Post by madanmohandas on May 26, 2008 2:53:00 GMT -6
My copy has not yet arrived being held up in the bank holiday post, but I have been going through it on line. The most exciting thing is the translator, Ralph Griffith, has done the whole text in rhyming couplets, excepting the Uttara Kanda which is in prose. Ever since I saw mention of this translation in Ramesh Datta's prologue to his own abridged version, I have been trying to get hold of a copy; that's about 15 years ago. Suddenly discovered that it had been reprinted in 2003. It is available from amazon and abe books. The book was originally published around 1870. Here are two codes for it.
Post by madanmohandas on May 26, 2008 3:00:54 GMT -6
This is the second to last chapter of Kiskinda where Jambavan exhorts the Son of the Wind.
The chieftain turned his glances where The legions sat in mute despair; And then to Hanumán, the best Of Vánar lords, these words addressed: 'Why still, and silent, and apart, O hero of the dauntless heart? Thou keepest measured in thy mind The laws that rule the Vánar kind, Strong as our king Sugriva, brave As Ráma's self to slay or save, Through every land thy praise is heard, Famous as that illustrious bird, Arishtanemi's son, the king Of every fowl that plies the wing. Oft have I seen the monarch sweep With sounding pinions o'er the deep, And in his mighty talons bear Huge serpents struggling through the air. Thy arms, O hero, match in might The ample wings he spreads for flight; And thou with him mayest well compare In power to do, in heart to dare. Why, rich in wisdom, power, and skill, O hero, art thou lingering still? An Apsaras the fairest found Of nymphs for heavenly charms renowned, Sweet Punjikasthalá, became A noble Vánar's wedded dame. Her heavenly title heard no more, Anjaná was the name she bore, When, cursed by Gods, from heaven she fell In Vánar form on earth to dwell, New-born in mortal shape the ch*ild Of Kunjar monarch of the wild. In youthful beauty wondrous fair, A crown of jewels about her hair, In silken robes of richest dye She roamed the hills that kiss the sky. Once in her tinted garments dressed She stood upon the mountain crest, The God of Wind beside her came, And breathed upon the lovely dame. And as he fanned her robe aside The wondrous beauty that he eyed In rounded lines of breast and limb And neck and shoulder ravished him; And captured by her peerless charms He strained her in his amorous arms, Then to the eager God she cried In trembling accents, terrified: 'Whose impious love has wronged a spouse So constant in her nuptial vows?' He heard, and thus his answer made: 'O, be not troubled, nor afraid. But trust, and thou shalt know ere long My love has done thee, sweet, no wrong. So strong and brave and wise shall be The glorious child I give to thee. Might shall be his that naught can tire, And limbs to spring as springs his sire,' Thus spoke the God; the conquered dame Rejoiced in heart nor feared the shame. Down in a cave beneath the earth The happy mother gave thee birth. Once o'er the summit of the wood Before thine eyes the new sun stood. Thou sprangest up in haste to seize What seemed the fruitage of the trees. Up leapt the child, a wondrous bound, Three hundred leagues above the ground, And, though the angered Day-God shot His fierce beams on him, feared him not. Then from the hand of Indra came A red bolt winged with wrath and flame. The child fell smitten on a rock. His cheek was shattered by the shock, Named Hanumán thenceforth by all In memory of the fearful fall, The wandering Wind-God saw thee lie With bleeding cheek and drooping eye, And stirred to anger by thy woe Forbade each scented breeze to blow. The breath of all the worlds was stilled, And the sad Gods with terror filled Prayed to the Wind, to calm the ire And soothe the sorrow of the sire. His fiery wrath no longer glowed, And Brahmá's self the boon bestowed That in the brunt of battle none Should slay with steel the Wind-God's son. Lord Indra, sovereign of the skies, Bent on thee all his thousand eyes, And swore that ne'er the bolt which he Hurls from the heaven should injure thee, 'Tis thine, O mighty chief, to share The Wind-God's power, his son and heir. Sprung from that glorious father thou. And thou alone, canst aid us now. This earth of yore, through all her climes, I circled one-and-twenty times, And gathered, as the Gods decreed, Great store of herbs from hill and mead, Which, scattered o'er the troubled wave. The Amrit to the toilers gave, But now my days are wellnigh told, My strength is gone, my limbs are old, And thou, the bravest and the best, Art the sure hope of all the rest. Now, mighty chief, the task assay: Thy matchless power and strength display Rise up, O prince, our second king, And o'er the flood of ocean spring. So shall the glorious exploit vie With his who stepped through earth and sky.'
He spoke: the younger chieftain heard, His soul to vigorous effort stirred, And stood before their joyous eyes Dilated in gigantic size.
Post by madanmohandas on May 27, 2008 10:00:46 GMT -6
This is from the Aranya Kanda, canto XVI.: Winter.
While there the high-souled hero spent His tranquil hours in sweet content, The glowing autumn passed, and then Came winter so beloved of men. One morn, to bathe, at break of day To the fair stream he took his way. Behind him, with the Maithil dame Bearing a pitcher Lakshman came, And as he went the mighty man Thus to his brother chief began: 'The time is come, to thee more dear Than all the months that mark the year The gracious seasons' joy and pride, By which the rest are glorified. A robe of hoary rime is spread O'er earth, with cold engarlanded. The streams we loved no longer please, But near the fire we take our ease, Now pious men to God and shade Offer young corn's fresh sprouted blade, And purge away their sins with fire Bestowed in humble sacrifice. Rich stores of milk delight the swain, And hearts are cheered that longed for gain. Proud kings whose breasts for conquests glow Lead bannered troops to smite the foe. Dark is the north: the Lord of Day To Yama's south has turned away: And she--sad widow--shines no more, Reft of the bridal mark she wore. Himálaya's hill, ordained of old The treasure-house of frost and cold, Scarce conscious of the feebler glow, Is truly now the Lord of Snow. Warmed by the noontide's genial rays Delightful are the glorious days: But how we shudder at the chill Of evening shadows and the rill! How weak the sun, how cold the breeze! How white the rime on grass and trees! The leaves are sere, the woods have lost Their blossoms killed by nipping frost. Neath open skies we sleep no more: December's nights with rime are hoar: Their triple watch in length extends With hours the shortened daylight lends. No more the moon's sun-borrowed rays Are bright, involved in misty haze, As when upon the mirror's sheen The breath's obscuring cloud is seen. E'en at the full the faint beams fail To struggle through the darksome veil: Changed like her hue, they want the grace That parts not yet from Sítá's face. Cold is the western wind, but how Its piercing chill is heightened now, Blowing at early morning twice As furious with its breath of ice! See how the dewy tears they weep The barley, wheat, and woodland steep, Where, as the sun goes up the sky. The curlew and the sáras cry. See where the rice plants scarce uphold Their full ears tinged with paly gold, Bending their ripe heads slowly down Fair as the date tree's flowery crown. Though now the sun has mounted high Seeking the forehead of the sky, Such mist obscures his struggling beams, No bigger than the moon he seems. Though weak at first, his rays at length Grow pleasant in their noonday strength, And where a while they chance to fall Fling a faint splendour over all. See, o'er the woods where grass is wet With hoary drops that cling there yet, With soft light clothing earth and bough There steals a tender glory now. Yon elephant who longs to drink, Still standing on the river's brink, Plucks back his trunk in shivering haste From the cold wave he fain would taste. The very fowl that haunt the mere Stand doubtful on the bank, and fear To dip them in the wintry wave As cowards dread to meet the brave. The frost of night, the rime of dawn Bind flowerless trees and glades of lawn: Benumbed in apathetic chill Of icy chains they slumber still. You hear the hidden sáras cry From floods that wrapped in vapour lie, And frosty-shining sands reveal Where the unnoticed rivers steal. The hoary rime of dewy night, And suns that glow with tempered light Lend fresh cool flavours to the rill That sparkles from the tompost hill. The cold has killed the lily's pride: Leaf, filament, and flower have died: With chilling breath rude winds have blown, The withered stalk is left alone. At this gay time, O noblest chief, The faithful Bharat, worn by grief, Lives in the royal town where he Spends weary hours for love of thee. From titles, honour, kingly sway, From every joy he turns away: Couched on cold earth, his days are passed With scanty fare and hermit's fast. This moment from his humble bed He lifts, perhaps, his weary head, And girt by many a follower goes To bathe where silver Sarjú flows. How, when the frosty morn is dim, Shall Sarjú be a bath for him Nursed with all love and tender care, So delicate and young and fair. How bright his hue! his brilliant eye With the broad lotus leaf may vie. By fortune stamped for happy fate, His graceful form is tall aud straight. In duty skilled, his words are truth: He proudly rules each lust of youth. Though his strong arm smites down the foe, In gentle speech his accents flow. Yet every joy has he resigned And cleaves to thee with heart and mind. Thus by the deeds that he has done A name in heaven has Bharat won, For in his life he follows yet Thy steps, O banished anchoret. Thus faithful Bharat, nobly wise, The proverb of the world belies: 'No men, by mothers' guidance led, The footsteps of their fathers tread.' How could Kaikeyí, blest to be Spouse of the king our sire, and see A son like virtuous Bharat, blot Her glory with so foul a plot!' Thus in fraternal love he spoke, And from his lips reproaches broke: But Ráma grieved to hear him chide The absent mother, and replied: 'Cease, O beloved, cease to blame Our royal father's second dame. Still speak of Bharat first in place Of old Ikshváku's princely race. My heart, so firmly bent but now To dwell in woods and keep my vow, Half melting as I hear thee speak Of Bharat's love, grows soft and weak, With tender joy I bring to mind His speeches ever sweet and kind. That dear as Amrit took the sense With most enchanting influence. Ah, when shall I, no more to part, Meet Bharat of the mighty heart? When, O my brother, when shall we The good and brave S'atrughna see?' Thus as he poured his fond lament The son of Raghu onward went: They reached the river, and the three Bathed them in fair Godávarí. Libations of the stream they paid To every deity and shade, With hymns of praise, the Sun on high And sinless Gods to glorify.
Fresh from the purifying tide Resplendent Ráma came, With Lakshman ever by his side, And the sweet Maithil dame. So Rudra shines by worlds adored, In glory undefiled, When Nandi stands beside his lord, And King Himálaya's child.
Post by madanmohandas on May 28, 2008 8:22:26 GMT -6
I'm still waiting for my copy to arrive in the post, but here is a little more from the Bala Kanda, just for the relish.
Canto LXVII.: The Breaking of the Bow.
Then spoke again the great recluse: 'This mighty bow, O King, produce.' King Janak, at the saint's request, This order to his train addressed: 'Let the great bow be hither borne, Which flowery wreaths and scents adorn.' Soon as the monarch's words were said, His servants to the city sped, Five thousand youths in number, all Of manly strength and stature tall, The ponderous eight-wheeled chest that held The heavenly bow, with toil propelled. At length they brought that iron chest, And thus the godlike king addressed: 'This best of bows, O lord, we bring, Respected by each chief and king, And place it for these youths to see, If, Sovereign, such thy pleasure be.' With suppliant palm to palm applied King Janak to the strangers cried: 'This gem of bows, O Bráhman Sage, Our race has prized from age to age. Too strong for those who yet have reigned, Though great in might each nerve they strained. Titan and fiend its strength defies, God, spirit, minstrel of the skies. And bard above and snake below Are baffled by this glorious bow. Then how may human prowess hope With such a bow as this to cope? What man with valour's choicest gift This bow can draw, or string, or lift? Yet let the princes, holy Seer, Behold it: it is present here.' Then spoke the hermit pious-souled: 'Ráma, dear son, the bow behold.' Then Ráma at his word unclosed The chest wherein its might reposed, Thus crying, as he viewed it: 'Lo! I lay mine hand upon the bow: May happy luck my hope attend Its heavenly strength to lift or bend.' 'Good luck be thine,' the hermit cried: 'Assay the task!' the king replied. Then Raghu's son, as if in sport, Before the thousands of the court, The weapon by the middle raised That all the crowd in wonder gazed. With steady arm the string he drew Till burst the mighty bow in two. As snapped the bow, an awful clang, Loud as the shriek of tempests, rang. The earth, affrighted, shook amain As when a hill is rent in twain. Then, senseless at the fearful sound, The people fell upon the ground: None save the king, the princely pair, And the great saint, the shock could bear. When woke to sense the stricken train, And Janak's soul was calm again, With suppliant hands and reverent head, These words, most eloquent, he said: 'O Saint, Prince Ráma stands alone: His peerless might he well has shown. A marvel has the hero wrought Beyond belief, surpassing thought. My child, to royal Ráma wed, New glory on our line will shed: And true my promise will remain That hero's worth the bride should gain. Dearer to me than light and life, My Sitá shall be Ráma's wife. If thou, O Bráhman, leave concede, My counsellors, with eager speed, Borne in their flying cars, to fair Ayodhyá's town the news shall bear, With courteous message to entreat The king to grace my royal seat. This to the monarch shall they tell, The bride is his who won her well: And his two sons are resting here Protected by the holy seer. So, at his pleasure, let them lead The sovereign to my town with speed.' The hermit to his prayer inclined And Janak, lord of virtuous mind, With charges, to Ayodhyá sent His ministers: and forth they went.
Post by madanmohandas on Jun 27, 2008 16:35:00 GMT -6
This is from the Appendix. I hope its not too indulgent, but I thought I'd post this long passage from the Raghu Vamsa, also translated by Mr. Griffth.
'Then, day by day, the husband's hope grew high, Gazing with love on Sítá's melting eye: With anxious care he saw her pallid cheek, And fondly bade her all her wishes speak. 'Once more I fain would see,' the lady cried, 'The sacred groves that rise on Gangá's side, Where holy grass is ever fresh and green, And cattle feeding on the rice are seen: There would I rest awhile, where once I strayed Linked in sweet friendship to each hermit maid.' And Ráma smiled upon his wife, and sware, With many a tender oath, to grant her prayer. It chanced, one evening, from a lofty seat He viewed Ayodhyá stretched before his feet: He looked with pride upon the royal road Lined with gay shops their glittering stores that showed, He looked on Sarjú's silver waves, that bore The light barks flying with the sail and oar; He saw the gardens near the town that lay, Filled with glad citizens and boys at play. Then swelled the monarch's bosom with delight, And his heart triumphed at the happy sight. He turned to Bhadra, standing by his side,-- Upon whose secret news the king relied.-- And bade him say what people said and thought Of all the exploits that his arm had wrought. The spy was silent, but, when questioned still. Thus spake, obedient to his master's will: 'For all thy deeds in peace and battle done The people praise thee. King, except for one: This only act of all thy life they blame,-- Thy welcome home of her, thy ravished dame.' Like iron yielding to the iron's blow. Sank Ráma, smitten by those words of woe. His breast, where love and fear for empire vied, Swayed, like a rapid swing, from side to side. Shall he this rumour scorn, which blots his life, Or banish her, his dear and spotless wife? But rigid Duty left no choice between His perilled honour and his darling queen. Called to his side, his brothers wept to trace The marks of anguish in his altered face. No longer bright and glorious as of old. He thus addressed them when the tale was told: 'Alas! my brothers, that my life should blot The fame of those the Sun himself begot: As from the labouring cloud the driven rain Leaves on the mirror's polished face a stain. E'en as an elephant who loathes the stake And the strong chain he has no power to break, I cannot brook this cry on every side, That spreads like oil upon the moving tide. I leave the daughter of Videha's King, And the fair blossom soon from her to spring, As erst, obedient to my sire's command, I left the empire of the sea-girt land. Good is my queen, and spotless; but the blame Is hard to bear, the mockery and the shame. Men blame the pure Moon for the darkened ray, When the black shadow takes the light away, And, O my brothers, if ye wish to see Ráma live long from this reproach set free, Let not your pity labour to control The firm sad purpose of his changeless soul.'
Thus Ráma spake. The sorrowing brothers beard His stern resolve, without an answering word; For none among them dared his voice to raise, That will to question:--and they could not praise. 'Beloved brother,' thus the monarch cried To his dear Lakshman, whom he called aside.-- Lakshman, who knew no will save his alone Whose hero deeds through all the world were known:-- 'My queen has told me that she longs to rove Beneath the shade of Saint Válmíki's grove: Now mount thy car, away my lady bear; Tell all, and leave her in the forest there.'
The car was brought, the gentle lady smiled, As the glad news her trusting heart beguiled. She mounted up: Sumantra held the reins; And forth the coursers bounded o'er the plains. She saw green fields in all their beauty dressed, And thanked her husband in her loving breast. Alas! deluded queen! she little knew How changed was he whom she believed so true; How one she worshipped like the Heavenly Tree Could, in a moment's time, so deadly be. Her right eye throbbed,--ill-omened sign, to tell The endless loss of him she loved so well, And to the lady's saddening heart revealed The woe that Lakshman, in his love, concealed. Pale grew the bloom of her sweet face,--as fade The lotus blossoms,--by that sign dismayed. 'Oh. may this omen,'--was her silent prayer,-- 'No grief to Ráma or his brothers bear I'
When Lakshman, faithful to his brother, stood Prepared to leave her in the distant wood, The holy Gangá, flowing by the way, Raised all her hands of waves to bid him stay. At length with sobs and burning tears that rolled Down his sad face, the king's command he told; As when a monstrous cloud, in evil hour, Rains from its labouring womb a stony shower. She heard, she swooned, she fell upon the earth, Fell on that bosom whence she sprang to birth. As, when the tempest in its fury flies, Low in the dust the prostrate creeper lies, So, struck with terror sank she on the ground, And all her gems, like flowers, lay scattered round. But Earth, her mother, closed her stony breast. And, filled with doubt, denied her daughter rest. She would not think the Chief of Raghu's race Would thus his own dear guiltless wife disgrace. Stunned and unconscious, long the lady lay, And felt no grief, her senses all astray. But gentle Lakshman, with a brother's care, Brought back her sense, and with her sense, despair. But not her wrongs, her shame, her grief, could wring One angry word against her lord the King: Upon herself alone the blame she laid. For tears and sighs that would not yet be stayed. To soothe her anguish Lakshman gently strove; He showed the path to Saint Válmíki's grove; And craved her pardon for the share of ill He wrought, obedient to his brother's will. 'O, long and happy, dearest brother, live! I have to praise', she cried,' and not forgive: To do his will should be thy noblest praise; As Vishn'u ever Indra's will obeys. Return, dear brother: on each royal dame Bestow a blessing in poor Sítá's name, And bid them, in their love, kind pity take Upon her offspring, for the father's sake. And speak my message in the monarch's ear, The last last words of mine that he shall hear: 'Say, was it worthy of thy noble race Thy guiltless queen thus lightly to disgrace? For idle tales to spurn thy faithful bride, Whose constant truth the searching fire had tried? Or may I hope thy soul refused consent, And but thy voice decreed my banishment? Hope that no care could turn, no love could stay The lightning stroke that falls on me to-day? That sins committed in the life that's fled Have brought this evil on my guilty head? Think not I value now my widowed life, Worthless to her who once was Ráma's wife. I only live because I hope to see The dear dear babe that will resemble thee. And then my task of penance shall be done, With eyes uplifted to the scorching sun; So shall the life that is to come restore Mine own dear husband, to be lost no more.' And Lakshman swore her every word to tell, Then turned to go, and bade the queen farewell. Alone with all her woes, her piteous cries Rose like a butchered lamb's that struggling dies. The reverend sage who from his dwelling came For sacred grass and wood to feed the flame, Heard her loud shrieks that rent the echoing wood, And, quickly following, by the mourner stood. Before the sage the lady bent her low, Dried her poor eyes, and strove to calm her woe. With blessings on her hopes the blameless man In silver tones his soothing speech began: 'First of all faithful wives, O Queen, art thou; And can I fail to mourn thy sorrows now? Rest in this holy grove, nor harbour fear Where dwell in safety e'en the timid deer. Here shall thine offspring safely see the light, And be partaker of each holy rite. Here, near the hermits' dwellings, shall thou lave Thy limbs in Tonse's sin-destroying wave, And on her isles, by prayer and worship, gain Sweet peace of mind, and rest from care and pain. Each hermit maiden with her sweet soft voice, Shall soothe thy woe, and bid thy heart rejoice: With fruit and early flowers thy lap shall fill, And offer grain that springs for us at will. And here, with labour light, thy task shall be To water carefully each tender tree, And learn how sweet a nursing mother's joy Ere on thy bosom rest thy darling boy.'
That very night the banished Sítá bare Two royal children, most divinely fair.
The saint Válmíki, with a friend's delight, Graced Sítá's offspring with each holy rite. Kus'a and Lava--such the names they bore-- Learnt, e'en in childhood, all the Vedas' lore; And then the bard, their minstrel souls to train, Taught them to sing his own immortal strain. And Ráma's deeds her boys so sweetly sang, That Sítá's breast forgot her bitterest pang.
Then Sítá's children, by the saint's command, Sang the Rámáyan, wandering through the land. How could the glorious poem fail to gain Each heart, each ear that listened to the strain! So sweet each minstrel's voice who sang the praise Of Ráma deathless in Válmíki's lays. Ráma himself amid the wondering throng Marked their fair forms, and loved the noble song, While, still and weeping, round the nobles stood, As, on a windless morn, a dewy wood. On the two minstrels all the people gazed, Praised their fair looks and marvelled as they praised; For every eye amid the throng could trace Ráma's own image in each youthful face. Then spoke the king himself and bade them say Who was their teacher, whose the wondrous lay. Soon as Válmíki, mighty saint, he saw, He bowed his head in reverential awe. 'These are thy children' cried the saint,'recall Thine own dear Sítá, pure and true through all. 'O holy father,' thus the king replied, 'The faithful lady by the fire was tried; But the foul demon's too successful arts Raised light suspicions in my people's hearts. Grant that their breasts may doubt her faith no more, And thus my Sítá and her sons restore.'
Post by madanmohandas on Jun 28, 2008 18:12:01 GMT -6
It struck me as quite funny with all that talk of 'why is Gaura-Visnuprya worship neglected?' - when there seems little interest in the Rama Lila amongst the Caitanya Vaisnavas; why is that? Even Visvanath Cakravarti in one of his books, maybe Madhurya Kadambini or Raga Vartma Candrika, says that if a Krsna bhakta becomes interested in Rama Lila, it is due to some offence that has brought him down as it were. O well, sigh, sigh. Also, in his Brhat Bhagavatamrtam, Sri Sanatan has relegated Ayodhya to a lower level of sorts as a place where madhurya is vitiated with aisvarya (?). Is all that simply to do with the ascending intensity of rasa?
Also, Sri Ananta das babaji, in his book about the glory of lord Nityananda, while narrating the first meeting of Nitai and Gaura with passages from Caitanya Bhagavat, has ommited the part where Vrndavan Das observes that the only fit metaphor to portray the image of Nitai swooning in the lap of Gaura, was that of Laksman swooning in the lap of Rama; and he makes much of it. Anyway, I was just ruminating and thought I'd air it in cyber space. O, and while I'm on it, why is Rama portrayed as a green man when both Valmiki and Tulsi das refer to him as; Syam, Meghasyam, Nila Nirada Syam, Kuvayaladala Syam, etc. etc.? I've yet to come accross 'green' in either text. Perhaps that's how it is in Krtibhasa's Bengali Ramayan; I'm awaiting a copy of that.
It struck me as quite funny with all that talk of 'why is Gaura-Visnuprya worship neglected?' - when there seems little interest in the Rama Lila amongst the Caitanya Vaisnavas; why is that?
Maybe because they are Gaura and Radha-Krishna bhakta's and not Sita-Rama bhakta's, it is a different taste, or is this too simple? And of course everybody always thinks his own religion is the best, the truest and the highest.
I have heard that the Rama bhakti in Northern India has been strongly influenced by Rupa Gosvami's BRS; Rama bhakta's there direct their sadhana on the honeymoon lila of Sita-Rama as the courtiers of Sita-devi much like the sakhi's in the Krishna-lila.
Griffith's translation is great, too bad he hasn't translated Book 7, hardly anyone has; Hari Prasad Sastri is one of the exceptions. And, supposedly, the Gita Press edition has been finished by somebody. In the old, rather messy, edition the translator dies in Sarga 41.
In the Clay Sanskrit Library a complete bi-lingual edition is being published. (They are also working on a complete bi-lingual edition of the Mahabharata!)
Good to see somebody enjoying the Ramayana!
And don't forget Tulasidas Goswami's Ramacharitamanas! More bhakti then Valmiki. Scholars prefer the W.D.P. Hill translation (1952, 1971). I prefer "The Ramayana Of Tulasidasa" trans. F.S. Growse, revised by R.C. Prasad, Motilal Banarsidass, 1978. Growse's translation has more feeling then Hill's. Prasad also made his own translation which is a three-language edition (also modern Hindi); the English translation is a mix of Growse and Hill.
And then there is the Kamban Ramayana, Penguin Classics, 2002, translated from the Tamil by P.S.Sundaram. And the Old-Javanese Ramayana etc...
And of course everybody always thinks his own religion is the best, the truest and the highest.
Yeah i noticed that alot in the Iskcon movement and amongst the other religions as well, they always would talk and mock the other religions, thinking theres is the only way back to the source, bloody wake up, many paths same goal.
Last Edit: Jul 18, 2008 4:50:10 GMT -6 by hredwood