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Walk into an Indian bookshop anywhere, whether at an airport, in a mall, or in a standalone store, and visit the section labelled Philosophy. Read the titles and authors. Chances are, you will find shelves filled with books by Indian godmen, gurus, yoga masters, and spiritual teachers. This trend is not limited to bookshops. Modern-day gurus and spiritual preachers often choose to brand themselves as philosophers. Their followers refer to their master’s spiritual talks as philosophical discourses. There are even websites that describe interviews with gurus, where they converse with celebrities, as “philosophical debates.” Some gurus are acutely aware that spirituality appears deeper when it is marketed as philosophy. Yet, since they want their package to stand out from the thousands of similar products in the market, they claim that their teaching is not philosophy at all, but the opposite of it. This so-called “anti-philosophy” has nothing to do with Wittgenstein or Badiou. It is merely another rephrasing—a rhetoric—that grants importance to philosophy by rejecting it. And in doing so, they continue to frame their mystical teachings in relation to philosophy. Why is Indian mysticism or spirituality so often described as philosophy? If you are to use a modern definition, how much of what these Gurus say can truly be called philosophy? In other words, how do the spiritual men define philosophy? And where do spirituality and philosophy part ways? These questions, in fact, are not limited to Indian philosophy. In his classic work The Spirit of Mediaeval Philosophy, Etienne Gilson contemplates similar issues in relation to Christianity as well. Although the expression Christian philosophy seems both natural and appropriate in the context of medieval thought, Gilson wonders “whether the very concept of Christian Philosophy has any real meaning.” To examine the foundations, he poses another question: “What intellectual advantages were to be gained by turning to the Bible and the Gospel as sources of philosophic inspiration?” Perhaps it is high time we reframed the question to suit our own circumstances and asked it aloud: What intellectual advantages are to be gained by turning to the new age gurus and their methods? If you are familiar with the field, you can probably guess the answer. It would be something like this: there is no intellectual advantage to be gained. For what we preach—our system—is not for the intellect. It is for the soul. It is for what lies beyond intellect. You cannot appreciate it, comprehend it, or even approach it with the expectation of an intellectual grasp. Oh! The solace of vagueness! The comfort of ambiguity! Most Indian gurus claim to show a path to enlightenment, a state in which one is free from worries, lives “in the moment,” and experiences life “fully and completely” or “meditatively,” existing in a constant state of inner bliss. If spiritual practice were presented only as a path of hardship, filled with intense meditation and numerous obstacles, it would hardly appeal to the modern seeker. Therefore, another dimension of the entire tradition is emphasised: Ananda, or blissfulness. Everlasting ultimate joy. Some form of this inner bliss is the unique selling point of almost all spiritual teachers. Most spiritual masters promise to give you, or guide you towards, the nectar of this blissfulness. If examined closely, one would see that this bliss is not an invention of modern mystics; it has always been a component of the Indian spiritual traditions. Many Advaitic texts describe the true nature of the inner self as inherently blissful. Ananda, or blissfulness, holds similar importance in other spiritual paths, including Tantra and Buddhism, as well. This constant blissfulness is only half the story. There are times in every human being’s life when she is faced with tensions and worries, disasters and misfortunes that are part of ordinary existence. How is one to deal with that? What remedy do the masters prescribe? The answer lies in a kind of detachment (or non-attachment) which is also one of the central teachings of Indian spiritual texts. One should neither be overly happy about material gains nor too saddened by losses, for the real meaning of life does not lie in the material world. It lies elsewhere — in being one with the ultimate truth, in being blissful. (Apparently, this blissfulness is considered a supreme state, one that should not be compared with the fleeting happiness experienced by lesser mortals.) This detachment, too, is conditional. If one is fully detached, nobody gains anything — there wouldn’t even be five-star ashrams. So the detachment has to be conditional. Slavoj Žižek, in one of his lectures, says: “When you read these leaflets for transcendental meditation, do you notice their ambiguity? They usually begin by saying that we are leading false lives, that we are too focused on material possessions and pleasures, and that we should realize how vain all of this is. Then there is usually a second paragraph — always — which says something like, ‘And in this way, through proper detachment, you will perform even better in the market and become more successful there.’” The idea is not to be completely detached or to discard the so-called false life you’ve been living. Rather, it is to equip yourself with spiritual tools so that you can fully immerse yourself, and even succeed, in that very life. The problem, it seems, is not with the falsity of life itself, but with its profitability, or rather, the lack thereof. In fact, the idea of detachment was important and highly relevant at the time it was developed. It also served a social role. The notion of living a detached life emerged in an era when the world was different and life was lived under very different conditions. To understand its social relevance, let us, for a moment, turn to Stoicism — a philosophical system that was popular in the ancient West. The Indian concept of detachment — whether as prescribed by Vedanta or by other schools of thought — has parallels in Stoicism. Stoicism advocates apatheia, the extirpation of emotions. This was a time when life was extremely difficult. Material conditions were harsh, healthcare systems were underdeveloped, infant mortality rates were high, and certainty in life about anything was rare. You could lose your job or financial security overnight. The loss of a child was an ever-present fear. Under such conditions, any deep attachment to people or things was likely to bring sorrow. To cling to material pleasures might only lead to greater misery. In this context, detachment became a practical remedy. To remain neither too sad nor too elated was seen as a way to endure it more wisely. This was certainly relevant in a time when life was filled with uncertainties. Tad Brennan, in his work, The Stoic Life, explains the line of thought thus. “[…] Living conditions in antiquity were sufficiently severe that an active engagement in life really was a bad bargain, and Stoicism really was the wisest course. To us now, of course, it seems barbaric not to feel anything at the death of your own baby, but infant mortality rates back then surely counselled emotional insulation. Who would want to become too attached to any particular infant, when ten live births in a family might yield one surviving toddler?” Could this be true in the Indian context as well? Could that be the real reason behind the detachment — the Vairagya — associated with many spiritual traditions? That could indeed be one of the reasons. There is no reason to believe that living conditions in ancient India were much better. Non-attachment, or Vairagya, might have served as a form of emotional insulation in the Indian context as well. But whether this still holds true to the same extent today is an important question, and many might well answer in the negative. Our living conditions have undoubtedly improved. Take Steven Pinker’s recent argument, for example. Pinker contends that humans are living better lives: empathy and education are spreading, and violence is in decline. Human life, he notes, has improved in almost every measurable way — a claim he supports with extensive data. In such a world, detachment may no longer be a wise strategy for living well. Excessive emotional insulation can dull one’s capacity to experience the simple joys and sorrows that give life its texture. In any case, the idea of non-attachment as preached by New Age gurus is vastly different from Vairagya. This modern notion of non-attachment is not a tool for emotional insulation; rather, it is presented as a strategic stance — one that enables you to be materialistic in a profitable way. Such non-attachment, coupled with a diluted form of blissfulness, constitutes the core package offered by today’s spiritual masters in the marketplace. So, where does philosophy feature in this? Or, to raise Gilson’s point, why does philosophy seem both natural and appropriate within such a spiritual package, yet so distant that one might doubt the very meaning of inserting ‘philosophy’ into the package? It may seem reasonable that New Age Indian spirituality aligns itself with philosophy, since it claims to draw its ideas from Indian traditions or schools of thought. Concepts such as Ananda and non-attachment indeed appear across many Indian spiritual systems. In the Indian context, philosophy and spirituality have long been intertwined. Most philosophical schools, whether concerned with language, knowledge, metaphysics, or time, ultimately aim at liberation. Why study the philosophy of language? One of the major texts on the subject declares, “Anadinidhanam Brahma Shabdatattvam Yadaksharam”: the essential nature of the word is Brahman, the ultimate reality. Why study epistemology? The Nyaya Sutra states, “Nihshreyasadhigamah”: supreme felicity is attained through it. Even Samkhya, often regarded as atheistic, teaches that the abstruse knowledge it imparts leads to the liberation of the soul. Because philosophy has traditionally been associated with mukti, ultimate knowledge, or enlightenment, this connection eventually extended to practices and movements outside the classical systems. As a result, any spiritual method that promised liberation could easily present itself as philosophical. Which is exactly what the new spiritual masters, yoga gurus, consciousness teachers, mystics, and awakening experts have been doing. In fact, presenting these packages as philosophy is a gross injustice to the Indian philosophical tradition. The masses may come to mistake philosophy for this spiritual hodgepodge. The richness and depth of Indian philosophical systems are entirely lost on this new generation of enlightenment sellers. Even when associated with spirituality or soteriology, Indian philosophical traditions remained rigorous, nuanced, and intellectually sophisticated. It is worth noting that, historically, some of the finest sceptical schools in India were also deeply spiritual in nature. Take Nagarjuna, for instance. Nagarjuna argued, from a Buddhist perspective, for emptiness and against essence. His argument for emptiness negates not only other philosophical positions but also itself. In that sense, it recalls Wittgenstein’s ladder. Another sceptic, Sriharsha, grounded his scepticism in Advaita Vedanta and went on to show that the means of knowledge proposed by his rival schools are self-contradictory and therefore fail. Jayarasi Bhatta, one of the most radical philosophers, did not subscribe to any spiritual school; he argued against almost all philosophical methods across the various spiritual traditions. The trouble with the new-age spiritual packages that come in the guise of philosophy is that they efface the sophisticated and nuanced traditions of Indian thought. Yes, liberation (mukti) was indeed one of the goals in many Indian philosophical schools, but it was always preceded by rigorous and extensive philosophical argumentation — something thoroughly lacking in these modern spiritual packages. The absence of such rigour renders them not only shallow and superficial but also incapable of providing their adherents any genuine intellectual advantage. What we often see today is a selective borrowing of terms and ideas from classical Indian thought — notions like Atman, Ananda, Brahman, or Vairagya — stripped of their conceptual and logical foundations, simplified for mass consumption, and repackaged as “timeless wisdom” or “ancient science.” The result is an easy, marketable spirituality that requires no intellectual discipline, no dialectical engagement, and no genuine reflection — a kind of spiritual consumerism disguised as philosophical inquiry. To call these modern teachings “philosophy” is therefore to misunderstand what philosophy, in its truest sense, entails. The task before us, then, is not merely to defend philosophy against the encroachment of such new age spiritualism, but to reclaim the very spirit of critical inquiry that once animated the Indian intellectual tradition. It is only through such reclamation that philosophy can once again serve its highest function; not to comfort the mind, but to awaken it. The writer is a commentator with a research degree in philosophy from the University of Sheffield, focusing on the intersections of culture, history, and politics. Views expressed in the above piece are personal and solely those of the writer. They do not necessarily reflect News18’s views.
