who, however, proud they are of the totally exterior knowledge they have acquired there, are, however, from the Eastern viewpoint, merely and absolutely ignorant, constituting, despite their claim, the very opposite of an intellectual élite in our sense. The true India is the one that remains always faithful to the teachings that its élite hands down to itself through the centuries; it is the one that integrally preserves the repository of a tradition whose source goes back higher and further than humanity. It is the India of Manu and the rṣis, the India of Śrī Rāma and Śrī Krṣṇa. We know that it was not always the country that is designated today by this name. There is no doubt even that, since the primitive Arctic sojourn spoken of in the Veda, it has successively occupied many different geographical positions. Perhaps it will occupy still others, but it matters little; for it is always there where we find the abode of this great tradition whose maintenance among men is its mission and its raison d'être. Through the uninterrupted chain of its sages, its gurus and its yogis, it survives through all the vicissitudes of the exterior world, unshakable as Meru. It will last as long as the sanātuna dharma (which we could translate as Lex Perennis, which as much accuracy as a Western language permits) and never will it cease contemplating all things, by the frontal eye of Śiva, in the serene immutability of the eternal present. All hostile efforts will finally break against the single force of truth, as the clouds melt before the sun, even if they came momentarily to obscure it to
our gaze. The destructive action of time only allows what is superior to time to survive: it will devour all those who have restricted their horizon to the world of change and placed all realities in becoming, those who have made themselves a religion out of the contingent and the transitory, for 'he who sacrifices to a god will become the food of this god'; but how can it prevail against those who bear in themselves an awareness of eternity?