He was an eminent Sanskrit Scholar, Philosopher and authority on Indian Aesthetics. Samskruta Sevadhurina Mysore Hiriyanna was the very embodiment of simplicity and humility. His philosophy lectures in the classrooms at Maharaja College, Mysore, later became a best-seller in the West under the title “Outlines of Indian Philosophy”!  Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan visited Hiriyanna at his residence on Diwan’s road for advice and pointers on Philosophical matters of importance. Now read on…

By Dr. S. N. Bhagirath

Mysore Hiriyanna was born on 7th May 1871 in Mysore to parents Nanjundaiah and Lakshmidevi.  They belonged to the ‘Uluchukamma’ sub-sect of Brahmins — a community which included the likes of Vidyaranya who founded the Vijayanagar Empire. They hailed from the hamlet of Barigehalli in Tumkur district. Hiriyanna was the sixth child and his younger brother was M. N. Krishna Rao — who would later become acting Diwan of Mysore (1941).

Hiriyanna was educated in Sanskrit under the tutelage of Perisamy Tirumalacharya (Founder of Sadvidya Patashala) and Kashi Sesharamasastry. He completed his B.A. and M.A. at Madras Christian College, Madras.

Hiriyanna married Lakshmi-devamma at a young age and the couple had one daughter — Rukamma. Hiriyanna started work as a Librarian at Oriental Research Institute (ORI), Mysore in 1891. Here, he took up the work of curating about 1,653 printed works and 1,358 manuscripts (Kannada and Sanskrit). He then took up a government job in the Education Department at Bangalore and served for three years. He always nursed an ambition to ‘teach’ and secured an L.T. Qualification from Teacher’s College, Saidapet in this regard. He came back to Mysore and joined ‘Government Normal School’ as a teacher in 1896. He eventually became Head Master by 1907. Here, he penned his first book in Kannada titled “Bodhana Krama” on the ‘Art of teaching.’

Wife – Lakshmidevamma (sitting) and daughter – Rukamma.

He joined Maharaja College as a Lecturer in Sanskrit in 1912. T. Denham was the Principal of Maharaja College during this time and was succeeded later by B.M. Srikantayya. Denham, Srikantayya and H.J. Babha were all amply aware of Hiriyanna’s scholarship and considered him an asset. In fact, Hiriyanna’s reputation as a great scholar and teacher led H. V. Nanjundaiah (the first Vice-Chancellor of the University of Mysore) to appoint him as a Lecturer. Two years later, he became an Assistant Professor. Hiriyanna was a successor to such Sanskrit scholars as Perisamy Tirumalacharya, Asthan Vidwan Kaviratna Mandikallu Ramasastri, Kasturi Ranga  Iyengar and Ventakarama Sastri.

Prof. A. R. Wadia, Head of the Department of Philosophy, requested Hiriyanna to come and teach Indian Philosophy to students. By this time, Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan was also on the faculty. Radhakrishnan requested Hiriyanna to engage his classes as he was busy writing a book on “Indian Philosophy.” The class room lectures of M. Hiriyanna were so comprehensive, S. Radhakrishnan recommended these lectures to be published by Allen & Unwin in a book form, titled “Outlines of Indian Philosophy.” This became a best-seller in the West.

In 1919, Hiriyanna was appointed as a Professor of Sanskrit. After an illustrious teaching career spanning two decades, Hiriyanna retired from the University in 1927 at the age of 56 years.

He received a number of invitations from Universities across the country to come and teach. He declined every one of these requests. He was content to delve deep into his studies spending his time at the house he had built on Diwan’s road (House No. 962) in Mysore in 1910. In 1935, he was Chairperson of the All India Oriental Conference at Mysore. In 1939, he was requested to chair the All India Philosophy Conference at Hyderabad. In 1940, he was invited to deliver the prestigious “Miller’s Memorial Lecture” on Philosophy at Madras University. Surprisingly, Hiriyanna accepted this offer and graced the occasion — probably the only instance when he left Mysore to attend an event elsewhere! He was also honoured with the title of “Samskruta Sevadhurina” by the Madras Sanskrit Academy.

Prof. M. Hiriyanna (sitting third from right) with S. Radhakrishnan and A. R. Wadia at Radhakrishnan’s farewell from UoM.

Hiriyanna always kept to himself. He was charitable and helped many poor students with the condition that they should never reveal his name! He was a traditional Sanskrit scholar by training but a Philosopher who had an in-depth knowledge of both Eastern and Western Philosophies. His love of English Literature was well-known. He regularly read the “Times Literary Supplement” and “Illustrated London News.” During the last decade of his life, he visited the house of Palghat Narayana Sastri with whom he would discuss for hours the finer aspects of Indian Philosophy, Vedanta and the Upanishads.

He was a close friend of Kuppuswami Sastry, a Sanskrit Professor of eminence at Madras University. Incidentally, much of Hiriyanna’s library would eventually be donated to the “Kuppuswami Research Institute” at Mylapore. Hiriyanna authored nearly twenty works. Some of the notable ones are “Outlines of Indian Philosophy” (1932), “Essentials of Indian Philosophy” (1949), “The Quest for Perfection” (1952) and “Art Experience” (1954).

After a brief period of illness, Hiriyanna passed away aged 79 years, on Sept. 19, 1950. In 1972, to mark his birth centenary (1871-1971), a commemoration volume was published by a committee, which included Prof. V. Sitaramayya, Pu. Ti. Narasimhachar, Prof. N.A. Nikam and G. Marulasiddaiah. This Commemoration Volume was released by the then Governor of Karnataka Mohanlal Sukhadia.

In the world of Indian Philosophical Studies, Hiri-yanna’s name stands tall. His unassuming demeanour, simplicity and down to earth personality masked a gigantic intellect. Kalidasa provides a parallel in “Raghuvamsa” when he says “Speak less for the sake of truth” (Satyaya-Mita-bhashinam). Prof. M. Hiriyanna practised silence of this type.

Prof. M. Hiriyanna with Prof. A. R. Wadia.

Pu. Ti. Narasimhachar’s observation on Hiriyanna probably sums him up the best:

“Guru Hiriyanna was a Stithapragna in every sense of the term. He exhibited the quality of the well-bred gentlemen — an abhijatapurusa — one who gives his gifts in such a way none except the donor knows it, who knows how to welcome whoever comes to his house and make him comfortable, who is silent about his own good deeds but proclaims unreservedly of favours he has received from others, in whom fortune does not breed arrogance — who is averse to listen to stories about others and who is intensely devoted to learning. To me, Guru Hiriyanna is an ideal Indian, rooted in his own culture; he did not allow Western thought and culture to destroy the identity as an Indian. He digested them and assimilated into his system all the best of the West, its Philosophy and Literature. It is good to remember Prof. Hiriyanna, his life, his scholarship, his unostentatious benevolence, his dignified bearing and his keen sense of honour and independence.”

The Father of Western Philosophy,  Socrates, lived in Athens in 500 B.C.  Like Socrates, Prof. M. Hiriyanna was open-minded, generous, inquisitive and friendly. He often helped students as an unknown benefactor by paying their fees. He kept an open house for students and often discussed philosophical problems, while washing his clothes in the backyard! His motto was “Simple living and high thinking.”

During his lifetime, Hiriyanna came to embody the very essence of Indian Philosophy. He was a living example of the best of Indian values. He achieved both excellence and perfection in his life. He faced courageously the vicissitudes of life and the ups and downs of it. These did not deter his spirit from enjoying what may best be described as an “élan vital” (in the words of Henri Bergson).

[Sources: 1. “Professor M. Hiriyanna Birth Centenary Commemoration Volume”(1972); 2. “Thatvajnani M. Hiriyanna” by Malathi Jayarao. (Kannada, 2010); 3. “The Late Professor M. Hiriyanna” (Obituary) by H. L. Hariyappa; Annals of the Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute, Vol. 31, No. 1/4, pp. 335-336 (1950); 4. Review of “The Essentials of Indian Philosophy” by Dorothy Stede – The Royal Institute of Philosophy – Cambridge University; Vol. 26, Issue 98, pp. 267- 269. (July 1951); 5. Élan vital: a philosophical term coined by Henri Bergson in 1907,  roughly translated as “vital impetus” or “vital force”; 6. Special thanks to family members of M. Hiriyanna — Shyamala Jayaram & Malathi Jayarao].

email: bugs2beatles@gmail.com

The post Prof. M. Hiriyanna: The Socrates of Mysore appeared first on Star of Mysore.

By Girija Madhavan

Star of Mysore recently carried two touching stories about pets. I recall an unusual one from my childhood. In the early 1940s, after an illness, I was kept at home. Our Railway bungalow had a large garden. A lonely child, I wanted a pet for company. Dogs were vetoed because the family dog, Veera, had menaced visitors and tradesmen but ingratiated himself with dubious strangers. In my English book, I saw a picture of a golden-haired girl with a fleecy white lamb, in a garden of hollyhocks and bluebells. I wistfully told my mother that I too would like such a pet.

To my surprise, she agreed and asked Thimmanna, the gardener, who had village contacts, to get one for me. When the “lamb” arrived, it was a fully grown animal with brown, shaggy wool. To my mother this was the ideal pet; it did not enter the house, carried no infectious diseases and needed no inoculations. Named Kuri [sheep in Kannada], he could not gambol like the lamb in my picture book. He had a passion for bread, all but knocking me over in eagerness for the treat, when I called out “Kuri, Bread!” His absence was noticed only when there was no response to repeated offers of bread. Alarmed searches began; but to no avail. Everyone guessed his fate but I was told that Kuri was homesick and had gone back to the village.

Girija and her pet sheep Kuri. [1944]

In later years my husband, an Indian diplomat, and I were posted abroad to places with strict quarantine regulations. We were sent to London in 1970. The High Commissioner and Deputy High Commissioner had their official Residences. Other officials found their own accommodation.

We started house-hunting. I was charmed by a cottage owned by two old ladies. A pear tree bloomed in the garden. However, the address “No 23, Dog’s Lane, Neasden, London,” was thought unsuitable for diplomats. We found instead a place in West Dulwich, an enclave called Pymers Mead. Finally, it was due to quarantine rules that we got the lease. The owner, a British diplomat, was going to Laos. The family cat would be quarantined upon return. It was part of the rental deal that the cat should stay on with us. “Pussy cat Wilbur” was a long haired tomcat with a white bib and paws. Independent spirited, he had a temper, clawing and hissing when groomed. He would wait by the front door at night to be let out, returning the next morning, battle scarred, with bleeding ears or torn fur, to sleep all day in the corner of a bay window, a paw over his eyes. He loved to disrupt games like chess, monopoly or scrabble, by sitting on the board while the game was in progress. He was restored to his owners when we left London in 1974. I have never forgotten him.

Pussy cat Wilbur sitting on a chess board. [Sketch by Girija]

Yadavagiri in Mysuru is home to exotic pets, apart from stray dogs: an African Grey parrot, a Great Dane, a St. Bernard, Dalmatians and Labradors. Now-a-days animals do not figure in our daily lives. It was not so in old Mysore. Cows were brought to the house along with their calves, to be milked in front of the household. Some families owned small covered carts drawn by a single bullock.  A jet black cow was brought to some houses to be fed jaggery and sesame on occasion. “Dasaiah” priests brought along decorated bulls, striking a brass gong or blowing a conch to announce themselves.  Drums and pipes [volaga] accompanied them sometimes.

Jutkas were not as common as Tongas drawn by ponies. City buses and a few yellow-black taxis were the main means of public transport until the first autorickshaw, belonging to a young man called “Pyare Jan,” appeared in Mysore in the early 1960s. It was then a novelty, so popular that we had to book ahead of time to be sure of a ride. Thankfully, bullock carts hauling loads of bricks or stone, the animals cruelly beaten, are now rare, as are the soothsayers with their caged parrots.

Bullock cart in 1930s. [Pics by M. Venkatesh].

Donkeys and their charming little foals have appeared in Yadavagiri from the Dhobi Ghat downhill. Donkey’s milk is believed to be healthful for infants. So these animals are well-fed and prized now. I recall family laundry lists being recorded in the “Dhobi Book”; the washing was then loaded in panniers on to a waiting donkey. My father, M. Venkatesh, photographed the dhobi and donkey against the backdrop of his car of the 1930s.He also took a picture of a liveried driver in a cart which was pulled by bullocks with large curving horns which he identified as a breed called “Amrit Mahal.”

A dhobi, donkey and 1930s car.

Animals and birds have symbolic significance in common superstitions. Respectfully touching a cow or bull is lucky.  Owls are considered bad omens. Cats crossing one’s path augur bad luck.  Elders murmured “Krishna, Krishna!” when a Garuda eagle [the vahana of Krishna] soared in the sky, white breast in sharp contrast to the russet plumage. Some news reports suggested that an eagle alighting on a tree was a sign awaited by the killers of Indira Gandhi to carry out her assassination.

“Seeing-eye dogs” and “Therapy dogs,” animal companionship for children and the elderly, are being recognised as blessings. Let us treasure the unconditional love animals give us and reciprocate it. Rudyard Kipling, in his story “The Miracle of Puran Bhagat” [1895], starts the tale with the Dirge of the Langurs who “loved him with the love that knows but cannot understand.”

The post Mysore Memories: Endearing Pets appeared first on Star of Mysore.

By Girija Madhavan

Spring in Mysuru brings jewel-like flowers to the leafless, stumpy branches of the Frangipani trees after the cold season. The flowers usually have five white petals around a heart of gold. Some blooms are pale yellow set off by a magenta centre, or white deepening to pink; all are lovely and delicately fragrant.

“Plumeria” or “Frangipani” is the horticultural name; colloquially it is the “Temple Tree.” In North India, it is called “Champa.” I love the Kannada name I knew as a child, “Devaganigile.”  It evokes memories of processions of women walking along the roads long ago in Mysuru’s Vontikoppal during religious rites for the Goddess Chamundeshwari or Mariamma. They carried on their heads salvers of a sweet called “Thambittu,” made with rice flour and jaggery. It was decorated with Frangipani blooms threaded on fine skewers. Sometimes a circular woven disc of bamboo [“Simbi”] under the tray helped to steady it. More often the pallu of the sari was worn long. After covering the head, the slack was twisted into a rope-like shape to balance the load.  They sang a song with the refrain of “Thambittu, Thambittu.” They were led by musicians playing the “Volaga” [pipes and drums]. This festival is still an annual event in Vontikoppal, celebrated as “Nada Habba.” The decorations feature the traditional “Chapra” or arches. In addition, there are twinkling fairy lights and music on loudspeakers. One misses the soft voices of the women.

Devotee with Thambittu.

In Yadavagiri, the home of Malgudi Days writer R.K. Narayan (RKN) is now a memorial. A gentle Dalmatian dog can be seen at the gate. The author himself, according to acquaintances, did not have a dog and avoided the pets he met on his walk.

Dalmatian dog at the RKN Memorial.

Just outside the garden wall stands the old Frangipani tree.  It was there decades ago, before the houses came up all around. There was no tarred road, just a beaten track. The stony ground sloped downward to the Railway track leading to Srirangapatna and beyond. The twin minarets of the mosque there could be seen in the distance. Steam engines rumbled along the rails, belching smoke, their shrill whistles dying away. On the other side of the Railway track stood a clump of trees with dense foliage, a crematorium. The “Jodi Thenginamara” crematorium has been modernised and is hidden now by buildings. As a child I remember the fiery eye of a burning pyre between the dark tree boles; or puffs of smoke billowing over the tree tops.

The trunk of the RKN tree is gnarled, with circular scars where branches were lopped off.  In the flowering season, very few leaves appear at first, mainly new blossoms on fresh sprigs, like an elderly woman wearing precious jewellery. In olden days trees like this were considered sacred and lamps were lit to them.

In the 1960s, my mother Mukta Venkatesh liked to wander about Yadavagiri with her painting gear to sketch on the spot. R.K. Narayan was an honoured resident there. His blue Mercedes, the only one in the city then, was a familiar sight on the main road; he was respectfully saluted on his morning walks.

Mukta settled down near the Frangipani tree to paint the convoluted bark and some flowers. The watchman of the house was puzzled by this unconventional activity and roughly told her to move along. Mukta pointed out that she was on the roadside, causing no trouble. Hearing the altercation, the author himself came out. He jokingly told her that she could continue to paint if she would give the picture to him. Mukta retorted, “I will give you the painting if you dedicate your next book to me!” The picture was finished in three sittings and hangs on a wall in our home.

Painting by Mukta Venkatesh; Pic Right- A file photo of Mukta at work.

Mukta had interacted with R. K. Narayan’s family in the early years when they had lived as neighbours in Lakshmipuram in old Mysuru. She knew his mother well and respected her for her sharp wit, powers of observation and as a raconteur of interesting stories. RKN himself admired this ability in his mother and said that he drew inspiration from her. In later years, Mukta became close to his daughter Hema.  She was about my age and was my friend too. Sadly, Hema passed away at an early age.

Recently some trees were cut in a site to be developed, including a lovely Frangipani. I was not the sole mourner. For some days plangent bird cries haunted the area; a pair of grey hornbills had lost their nest in one of the trees. The old Frangipani is a symbol of the veneration we once had for trees. Hopefully, it will survive to complete its life span, representing continuity in changing times.

The post A Tree in Malgudi appeared first on Star of Mysore.

By Girija Madhavan

Our lessons began on Valmiki Road, shaded by rain trees, where traffic was sparse. We would drive slowly up to the Mosque at the end of the road, turn round and drive back. Father insisted that I practise hand signals as I drove. At that time the fashion was to wear glass bangles; my signalling became a glittering, tinkling affair. So father banned the bangles.

Saudi Arabia was recently reported to have permitted the women of the country to drive cars. An Arab woman, burqa-clad, eyes covered by dark glasses, was shown on TV driving while other motorists gave her a “Thumbs Up” salutation to her new-found liberty. Some reports say it may take a while to implement the rule.

I remember learning to drive in Mysore in 1955. My father, M. Venkatesh, had sold his vintage Standard car with the “Stepney” tyre mounted on the back for Rs.1,000 and had bought a 1950’s Morris Minor in green for Rs.5,000. He refused my request to teach me driving as I was only 17-years-old. My mother Mukta argued that in our custom, I was considered to be in my eighteenth year after turning seventeen. So he gave in.

Girija’s Chinese driving licence of 1969.

Our lessons began on Valmiki Road, shaded by rain trees, where traffic was sparse. We would drive slowly up to the Mosque with the tiled outhouse at the end of the road, turn round and drive back. Father insisted that I practise hand signals as I drove. A right turn was denoted by extending the arm out of the window and pointing right. The left was more difficult, the hand making semi-circular movements towards the left. An onward wave indicated that the car behind could overtake. A quick up-and-down sign of the extended arm meant slowing down, the arm held up, palm upstretched, indicated “Stop.” At that time in Mysore the fashion was to wear many glass bangles; my signalling became a glittering, tinkling affair. So father banned the bangles.

Once a flock of goats crossed the road. Instead of the brake I pressed the accelerator, the bleating goats scattering before us. Father, shooing away the animals with his right hand and pressing an imaginary brake-pedal with his foot, shouted “Brake! Brake!” No goats were hurt and we drove away as the goat-herd finally appeared, shaking his stick at us.

Our practice moved to Princess Road. From Cheluvamba Park, we drove past Akashavani to the Jewel Filters [now called Vani Vilas Water works]. The return journey took us past the old statue of the Elephant at the head of Cheluvamba Park and the Vivekananda Memorial. It is still there, unchanged. One day, at that point, a Royal Enfield motorcycle, known as “Bullet,” drew up alongside, the khaki- clad rider flagging us down. It was Sergeant Kuttappa, an upright, strict Police Officer, respected and feared in Mysore. He advised my father to get me a Learner’s licence so that I did not drive without authorisation. Chastened, my father agreed. Later on, when we sometimes passed him on the road, he would give us a half smile. These driving lessons came in handy the next year when my father suffered a heart attack and I was able to drive him to the hospital for treatment.

Girija’s licence of 1982 issued in Moscow.

I took my hard-won Indian licence with me when my husband A. Madhavan was posted to Indian Embassies abroad, using it as ID to obtain local ones. In 1968, we went to Beijing [called Peking then] in the Peoples’ Republic of China. The country was in the throes of Chairman Mao’s Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution. Sino-Indian relations were tense and Indian diplomats had been man-handled, the Embassy besieged. By an oversight, I had allowed my Indian licence to lapse earlier. The Chinese authorities insisted I should take their driving test to get a Chinese licence.

I reported to the Traffic Police the next day in our personal car and was taken to an open clearing where, on the mud, two abutting rectangles were marked in chalk, each a few feet bigger than the car. The test was to shift the car from one oblong to the next in four moves without crossing the outer borders. This was the test that taxi drivers in Beijing had to take! I failed the test.

However, a search of our papers turned up a Swiss licence from an earlier post which still was valid. It was reluctantly accepted and I got my Chinese licence. Roads in Beijing then were dominated by bicycles, riders wearing blue boiler suits as well as a few official cars, taxis, pedicabs and horse-drawn carts with a little donkey alongside.  Any accident involving foreigners invited the wrath of the Red Guards [revolutionary youth] who would “struggle against” erring drivers.

A car ride I remember to this day was in Moscow in November 1982. Solemn music on the radio gave a hint of the death of the Soviet leader, Leonid Brezhnev. Among the dignitaries at the Kremlin funeral was Prime Minister Indira Gandhi. The staff car sent for my husband to go to Sheremetyevo Airport broke down. So we had to go there in our own small car. At the airport, flashing lights on the tarmac showed that the Indian Prime Minister was being ushered into a Zil limousine directly from the aircraft and a line of cars was already setting off. Our diplomatic number plate permitted us to join the convoy. Headed by escort Police, the black limousines headed for the Dacha [guest house] where she was to stay. We tailed them in our dusty car, finding the rapid pace hard to maintain. Later I was told that someone appealed to a Russian driver to slacken speed to let me to keep pace. The answer was a curt “Nyet! If she joins a convoy she has to keep pace!”  We made it and Madhavan was on time to be in the receiving line. He even saw Fidel Castro, also a guest at the Dacha!

Now my daily challenge is to negotiate the octopus circle at Cheluvamba Park where seven roads criss-cross; almost as difficult as the driving test in Beijing! The traffic lights stay switched off. There is no “Right of way,” might is right, the more daring drivers get across. I feel unnerved when vehicles behind me keep honking, urging me to move forward just as buses pass in front; or when someone cuts across our car from the left to go right. My hand signals now are changing: I point to the traffic streaming ahead and mime my inability to proceed. I hope I do not end up shaking my fist as a new signal !

The post Driving in Mysore-Mysuru: Then & Now appeared first on Star of Mysore.

By Girija Madhavan

Recently, the Oriental Research Institute (ORI) in Mysuru marked its 125th anniversary. It was set up in Mysore in 1891 by Maharaja Chamaraja Wadiyar Bahadur. Now called the Oriental Research Institute, it is a magnificent building, which combines graceful Romanesque arches with classical Indian sculptures. Star of Mysore has published articles on the treasures of the Institute and the preservation of its priceless documents.

For me there is a more personal connection: My paternal grandfather, Alladi Mahadeva Sastry, was the first Curator of the Oriental Library in 1891, the year it was founded. He was born in May 1861 in Pudur, Nayudupeta in Nellore District, Andhra. He studied Telugu, Sanskrit and the recitation of the Vedas in his village and passed the Matric from Kurnool High School. He got a BA degree from Presidency College, Madras in 1883.

In 1891, he settled with his family in Mysore and became the first Curator of the Oriental Library. My father, M. Venkatesh, was the third of his several children. He remembered his father to be a disciplinarian, recalling that the boys once ate up all the “Medu Vadas” made for tea, and were duly punished. In those days boys had their hair shaved in front in a semicircle, the long hair at the back, worn in a plait or knot called “juttu.” The costumed actors in Kung Fu movies with tonsured heads and plaits remind me of those children. My eldest sister-in-law, Gomathi, recounted how Venkatesh and his brothers decided to be modern and went to a barber and had their hair “cropped” much to the anger of their father.

Image: The boy to Mahadeva Sastry’s right is Venkatesh.

In Mysore, Mahadeva Sastry was Secretary of the Managing Committee of Maharaja’s College:  I was unaware of this when I graduated from that college in 1958.

Mahadeva Sastry’s treatise on the classic of Sri Shankaracharya was praised by Swami Vivekananda: “The Gita-Bhashya, in the opinion of many, is the most difficult of the Acharya’s works, and I am glad to find that you have undertaken a most difficult task and performed it so well.”

Works by Sastry on the Upanishads and Vedas followed. He shortened the Hindu wedding ritual. He worked for the reform of Hindu society. Some writings of his are available even now. We found his work on the Gita at Bangalore Airport on New Year’s Day, 1990, priced only Rs.40. This is a cherished book for us with both the Sanskrit text and an English commentary.

In 1916, Mahadeva Sastry was made Director of the Oriental Section of the Adyar Library, a post he retained till his death in 1926. He joined the Theosophists and got to know Mrs. Annie Besant. She was a Socialist, Theosophist and an activist for women’s rights and for self-rule in Ireland and India. He taught her Sanskrit.

Image: 3 Family group: Alladi Mahadeva Sastry (seated extreme left). M. Venkatesh (standing third from left).

Mahadeva Sastry was the priest who officiated at the 1920 wedding of the teen-aged Rukmini Devi of Kalakshetra with George S. Arundale, an Englishman of forty-four. Arundale was President of the Theosophical Society. The marriage was opposed by orthodox Brahmins. With the support of Annie Besant and the Theosophical Society, the wedding went ahead. The couple were known in Madras as pioneers of an Indo-British marriage.

I was familiar only with the formal photograph in our home of Mahadeva Sastry wearing a Mysore Peta. I wonder at the complex strands of his personality; a scholar and patriarch; also a man with the vision to bless the marriage of a young Brahmin woman to an Englishman. In Adyar he probably met Leadbetter, Olcott and other spiritualists. They believed in the Brotherhood of Man, comparative religion, powers latent in man, and also in the Occult. The young Jiddu Krishnamurthy and his brother Nityananda were in Adyar under the care of Annie Besant. Did he know them?

The Oriental Research Institute has inspired scholars to write treatises on ancient texts and to preserve priceless treasures like the Arthashastra manuscript. For me it has also rekindled humbler memories of a lost ancestor and hopefully created links to our younger generations a century later, who do not know of this remarkable man.

The post A Scholarly Orientalist from Mysuru Alladi Mahadeva Sastry appeared first on Star of Mysore.