by Linda Sparrowe
Source: Yoga Journal, February 1996
Our reporter endeavors to learn the sacred language of yoga in one weekend and discovers sounds that sing to our soul.
I have to admit I feel pretty nervous when I arrive at the Open Center in New York City's Soho district. I can't imagine what I was thinking when I signed up for a three-day Sanskrit intensive. After all, I haven't taken Sanskrit since graduate school, many years ago, and the thought of sitting in a classroom for eight hours discussing the alphabet, root words, and vocabulary makes me alternately tremble and yawn. What if I don't remember anything? What if I doze off a couple hours into the first session? What will the instructor expect of me? I should have brushed up before I came.
Entering the stark classroom of worn linoleum and straight-back chairs with writing surfaces attached, I notice that a few people have already assembled, notebooks in hand. We turn out to be quite an eclectic group. Several yoga teachers understandably have come, some to learn the correct pronunciation of the asanas they teach, others to enhance their own spiritual practice. A flute player making plans to travel to India seeks a deeper connection with the country of his destination. A Buddhist engineer, a personnel manager of a big company, a dyslexic who has always had a difficult time learning languages, a Pilates instructor, and myself round out the 20 or so members of the class. What we all have in common is our desire to connect with the power and the purity of the Sanskrit language. Unlike Spanish or French, both of which are conversational languages that help us connect with the outside world, Sanskrit is an instrument whose resonance draws me deeper into myself and becomes the vehicle for my own spiritual journey. As one student remarks, its vibrational quality is healing, and to chant something as basic as the Sanskrit alphabet can be a profound experience.
After the requisite introductions, our instructor, Vyaas Houston, director of the American Sanskrit Institute, begins the class. His soft lyrical voice should allay my apprehensions, but it serves instead to cause me further worry: What if he does lull me to sleep? The vitality and energy of his assistant, graphic designer and advanced Sanskrit student Kent Lew, turns out to be the perfect complement to Houston. I relax a little.
I can tell right away that this is no ordinary language class: no textbooks to open, no dictionaries in sight, not even any handouts to leaf through. Vyaas wastes no time giving us our first assignment. He wants us to listen to him chant a six-syllable phrase and then one at a time chant it back to him. He only asks that we follow a few simple rules: Don't worry about getting the phrase right; keep the rhythm going; if you can't remember the exact phrase, make something up. Easy enough. But I can't help practicing as my turn approaches. I want to get it right. I see others in the room mouthing the syllables, too, anxiously awaiting their turn.
Soon the six-syllable phrase lengthens to nine syllables, then to 12. Everyone concentrates, determined not to screw up. At the end of the exercise, Vyaas wants to know what thoughts went through our heads as we chanted. "I felt nervous," one woman admits. "I kept concentrating on getting the rhythm right." another student adds. "I was sure I wouldn't be able to keep up," confesses a third a student, "but actually I didn't do too badly." Vyaas assures us all that by the end of our three day stay here we will be able to read the Yoga Sutras in the original Sanskrit, chant them, and come away with a clearer understanding of the immense power of Sanskrit as sacred language.
I'm not so sure. After all, I spent a number of years at a prominent university studying the Sanskrit language, and I can't say that I remember much from those classes. The way I learned was conventionally Western — much the way we learn any foreign language — through hours of memorization. We memorized case endings for nouns (24 endings for each one), verb tenses, and mood endings. We were tested on the strict laws that govern the blending of letters into words; practiced writing the devanagari script; pronounced seemingly endless strings of letters; and translated difficult concepts into English. Each semester more people would drop out of the program, frustrated and discouraged.
What the professors failed to remember is that the Sanskrit language is first and foremost a language of sound, or rhythm, of melody. The joy of Sanskrit doesn't come from successfully memorizing the proper case endings or more vocabulary words. It comes from directly experiencing the vibrations and resonance of the language. To feel the vibrations as you chant is to experience your whole being as energy. As Vyaas points out, "By chanting Sanskrit, you can put your whole body and mind into such a state of vibration that you begin to experience yourself as energy rather than as solid physical form." Obviously, in a conventional university setting, not many teachers successfully impart that knowledge. And yet, it spite of the way we learned, I felt a deep connection to Sanskrit and knew that some day I'd be back in touch with its power.
Enjoying Sound without Inhibition
So, 20 years later, I find myself in New York City listening to Vyaas Houston promise that he can teach anyone to read Sanskrit in the original script-and in just one weekend. Of course, on this particular Friday night-the first segment of his three-day intensive — he and Kent appear to be the only ones who believe that. But I'm willing to give it a shot. We're all feeling pretty proud of ourserlves after finishing the chanting excercise. Even those of us who can't remember the sequence, and instead substitute our own, feel it's flowing pretty well. But then Vyaas adds a new dimension to the assignment. We'll continue to chant the same 12-syllable phrase but this time, he tells us, he won't call on us in any particular order. This time he wants us to raise our hands even if — no, make that especially if — we can't remember the phrase. I don't think I can do that. I won't have time to practice or even concentrate if I don't know when my turn comes up. And, anyway, who ever raises her hand when she doesn't know the answer?
At the end of the exercise, which leaves most of us feeling alternately exhilarated and anxious, Vyaas points out the obvious: Each one of us is concentrating on getting it right, concerned about how "I" am doing — not even noticing the people around us, nervous about how we will look in front of the others if we screw up. All of these emotions actually interfere with our ability to learn and certainly hinder the process of simple listening to the rhythm of the language. Taken to the extreme, these reactions tell us a lot about our need to survive: If I get the phrase right, for example, it conjures up a string of images: I am a smart person, I am skillful, I am a success, I am better than others, I am in control, I will not be abused or controlled by others. If I can't remember it, on the other hand: I am stupid, I am powerless, I'm a loser, others are better than I am, I am a victim, I will be abused and controlled. In other words, it becomes a matter of survival that I get the words right.
This is what Vyaas calls a perfect example of a non-sacred or survival model of language. What is particularly striking about such a model of learning is that "what I believe myself to be is determined by whether or not I get it right." The first sign of a survival mode, Vyaas explains, "is that it refers to 'getting it right' as 'smart' or 'successful.' It defines a person by the way he or she performs in a particular circumstance. 'If I get it right, I'm smart; if I get it wrong, I'm stupid.'"
Learning a sacred language, by contrast, focuses directly on the words and sounds themselves. Each and every sound is regarded as sacred. As Vyaas explains, "The design of a sacred language is such that the sounds perfectly express the vibrational essence of that which they describe. In this way, words establish knowledge and understanding directly." Another attribute of divine language learning, Vyaas says, is "establishing an intimacy with the sounds of the language: becoming familiar with their exact location in the mouth, savoring their delicacy, feeling their force and power and the unique way they vibrate the body and atmosphere." In other words, simply "enjoying the sound without inhibition."
This is precisely how Vyaas himself learned Sanskrit. Although he went on to earn an M.A. in the language from Columbia University, his lifelong fascination — and spiritual connection — with Sanskrit began in 1971 when he met his guru, Sri Brahmananda Saraswati, for the first time. Recognizing this yogi as a man of great knowledge, Vyaas wanted to study with him. He soon discovered, however, that the only way to do so was to learn Sanskrit. For Sri Brahmananda chanted seven days a week, 365 days a year — sometimes the sutras, other times just a list of grammatical endings, but most often the entire alphabet. His students joined in. As Vyaas described it, "When he chanted, it was as though every molecule of his body was vibrating. Actually, it felt as though the entire universe dissolved into a state of vibration, as though it had liquified completely. And miraculously, by duplicating his sounds, we could go along for the ride."
Looking back, some 20 years later, he began to understand that everything he has done since — his teaching, his institute, his writing, his lectures, and his tapes — all sprang from the first moment he heard his guru chanting. His own chanting, resonating with a joy that's truly infectious, now inspires hundreds of students each year to embrace Sanskrit as a sacred tool of self-discovery.
Applying the Yoga Model
As Vyaas talks more about survival versus sacred language models, it makes me think of the difference between taking aerobics classes and studying yoga. Just as both language models teach vocabulary, pronunciation, and grammar, aerobics and yoga both tone and shape the body, help lower blood pressure, and contribute to overall well-being. But where survival learning emphasizes the need to excel, to get ahead, and is the means to an end, sacred learning concentrates on the moment, on the power of the sound itself. Where aerobics is about competition, tight buns, fit-or-fat, yoga is about learning to focus on the process, not the end result. It's about letting go of the need to strive for the perfect posture and instead quieting your chattering mind, tapping into the power of the breath.
While both yoga and aerobics can give you the workout you're looking for, only yoga can provide the added benefit of deep relaxation and inner strength. And whereas both sacred and survival models ultimately teach you to communicate, sacred language — with its emphasis on the vibrational quality of the words themselves — can be used as a meditation tool, giving you the added benefit of discovering your true Self. For example, Vyaas demonstrates the difference between sacred and survival language using the world "I" — or aham in Sanskrit. When I talk about myself, the word "I" sets up a distinction between my self and all other selves. It's a word that defines me vis-a-vis my external relationships. In Sanskrit, the word aham means much more than that. It refers to my deeper, internal Self, and chanting aham puts me in touch with that inner essence.
The construct of the word aham perfectly exemplifies the way in which sacred language informs words. The sound a (pronounced as the u in bus) is the first sound that comes from the back of your throat as you open your mouth. It is the first letter of the alphabet, the beginning of all sound. The sound ha is the last sound of the alphabet, the sound that resonates as you fully exhale. The m represents the completion of sound as you close your lips. All other sounds occur between the a and the m. Therefore, aham is the beginning of existence and the end, and contains everything in between.
The whole focus of Friday night's class is to prepare us for learning a sacred language. Since the tools we have for learning come from a survival language model, we must put those aside and be willing to embrace a new model. With Vyaas and Kent's help, each student agrees to follow six basic groundrules.
- I choose the point. Based on the yogic principle of abhyasa, the act of "the seer choosing to see," or one-pointedness, I agree to focus my eyes and ears on what Vyaas calls "the point." This point may be one of listening — to someone who is speaking or chanting; a point of resonance — when you are chanting the alphabet, for example, feeling each of the five focal points of sound in the mouth or the degree of resonance of each letter; a visual point — paying atention as Vyaas writes the devanagari calligraphy on the board; or a point of understanding when Vyaas or Kent explains a new concept. The key to choosing the point is this: When I'm at the point of listening, for example, I listen with my whole being — I'm not looking at something else; I'm not attempting to pronounce the phrase myself. I am only listening. At that point the sound occurs and resonates in the space of silence and I am open to receiving it.
- I agree to move on only when I get it. This is difficult to agree to, because the old issues of "looking stupid" and "holding everyone else back" return to haunt us, but it is essential. Based on the yoga principle of vairagya — the art of relinquishing attachment to previous actions — this agreement helps me participate more fully in the learning process. I not only learn to be patient and wait until everyone understands the point, but I learn to ask for help, letting go of my own fear that I'm holding everyone else back when I can't get it.
- I participate fully, staying engaged in sound. By immersing myself completely in the task at hand, I am able to hear and fully experience the power of sacred language. I discover there's no better way of participating fully than to raise my hand even when I don't know the answer.
- Use only devanagari, the original Sanskrit letters. We are here to learn Sanskrit, not the English equivalent. This way you must use the five mouth positions as your structure of orientation to the language, rather than your memory of English letters and characters as a comparative frame of reference.
- Remain upright and awake! A challenge for some by the eighth hour of the third day.
- Be on time to class.
As I catch the subway late Friday night, I chant the 12-syllable phrase over and over in my lead like a mantra. Back in my friend's apartment, drifting off to sleep, I whisper the phrase again, feeling the position of my tongue in my mouth and the sound in my heart.
'Language Brought to Formal Perfection'
The class resumes bright and early Saturday morning. The energy feels decidedly different now, as we chat comfortably with each other, sip hot coffee or tea, and wait for Vyaas to begin. Reviewing the chanting from yesterday, we respond readily to Kent's prompting — everyone eagerly raising his or her hand to echo his phrase. Whispers of "Good job!" and "Way to go!" punctuate the air. Yes, we can do this! Then I notice Vyaas writing something on a large sheet of paper tacked to an easel. Using a variety of colored markers he neatly draws several symbols across the top of the page. Throughout the day, he will continue to draw more symbols, in rows of five across and five down, making each vertical row a different color. It's time, he says, to introduce the Sanskrit alphabet.
A great deal of thought went into the development of the Sanskrit alphabet. Over the millennia, the ancient sages, understanding the incredible power of the Eternal Word to create and sustain life, continued to develop and refine their language in hopes of discovering their own divine nature. These grammarians believed, Vyaas tells us, that "the evolution of human awareness is inextricably linked to the development of language." They began paying attention to how sounds were vocalized; they studied the structure of the mouth; and then, as Vyaas explains, they "selected only those sounds which had the greatest clarity, purity, and power of resonance." The sages then "organized these sounds in such a way that they could mutually enhance and brighten one another, and build upon each other's resonance." Working with the breath, they continued to refine the vocalization of sounds. They discovered, Vyaas says, that "by minimizing the breath with certain sounds and maximizing it with others, the language would induce in the instrument a state of relaxed alertness that could keep it operating efficiently and tirelessly for long periods of time, while expanding and building prana," or life force. It's easy to see how this 3,500-year-old Vedic language got its name — Sanskrit means "language brough to formal perfection."
This intense study of Sanskrit culminated around the fifth or fourth century B.C.E., with the grammarian Panini's treatise Astadhyahi, a work so thorough that no one has been able to add anything of significance since. Written Sanskrit, or Devanagari, was not introduced until much later, possibly around the fourth century C.E.
As we prepare to chant the first syllables, Vyaas explains how the Sanskrit alphabet is organized. Separated into vowels and consonants, the alphabet is logical and simple to understand. All consonant sounds presuppose the first vowel a — ka, ga, pa, sa, ya — unless written otherwise, so when you chant the alphabet, a wonderful mantra by itself, you always include the a sound. Phonetic by nature, each sound has its own unique sign. This means that, unlike English, long and short vowels have separate letters, and every consonant has only one sound. G for example is always pronounced like it is in the word "give," and never like "gentle." C is always pronounced with a ch sound, like in "child."
Beginning with the a, we take turns chanting the first eight simple vowels in Sanskrit. First Kent chants them, then he calls on one of us. At this point on Saturday, hands go up readily and no one's very concerned about looking foolish. The singsong melody of the chanting is infectious and makes the vowel sounds easy to learn.
With vowel pronunciation — and a hearty lunch — under our belts, we're ready to tackle the consonants. The clarity of the way in which the consonants are ordered amazes me. First of all, they are arranged, as Vyaas mentioned earlier, according to where the sound originates in your mouth, sequentially from throat to lips. Second, each syllable has one written letter for the unaspirated (alpaprana) sound and another letter for the aspirated one (mahaprana). To illustrate how this works, Vyaas instructs us to place one hand close to our mouths and chant the first consonant of the alphabet, ka (the unaspirated sound) with very little breath hitting our palms, and the second consonant kha (aspirated) with a conscious exhale. This play between an extremely focused sound and an extremely expansive one is the pranayama inherent in the language that the ancient grammarians spoke about.
A Cosmic Grand Opera
We spend the bulk of the day on Saturday exploring where the consonants originate in the mouth. For some of us, it feels frustrating and a bit tedious. But, in order to truly learn Sanskrit and feel its power as a sacred healing tool, the exact location of each sound is critical. Finding that location and using the exact amount of breath and energy necessary to produce it "puts you into a state of harmonic resonance with the universe," according to Vyaas.
Vyaas points to the first four letters he has written across the board. As you pronounce these sounds — ka, kha and ga, gha, the first consonants in the alphabet — resonance occurs in the first of the five points: at the back of the throat. The only difference in pronunciation between ka and ga is that the ga is the more resonant sound. I find that the first few times I chant, it helps to close my eyes and feel the vibrations of the syllables in my throat.
The second consonant group, called the palatal group, produces sounds such as ca (pronounced as cha ) and ja, one step forward from the back of the mouth and with a flat tongue. The third or cerebral group, ta, tha and da, dha is one step further forward, and the tongue pushes off and down from the highest arch in the front of the mouth. The fourth set of consonants is the dental ta, tha and da, dha, employing the tongue to lightly push off against the back of the upper teeth. The fifth set, the labial group — pa, pha and ba, bha — where the focal point is the lips, completes the journey through the mouth.
At this point, we are not only learning the alphabet through chanting its syllables, but also by paying attention to the way Vyaas writes each symbol on the board. For some of us, chanting is the easiest way to remember the sounds — feeling the vibrations in our bodies and the placement of our tongues in our mouths, as the sound travels from the back of the throat up to the roof of the mouth, pressing off the back of the teeth, and finishing with the closing of the lips. Other, more visual participants have difficulty finding the rhythm of the chant but love connecting with the devanagari symbols that Vyaas color-codes to help us recognize them. Regardless of how we learn, we all leave at the end of Saturday feeling a deeper connection with each other and with the language that's beginning to vibrate in our souls.
Sunday's lessons prove challenging, and several of us now understand why Vyaas took so long on Friday night to tear down our old learning habits. We have a lot to absorb if we're to read the Yoga Sutras any time soon. We've barely started to learn the other vowel sounds. A frustrated student can't understand why he "got" it yesterday and can't remember it today. Vyaas gently reminds us to calm down. There is no place to "get to," no goal to attain. By obsessively worrying that we won't remember what we've just learned, we're buying right back into the survival language model: If I can't remember it all, I'm a failure. As Vyaas later explains, "It seems that where people break down most consistently is when they feel they won't remember what they've been exposed to, and therefore if they go any further they will be lost." That's exactly what I'm nervous about, and I sense the apprehension of other students. We're working on compound consonants, writing and recognizing and chanting simple words. That's a tall order for one full day. I can't imagine how we'll get it done. Sounding suspiciously like my yoga teacher at home, Vyaas reminds us that being goal-oriented works against us in two ways: It sets us up for disappointment and failure; but most importantly, the focus on the end result is pulling us off the point. So, with Kent's help, we re-focus our awareness by chanting the now-familiar alphabet, rekindling our emjoyment of the task at hand.
The next several hours are as exhilarating as they are exacting. We're chanting longer phrases now, putting syllables together to form simple words. The color-coded alphabet takes on a whole new meaning now that we're mixing and matching sounds. Knowing that all the unvoiced, unaspirated consonants are magenta, helps identify the sounds quickly; and knowing that their order goes from the back of the throat to the lips enables us to find the correct position easily. We spend quite a bit of time now putting consonants together in written form, learning the special vowel markings that indicate i, u, e, ai, and au.
Armed with this new knowledge and the ability to recognize the other vowel sounds, we're ready to take on the Yoga Sutras! I think back to Friday night, remembering Vyaas's promise that we'd be reading the sutras within three days. At the time, I was skeptical. What about vocabulary first? How could we chant sutras if we had no idea what the words meant? What good would it do to chant something we couldn't understand? As I join in now and allow the vibration of the sounds to deepen within me, I have no immediate need to translate the words. I could be chanting the alphabet, root words, or noun endings — it makes no difference.
As I feel my voice rise to meet the others in the room, I feel connected not only to everyone else in th room but to a place deep inside myself. I now understand what Vyaas meant when he said, "The vibrational purity and resonating power of Sanskrit is above all an opera on a grand cosmic scale that you can sing with your whole heart and being."