Category Archives: Philosophy

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Punishing? Yes, but not through violent means (acc. to Medhātithi)

The reasoning by Medhātithi on 8.316 (on punishment and why it does not violate the prohibition to perform any violence) is quite complex and multiple opponents discuss. I will list them below attributing a number to each one of them.

1. A first opinion being discussed is that, since punishment is enjoined (presumably: as part of the duty to protect people) and prohibited (by the prohibition to inflict any violence), it is optional. “Option” (or “free picking”, vikalpa) is in general to be avoided and Mīmāṃsā authors would accept it only for details bearing no great significance. Hence, the opinion is dismissed.

2. Next, a second speaker observes that no vikalpa applies, because violent punishment is clearly forbidden by the prohibition to perform any violence.

3. Rebuttal: It is not forbidden because it is performed as part of fulfilling one’s duty.

2a. Second speaker again: in order for the prohibition to perform violence not to apply, the act of (violent) punishment should be enjoined, as it happens in the case of the Agnīṣomīya (a sacrifice which involves violence, and which is not blocked by the prohibition to inflict violence).

3a. Violent punishment is enjoined through worldly experience, hence no prohibition affects it.

2b.The second speaker then expands on the above point and observes that there is no specific prescription about violent punishment, since punishment is only derived from the duty to protect people, but this duty could be fulfilled also through other means (e.g., reprimanding people). Hence, inflicting violent punishment is not enjoined as a duty and it is just a worldly act (and, as such, liable to be blocked by the prohibition). Similarly, if one were to perform a sacrifice leading to a violent result because one desires it, as it happens in the case of the Śyena, that sacrifice would be blocked by the prohibition to perform violence.

2c. The second speaker also belabours on the difference between instrumental and resultative violence, saying that in the case of the śyena violence is prompted by desire, whereas in the case of the Agnīṣomīya, it is merely subsidiary.

2d. If violent punishment were specifically prescribed, then we would have to resort to vikalpa (as discussed above).

Thus, the conclusion appears to be that violent punishment should not be resorted to as a consequence of the duty to protect, although (as discussed in my article on corporal punishment) it can be resorted to in order to purify the culprit.

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Thinking about Johannes Bronkhorst (UPDATED)

On May 15, Harry Falk announced on the Indology mailing list that Johannes Bronkhorst had “left this world”. In the following weeks the mailing list (and, I am sure, other online forums) has been virtually monopolised by people remembering the man and his endless contributions to Sanskrit studies and connected fields. In fact, Johannes has been extremely prolific (Greater Magadha was written in just one semester!) and his contributions have been impactful with almost no comparison.

He had studied first mathematics and physics and then moved to studying Sanskrit in India, Pune. In a recent interview with Vincent Eltschinger (on April 21 2025) he commented the choice to travel to India as due to his desire not to serve as a soldier —a choice which was deeply important to him. But, whatever the initial motivation, his years-long stay in India was meaningful and influential for his life and he never grew out of his fascination for Indian thought.

The fact that he started studying Sanskrit while in India is key to understand the role of Vyākaraṇa in his first many decades of work, given that Vyākaraṇa (or Sanskrit linguistics) is still studied and lively engaged with in contemporary India in general and in Pune in particular. Vyākaraṇa demands deep and almost complete dedication because of its technical character. One needs to know by heart or at least to be able to navigate all the 4000 aphorisms of Pāṇini’s seminal work for the school, together with their punctual glosses by Kātyāyana and the commentary by Patañjali, and this before even being able to open one’s mouth in a symposium of Vaiyākaraṇas. Bronkhorst has been able to contribute to this very technical field, especially to its perhaps most original thinker, Bhartṛhari, but without being swallowed up by the labyrinth of Vyākaraṇa. In contrast, he learnt from its method and contents, but retained his untameable intellectual curiosity.

For scholars of Bhartṛhari, Bronkhorst’s articles are indispensable. But even the ones among of us who never specialised on Bhartṛhari have probably been influenced by Bronkhorst and by his unique blend of thought-provoking ideas and thorough knowledge of the sources. In fact, Bronkhorst was an avid and fast reader, who read hundreds of pages of both Sanskrit scholarship and contemporary, mainly scientific, papers. His ideas looked at first sight almost too thought-provoking, almost like balons d’essay (trial balloons). However, when one tried to refute them, one was forced to see that Bronkhorst knew the Sanskrit sources of the relevant period thoroughly and that his bold ideas were in fact also well-grounded. (Apologies for not discussing here whether they were also ultimately right and completely so. I want to focus more on what we can learn from him than on correcting the occasional typos or on disagreeing with specific points.)

For instance, in May 2021 Dominik Wujastyk organised a (virtual) conference on the topic of Johannes Bronkhorst’s Greater Magadha (2007), which possibly remains his most influential book. Bronkhorst himself had been invited as a respondent for talks which all engaged with his hypothesis. I was only in the audience, but was astonished to see how, almost twenty years after the book’s composition, Bronkhorst was still able to discuss each of its aspects and to respond (again, I will let to others to assess whether successfully) to each criticism raised by the speakers, through precise references to the epics and/or to Vedic texts.

Let me know enter into some details about a few of Johannes Bronkhorst’s contributions. Again, let me emphasise that there are too many to discuss even a significant percentage of them and that therefore the choice will be partly whimsical. I will focus on

  • a) The sceptical Johannes Bronkhorst looking at the development of Sanskrit philosophy: The Greater Magadha hypothesis, the “discovery of dialogue” and its significance for the history of Sanskrit philosophy
  • b) The sceptical Johannes Bronkhorst looking at the role of authors in Sanskrit philosophy: his hypothesis about a unitary Yogaśāstra and dis-unitary Mīmāṃsāsūtra and its importance for how we assess Sanskrit aphoristic texts
  • c) His hypothesis about a radical difference between Sanskrit thought and European thought
  • d) His general sceptical-scientific methodology
  • a) Greater Magadha is one of those books about which we remember a moment before and a moment after. Before the book, scholars and lay people alike took it for granted that there was a single line of development within Indian though and that since the Buddha and his thought postdated early Vedic texts by centuries, these needed to contain the seeds which would have later led to the development of Buddhist thought. The texts which were conceptually closer to ancient Buddhism, namely the Upaniṣads were therefore dated to before the Buddha.

    The Greater Magadha takes the opposite point of view and looks at the evidence available with fresh eyes and notices that they are less uniform than we might think. They thus point to a different line of development, one in which there were different roots for Indian culture, which developed in parallel and not just a single line. On the West, the brāhmaṇic culture produced the Vedic texts. On the East of the Indian subcontinent, around Magadha, the culture he provisionally called “śramaṇic” produced Jainism and Buddhism, as well as key ideas that were later absorbed in the Brahmanic fold, such as karman and rebirth. By the way, the presence of an Eastern border for the Brahmanical culture is also attested by Patañjali’s definition of Āryavarta, which has an Eastern boundary (unlike Manu’s description of the same, only a few centuries later).

    The Greater Magadha can explain why karman and rebirth make a sudden entry in the Upaniṣads although they are virtually absent from the preceding Vedic texts. They enter the Brahmanical culture so well-developed and all at once because they had been elaborated for centuries outside of the Brahmanical culture. If Bronkhorst is right, one can stop looking for faint traces of possible forerunners of karman and rebirth in the Vedic Saṃhitās and start focusing on how the theory was already developed in Buddhist texts and then imported into the Upaniṣads. One can also invert the chronology of the Upaniṣads, which post-date the encounter with śramaṇic culture (this does not mean that they need to postdate the life of Siddhartha Gautama, since he was only one exponent of that culture, as is clear through the parallel of Jainism). The same applies to the claim that “Yoga” was practiced by the Buddha. In contrast, the similarities between the PYŚ and the Buddha’s teachings should be. according to Bronkhorst, interpreted as an influence of Buddhism into Yoga.

    Although I am here mainly focusing on philosophical issues, let me emphasise again that Bronkhorst’s reconstruction is extremely detailed and covers also aspects like the different funerary practices (round stūpas in the East vs. quadrilateral moulds in the West), the approach to medicine and the conception of a cyclical time, as well as the opposition between a urban (Magadha) and rural (brahmanical) culture. Last, it has the advantage of providing a methodology to identify what is original in the teaching of the Buddha and to explain why asceticism is both endorsed in the Pāli canon and criticised by the Buddha (it was part of his cultural milieu).

  • a2) Distinguishing communities and not looking for historical links when they are virtually absent was at the basis of another of Bronkhorst’s contributions, namely the idea that the roots of Indian dialectics should be placed in the Buddhist communities in the northwest of the Indian subcontinent (which might have been influenced by the Greek tradition of public debate in the Indo-Bactrian kingdoms) and that it was useless to consider Upaniṣadic dialogues as the forerunners of the dialectical engagements which became standard in Sanskrit philosophy. Upaniṣadic dialogues are just something different (closer to the instruction by a wise person).
  • b) Bronkhorst was (to my knowledge, as always) the first one to propose the idea of a unitary composition for what is known as the Yogasūtra and the Yogabhāṣya He spoke accordingly of a unitary Yogaśāstra. Like in the previous case, the idea is mind-blowing. Up to that point, many scholars had tried to reconstruct the worldview of the Yogasūtra as divided from the Yogabhāṣya and the Sāṅkhya intervention of the latter. If Bronkhorst’s hypothesis is correct, by contrast, the division into sūtra ‘aphorism’ and bhāṣya ‘commentary’ is only a polarity within a single text. This explains what could have otherwise been considered an anomaly, like the complete absence of an autonomous transmission of the Yogasūtra. Like in the Greater Magadha case, one could find alternative explanations, but Bronkhorst’s hypothesis has the advantage of showing a possibility for streamlining explanations and avoiding unnecessary additional steps (in Sanskrit, one would call that kalpanāgaurava). I should add in this connection that Bronkhorst’s hypothesis was presented in just an article (1985), but has thereafter been embraced by Philipp Maas (see especially Maas 2006 and Maas 2013) who found many evidences corroborating it, from manuscripts to the syntax of the sūtra-bhāṣya connecting links.
  • b2) A similar case is that of the relation between the so-called Pūrva and Uttara Mīmāṃsā Sūtra, also known as Mīmāṃsā Sūtra and Brahma Sūtra. Authors before Bronkhorst had discussed their relation and chronology, Bronkhorst (2007) suggested that the latter imitates the style of the former, though not emerging from the same exegetical milieu.
  • c) In the occasion of Ernst Steinkellner’s retirement, a symposium on the topic “Denkt Asien anders?” (Does Asia think differently?) was organised. Bronkhorst’s intervention led to a later book chapter and finally a book on the topic of what is different in Sanskrit thought. Bronkhorst proposed, as usual, a thought-provoking thesis, namely that there is indeed a radical difference, namely the reliance on language by Sanskrit philosophers.
    He explained how the various causation theories within Sanskrit philosophy (from Vaiśeṣika to Vedānta etc.) and the puzzled they involved (such as how could it be possible to bring into existence something that previously did not exist) are all due to thinking about the problem in linguistic terms. Their answers, in other words, were oriented by the Sanskrit form of basic sentences such as “the potter makes a pot”. In fact, how can the pot figure as the object of a sentence, given that it does not exist yet? Bronkhorst thought that this was a linguistic problem, namely one occasioned by the structure of language and not an ontological one. Westerners, according to Bronkhorst, would have immediately labeled the pot as non-existing until it is realised by the potter and would not have paused on its ontological status, whereas Indians never distinguished between linguistic and external reality.

    This is an interesting insight, and in fact there are several elements suggesting (as Karl Potter maintained) that the “linguistic turn” occurred in India much earlier than in Europe (note that I am saying the same thing Bronkhorst said, but looking at it from a more favourable perspective), such as the insistence on the analysis of linguistic data in order to solve epistemological or ontological issues (cf. the insistence on the linguistic use śabdaṃ kṛ- within the debate about the ontological status of śabda).
  • d) Bronkhorst was a convinced asserter of the scientific approach. This does not mean that he was an a-priori believer in natural sciences. Rather, he thought that the scientific method is based on a healthy form of scepticism and thus can never lead to fanatical beliefs nor to any form of “scientific traditionalism” (if correctly applied). For this very reason, he also thought that the scientific method was not “Western”, it had proven to work because of its ability to ask questions and thus to be universal. He took seriously Yoga and meditation techniques and thought that they could be analysed with the scientific method and possibly lead to new discoveries.
  • d2) Similarly, Bronkhorst clearly looked down on blind believers and thus praised Sanskrit philosophers for their ability to distinguish myths from arguments. In “What did Indian philosophers believe?” (2010) he noted that Sanskrit philosophers did not attack each other based on myths (although, one may add, some Buddhist philosophers did have fun at criticising some passages of the Veda and Kumārila made fun of the walls-speaking argument), but rather their arguments (“These philosophers, while criticising each others’ views, never attacked each others’ myths. Yet these myths would have been easy targets, if they had been seriously believed in”). In short, the reliance on the scientific method meant a radical openness to defeasibility of one’s beliefs and to a data-based approach.

Let me add a few words about Johannes Bronkhorst as a human being. The Indology list was full of “Bronkhorst stories” and therefore I will not need to take too much of your time with them (you can read them on the Indology archives). Let me just point out how Bronkhorst was generous and supportive with younger scholars and even students, but in a very unique way. I still remember our first meeting. I was an undergraduate student and he immediately asked me which were my key interests (I was unable to give a specific answer, at that point I was just busy learning Sanskrit and reading as much as possible of any text my professors read). I read or hear similar stories from others, all pointing to how Bronkhorst took people seriously, even young people. He was supportive, but not patronising. He was interested in one’s opinion, but would not refrain from saying that it was wrong if he thought so, according to the scientific method discussed above. He would not mince words to attack a view, but not so when coming to the person holding it, and I have seen him greeting warmly people with whom he had had violent disagreements on specific issues.

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On sacrificial violence

One cannot solve the Agnīṣomīya problem (the clash between the prohibition to perform any violence and the prescription to slaughter an animal as an offer to Agni and Soma) via an appeal to suspension (bādha) of the prohibition to perform violence.

Using suspension would be based on the fact that the prescription to perform the Agnīṣomīya is more specific than the prohibition. However, if this were a viable move, then it would apply also to the case of the Śyena (a sacrifice to be performed in order to achieve the death of one’s enemy). But all Mīmāṃsā authors agree that the śyena should not be performed.

Thus the Agnīṣomīya case cannot be solved through suspension, as this would have been applicable also to the Śyena scenario and this would be an unwanted output.

How else can the Agnīṣomīya riddle be solved? By explaining that the prohibition against violence was only about violence-as-part-of-the-result and not about violence-as-part-of-the-instrument. Thus, sacrificial violence, which is only part of the sacrifice qua instrument, was never forbidden, whereas violence as part of a sacrifice’s result is forbidden.

Now, you may suggest that this reasoning leads to the unwanted consequence that violence which is instrumental to a different result would also not be prohibited. Does this mean that beating someone in order to take their wallet would not be prohibited, because it is instrumental? No, because here violence would be part of the result (you want the person to be made harmless/unable to react).

This is, by the way, consistent with my previous studies on deontic conflicts, according to which suspension can only be applied to prescriptions, and not to prohibitions.

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Veṅkaṭanātha on free will to surrender

Veṅkaṭanātha has to adapt the Mīmāṃsā approach to free will to his Vaiṣṇava commitment to the role of God’s grace.
He thus concludes that humans are free in their intentions, although they need God’s consent to convert them into action. Interestingly enough, here he reuses again a Mīmāṃsā technical term, namely anumati ‘permission’ to indicate God’s allowing humans to act according to their wishes. This limited range of freedom is still enough for humans to surrender, since surrender (prapatti) is primarily an act of will.
The situation becomes slightly more complicated insofar as in order to surrender one needs to be in the correct state of mind, which includes one’s desperation about one’s ability to ever be able to perform any activity in a correct manner, including making progress in the ritual and the salvific knowledge paths. Thus, one is free to surrender, but genuine surrender can only happen once one is deeply desperate about one’s abilities, so that it seems that the freedom to surrender appears as to one as their last freedom available, their last resort.
This divide between one’s phenomenological state (and one’s conviction to be utterly unable to undertake anything) and the undeniable reality of one’s freedom to surrender is captured in Veṅkaṭanātha’s commentary on Rāmānuja’s Śaraṇāgatigadya. There, Veṅkaṭanātha has to defend the author’s first turning to Lakṣmī before surrendering to God directly.

[Obj:] But in this way the Revered one alone, who is the giver of all results, is the one to whom one must take refuge, even in order for surrender in Him to succeed. What is the purpose at this point (in the text) of surrendering to Lakṣmī?

[R:] It is not so. If one ascertained that it is possible to surrender now (i.e., before surrendering to Lakṣmī) to the Revered one, then one would be using (upādā-) that (surrender) in order to [reach] liberation (mokṣa), but this should not be employed in order to achieve that (liberation). If, by contrast, one were not able to ascertain that it is possible [to directly surrender to Nārāyaṇa], then [it would be] even less likely for one to do so.

nanv evaṃ sakalaphalaprado bhagavān eva tatprapattisiddhyartam apy āśrīyatām, kim iha lakṣmīprapadanena? maivam. yadi bhagavatprapadanam idānīṃ śakyam iti niścinuyāt, tadā mokṣārtham eva tad upādadīta. na punas tadarthaṃ tat prayuñjīta. aniścite tu śakyatve natarām. (Intro to v. 1, Aṇṇaṅgarācārya 1940–1: 98).

In other words, in order to surrender, one must be desperate, up to the point of despairing about their possibility to successfully surrender. If one said “I surrender”, while still thinking to be in control one one’s situation, one would not in fact be really surrendering, since surrendering involves giving up the responsibility for one’s salvation (this is technically called bharanyāsa ‘giving up the burden’). Thus, surrendering in order to reach salvation would be an internal contradiction. Still, one’s ability to independently surrender shows that one was indeed free to surrender.

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Debates on adhikāra (again)

Within the Śābarabhāṣya commentary on the Mīmāṃsāsūtra (the foundational text of the Mīmāṃsā school), chapter 1 of book 6 is dedicated to adhikāra. The chapter deals with several cases in a manner which might surprise some readers, because the text does not distinguish a priori between “good” and “bad” cases and rather applies Mīmāṃsā-based reasoning throughout. For instance, an opponent suggests understanding adhikāra as only or primarily grounded on desire and is therefore willing to accept as a consequence that women, śūdras (members of the lower class) and animals have the same adhikāra as male Brahmans to perform Vedic sacrifices. Even more surprising, perhaps, is that the reply by the upholder of the final opinion is not that animals are impure, women are inferior and śūdras are inherently flawed. Rather, they discuss about the other requirements of adhikāra and show why they exclude some of the above categories from the performance of Vedic sacrifices.

To begin with, animals lack the adhikāra to perform sacrifices not because they lack desire (they do have plans), but because 1. they lack the ability to perform them, insofar as they don’t have hands. Moreover, 2. they lack desires regarding the next life, because these desires depend on our being cultivated into desiring something beyond the present life. Thus, wolves etc. can decide to fast, but only because they want health, and not for purposes relative to a next life, because they don’t know about it.

There is then an interesting discussion about poor people and people having some physical disability. It’s easy to see that the latter lack ability and are therefore excluded from having the adhikāra to perform Vedic sacrifices. However, how can one distinguish the case of disabled people who cannot, for instance, look at the clarified butter (because they are blind) and poor people who cannot look at the clarified butter because they lack the substances to buy it? Śabara speaks therefore of a distinction between śakti and sāmarthya. Both terms can be translated as “ability”, but Śabara seems to make them into technical terms in order to distinguish the two cases. Accordingly, poor people temporarily lack the sāmarthya to perform a sacrifice, but this temporary lack of sāmarthya is remediable, because they could acquire the relevant substances later on in their life, whereas they never lost the śakti to perform sacrifice. I will conventionally call the temporary thing being lost (or sāmarthya) ‘capacity’, whereas the thing that poor people don’t loose (i.e., their śakti) ‘ability’. Śabara distinguishes them insofar as the former is bahirbhūta ‘external’, whereas the latter is ātmavṛtti ‘belonging to one’s soul, intrinsic’.

Unfortunately, Kumārila does not keep this opposition and just generically speaks of sāmarthya.

It is also interesting that the debate about disabled people continued through the centuries. Kumārila (a commentator of Śabara and possibly the main author of the Mīmāṃsā school) explains that disabled people lack the sāmarthya (and hence the adhikāra) to perform Vedic sacrifices, but that this does not mean that they cannot reach the same goal, namely happiness in a future life (a.k.a. ‘heaven’). He clarifies that they have a different path open to them, namely that of remaining a chaste student of the Veda and reciting it. This is considered by him to be an easier option and Kumārila needs therefore to explain that it is only open to the ones who lack the ability to perform the more difficult alternative, whereas those who are able to work, get married and perform Vedic sacrifices should certainly do so. Incidentally, the same device will be used by an even later author, Veṅkaṭanātha, to justify the adoption of an easier soteriological path, namely prapatti, instead of bhakti. This path is only open, he points out, to those who are unable to follow the path of bhakti, hence there is no contradiction between the command about a difficult path and an easier one.

Later Mīmāṃsā texts, possibly after Khaṇḍadeva, go back to the duties of disabled people and offer a slightly different solution. They say that disabled people cannot perform elective rituals, because they lack the relevant ability, but they still retain the adhikāra (insofar as they have learnt the Vedas by heart etc.) to perform fixed rituals. In fact, these rituals can be performed ‘as much as one can’, hence a blind person will just skip the command to look at clarified butter etc.

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Meghanadāri on adhikāra’s prerequisites and further differences from “rights”

Adhikāra presupposes 1. śakti (or sāmarthya), as discussed in previous posts. What else does it presuppose? Adhikāra for sacrifices presupposes a condition (nimitta) and/or the 2. desire for a goal. Both are necessary conditions, as it becomes obvious when animals are said to potentially have the adhikāra to sacrifice, since they are desirous (arthin), but to be excluded from it because of their lacking the relevant ability. The same discussion is found in the commentaries on UMS 1.3.34–38 in relation to śūdras’ adhikāra (e.g., Meghanadāri thereon: arthitvasāmarthyādisadbhāvāt [śūdreṣu] adhikāro ‘stu).

What else? Notice the ādi in Meghanadāri, which is repeated also elsewhere in his commentary (e.g.: atra saṃśayaḥ— kiṃ śūdrasya brahmavidyāsv adhikāro ‘sty uta neti. tadarthaṃ kiṃ tasyārthitvādīni santy uta neti). Meghanadāri lists also the 3. adhikāra for prerequisites, such as the fact of having set the fires (that is, having performed the initial ceremony that starts one’s life as a performer of sacrifices). Śūdras lack the adhikāra for sacrifices, he says, because they lack the adhikāra for the actions sacrificing presuppose (brahmavidyā and agni-setting) (vaidikakarmasu śūdrasya vidyāgnirahitatvenānadhikāraḥ samarthitaḥ).

Thus, adhikāra requires: 1. ability, 2. desire, 3. adhikāra for prerequisites.

Another interesting point is that adhikāra applies to a certain way to achieve a goal, not to the goal itself. You are disabled and cannot perform sacrifices to go to heaven? You can go to heaven through recitation of the Veda. You are a śūdra and cannot read the Upaniṣads? You can still learn about the paramātman (!) through itihāsas and purāṇas. An opponent says that veneration (upāsanā) still needs its auxiliaries (aṅga) and that these are sacrifices, to which the śūdras lack the adhikāra. Hence, due to the rule discussed above, they also cannot have the adhikāra for upāsanā. Meghanadāri replies that this is not the case, because, like in the case of fixed sacrifices, one does not need to perform all auxiliaries.

(Many thanks to Manasicha Akepiyapornchai for sharing the images of Meghanadāri’s commentary)

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Adhikāra and rights

As already observed, there is no straightforward equivalent to “rights” in Mīmāṃsā deontic (and this is normal and good, since the deontic townscape is not a given fact, but a human construct and is therefore differently articulated), but there are certainly functional equivalents covering parts of the semantic field of “rights”.

One of them is adhikāra. Possible differences:

  1. adhikāra is generally a vox media (you have the adhikāra to do X, which does not necessarily mean that X is a good thing), unlike “right” (where generally having the right to do X is a good thing).
  2. adhikāra might imply duty, whereas rights don’t (you may have the right to remain silent, and this does not imply that you ought to remain silent). For instance, for Prabhākara if you have the adhikāra to perform a given sacrifice, you also have the responsibility to carry it out. However, it is not so in Kumārila or Maṇḍana, where the additional obligation to perform fixed rituals descends from their fixedness (nityatva), not from the adhikāra, as proven by the fact that no such obligation follows in the case of elective rituals (kāmya).
  3. adhikāra is connected to ability (sāmarthya), whereas this does not apply to rights, which can instead ground the need of ability being ensured. For instance, if you have the right to go to school but cannot physically move, (in an ideal case) your government will provide you with the devices needed to let you attend school etc. By contrast, adhikāra presuppose ability, in the sense that unless there is ability to do X, there is no adhikāra to do it. Since adhikāra is a vox media, this might be a good thing after all. For instance, if you don’t have the adhikāra to do something difficult to get A, you will be allowed to do something easier instead. Please notice also that Śabara helpfully distinguishes the lack of an external (bahirbhūta) ability (sāmarthya), which is temporary and does not affect the adhikāra (for instance, you don’t lose your adhikāra if you temporarily run out of ghee or are too poor to perform a given sacrifice), and intrinsic (ātmavṛtti) ability (śakti), in the absence of which there is no adhikāra. Much to my disappointment, this distinction is not kept by later authors.
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Reconstructing the Mīmāṃsā townscape

I have been working for years on reconstructing the deontic landscape of Mīmāṃsā, but at this point I realise that “landscape” might be a misleading metaphor.

In fact, Mīmāṃsā authors were not just describing a natural scenario. They engineered a highly sophisticated system, with bridges connecting different actions and sewage systems to get rid of unwanted left-overs.

That’s why even though new Mīmāṃsā authors might change the flag on the top of the hill (as Maṇḍana did) or some particular aspect here and there, they were cautious not to jeopardise such a carefully engineered system.

For instance, when it comes to subordination, the only real options are Kumārila’s viniyoga system and Prabhākara’s upādāna. Other authors substantially follow the one or the other.

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Permissions, rights and adhikāra

As discussed in previous blogposts and articles, it is established that in Mīmāṃsā and Mīmāṃsā-following Dharmaśāstra all commands are dyadic; prescriptions, prohibitions and permissions are not interdefinable; permissions are always exceptions to previous prohibitions or negative obligations, and they are better-not permissions.

Permissions in Medhātithi: Two examples

Case 1:

Manu:

etān dvijātayo deśān saṃśrayeran prayatnataḥ |
śūdras tu yasmiṃs tasmin vā nivased vṛttikarśitaḥ || 2.24 ||

Medhātithi thereon:
śūdrasya dvijātiśuśrūṣāyā vihitatvāt taddeśanivāse sarvadā prāpte tatrājīvato deśāntaranivāso ’bhyanujñāyate.

So, living in another place (deśāntaranivāsaḥ) for a śūdra is permitted, if he cannot get a living where the twice-born ones live, because a śūdra is prescribed (vihita) to obey the twice-born ones. What we see is:

—the permission is a better-not option

—a specific permission is always parasitical on a general (sarvadā prāpte) prohibition or negative obligation (in this case: it is prohibited to live elsewhere, in turn depending on the duty to serve).

Case 2:

Manu:

strīṇāṃ sukhodyam akrūraṃ vispaṣṭārthaṃ manoharam | maṅgalyaṃ dīrghavarṇāntam āśīrvādābhidhānavat || 2.33 ||

Medhātithi:
puṃsa ity adhikṛtatvāt strīṇām aprāptau niyamyate | sukhenodyate sukhodyam | strībālair api yat sukhenoccārayituṃ śakyate tat strīṇāṃ nāma kartavyam | bāhulyena strīṇāṃ strībhir bālaiś ca vyavahāras teṣāṃ ca svakaraṇasauṣṭavāb- hāvān na sarvaṃ saṃskṛtaṃ śabdam uccārayituṃ śaktir asti | ato viśeṣeṇopadiśy- ate | na tu puṃsām asukhodyam abhyanujñāyate |

So, girls lack the śakti to pronounce Sanskrit words, hence they need easy- to-pronounce names. This command is taught explicitly with regard to them because of their inability, but it does not mean that difficult names are permitted for men.

Noteworthy here:

—The opponent is suggesting that F(x/y)—>P(x/¬y) —Medhātithi explains that this is wrong. It is true that P(x/¬y)—>F(x/(y∧¬y)) but the opposite is not true.

Rights and adhikāra


Having permissions just as exceptions means that they cannot be used to ground the notion of right (as in Hansson 2013). What else can correspond to “rights”?

• 1. There does not need to be a corresponding term. The deontic horizon is, like any other partition of the cognitive world, arbitrary.

• 2. There can be functional equivalents, one of which is adhikāra, I think.

adhikāra is connected to ability (sāmarthya and śakti), in the sense that unless there is ability, there is no adhikāra. Differences: adhikāra also implies duty. Contexts in which adhikāra is discussed: poor people having adhikāra, because they still have the śakti, although they momentarily lack the sāmarthya (all in ŚBh ad 6.1.1–3); disabled people lacking adhikāra for sacrifices but having adhikāra for svādhyāya (TV ad 1.3.4).

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Rights in Mīmāṃsā and further steps in mapping the deontic horizon—Updated

I have been working for years on mapping the deontic space of Mīmāṃsā authors. In order to do that, I tried to find a balance between systematicity, for the purpose of which I need as many information as possible and I often take whatever I can from whatever source, including many different authors, and historical attention to individual authors.

In order to strike this balance, I tend to assume that by default the same deontic concepts are shared by all authors, unless and until the opposite is proven, either because someone has an explicitly competing theory (e.g., Maṇḍana’s iṣṭasādhanatā) or because they de facto do something different (like Medhātithi’s approach to permissions if compared to Kumārila’s).

This ongoing attempt has led my coauthors and myself to understand some basic elements applying to all deontic concepts, such as their dyadic nature (each command is always of the form O(x/y) and not just O(x) or F(x)). We also examined the non-identity relation between prohibitions and obligations (in short: F(x/y) is not tantamount to O(~x/y), but an ideal system will not have F(x/y) and O(~x/y) ceteris paribus) and that between permissions and other commands (again P(x/y) is not tantamount to ~F(x/y), but P(x/y) presupposes a previous either O(~x/T) or F(x/T), with T being more general than y). In other words, if something is permitted it means that one would naturally be inclined to do it, but that its performance had been prohibited (or that refraining from it has been prescribed). The state of affairs of something being already available to one as something one is inclined to do is generally captured by the expression “prāpti“. So, there is a permission only with regard to something prāpta and niṣiddha (or the opposite of which has been vihita). Furthermore, the analysis of permissions as being always “better-not” permissions has also made us able to discuss supererogations, which occur when, although a permission to do x is present, one still avoids doing it.

Now, some authors have suggested that P(x) with no prior negative obligations or prohibitions is needed because of making sense of rights. This led me to think about rights and their seeming absence in the deontic landscape of Mīmāṃsā and Dharmaśāstra authors. The starting point is that we should not expect the same concepts to be present in each deontic landscape. Hence, we shouldn’t be looking for an equivalent of a given concept in a different setting. Rather, we should be looking at the different systems that each deontic author construes. In Mīmāṃsā, there are no “rights” as Euro-American authors know them (and, after all, this might be a good idea and we may suggest that the category of “rights” is muddy and unclear!), but there are other concepts that are times overlapping. One of them is the idea of adhikāra.

This is discussed at length in relation to rituals in the context of PMS 6.1 and its commentaries and sub-commentaries. Basically, Śabara etc. observe that adhikāra presupposes ability, but have then to explain that temporary inability does not infringe on adhikāra. In this context, they speak of an external (bahirbhūta) inability (like, being poor or having a sprained ankle) and an intrinsic (ātmavarttin) one, which blocks the adhikāra (like an inborn disability). They seem to oppose therefore śakti (for the intrinsic ability) and sāmarthya (that can be temporary).

UPDATE (thanks to MS for raising the issue): Another thing that we have not looked into yet are the various types of prescriptions (utpatti-, viniyoga-, adhikāra– and prayogavidhi) and how they behave deontically.