How a pioneering Greek scholar was robbed of the credit for translating Chanakya’s words in Sanskrit

Dimitrios Galanos, who was born in Athens in 1760, spent almost five decades in India and became the first Greek Indologist in the modern era. Galanos’s greatest lexicographical work was a Persian-Sanskrit-English-Greek dictionary. Sanskrit and Persian words were written in the Latin script and there was an accompanying English text with copious explanations. Although the dictionary was incomplete and missing some translated words, it was a pioneering attempt to help Greeks understand Sanskrit, writes Ajay Kamalakaran. Read on: 

In 1786, Dimitrios Galanos, a 26-year-old Greek teacher boarded a ship in Basra for Calcutta in search of a new life. A few months before, the young man who was formally educated in Ancient Greek, Latin, philosophy and music, had been galvanised by a chance encounter with a merchant in Constantinople. The merchant, one Madratzoglou, had extensive ties with the 200-strong Greek community that had settled in Bengal by the 1780s in places such as Narayanganj, Dhaka and Calcutta.

“Madratzoglou found him ideal for tutoring the children of the Greek merchants who had settled in Narayanganj (near Dhaka) and Calcutta and offered him a position as a teacher there,” wrote Dimitrios Vassiliadis, a noted Greek Indologist and Sanskrit and Hindi scholar, in 2020 for the Hellenic-Indian Society for Culture and Development. 

“Galanos, eager to expand his knowledge, gladly accepted Madratzoglou’s offer and prepared himself for his journey to the East; ‘…to carry the torch of the paternal education to the Greeks in India, and to send back from there to Hellas a few sparks of the ‘light of Asia’.’”

Spyridon Prosalentis/Wikimedia Commons [Public Domain]

After six months, Galanos reached India, a country where he would live for the next 47 years. Of this time, he spent a relatively brief six years as the teacher of the children and relatives of a wealthy merchant named Constantine Pandazy. But it was a time spent well.

The Greek scholar lived in a Bengal that was in the throes of the Hindu Revival Movement and came across Hindu reformers who were outward-looking and keen to interact with foreign scholars. This was also a period when European scholars developed a deep interest in Sanskrit and were moving to Calcutta because of the Royal Asiatic Society of Bengal. While working in Bengal, Galanos learned and mastered English, Hindustani, Persian and Sanskrit.

Some researchers studying Galanos’s life have suggested that he also got involved in business ventures and made a small fortune for himself. In a 1969 article for the Journal of the American Oriental Society, Siegfried Schulz, who taught languages at the Catholic University of America in Washington DC, wrote that Galanos left behind 75,000 to 80,000 gold francs when he passed away in 1833. “Having shrewdly invested his earnings (and possibly a generous gift from Pandazy as well), Dimitrios Galanos set out for Varanasi in 1793,” Schulz wrote.

Life in Varanasi

Not much is known about the life of Galanos in the Hindu holy city. So consumed was the scholar in translating texts from Sanskrit to Greek that he mostly kept aloof from other foreigners. He does, however, find a place in a book published in 1824-’25 titled Narrative of a Journey Through the Upper Provinces by Anglican Bishop Reginald Heber.

The British were initially suspicious about Galanos’s motives in living in Varanasi, according to Heber. But, after watching him for a long time, they came to the conclusion that there was nothing in his conduct to confirm their suspicions. “So few Europeans, however, who can help it, reside in India, that it seems strange that any man should prefer it as a residence, without some stronger motive than a fondness for Sanskrit literature, more particularly since he does not appear to meditate any work on the subject,” Heber wrote.

The Anglican bishop mentioned a special friendship that Galanos shared with a Russian trader who lived in Varanasi. “There is also a Russian here, who by a natural affinity lives much with the Greek,” Heber wrote. “He is, however, a trader, and has apparently moved in a much humbler rank of society than his friend.” The Russian, named Peter Federoff (Pyotr Fedorov), passed away in 1825 and was buried in Varanasi’s Chaukaghat cemetery. So close was their friendship that there was a Greek inscription from Galanos on Federoff’s tomb.

Besides his Russian friend, Galanos mainly chose to be in the company of learned Sanskrit scholars. “He has little intercourse with the English, but he is on very friendly terms with the principal Hindoo families,” Heber wrote. One of the Greek scholar’s closest Indian friends was a writer and an exceptionally learned man named Munshi Sital Singh, who helped Galanos with his Sanskrit. Sital Singh’s Persian work Silsilah-i-Jogiyan (Chain of Yogis) played an important role in the way the West understood Indian religious groups. It was under the Indian scholar’s guidance that Galanos embarked on a series of translations of Sanskrit texts to Greek.

Incredible legacy

In four decades in Varanasi, Galanos managed to translate 20 volumes of manuscripts. Unfortunately, none of his translated works were published in Greece when Galanos was alive, except The Aphorisms of Chanakya, which Greek captain Nikolaos Kephala, who carried the manuscript, published under his own name. Greek readers first came to know of Galanos after the plagiarised book was published since Kephala mentioned him in the acknowledgments as a most “erudite scholar of the Sanskrit dialect” who “assisted” him in translating the book.

The first volume of Galanos’s translations was posthumously published in Athens in 1845. It contained 330 verses from Bhartrhari’s Niti And Vairagya Satakas, 86 verses from Laughu Chanakya, and 98 verses from Panditaraja Jagannatha’s Bhaminivilasa.

The Greek scholar’s translation of the Bhagavad Gita was published in 1848. “It is the only occasion – in what is, apparently, his first completed translation – upon which Galanos names the Indian who helped him with the work: Kandaradasa,” Schulz wrote in his 1969 paper. “The note in the manuscript also records the exact date when he finished this study: November 12, 1802, in Kashi, the city of the Brahmans.”

Among his other notable translations were chapters from Devi Mahatmyam and Markandeya Purana.

Galanos’s greatest lexicographical work was a Persian-Sanskrit-English-Greek dictionary. Sanskrit and Persian words were written in the Latin script and there was an accompanying English text with copious explanations. Although the dictionary was incomplete and missing some translated words, it was a pioneering attempt to help Greeks understand Sanskrit.

Some Greek scholars are of the opinion that Galanos converted to Hinduism and was accepted as a Brahmin in Varanasi, but Greek Indologist Vassiliadis wrote that there is enough evidence to suggest that he retained his Christian faith. “Evidence that Galanos continued to retain his Christian faith throughout his life is found in his correspondence with Greek priests in Calcutta, and Greece,” Vassiliadis wrote. “Further, his last will starts out with the standard Christian formula, ‘In the Name of God. Amen’ and contains precise directions to be buried in a Christian cemetery.”

Galanos died at the age of 73 in Varanasi in May 1833. The city was in the midst of a cholera epidemic and the Greek scholar may have contracted the illness. He was buried in a churchyard in the city.

He willed a “moiety” of his fortune to his nephew Pandoleon Galanos, while leaving most of the rest to the Academy of Athens. In his will, Galanos wrote, “I hereby also give and bequeath to the principal Academy at Athens all my Sanskrit books, writings, translations and Memskey’s (Franciscus a Mesgnien Meninski) dictionary in all three volumes.” He also left some money for his teacher and servants and even set aside money to pay for his grave and tombstone in the churchyard.

It took almost four years for the manuscripts to reach Athens. “In Athens the manuscripts were bound into volumes with little attention to subject matter of sequence and incorporated into the library of the fledgling university,” Schulz wrote.

Munshi Sital Singh, who was the executor of Galanos’s will, composed a Persian quatrain as an epitaph for his Greek friend:

“Woe, a hundred times!
Demetrios Galanos has gone away from this world
To the eternal abodes.
Woe me! weeping and wailing have I said it.
I am out of myself.
Ah, he has gone away,
The Plato of this century!”

The Greek scholar’s long life in India was the first attempt to rekindle links that stretched back to the pre-Christian era. Concerted efforts have been made by academia in Greece and India to remember and celebrate the legacy of Galanos. In 2000, a Dimitrios Galanos Chair for Hellenic Studies was established at the Jawaharlal Nehru University in Delhi, while in 2016, the Athens Centre for Indian and Indo-Hellenic Studies was established to study India’s cultures, languages and traditions.

Ajay Kamalakaran is a writer and independent journalist, based in Mumbai. He is a Kalpalata Fellow for History & Heritage Writings for 2022.

(Source: Scroll)

This Indian epic unites seven different Southeast Asian countries. Sort of.

Considered one of the world's most important literary works, the Ramayana has captured the imagination of many who read or listen to the Indian epic.

The poem, believed to have been written by Valmiki in the 5th century BCE is one of India's two great literary works after the Mahabharata.

With all of its 24,000 verses composed in Sanskrit, the story of Rama and Sita has been told and retold for countless generations in the Southeast Asian region.

More than just a love story.

Rama on horseback. Painting by BK Mitra.

The Ramayana tells the story of Prince Rama who goes in exile into the forest for 14 years upon the orders of his father together with his wife, Sita, and brother, Lakshamana.

Unfortunately, tragedy strikes when Sita gets kidnapped by the evil demon king, Ravana. Rama begins his quest to rescue his wife through the help of the Vanaras, a clan of monkeys.

While the Ramayana has been popularized as a love story, the saga of Rama deals with many themes that we often encounter in life. Because of this, the story has been told in various forms.

From comics, to films, animated features, television series, painting, dance, theater and exhibitions, the Ramayana is now a part of a larger narrative of the world.

Courtesy of Hindu influence over the Southeast Asian region, each country, save for Vietnam, have their own unique versions of the legend.

Reamker - Cambodia.

The Ramayana is believed to have arrived at Cambodia sometime during the 7th century in the form of a poem. This is according to the Veal Kantel inscriptions.

Titled Reamker, which means "Glory to Rama" in the Cambodian language, famous scenes of the epic can be seen on the walls of the Royal Palace and Angkor Wat. The Reamker gives more emphasis to Hanuman, one of Rama's staunches allies through additional scenes.

Cambodians fused Hindu ideas and Buddhism themes together to perform the poem through their dance theatre, L'khaon. The dance is part of the royal ballet's reportoire and is commonly performed during festive seasons in Cambodia.

Kakawin Ramayana - Indonesia.

In the Javanese version of the legend titled Kakawin Ramayana, the second half of the Ramayana diverges from its original Sanskrit version. The modifications include the indigenous Javanase deity, Semar, and his three sons, Gareng, Petruk, and Bagong.

Apparently the Indonesian version was based on the Ravanavadha, a sixth century retelling of the Ramayana by Indian poet Bhattikavya. Written in 870 CE, the focus is more on the antagonist, Ravana.

Indonesians perform the saga through two dance forms: The Balinese kecak dance, Ramakavaca, and Yogyakarta's Wayang Wong Javanese dance.

With Indonesia too, heavily influenced by India, the characters from the Ramayana can be seen in the 9th century Prambanan temple in Yogyakarta.

Phra Lak Phra Lam - Laos.

Interestingly, the Laos version of the story, Phra Lak Phra Lam, focuses more on the heroism of Rama's brother, Lakshamana.

Since Laos has its roots in Buddhism, Rama is believed to be the previous reincarnation of the Buddha, according to the locals.

Considered a national epic, the Ramayana arrived in the Southeast Asian much later than Cambodia and Thailand. By the time it arrived, the legend had lost much of its Hindu influence and became a much more localized.

The title of the retelling is named after the two brothers, Lakshamana (Phra Lak) and Rama (Phra Lam).

Hikayat Seri Rama - Malaysia.

The Malaysian retelling of the epic, Hikayat Seri Rama (Chronicle of the Great Rama), is a little more special because it incorporates shadow puppetry.

This Malay adaptation of the Hindu retelling maintains its originality but with slight modifications to certain scenes where the minor characters are upgraded to become major players.

For example, Lakshamana plays a much more important role than the legend's protagonist, Rama, which the story is based on. In the Malaysian adaptation, Rama, though virtuous, is often seen as weak while his brother courageous and much more focused.

The tale of Rama and Sita is also told through the traditional dance-drama Mak Yung.

Yama Zatdaw - Myanmar.

Yama Zatdaw or Yamayana is heavily influenced by Thailand's version of the Ramayana due to the invasion of Burma by the Siamese kings of the Konbaung Dynasty during the 15th century.

Just like Laos, the Yama Zatdaw borrows elements from the Theravada Buddhist culture as well. The story, Rama sā-khyan, was believed to have been told orally during King Anawratha's reign before it was composed by U Aung Phyo in 1775.

Meanwhile, Loik Samoing Ram is the Mon version of the epic which incorporates elements found in Thailand, Java, and Malaysia but with its own unique episodes. It was written by a Buddhist monk named Uttama in 1834.

Maharadia Lawana - The Philippines.

According to indologist Juan R. Francisco, the Ramayana arrived at Filipino shores sometime between the 17th to 19th century thanks to Javanese and Malayan traders who themselves were influenced by India.
The Maharadia Lawana, written as an epic poem by the Maranao people, became indigenized and has contrasting differences from the original Sanskrit version. Character names and locations were changed to perhaps suit the cultural perspectives and orientations of the locals.

Ramakien - Thailand.

Just like Laos, Thailand's version of the legend, Ramakien, is considered a national epic.

However, unlike the original Sanskrit version, Sita is the daughter of the antagonist Thotsakan (Ravana). Phiphek, the astrologer brother of Thotsakan predicts that Ravana would die because of Sita. Furious, he throws his daughter into a river and she is rescued by Chanok.

The earliest records of the poem dates back to the 13th century, during the reign of the Sukhothai kingdom. By the 18th century, during the Ayutthaya kingdom, the Ramakien was written. Sadly when the Burmese invaded, much of the editions were lost.

Under the supervision of King Rama I of the Chakri dynasty which still maintains the royal throne today, the story was reconstructed. King Rama II further adapted the retelling for the khon drama. This version has an added role for Hanuman who is often portrayed lasciviously.

Today, the Ramakien forms an integral part of Thai culture and is taught in schools nationwide.

Uniting cultures.

A painting at the Wat Phra Kaew depicting the battle between Rama and Ravana. IMAGE: Aiden McRae Thomson

In India alone, the birthplace of the Ramayana, there are various versions of the epic told and retold.

Yet, it amazes me how the legend travelled throughout the ages to seven different countries, with each nation making it their own.

Would the tale of Rama and Sita continue to capture people's imaginations and thrive? It will for generations to come so long as the beautiful arts and cultural works above are preserved.

Cover image sourced from YouTube and Daily Travel Photo.

(Source: Mashable)

Before you can be with others, first learn to be alone

In 1840, Edgar Allan Poe described the ‘mad energy’ of an ageing man who roved the streets of London from dusk till dawn. His excruciating despair could be temporarily relieved only by immersing himself in a tumultuous throng of city-dwellers. ‘He refuses to be alone,’ Poe wrote. He ‘is the type and the genius of deep crime … He is the man of the crowd.’

Like many poets and philosophers through the ages, Poe stressed the significance of solitude. It was ‘such a great misfortune’, he thought, to lose the capacity to be alone with oneself, to get caught up in the crowd, to surrender one’s singularity to mind-numbing conformity. Two decades later, the idea of solitude captured Ralph Waldo Emerson’s imagination in a slightly different way: quoting Pythagoras, he wrote: ‘In the morning, – solitude; … that nature may speak to the imagination, as she does never in company.’ Emerson encouraged the wisest teachers to press upon their pupils the importance of ‘periods and habits of solitude’, habits that made ‘serious and abstracted thought’ possible.

In the 20th century, the idea of solitude formed the centre of Hannah Arendt’s thought. A German-Jewish émigré who fled Nazism and found refuge in the United States, Arendt spent much of her life studying the relationship between the individual and the polis. For her, freedom was tethered to both the private sphere – the vita contemplativa – and the public, political sphere – the vita activa. She understood that freedom entailed more than the human capacity to act spontaneously and creatively in public. It also entailed the capacity to think and to judge in private, where solitude empowers the individual to contemplate her actions and develop her conscience, to escape the cacophony of the crowd – to finally hear herself think.

In 1961, The New Yorker commissioned Arendt to cover the trial of Adolf Eichmann, a Nazi SS officer who helped to orchestrate the Holocaust. How could anyone, she wanted to know, perpetrate such evil? Surely only a wicked sociopath could participate in the Shoah. But Arendt was surprised by Eichmann’s lack of imagination, his consummate conventionality. She argued that while Eichmann’s actions were evil, Eichmann himself – the person – ‘was quite ordinary, commonplace, and neither demonic nor monstrous. There was no sign in him of firm ideological convictions.’ She attributed his immorality – his capacity, even his eagerness, to commit crimes – to his ‘thoughtlessness’. It was his inability to stop and think that permitted Eichmann to participate in mass murder.

Just as Poe suspected that something sinister lurked deep within the man of the crowd, Arendt recognised that: ‘A person who does not know that silent intercourse (in which we examine what we say and what we do) will not mind contradicting himself, and this means he will never be either able or willing to account for what he says or does; nor will he mind committing any crime, since he can count on its being forgotten the next moment.’ Eichmann had shunned Socratic self-reflection. He had failed to return home to himself, to a state of solitude. He had discarded the vita contemplativa, and thus he had failed to embark upon the essential question-and-answering process that would have allowed him to examine the meaning of things, to distinguish between fact and fiction, truth and falsehood, good and evil.

Clamdigger 1935 by Edward Hopper. Courtesy Sharon Mollerus/Flickr

‘It is better to suffer wrong than to do wrong,’ Arendt wrote, ‘because you can remain the friend of the sufferer; who would want to be the friend of and have to live together with a murderer? Not even another murderer.’ It is not that unthinking men are monsters, that the sad sleepwalkers of the world would sooner commit murder than face themselves in solitude. What Eichmann showed Arendt was that society could function freely and democratically only if it were made up of individuals engaged in the thinking activity – an activity that required solitude. Arendt believed that ‘living together with others begins with living together with oneself’.

But what if, we might ask, we become lonely in our solitude? Isn’t there some danger that we will become isolated individuals, cut off from the pleasures of friendship? Philosophers have long made a careful, and important, distinction between solitude and loneliness. In The Republic (c380 BCE), Plato proffered a parable in which Socrates celebrates the solitary philosopher. In the allegory of the cave, the philosopher escapes from the darkness of an underground den – and from the company of other humans – into the sunlight of contemplative thought. Alone but not lonely, the philosopher becomes attuned to her inner self and the world. In solitude, the soundless dialogue ‘which the soul holds with herself’ finally becomes audible.

Echoing Plato, Arendt observed: ‘Thinking, existentially speaking, is a solitary but not a lonely business; solitude is that human situation in which I keep myself company. Loneliness comes about … when I am one and without company’ but desire it and cannot find it. In solitude, Arendt never longed for companionship or craved camaraderie because she was never truly alone. Her inner self was a friend with whom she could carry on a conversation, that silent voice who posed the vital Socratic question: ‘What do you mean when you say …?’ The self, Arendt declared, ‘is the only one from whom you can never get away – except by ceasing to think.’

Arendt’s warning is well worth remembering in our own time. In our hyper-connected world, a world in which we can communicate constantly and instantly over the internet, we rarely remember to carve out spaces for solitary contemplation. We check our email hundreds of times per day; we shoot off thousands of text messages per month; we obsessively thumb through Twitter, Facebook and Instagram, aching to connect at all hours with close and casual acquaintances alike. We search for friends of friends, ex-lovers, people we barely know, people we have no business knowing. We crave constant companionship.

But, Arendt reminds us, if we lose our capacity for solitude, our ability to be alone with ourselves, then we lose our very ability to think. We risk getting caught up in the crowd. We risk being ‘swept away’, as she put it, ‘by what everybody else does and believes in’ – no longer able, in the cage of thoughtless conformity, to distinguish ‘right from wrong, beautiful from ugly’. Solitude is not only a state of mind essential to the development of an individual’s consciousness – and conscience – but also a practice that prepares one for participation in social and political life. Before we can keep company with others, we must learn to keep company with ourselves.

(Source: Aeon)