| Publication |
2014.
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| Summary/Abstract |
Sanskrit was the mind of Sill: Route, at one with the sky-void and the spring mist, the live hues of sensibility dyed in eternity. a bridge of dreams floating across eloudless skies of the sands, a symbol system that made the heart pure, the spring blossoms of the devout. It was the realisation of Truth, and the very being of Values. Sanskrit was to enter the profound, the inner depths. Today. torn Sanskrit fragments
from the silk Route reflect the savagery of fundamentalism. the furious wrath of apostasy. They remind me of ten million Buddhist Sutras being mthessly committed to fire in Buryatia. Mongolia. Kalrnykia.
and Tuva. As Lama Sandaa related to me with tears ?owing across his withered face of eithty years: 'I was forced to destroy what I revered, admired and had faith in. There's no torture more terrible than that'.
Likewise. these Sanskrit fragments are tears of time. Scholars sit in their silence, forgetting the hours that follow each either, to identify tiny and large feagments as if perfecting a diamond. They are ratnaktita or heaps of jewels in the words of Prof. Karashima. We are pilgrims to amazing centuries that have ?ourished and vanished.Vedic Shaivism
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