Daniel: Alright Sophia, quick question. What do you think happens when a skull-feeding mystic, who practices ancient rituals in a cremation ground, finds out his two sons have become ophthalmologists in… New Jersey? Sophia: That sounds like the setup to a very strange joke. I'm guessing... a very awkward Thanksgiving dinner? "So, Dad, how's work?" "Oh, you know, son, feeding the restless spirits of dead virgins. How's the LASIK business?" Daniel: Exactly! And that's the kind of beautiful, bizarre reality we're diving into today with William Dalrymple's masterpiece, Nine Lives: In Search of the Sacred in Modern India. Sophia: Dalrymple is that historian and writer who has spent, what, decades in India? I've heard his work is incredibly immersive. Daniel: Over 25 years. And what he does in this book is unique. It's not a grand history; it's a modern Canterbury Tales. He finds nine people on the fringes of faith and just lets them tell their stories. The book was widely acclaimed for exactly that—it avoids a judgmental, colonial gaze and just listens. Sophia: Which is so important with a topic like this. It would be incredibly easy to exoticize these lives or treat them like museum exhibits. Daniel: And he does the opposite. He shows us that these aren't relics. These are living, breathing people navigating a world where ancient devotion collides head-on with hyper-modernity. And that story about the mystic's sons in New Jersey perfectly captures our first major exploration today: the shocking, and sometimes heartbreaking, collision of these two worlds.

Sophia: Okay, so a collision of worlds. That feels like an understatement based on your intro. Where do we even start with that? Daniel: We start with a story that is almost impossible for a Western mind to comprehend. It's "The Nun's Tale," and it follows a woman named Prasannamati Mataji. But before she was a nun, she was a girl named Rekha, born in 1972 into a very wealthy merchant family. She was the first girl born in three generations, so she was adored, pampered, had everything she could ever want. Sophia: I feel like I know where this is going. A classic story of someone rejecting materialism for a simpler life. Daniel: It’s a bit more extreme than that. At thirteen, she meets a wandering Jain monk. Jainism, for those who don't know, is an ancient Indian religion, and one of its core principles is aparigraha—complete non-attachment to worldly things because attachment is the root of all suffering. Sophia: Right, I've heard of their commitment to non-violence, like sweeping the ground in front of them so they don't step on insects. Daniel: Precisely. Well, Rekha is so moved by this monk's teachings that she decides, at thirteen, that this is her path. She tells her family she wants to become a nun. They, of course, are horrified. They love her, they've planned her whole life out. They try everything to dissuade her. Sophia: What do they do? Lock her in her room? Daniel: They try a more subtle approach. They say, "Okay, you can go study the dharma with the nuns for a couple of months. You'll see how hard it is and you'll come running back." They figured the harsh reality of ascetic life—the fasting, the lack of possessions, the constant wandering—would cure her of this fantasy. Sophia: And I'm guessing it didn't work. Daniel: It backfired spectacularly. After two months, they come to pick her up, and she refuses to go home. She tells them, "This is my life now." She is so determined that eventually, after two years of her persistence, her family tearfully gives their consent. She takes her vows, her head is shaved, she gives away all her possessions, and she becomes Prasannamati Mataji. She has to renounce her family completely. Sophia: Wow. To make that choice as a teenager is one thing, but for the family to finally let go... that's a level of faith and acceptance that's hard to imagine. But you said this story gets even more extreme. Daniel: It does. The heart of this chapter is about Prasannamati's deep friendship with another nun, Prayogamati. They were inseparable. But then Prayogamati gets sick. She develops tuberculosis and malaria, and she's in constant, agonizing pain. Sophia: So she gets medical treatment? Daniel: She does, but it doesn't work. The pain is relentless. So, Prayogamati makes a decision. She decides to undertake sallekhana. Sophia: Hold on. I need you to explain that word very carefully. Daniel: Sallekhana is a ritual fast unto death. It is considered the ultimate expression of Jain faith, the final act of renunciation. You give up your home, your possessions, and finally, you give up your body. Sophia: Wait, so this is a celebrated, ritualized fast to death? How is that not seen as suicide? That's... intense. Daniel: That's the exact question Dalrymple explores. Prasannamati explains it very clearly. She says, and I'm quoting the essence of her words here, "Sallekhana is not suicide. Suicide is a great sin, the result of despair. But sallekhana is a triumph over death, an expression of hope." It's a voluntary, peaceful acceptance of the inevitable, done with the guidance of a guru. It's seen as a way to shed all remaining karma and ensure a better rebirth. Sophia: A triumph over death. That reframing is powerful. So what happens? Daniel: For eighteen months, Prayogamati slowly, methodically, reduces her food intake. First solid food, then just liquids, then just water, and finally, nothing. And all this time, Prasannamati is by her side, caring for her, reading scriptures, supporting her. She describes her friend as being completely calm, even joyful, as she gets closer to the end. Sophia: That is just... profoundly sad and beautiful at the same time. The love in that friendship, to support someone through that process. Daniel: It's incredibly moving. In the final days, monks and nuns gather around Prayogamati, chanting, until she peacefully passes away. And for Prasannamati, this isn't a tragedy. It's an inspiration. She tells Dalrymple that she hopes to do the same one day. It's her life's goal. Sophia: What does it say about a belief system that this is seen as the ultimate achievement? It's so alien to a Western mindset of fighting for every last second of life, hooking ourselves up to machines. Daniel: And that's the collision, isn't it? It's a worldview where the soul is eternal and the body is just a temporary vessel, like old clothes. As Prasannamati says, "When your clothes get old and torn, you get new ones." For her, death isn't an end; it's a transition you can master. It's a stark contrast to the modern world's obsession with preserving the physical self at all costs. Sophia: It really is. So that's a story of faith as an escape from the world, a way to transcend it. But Dalrymple also shows faith as a way to confront the world, right? To flip power on its head. Daniel: Exactly. Which brings us to our second theme: faith as a tool for the marginalized, a way to invert power. And for this, we go to Kerala, in southern India, to meet a man named Hari Das.

Sophia: Okay, so who is Hari Das? Is he another ascetic? Daniel: Quite the opposite. Hari Das leads a remarkable double life. For ten months of the year, he's a Dalit, a member of what was formerly known as the "untouchable" caste. He works as a manual laborer, a well-builder, and, get this, a part-time prison warden in a notoriously violent jail. He's at the very bottom of the social ladder. Sophia: A prison warden. That's a tough job anywhere, let alone for someone from a marginalized community in India. So what happens for the other two months? Daniel: For two months, during the Theyyam season, Hari Das becomes a god. Sophia: Come on. You mean like, metaphorically? Daniel: No, literally. Theyyam is an ancient ritual dance form in Kerala. The performers, who are always from the lower castes, spend hours putting on these incredibly elaborate costumes and makeup. Through chanting and dance, they enter a trance state and become possessed by the spirit of a deity. They are no longer Hari Das, the prison warden. They are the living embodiment of a powerful god. Sophia: So what does that look like in practice? Daniel: It's a complete inversion of the social order. People from all castes, including the highest-caste Brahmins who would not normally associate with him, come to him for blessings. They prostrate themselves before him. They confess their problems, ask for healing, for guidance. He speaks as the god, offering prophecies and judgments. He has absolute authority. Sophia: This is fascinating. It's like a ritualized social pressure valve. For two months, the powerless become the powerful. Daniel: Precisely. Dalrymple quotes Hari Das saying, "For three months of the year we are gods. Then in March, when the season ends, we pack away our costumes. And after that... it’s back to jail." The duality is staggering. Sophia: But does it actually change anything in the long run? Or is it just temporary theater? When he goes back to being a prison warden, do the people who worshipped him treat him differently? Daniel: That's the complex part. Hari Das says that while he's the Theyyam, he is treated with total reverence. But once the costume is off, he's just Hari Das again. The underlying caste system doesn't just disappear. However, the ritual itself is a powerful form of social commentary. Sophia: How so? Daniel: Many of the stories enacted in Theyyam are about caste injustice. There's a famous one about the god Shiva disguising himself as a low-caste man to teach a lesson to an arrogant Brahmin scholar. The stories constantly challenge the status quo and remind everyone of the abuses of the caste system. It's a form of protest embedded in a sacred ritual. Sophia: So it's both. It's a temporary release and a permanent reminder. It doesn't dismantle the system, but it publicly critiques it every single year. Daniel: Exactly. And it gives a man like Hari Das, who is otherwise invisible or looked down upon, a platform for immense dignity, power, and respect. It's not about escaping the world like the Jain nun. It's about transforming his place within it, even if only for a short time. Sophia: When you compare the two stories, the nun and the dancer, you see two completely different functions of faith. One is about individual liberation from the chains of existence itself. The other is about a form of collective liberation from the chains of society. Daniel: That's a perfect way to put it. And Dalrymple fills the book with these contrasts. There's the idol maker whose family has been creating divine images for centuries, but whose son wants to study computer engineering. There's the Buddhist monk who renounces his vows of non-violence to take up arms against the Chinese invasion of Tibet, believing it's his duty to protect his faith. Sophia: That monk's story must be a whole other level of moral complexity. The conflict between non-violence and the duty to defend. Daniel: It is. He spends the rest of his life trying to atone for the violence he committed. Each of these nine lives is a keyhole into a different way of being, a different way of grappling with the eternal questions in a world that's changing at lightning speed.

Sophia: So when you put all these stories together, what's the big picture Dalrymple is painting? It's not just 'India is spiritual.' It's something much more complex and... messy. Daniel: Exactly. He shows that faith isn't a monolith. It's a toolkit. For some, like Prasannamati, it's a path to transcend a world they find meaningless. For others, like Hari Das, it's the only tool they have to critique a world that has rendered them powerless. The book argues that in India, the sacred isn't dying; it's shape-shifting, finding new relevance in the most unexpected corners of modern life. Sophia: It makes you question what 'modernity' even means. We think of it as secular, rational, and globalized. But here it's coexisting with gods who dance, nuns who choose to die, and mystics whose sons are doctors in America. Daniel: The book's genius is that it doesn't try to resolve these paradoxes. It just presents them. It shows that these ancient ways of life aren't just surviving despite modernity, but are in a dynamic, and often strange, conversation with it. The sacred is alive, and it's complicated. Sophia: It's not a simple narrative of tradition versus progress. It's a story of entanglement. Daniel: A beautiful, messy, human entanglement. And Dalrymple's ultimate point seems to be that these lives, which might seem extreme or irrational to an outsider, are profound and deeply logical responses to the human condition. They are all, in their own way, searching for meaning, for liberation, for a connection to something larger than themselves. Sophia: Which is a universal quest, really. The methods are just radically different. Daniel: Radically different. And it leaves you with a powerful question: In our own lives, where do we find the sacred? What are the rituals, big or small, that give us meaning outside the 9-to-5 grind? Sophia: That's a great question. We'd love to hear what you all think. Find us on our socials and share your thoughts. What's a modern ritual in your life? It doesn't have to involve a cremation ground, hopefully. Daniel: This is Aibrary, signing off.