1. manas connecting sense faculty to ātman while sensing an external object (see ŚV pratyakṣa 160ab)

2. manas working itself as a sense faculty for pain and pleasure (see ŚV pratyakṣa 83; ŚV pratyakṣa 136ab; ŚV pratyakṣa 160 cd)

3. manas as a faculty of cognition and memory (see examples below)

Notwithstanding all these roles, manas does not, for Kumārila, work as the faculty perceptually accessing a previous cognition, as in the Nyāya and Buddhist epistemologists’ view of mānasapratyakṣa and anuvyavasāya respectively. Kumārila is quite explicit about it, see ŚV pratyakṣa 134.

Ad 1: To begin with, sense-perception according to Kumārila, works through four elements, namely the sense-faculty, its object (typically an external object), the consciousness-principle (ātman) and the manas. The consciousness-principle is needed because without it the whole process would remain unconscious. The role of manas, by contrast, is invoked in Nyāya in order to direct attention to one or the other sense-faculty and thus to explain why one may not register something although it is in contact with the relevant sense-faculty, because the manas is connecting another sense faculty to the ātman. This functioning is the reason that led scholars like Jonardon Ganeri to think of manas as covering the same role as attention in contemporary Analytic philosophy. However, whereas Nyāya authors insist strongly on the possibility of manas to only connect the ātman to one sense-faculty (so much that seemingly simultaneous perceptions are just occurring too close to each other for people to become aware of the time gap among them), the position might be less clear for Kumārila and other Mīmāṃsā authors, for reasons to be discussed immediately below and in this post: [ahampratyaya].
In partial contrast to that, Kumārila explains manas’ role in perception as primarily needed to explain the possibility of memory. In other words, if sense-perception only involved the external sense faculty and the object, there would be no way leading the sense cognition into memory (see ŚV pratyakṣa 166).
Pārthasārathi’s commentary here is explicit in saying that all memories are manas-based (sarvasmaraṇānāṃ mānasatvāt) and that therefore the possibility of remembering sensory cognitions leads one to infer that manas must have played a role in them too (ataḥ śabdādigrahaṇe ’pi manovyāpāto ’numīyate). The commentary by Pārthasārathi here also mentions the topic of attention (kiñ ca viṣayāntaravyākṣiptamanaskasya cakṣurādisaṃyukteṣv api rūpādiṣu jñānānudayād asti tatrāpi manovyāpāra iti niścīyate), but not so Kumārila himself, or at least not explicitly.
However, Kumārila appears to presuppose this view at a later point in ŚV pratyakṣa, namely in 237cd–238a, when he says that people who did not put their manas to something do not grasp things even if these are connected to their sense faculties (vimanaskā yadā ke cit sambaddham api cendriyaiḥ | na budhyante). Still, there seems to be a strong difference between Kumārila’s and the Nyāya view, insofar as —as fas as I know— Kumārila (and his commentators) don’t declare that manas can only connect one sense faculty at a time with the ātman. Rather, they use the absence of manas-connection to explain why one might not be aware of a certain object, although their sense faculties were connected to it. For instance, the absence of manas-connection explains why a person engrossed in a conversation might not be aware of the room temperature.

Manas is also said to be an indriya ‘sense faculty’ for pain and pleasure, see, for instance, ŚV pratyakṣa 83ab (manasas tv indriyatvena pratyakṣā dhīḥ sukhādiṣu); ŚV 136ab (manasas tv indriyatvena sukhaduḥkhādibuddhiṣu); ŚV ātmavāda 128 (idaṃ mamedṛśaṃ cakṣurmano me śrāntam ity api | indriyeṣv api bhedena vyavahāraś ca dṛśyate ||). Now, what happens in the case of perception using manas as the sense faculty, or manas-pratyakṣa¹ itself? Manas connects itself directly with the ātman and with its object (e.g., inner pain), without any further sense-faculty, as explained in ŚV pratyakṣa 83 cd (manasā samprayukto hi tāny (=sukhādīni) ātmā pratipadyate ||).²

In this connection, how do we grasp ourselves qua an I (I will need to come back to this topic, but see meanwhile this post: [ahampratyaya])?
Kumārila says that we grasp our self as an I through ahampratyaya and that this is a case of sense-perception. Since it is unimaginable that the self is an object of any of the external sense faculties, it appears that it has to be the object of manas-pratyakṣa. Unfortunately, Kumārila never mentions ahampratyaya in the chapter on perception of his ŚV, where the only objects of manas-pratyakṣan are sukhādi ‘pleasure and [pain]’. The self is, in contrast, identified as an object of manas-pratyakṣa later in the ŚV, in the chapter on phonemes (ŚV śabdanityatā 337–338ab: ahaṃpratyayavijñeyair ātmabhir vyabhicāritā | liṅgaśabdādyabhāvena manassaṃyogahetukam || pratyakṣaṃ caitadekāntāt sukhādāv iva kalpyate).
However, given that manas as a sense faculty should grasp a sensory object, like sukha or duḥkha, it is unclear how the aham could qualify as one. Moreover, Kumārila at times speaks of ahampratyaya as grasping the I while it is knowing. How can one understand this? Either as the claim that ahampratyaya grasps the I while it is knowing a further object X, e.g., looking at an apple, or loosely, as the claim that ahampratyaya grasps the I, which is a knower. The first position would need manas to be able to perform a double function, namely on the one hand it would work as a shift, connecting the ātman to the sense faculty, and on the other it would work also as a sense-faculty, connecting the ātman to itself and to its object, the aham.

At this point it may be important to note that there is a difference between the specific case of manas-pratyakṣa and other functions of manas. As hinted at above, Pārthasārathi is explicit in pointing out that for Kumārila the faculty of memory is manas. Moreover, manas is in charge of synthesising cognition. For instance, ŚV sphoṭa 111–115³ evokes the possibility of using manas to have a cumulative cognition of several phonemes so that one can cognise a word (this mānasa cognition seems to work like what Uṃveka ad ŚV 111 and Jayanta call saṅkalanājñāna, see Graheli 2015, tab. 7.3). Here, manas is the instrument for a cognition that is not perceptual, since it includes elements of memory, as explained in ŚV sphoṭa 117. ŚV abhāva 27 speaks of the cognition of absence as being manas-based (mānasa), exactly insofar as it presupposes perception of X and memory of Y, but it is not identical with either (gṛhītvā vastusadbhāvaṃ smṛtvā ca pratiyoginam | mānasaṃ nāstitājñānaṃ jāyate ’kṣānapekṣaṇāt ||). ŚV pratijñā 4 speaks of manas as the faculty of thinking and wishes for it not to focus on flaws only (na cātrātīva kartavyaṃ doṣadṛṣṭiparaṃ manaḥ | doṣo hy avidyamāno ’pi taccittānāṃ prakāśate ||).⁴

In Sanskrit intellectual history there is not a single word for “commentary” and several words focus on different aspects (`bhāṣya’ for an extensive commentary spelling out aphorisms (MBh, ŚBh, ŚrīBh…), `vyākhya’ or `vyākhyāna’ literally meaning `explanation’ and often used as a synonym of bhāṣya when writing a subcommentary thereon, `vārttika’ originally for a concise commentary in aphoristic form (Kātyayana’s V), later for texts encompassing such form (NV), or written in verses (ŚV) or encompassing verses (PV, TV), `ṭīkā’ for a subcommentary (Bṛ, NVVTṬ…), `ṭīppaṇī’ for a commentary on only specific points here and there and so on, please read more in Preisendanz 2008 and Ganeri 2010). These plurality of words suggests (like the proverbial case of the many words for ‘snow’ in the Inuits’ language) a long familiarity with the practice of commenting, seen as entailing many different approaches to a text (or texts). (Btw: I am not at all claiming that this is unique to the Sanskrit world, don’t start telling me about many Latin words from glossa onwards).

Typically, these texts tend to focus either on the single text they are commenting on or on it together with the one this was, in turn, a commentary thereon (for instance, Vācaspati’s commentary on the NV, taking into account also the NBh and the NS). Another characteristic of such commentaries is that they will explicitly refer to texts of opposing schools, whereas they will just silently reuse texts of their own school, since they feel them as part of their own history, immediately recognisable to themselves and their audience.

Which kinds of texts would one comment upon?
1. In the standard case in philosophy, texts of one’s own school; but also
2. Authoritative (usually religious) texts that did not belong to one’s own tradition, but that one wanted to gain for one’s own tradition (for instance, Abhinavagupta’s commentary on the Paratriṃśikā).

What is the role of commentary in Sanskrit philosophy? It is the standard way of writing philosophy. There was a small number of aphoristic texts which did not present them as commentaries (but which often evoke other views and quote other authors), and starting possibly with Maṇḍana (8th c.) some monographs were written on specific topics, however, the practice of commentaries remained the standard and most common way of doing philosophy, enabling one to write about many topics. A common misunderstanding to be erased is therefore the equation of commentaries with non-original and pedantic work. This was most of the time not the case with philosophical commentaries.

However, the circumstances change with time (as to be expected) and if we look at commentaries post 13th c. the situation looks different.
I will focus on especially two aspects:

1. 1. the relation between text and commentary
2. 2. the relation between commentary and its sources

Concerning 1., many commentaries become increasingly not just about a single text (or a sequence of texts), but interact more with a network of texts (as I have discussed elsewhere in the case of Veṅkaṭanātha’s Seśvaramīmāṃsā, see Freschi 2018).
A very noteworthy case is that of the relation between the Advaitasiddhi and the Nyāyāmṛta. The latter is a very influential text of the Dvaita Vedānta school by Vyāsatīrtha, in some sense we could say that it is the text through which the Dvaita Vedānta becomes part of the mainstream philosophical discourse. How could this happen? Because Vyāsatīrtha took up Madhva’s (the founder of Dvaita Vedānta) central theses, but stripped them of Madhva’s idiosyncratic style and “repackaged” them in the powerful argumentative style of Navya Nyāya. Form is not only a matter of style when it comes to philosophical discourse and this change meant that Madhva’s core ideas and intuitions were now formulated in a strongly inferential form and made a really compelling case for their validity.

At this point, the Advaita Vedānta school could not continue to ignore Dvaita Vedānta. An Advaita Vedānta champion, Madhusūdana, took up the challenge and wrote a detailed response to the Nyāyāmṛta in the form of a detailed commentary (almost line-by-line) to it. This was not the kind of appropriation commentary I discussed above but rather a close rejoinder. At the same time, Madhusūdana needed to invoke his own set of authorities to join the discussion, thus contributing to the network-isaiton of the commentary.

Concerning 2., something I noticed in Veṅkaṭanātha’s commentaries is that they (against what I described above and in Freschi 2014) quote and mention people of Veṅkaṭanātha’s school and silently reuse opponents. Why so? It seems that quotations and reuse have shifted into a way to give prestige and authority to one’s position as part of the school, in a way that the reuse of opponents’ names and direct quotes would not be able to do.

I am, as already said, a late adapter, but twitter made me get in touch with interesting people coming from outside my direct field and I enjoyed several insightful conversations. One such conversation is directly relevant for many readers and I would be glad to read your opinion about it.

Short premiss: Someone (teaching in another institute) writes me explaining that their university would like to open a position on “Indian philosophy”, but that some colleagues are against it, claiming that “it is all religion”. Now, it might at times be disheartening to hear such opinions coming from colleague philosophers, but how would you react after a few deep breaths?

Here below comes my first reaction:

There will always be people who think they know what there is even in places they never visited, and I guess it must be hard for you to be patient and try to explain your reasons without getting angry. Usually, books like Matilal’s and Ganeri’s ones are really helpful here. Perhaps, you might also point them to the podcast by Ganeri and Peter Adamson on the history of Indian Philosophy? […] Many philosophers (especially historians of philosophy) know and trust P. Adamson and might be convinced by his opinion.

Also, perhaps you might try to understand where these people come from. Are they historians of philosophy? Analytic philosophers? Phenomenologists? Using Matilal and Mohanty for the latter two groups respectively might really help… Ch. Ram-Prasad’s books are also great to reach people working in the so-called “continental philosophy”.

Last resort: Give them a book which looks “religious”, like Parimal Patil’s Against a Hindu God and ask them what they think of the Buddhist syllogisms and their refutations of the Brahmanical ones.

P.S. I know that your colleagues meant “religion” in a derogatory way, but South Asian philosophy that engages with religion is intellectually extremely stimulating, too (and would they really want to cancel Thomas Aquinas or Augustinus from their philosophical syllabi?)

How do you react in such cases? I have strong hopes in young colleagues (like many of the ones I mentioned above) and in the positive effect their contribution will have, especially once added to the tasks which have already been accomplished by their forerunners. Till that moment comes, however, we will have to think of convincing and polite answers. What will your answer be?

Next, you can compare your answers with those of scholars like Jonardon Ganeri, Maria Heim, Chakravarti Ram-Prasad and Evan Thompson. The guest, Phil Treagus, is a bibliophile and already hosted posts on the most important books on several topics in philosophy, including Chinese philosophy. As a praiseworthy addition, he also invited a young PhD student, Jack Beaulieu.

You are also welcome to add your lists in the comments.

1. It is true that the early commentaries refer to the YS-YBh complex
2. It is also true that Vedavyāsa is mentioned as author of the YBh only relatively late, possibly for the first time in Vācaspati’s Tattvavaiśāradī
3. Furthermore, it is only with Mādhava’s Sarvadarśanasaṅgraha that people start distinguishing Patañjali’s from Vyāsa’s authorships.
4. Nonetheless, Maas’ argument is too dependent on the manuscript tradition, which has the two texts together, but is extremely recent (for Maas’ reply that recent manuscripts must depend on earlier models, see this post).
5. Squarcini also mentions in a footnote that Vyāsa himself mentions the name of Patañjali (but see a further post on this blog for D. Wujastyk’s answer thereon).
6. After having, in his opinion, weakened Maas’ arguments, Squarcini lies down his own one in favour of the existence of a separate YS: The text is highly and consistently structured and locates itself within a net of intertextual references, which the author of the YBh partly ignores. Squarcini claims to have identified the deep structure of the YS and distinguishes several subtopics within the main topics, signalling them as such in the Sanskrit text and in the translation. Accordingly, Squarcini highlights some key sūtras of the YS which work as if they were adhikaraṇasūtras.
7. Accordingly, Squarcini’s translation does not need to borrow words from the commentaries, as most other translations.

The forelast point is the most relevant one and it is substantiated in the first hundred pages of Squarcini’s introductory study. I will highlight here some of the elements which struck as most interesting. Readers are alerted that this is nothing but my summary, not (yet) validated by F. Squarcini.

• The question of the alleged YS-YBh unity has an impact also on the alleged proximity of the Sāṅkhya and Yoga systems. Squarcini argues against it on the strength of texts more or less coeval to the YS (e.g., Milinsapañha, Visuddhimagga, Madhyamakahṛdayakārikā, see p. lxxviiff), including the Nyāyasūtra, which ignores Sāṅkhya but discusses at length Yoga.
• Notwithstanding some affinities, e.g., the use of the words puruṣa, prakṛti and kaivalya, the YS understands them very differently than, say, the Sāṅkhyakārikā (pp. lxxxi–lxxxii).
• The dualism of the YS is, unlike that of Sāṅkhya and also (although Squarcini does not spell this out explicitely) of the YBh, is not an ultimate dualism. pusuṣa and prakṛti will not remain distinct until the end. Rather, the dualism of the YS is an “eliminative dualism” (the label is by Paul M. Churchland). Squarcini here elaborates on hints which can be found in Adolf Janacek (1951) and in L.W. Pflueger’s Dueling with Dualism. Revisioning the Paradox of Puruṣa and Prakṛti (see pp. lxxxvii–cxi)

We can answer the question “What is it?” for a religion or worldview by proceeding either sociologically or doctrinally. […] In philosophy, for example, the question “But is it philosophy?” can be not so much a question about the boundaries of the discipline taken doctrinally as it is a rejection of any approach not already favored by the elite in power, In that case, the genus within which the question “But is it philosophy?” falls is not philosophy but rather politics, or maybe even just bullying. (Eleanore Stump 2013, pp. 46, 48).

What to do, then? Doctrinally, one can try to explain that it is indeed philosophy (use of syllogistic arguments, argumentative style, dialogues, interest in logic…). This will probably not be enough, so that one might want to go for the sociological approach:

In that case, the right response to the challenge “But is it philosophy?” is this: “well, I’m a philosopher, and this is what I believe and do as a philosopher.” (p. 47)

In this sense, public figures like Ganeri are probably very influential through their sociological impact (“he appears to be a philosopher, so what he does must be philosophy”) beside through their written work.
As for this blog’s mission, should we focus on acquiring the sociological status of “philosophers”, beside continuing to focus on understanding Indian philosophy and trying to convey how interesting it is?

(cross-posted on the Indian Philosophy Blog, where you can read also some interesting comments)

I have myself a few objections (which I signalled in the comment section of each podcast), but am overall very happy that someone is taking Indian philosophy seriously enough while at the same time making it also accessible to lay listeners. In this sense, I cannot but hope that Peter and Jonardon’s attempts are successful.

The series includes also interviews to scholars: Brian Black on the Upaniṣads, Rupert Gethin on Buddhism, Jessica Frazier on “Hinduism” (the quotation marks are mine only), myself on Mīmāṃsā. Further interviews are forthcoming. Criticisms and comments are welcome! (but please avoid commenting on my pronunciation mistakes.)

The deliberate ignoring of [the] […] twentieth century discussion […] is only a symptom of that widespread attitude which does not want to see Indian philosophy as a rationcinative enterprise seriously engaged in argument and counter-argument in its long history and developing […]. This, and not mokṣa, is its life-breath as it is sustained and developed by it. Those, and this includes almost everybody, who think otherwise believe also that Indian philosophy stopped growing long ago. (The Nyāya Sūtras: A new commentary on an old text, p. 8)

What do you think? Is there a common core to all Indian philosophical schools?

1. Because he is a philosopher
2. Because he deals with texts of other schools and thus aims at being understandable
3. Because he is a talented writer

But what should you read in order to better understand Jayanta?

• Graheli 2012 (OA on JIPh) gives you a comprehensive overview of the manuscript sources. Graheli 2011 (RSO) and his forthcoming book further elaborate on which manuscripts and editions you can rely upon.
• Kei Kataoka has published (mostly alone, but in a few cases together with other scholars, such as Alex Watson and myself) an impressive list of editions, (English and Japanese) translations and studies on various parts of the Nyāyamañjarī. You can find them all listed on his blog. Most of them can also be downloaded from there.
• Jonardon Ganeri has dedicated various articles (see, e.g., Ganeri 1996 on JIPh) on the issue of meaning in the Nyāyamañjarī.*
• Similarly, P.K. Sen dedicated several interesting essays to the philosophy of language of Jayanta, see especially Sen 2005 and, if you can read Bengali, his 2008 translation of the fifth book.
• For a historical overview on Jayanta, you can read Slaje 1986 and the introduction of Dezső 2005 (Clay Sanskrit Library), which is an enjoyable translation of a philosophical drama by Jayanta.
• Should you be able to read Gujaratī, Nagin Shah’s translation of the Nyāyamañjarī is the best one, so far (in my opinion) (Shah 1975–1992). English readers can get some sense of it through Shah’s book-long study (1992–1997).

*By the way, should you need some foundations on Indian theories of language, you can think of reading Chakrabarti’s short Introduction to this topic (JIPh 1989) and then Matilal and Sen 1988.

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