Complexities of teaching scriptures in class
The Gujarat Government has decided to include Bhagavadgita in the school syllabus for classes 6-12. And, as reported, the Karnataka Government intends to follow the same path. In a country like ours, characterised by diverse religious traditions, and a continual anxiety about the state of secularism amid the steady rise of majoritarianism, this sort of experiment with education is bound to generate a spectrum of responses and reactions.
To begin with, we can imagine the way the adherent champions of scientism would look at this mix of education with religion. Yes, as they would say, science as the doctrine of empirical observations, explanatory principles and logical reasoning is the language of progress and emancipation; and hence, an attempt to cloud the child’s vision of the world through religious scriptures is inherently regressive. Instead, the goal, as they would say, should be the spread of scientific temper, mathematical reasoning, and the skill of looking at culture, society and history through the methods of enquiry that science prescribes. This is like learning to distinguish history from mythology, or fact from fiction.
Quite often, the secular intelligentsia would approve of this sort of scientism, and plead for their case. They would also remind us that the inclusion of Bhagavadgita in the school syllabus is in tune with the ideology of militant Hindu nationalism, and it would further intensify the might of majoritarianism. Moreover, as a bunch of Left-Ambedkarites might add, a text like Bhagavadgita would sanctify oppressive caste practices, and cause psychic and cultural insecurity among the marginalised and the minorities.
Second, as opposed to this sort of secular scientism, cultural nationalists are likely to assert that Bhagavadgita is filled with moral and spiritual lessons, and our youngsters should be aware of this rich tradition. Furthermore, they might argue that the alliance of westernisation and globalisation is in the process of destroying our cultural and civilisational memories; and amid the growing ‘McDonaldisation’ of the world, it is, therefore, important to resist, regain our lost glory, and go back to our cultural and spiritual roots. They would also ask a counter question: Why should secularism mean only the contempt for Hindu traditions? And if madrasa schools can feel proud of Islamic education, why should Hindus lag behind?
However, as a teacher, I feel we need to see beyond the usual and predictable political rhetoric centred on a series of dualities — ‘Left’ vs ‘Right’; or ‘secular’ vs ‘communal’. In this context, two observations can be made. First, can a text like Bhagavadgita be simplified as either regressive or progressive? The fact that the conversation between Krishna and a turbulent Arjuna in the battlefield of Kurukshetra has aroused the imagination of a spectrum of thinkers in modern times — from Bal Gangadhar Tilak to Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, from Swami Vivekananda to Sri Aurobindo, or from DP Chattopadhyay to BR Ambedkar — means that here is a text subject to nuanced interpretations, meanings and possibilities. While some might find the sanctification of the varna theory, others might find an amazing theory of renunciation — freedom from the calculative logic of loss and gain, while being deeply engaged with worldly activities. Hence, when young learners gain some intellectual maturity, there is no harm if they are encouraged to read it, think of it, reflect on it — the way they discover that there are many commentaries on, say, Shakespeare, Karl Marx or Jean Paul Sartre. However, it would be foolish to ask the students of Class VI or even Class X to memorise the shlokas of Bhagavadgita like a parrot, and accept everything without any philosophic or existential wonder and quest. The goal of education is not indoctrination — be it through the Vedas or the Quran or the New Testament, or even Left radicalism. The goal is to be a wanderer or a seeker.
Second, we need truly sensitive teachers and reflexive pedagogues to cultivate the ethos of a morally and spiritually enriched classroom. We must learn to distinguish good teachers from orthodox priests of organised religions; likewise, good teachers are not spokespersons of political parties — Left or Right. Instead, their task is to walk with young learners, encourage them to ask new questions, and see the world with empathy and awareness. For instance, Gandhi learned the lesson of anasakti yoga or action without selfish motives from Bhagavadgita. Can a teacher encourage students to see the world around, look at themselves, and enquire why for most of us it becomes so difficult to practise anasakti yoga. Or, for that matter, can the teacher encourage a student to help a visually challenged friend in reading a book without any expectation of being praised or even awarded for his ‘social service’? This is a more meaningful way to reflect on the feasibility of anasakti yoga. Or, for that matter, if a teacher remains truly calm, composed and meditative while engaging with her students, she would possibly make them understand yet another lesson of Bhagavadgita: the celebration of sattvic calmness, instead of rajasi crestlessness and tamasic inertia. Can she do it? The classroom remains deceptive if there is a huge gap between the ideals we preach and the practices we engage in.
Are our schools really equipped — intellectually and ethically — to deal with these pedagogic challenges, particularly when a text like Bhagavadgita is disseminated in the classroom? Or, is it that after mathematics, geography, physics and English grammar, we would now add a religious scripture in the list to further burden young minds, and promote the culture of rote learning?
