Śramaṇa

Not nakedness, not platted hair, not dirt, not fasting, or lying on the earth, not rubbing with dust, not sitting motionless, can purify a mortal who has not overcome desires Hundred and forty-two.

He who, though dressed in fine apparel, exercises tranquility, is quiet, subdued, restrained, chaste, and has ceased to find fault with all other things, he indeed is a Brahmana, an ascetic, Sramana, a friar, Bhikshu.

Hundred and forty-three.

Is there in this world any man so restrained by humility that he does not mind reproof as a well-trained horse the whip? Hundred and forty-four.

So like they don't mention the Vedas and the Yoga Sutras and Patanjali.

That's kind of one of the main differences, right? The Shramana traditions were a little different from the Vedic.

Astikas, believer in Veda, whose faith and refuge is in Brahman or Brahmista, Brahmavadi, Brahmi, Brahmaparayana.

And who is non-dualist or Dvaitahina.

There are things scattered.

What Nagaraj does in his text is he brings together those scattered things like philosophical text, Kannada poetry, uh, Kierkegaard's philosophy, Huggles-- Huggles' philosophy, Abhinavagupta, and Sramana tradition, different Sramana traditions, and he puts all, all of them together and weaves his own story.

The, the idea-- the question is not whether it is plausible or not, right or wrong.

The manner in which he makes-- he weaves these different parts is exciting and excellent, you know? Now, uh, uh, uh, now, and, and it's a method of assembling diverse ideas to build arguments which enables Nagaraj to read a variety of text and facilitate a dialogue between different traditions.

Early tomorrow morning, my friend, Siddhartha will go to the Samanas.

He will become a Samana.

Govinda turned pale.

When he heard these words and read the decision in the motionless face of his friend, unstoppable like the arrow shot from the bow.

Arrow fast he read in Govinda's soul, read the fear, read the submission.

Oh Govinda, he spoke quietly, let's not waste words.

Tomorrow at daybreak I will begin the life of the Samanas.

Speak no more of it.

Once,

Samanas had traveled through Siddhartha's town, ascetics on a pilgrimage, three skinny withered men, neither old nor young, with dusty and bloody shoulders, almost naked, scorched by the sun, surrounded by loneliness, strangers and enemies to the world, strangers and lank jackals in the realm of humans.

Behind them blew a hot scent of quiet passion, of destructive service, of merciless self-denial.

In the evening, after the hour of contemplation, Siddhartha spoke to Govinda.

Early tomorrow morning, my friend, Siddhartha will go to the Samanas.

He will become a Samana.

Govinda turned pale.

Arrow fast he read in Govinda's soul, read the fear, read the submission.