Tevodas, Rakshasas, and Other Cambodian Lore

By Supriya Savkoor

A couple of months ago, my book club chose to read a novel that I hadn’t yet heard of—In the Shadow of the Banyan, by Cambodian-American author Vaddey Ratner. I must have been living under a rock not to have heard of this critically acclaimed first novel, but I’ll admit, I was ambivalent about this choice as I knew it would require some fortitude to read. It's set against the backdrop of Cambodia’s darkest hour—the 1970s, when the Khmer Rouge systematically decimated about half of its own people, through torture, starvation, and, most of all, outright murder. And yet I soon discovered this semi-autographical book is extraordinary, as uplifting and hopeful as it is heartbreaking.

As I’ve told nearly everyone I know, this important book has so many complex facets and layers to it that schools and universities should be adding it to their required reading lists. Which subject? Take your pick—history, psychology, sociology, ethics, religion, spirituality, politics, cultural studies, philosophy, literature, even poetry.

And add one more to that list: mythology, which also happens to be the topic of the week here at Novel Adventurers. (Oh, but how I would really love to expound on all those other topics!)

Ratner’s story led me to a startling discovery—that many aspects of Cambodian civilization were influenced by Hindu myths, legends, and folklore. It’s startling because, while the faith of nearly all Cambodians is Buddhism—a faith that also hails from India, but has morphed into the local cultures and more or less lost its “Indianness”—I could not have conceived of a Southeast Asian culture that's seemingly so different from Indian culture, yet so closely aligned to it. Especially when it comes to ancient Hindu mythology, which is still very much alive in present-day in India and, it seems, in Cambodia as well.

Ratner seamlessly weaves in mythical characters that are often as real as her human ones. She also infuses her story with poetic metaphors such as my favorite, the one about the Reamker. 

A mural that shows a scene from the Reamker at the
Royal Palace in Phnom Pen, Cambodia. (Photo by hanay)

Hopefully, it’s no spoiler to tell you about the beginning of In the Shadow of the Banyan. We enter the privileged world of our protagonist, seven-year-old Raami, a Cambodian blue blood. Surrounded by her loving family, Raami enjoys all the joy and magic of an innocent childhood. While sitting under a banyan tree (an image evoking the Buddha) in the courtyard of her family’s palatial home, Raami begins rereading her favorite book, the Reamker.

“In time immemorial there existed a kingdom called Ayuthiya. It was as perfect a place as one could find in the Middle Realm. But such a paradise was not without envy. In the Underworld, there existed a parallel kingdom called Langka, a flip-mirror image of Ayuthiya. There, darkness prevailed. Its inhabitants, known as the rakshasas, fed on violence and destruction, grew ever more powerful by the evil and suffering they inflicted.”

I include that passage because, on several levels, it fills me with awe.

The story of the Reamker is surprisingly familiar to me, one that I too had read many times as a child of about Raami's age. It’s the Cambodian version of one of India’s best-known epics, the Ramayana, one of Hinduism’s most sacred texts and one of India's most popular mythological legends, comparable to Greek and Roman mythology. Hailing from ancient times, the Ramayana, is filled with a pantheon of gods and goddesses who have inexplicably human desires and weaknesses. It's part of the traditional Hinduism belief system, while for some (even in India), it's a colorful story steeped in philosophical themes combined with the magic of mythology.

A view of Angkor Wat, the world's largest
Vishnu temple, in Angkor, Cambodia.

The story of the Ramayana/Reamker is also a brilliant metaphor for Ratner’s novel. As the title(s) of the former imply, it's the story of Rama (aka Preah Ream), whom Hindus believe to be a human avatar of the Lord Vishnu. As the story goes, Rama led a happy, privileged life as a prince in the benevolent kingdom of Ayodhya (Ayuthiya). As a young man, he’s banished for reasons out of his control. He spends years in exile, far from home and separated from most everyone he loves. Soon, his wife is abducted by a jealous king from Lanka (modern-day Sri Lanka, called Langka in the Cambodian version). Ram eventually returns home but not before a long, bloody war pits all the forces of good and evil against each other and ends in devastating losses for both sides.

Sound familiar? Yes, it sums up Ratner's telling of the Cambodian genocide, with young Raami as a sort of avatar of the noble Ram. Raami is exiled into a world filled with rakshasas, in the form of Pol Pot’s vast army of soldiers, and tevodas, angels who are perhaps counterparts to the mythical devas that fend off the devil’s rakshasa minions. Raami’s father is frequently compared to Indra, the powerful god of thunder and lightning, who also happens to be the king of the devas (the good guys). And, of course, even after it was all over, there
                                                                                 were no winners.

For thousands of years, the story of the Ramayana has been performed in
plays and dance all over Southeast Asia. This photo, a postcard scan, 
shows the Royal Ballet of Cambodia performing the Reamker in the
courtyard of the Silver Pagoda in Phnom Penh sometime between the
1900s and 1920s. This particular postcard depicts a scene from a battle
between Rama and Ravana. Starting in 1900, F. Fleury published
a series of postcards featuring such scenes from the Reamker in China.
The publication year of this postcard is unknown, but it is suspected to

be taken during either King Norodom's reign in Phnom Penh or during
the early years of King Sisowath's reign. Author Vaddey Ratner herself

is a direct descendent of Sisowath royalty.

The rest of Ratner's novel is likewise steeped in the Hindu mythology I grew up on, albeit with a Cambodian flavor.

One other surprise entailed references to the old animal fables known as Jataka Tales, filled with morality lessons. These short stories, which some historians say inspired Aesop’s Fables, had titles such as The Monkey King’s Sacrifice, The Mouse Merchant, and The Demon Outwitted. I'd always presumed the Jataka Tales to be purely Indian, so I was surprised to learn through In the Shadow of the Banyan that the Jataka Tales are equally well-known all over Southeast Asia. Considered to be a recounting of the Buddha’s previous births, in both human and animal form, the stories impart the virtue and wisdom of the Buddha as he appears to us in all his worldy forms (and, of course, teaches that god is within all of us).

 Po Romem, Hindu temple from the Cham era
near present-day Phan Rang, Vietnam.

(photo by Irdyb)

All of this cross-cultural exchange, it turns out, occurred because, for a few thousand years starting in the first century, Hinduism dominated as both a religion and a culture in Cambodia—and to varying degrees, in modern-day Laos, Burma, Malaysia, Thailand, Indonesia (see my related post here), Java, Bali, Vietnam, and even the Philippines. Hindu kingdoms across this region were later described as “Indianized” kingdoms or states, part of a “Greater India” or “Farther India.” India’s influence, however, was entirely cultural, not connected in any way to politics or government. (Historians have called this India's "cultural expansion" and even "cultural imperialism.")

Much of Southeast Asia's oldest sacred texts, literature, and philosophy were written in the ancient Indian languages of Sanskrit and Pali. Though these languages are now archaic (used only in sacred Hindu and Buddhist texts), modern-day Southeast Asian languages still retain vestiges of them. Southeast Asian names in general also sound a lot like Indian ones. And it's said that the name of the country Singapore, known as the Lion City, is based on the Sanskrit words simhah for lion and puram for city. (Simhah puram sounds a bit like "Singapore," right?)

For thousands of years, Southeast Asian kings stylized themselves after Indian devarajas, or god-kings, a bit like Prince Rama from the Ramayana. These kings took on royal, Indian-sounding names, such as Jayavarman VII (Cambodia) and Wikramawardhana (Java), and consulted Brahmin priests from India before making big decisions, such as going to war or relocating a capital. They performed the Hindu ritual ceremony known as a puja. Some even adopted the infamous caste system.

These kings also erected numerous temples and statues—many of which survive today—in honor of Hindu gods and goddesses. Cambodia has preserved one of the world’s only two temples dedicated to Brahma as well as the world’s largest Vishnu temple, Angkor Wat, located in Angkor.

The Hindu kingdoms of Southeast Asia flourished for about a thousand years, before, bit by bit, they began infusing more Buddhist beliefs in with their Hindu ones until, eventually, Buddhism prevailed. As I learned from Ratner’s amazing novel, remnants of the region’s Hindu past still linger and inspire. And the title of In the Shadow of the Banyan suggests that despite all that young Raami, and Ratner herself, experienced, a higher force had protected them all along.

(A post-script: I'll be writing a follow-up to this post in 2 weeks, when we cover book reviews. In the meantime, I encourage you to visit Vaddey Ratner's web site, www.vaddeyratner.com, or connect with her on FaceBook. Most importantly, read her book! I'd love to hear your impressions.)

An Altar By Design

By Supriya Savkoor

It’s been a sort of dilemma for us for years now: whether to keep an altar in the home and, if so, where to place it.

Credit: Jorge Royan

Hindus call this space a mantap, or more commonly, a mandir, which also happens to be the word for a temple. Basically, it’s not just the altar itself but the entire area in a Hindu home, sometimes a whole room, dedicated to prayer and meditation. This area usually contains a collection of sculptures and photos of religious significance, along with various accoutrements to carry out ritual traditions (such as incense burners, oil lamps, and an array of colorful powders). I’ve always thought of it as a more crowded version of the altars in a Catholic church. Even communion reminds me of the Hindu rite of taking prasad. (Though communion is only given to those who have been baptized in that faith, whereas a Hindu religious ceremony offers prasad to anyone, even those who come after the ceremony in which it was first offered and regardless of religious affiliation or the lack thereof.)

Credit: Mike Lynch

But I digress.

My husband and I are both big believers of Hindu spiritualism, and he, more than I, grew up practicing it. Because my exposure to it was more incidental than purposeful, I’m less comfortable with and less knowledgeable of the rituals and traditions than he is, but I’ve always sort of viewed it as an exclusive club I’ve been slyly trying to get into. (Not sure if that explanation even fits, since no one’s preventing me from entering this “club.” It’s just my own secular upbringing that holds me back.)

I have at times suggested to hubby that we not keep a mantap at home, but I’m always secretly relieved when he vehemently disagrees. I’m not crazy about the traditional “look” of most mantaps, either. They’re occasionally cluttered dust traps, populated with a mish mash of plastic figurines or frayed photos of dubious swamis or cartoonish deities. Other times they are just too traditional for me. Ours now is like that, encased in a genuine silver mini-altar, with scalloped edges on the mini-roof and a temple-like spindle. Very boxy and very old school.

One of my own personal bugaboos is that for an altar to evoke any kind of spiritual stirring within me, I can’t really appreciate the photos of living swamis, who are after all, just people. Hinduism in fact makes us aware of how complex the concept of God is—so complex that we have a crowded pantheon of deities who embrace all forms, genders, and approaches. (Seriously the only philosophy, not so much religion, I think I could really espouse.)

The purpose of the mantap, though, is to serve all the members of a household, including its visitors, yet to me it mostly tends to reflect the personality or ideals of the person who sets it up and arranges it. It tends to feel more like a personal space, a highly personal one at that, something even my husband and I can’t quite agree on. And yet … it would feel like a sacrilege not to have one at all, even if we don’t much use it as much as other families might.

Credit: Yann Forget

And as embarrassing as this is to admit, for more than a decade now, we’ve housed our mantap in a walk-in closet, tucked away in an upstairs corner of our house, one only the immediate family knows about. Don’t get me wrong. We use the closet a lot, so it’s not like we don’t get a daily exposure to, ahem…I know, lame.

But now, here we are, doing a top-to-bottom spruce-up of the house, renovating our kitchen, painting everything from the trim to the ceilings, replacing old décor with fresh new colors, furniture, and designs. Our goal is to be done with it by Thanksgiving, when we will have a house full of Savkoors. So here’s that question again—where to put the mantap? We can’t keep it the closet anymore, can we? Not when we’re giving so much thought to every other nook and cranny of the house. Maybe, as I’ve suggested several times over the past decade, we can gut out this lovely wooden armoire I purchased years ago for just this purpose. Miniature armoire, really, as it was originally made for showcasing jewelry, but how lovely it would look hanging on a prominent wall. I don’t know, he still says, I’ll have to think about it. (That’s actually his stock answer to most of my most brilliant ideas.)

Then a few weeks ago, the perfect idea materialized at just the perfect time.

I was at a friend’s house, on a rare occasion of preparing food for a religious event. (Seriously, I attend one, maybe two, such events a year, and I rarely cook for them, so this was serious kismet.) While at her house, I found myself admiring a wall of lovely abstract art she had displayed in her kitchen. I reveled in it actually, thought it hadn’t occurred to me that it was anything more than “just art.” When I looked below the display, there was a small table of silver and bronze containers, the traditional type with the tight lids I grew up seeing around a mantap. That was my first realization: a mantap can be anything you want it to be.

And so, Thanksgiving guests, prepare to be dazzled!

Holy Waters—India's Varanasi

By Alli Sinclair

This week, I’m straying from the continent of my heart to another part of the world that is very special to me—India. When I first set foot in this wondrous land, I had no idea the profound effect it would have on me. Even though I faced numerous challenges with my patience and beliefs, the people of India allowed me a glimpse into their customs, religion, and love for family.

I had been traveling for three months by the time I arrived in the “Eternal City” of Varanasi (also known as Benares, Banaras, or Kashi). Situated in the northern Indian state of Uttar Pradesh, Varanasi is regarded as a holy city by many religions. At 3,000 years old, Varanasi is India’s oldest city and one of the oldest continuously habitated cities in the world.

The first time I visited Varanasi, I arrived by boat (yes, I’ve been more than once because this truly is an amazing place). For five days, I sailed down the Ganges from Allahabad using a traditional Indian sailboat. We camped on the riverbanks, met scores of villagers along the way, and were entertained endlessly by kids keen to show their latest dance moves.

Arrival day at Varanasi meant getting up in the dark to ensure we sailed into the city at dawn. Bleary-eyed, we travelled along calm waters as nervous chatter filled the night. Just as the black sky turned gray, we rounded a bend and saw Varanasi. A heavy mist hung above the water but faded quickly as the bright orange sun rose and shone on the magnificent red-brick buildings blackened by fires used for pyres. Countless ghats (steps that lead down to the river) lined the west bank of the Ganges.

According to Hindu legend, the deity Lord Shiva founded Varanasi and buried his trident under the city. As one of seven holy sites for Hindus in India, people flock to bathe in the fast-flowing waters of the Ganges and wash away their impurities. Hindus believe that if one dies in Varanasi, they will obtain a faster route to heaven and many make the journey to this beautiful city so they can spend their last moments in the holy waters of the Ganges.

 

It is common to see bodies wrapped in white sheaths and transported through narrow alleys that lead to one of the two ghats where bodies are cremated. For those who can’t afford to pay for the wood, bodies are placed in the Ganges and float along the river until they perish.

But it’s not all solemn in Varanasi. Sanskrit scholars flock here because of the important role Varanasi has had in the development of the Indian language, Hindi. And Tulsi Das, famous for writing the Hindi version of the epic Ramayana, lived in Varanasi for many years.

With more than 100 ghats along the river, the sight of thousands of people taking an early morning dip is fascinating. Along the steps are Brahmin priests offering blessings (for a price) and beggars who will convince you that giving them money will bring you good karma. Hindu pilgrims bathe at five ghats on the same day and, to bring good health and fortune, they need to bathe in the following order of ghats: Asi, Dasaswamedth, Barnasangam, Panchganga, and Manikarnika.

The Golden Temple is dedicated to Shiva, Lord of the Universe (also known as Vishveswara or Vishwanath). In the 1600s, the Moghul ruler Aurangzeb invaded Varanasi and destroyed the original temple then built a mosque over it. In 1776, a new Golden Temple was built by the Sikhs, and the towers are covered in three-quarters of a ton of gold plating. Non-Hindus aren’t allowed in the temple, but it is possible to view the beautiful building from a house across the street—for a fee, of course. I remember standing at a small window a few floors above, enjoying the peace and marveling at the beauty of this building. It truly was a memorable moment.

For Buddhists, Varanasi is one of four pilgrimage sites and, in the residential neighborhood (only 10 kilometers away from the Ganges), lies Sarnath. This is where Buddha preached his first message of enlightenment 25 centuries ago. The Chaukhandi Stupa stands on the spot where Buddha first met his disciples when travelling from Bodh Gaya to Sarnath.

The Jains (adherents of yet another religion born in ancient India) believe Varanasi is the birthplace of Parshvanatha, and is the site of the Dgambar Jain Temple. Parshva, or Parshvanatha, is one of the earliest Jain leaders to be accepted as a historical figure. He lived sometime between 877-777 BC and meditated for 84 days straight before attaining Kevala Jñāna—Absolute Knowledge—which is the highest a Jain soul can reach.

When winding through the narrow streets of Varanasi, it’s not unusual to hear the Muslim call to prayer five times a day. After the Muslim invasions from centuries ago, many Muslims remained in Varanasi and made this city their home. Muslim temples are dotted around Varanasi, and some of the most important mosques are Alamgiri Mosque, Ganj-e-Shaheedan Mosque and Chaukhamba Mosque. One of Varanasi’s greatest exports are the beautiful textiles made by the skilled Muslim weavers of Varansi. To possess a Varanasi silk sari is a dream for many Indian women, especially to wear on their day.

The Varanasi experience that stands out the most for me was when I gathered with the locals one warm evening at sunset. I’d purchased a clay dish filled with flower petals and a lit candle, and I slowly made my way with the men and women down the steps of the ghat to the edge of the Ganges. Gently placing my offering in the sacred waters, I sent a silent prayer and allowed the love and faith of the people wash over me. Nearly 20 years on, I still get shivers remembering this moment.

In The Eye of The Storm

(Photo: J177839 U.S. Copyright Office)

By Supriya Savkoor

Back when I was expecting my first baby, we had invited relatives over for dinner. It was the middle of the week, a Wednesday, which had started off sunny and fair. By afternoon, the skies had darkened, and before we sat down to eat, there was a tremendous downpour outside.

“You’re having a baby this week,” my aunt smiled, wagging a finger at me.

I froze. How could she say that? I was a good month away from my due date!

“Well, that’s what they used to say in India anyway,” she muttered, taking in my stunned expression. “A superstition. But this superstition always comes true. You'll see.”

The week went by, and I forgot about her prediction. It continued to pour heavily over the next few days, and by Saturday night, I went to bed feeling uneasy. I tossed and turned along with the lightning and thunder, and as soon as it was light outside, I could wait no more.

“Contractions,” my doctor diagnosed when I called her. “Meet me at the hospital right away.”

I barely made it there. My water broke as soon as I arrived, and I spent the next 12 hours listening to the storm rage outside as our newborn made her way into the world. Thankfully, she was healthy, and my exhilaration over this tiny living thing we'd created, was tempered by the mundane chatter among the nurses that day.

“Busy tonight, eh?” one remarked, right after she'd pumped everyone about their weekend plans.

“Because of the rain,” replied another. “Lotta babies tonight.”

“'Cause of the elevated mercury levels in the atmosphere,” my doctor mumbled.

So not just an old wives’ tale then, but an age-old "legend" that happened to be rooted in science. It immediately reminded me of a passing comment my 90-some-year-old, wizened great-grandmother told a 10-year-old me when I'd asked her in which year she was born. 

“I don’t know, but they always told me it was the year of that great flood.”

If you think about it, it’s really no wonder that ancient civilizations such as the ancient Indians in South Asia or the Incans in South America, whom Alli covered yesterday, made such astute observations about the forces of nature. They lived and died by the seasons, made their fortunes (and lost them) based on the success of their crops and harvests, and even wrapped their most important stories in legends about nature’s most powerful forces.

Indra, riding his trademark white elephant,
Airavata. Painting from 1820–1825,
painter unknown {{PD-1923}}

The “Indian rain god” I grew up reading about was Indra, the king of all the devas (gods). Indra is also the Hindu god of storms, thunder, rain, and lightning, as well as the god of war. He's the counterpart, you could say, to the Greek god Zeus, the Roman god Jupiter, and the Scandinavian god Thor. Indra is said to have defeated all the other gods to acquire his status as their ruler, including defeating the mighty gods of sun (Surya), oceans (Varuna), fire (Agni), and wind (Vayu). Indra rules the gods from his heavenly abode of Svarga, among the clouds whirling around the mythical Mount Meru. The gods of the elements, including minor storm gods (Indra’s minions), live there, along with all of mankind’s great sages, kings, and warriors who’ve passed on. There, they spend their time watching the apsaras (female cloud spirits) and their husbands, the gandharvas (male nature spirits), dance and sing. No pain, fear, or sadness exists in Svarga, though Indra himself spends much of his time battling the forces of evil, including the asuras (demons), all around the universe, which Indra himself was to said have split up into heaven and earth.

Thus, the belief that morality and the weather went hand in hand prevailed in ancient times. Too much rain or the lack of it altogether was seen as the will of god, the punishment or reward for man’s behavior. So too, with the Vedic law of stars, what we know now as astrology, which came to be associated with morality as well.

Total side note, but according to the Oxford Dictionary, until about 1,000 B.C., Indra was thought to be, in addition to his many other lofty roles, the god of fertility.

Perhaps every time it rains and the maternity wards fill up, it's Indra’s way of showing us how all the forces of nature connect in the great scheme of things. And of humanity's responsibility to serve the greater good and start fresh with each new life. 

Or, well, maybe it's just the extra touch of mercury in the air?