Manglacharan

As we understand it, Manglacharan is an auspicious invocation with which a work, or a part of a work, is begun.

But “auspicious beginning” alone seems too narrow for what we encountered. Manglacharan can also be a way of preparing to enter the work - through remembrance, invocation, reverence, prayer or seeking grace before proceeding.

In our reading of Ramcharitmanas, we therefore came to see Manglacharan not merely as something placed before the text begins, but as part of the manner in which the text begins. Before entering the narrative, there is an act of orientation: whom does the poet remember, invoke or bow to, and from what disposition does he begin?

This is the understanding with which Sacred Threads approached the Manglacharans. We do not offer it as a comprehensive definition of the Manglacharan tradition, nor as the only way in which Manglacharan may be understood.

As we understand it, beginning with Manglacharan acknowledges that the act of beginning is itself significant. One does not simply enter the work and begin speaking.

The invocation may seek auspiciousness, remember or bow to the divine, the Guru or other revered presences, seek grace for the work ahead, and orient the person undertaking the work towards it. Different Manglacharans may do these things differently, and not every Manglacharan necessarily performs all of these functions.

What became particularly meaningful to us was that Manglacharan places something before the act of one’s own composition or narration. Before I speak, there is remembrance; before I undertake the work, there is acknowledgement of that which precedes or enables me.

Seen this way, Manglacharan is not only concerned with ensuring that a work begins auspiciously. It can also establish the disposition from which the work is undertaken.

This helped us understand why Manglacharan may appear not only at the beginning of an entire work, but also when entering a new part of it. A new beginning can call for a renewed act of remembrance, invocation or orientation.

In our reading of Ramcharitmanas, Manglacharan appeared as a threshold into the text. Before entering the narrative, Tulsidas pauses to invoke, remember, bow and orient himself towards what is about to be undertaken.

This became especially visible when we encountered the Manglacharans at the beginnings of the different Kandas. The narrative may already have travelled a long distance, yet at another beginning the text can pause again. The movement into a new Kanda is therefore not simply a continuation of the preceding narrative; it can begin with a renewed invocation.

That is why, while working on the series, we came to think of Manglacharan as orientation before entry. One of our working observations was:

Every Kanda begins with orientation. Invocation. Positioning of mind.

The important thing for us was that this was not outside the text. It was not something to hurry through in order to reach the story. The bowing, remembering and invoking were themselves part of Ramcharitmanas and part of the way Tulsidas chose to enter different portions of the Katha.

At the same time, the Manglacharans did not appear to us as a repeated formula placed unchanged before every Kanda. As we listened to them individually, differences began to become visible - in whom or what was invoked, what was said, and perhaps even in the relationship between the invocation and the Kanda being entered.

We therefore resisted combining them into one generalized idea of “the Manglacharan of Ramcharitmanas.” We first allowed each Kanda’s Manglacharan to stand on its own.

When we placed the Manglacharans of the seven Kandas beside one another, we found that each creates its own opening. They share the act of invocation or bowing, but whom Tulsidas addresses, what he remembers, and what he places before entering the Kanda are not identical.

Bal Kand has by far the most extensive opening among the seven. Its seven Sanskrit verses move through a succession of presences: Vani and Vinayak; Bhavani and Shankar as shraddha and vishwas; the Guru; Valmiki and Hanuman; Sita; and Shri Rama. The seventh verse then turns towards the work itself: Tulsidas says that, for his own inner joy (svāntaḥ sukhāya), he is extending the story of Raghunath in the vernacular, drawing upon what is accepted in the Puranas, Vedas and Agamas, what is narrated in the Ramayana, and material found elsewhere.

So Bal Kand does something none of the later Kanda openings do at this scale: before the Katha begins, it establishes a whole field of remembrance and also speaks about the undertaking of the Katha itself.

Ayodhya Kand opens with Shankar—his form is described and his protection sought. It then turns to one very particular image of Shri Rama: the beauty of the face that was neither made more joyous by the prospect of coronation nor diminished by the sorrow of exile. The third verse bows to Shri Rama with Sita beside him, bow and arrow in hand.

Here, therefore, the invocation already contains something remarkably close to the circumstances into which the Kanda will take us: coronation and exile are both present before the narrative resumes.

Aranya Kand again begins with Shankar, but describes him through images of dharma, viveka, vairagya, the removal of sin, suffering and moha. It then turns to Shri Rama—not enthroned, but on the path, wearing matted locks, carrying bow and arrow, accompanied by Sita and Lakshmana.

The figure remembered at the threshold is therefore Shri Rama in journey.

Kishkindha Kand opens with Shri Rama and Lakshmana together. They are described as powerful, repositories of knowledge, great archers, protectors of saddharma—and, very specifically, travelling in search of Sita. The second verse turns from their journey to Shri Rama’s name, describing the nectar of Ram Naam as arising from the ocean of the Vedas, destroying the impurities of Kali, shining in Shambhu’s mouth, a medicine for worldly existence, and the very life of Janaki.

Sundar Kand has three movements. It first bows to Shri Rama through an expansive description of who he is—beyond Maya, accessible through knowledge, repository of virtues, Lord appearing as king. The second verse bows at length to Shankar; the third seeks Shambhu’s auspiciousness, remembering him as one who grants liberation to the good and disciplines the wicked.

Lanka Kand begins with Shri Rama in an extraordinarily specific circumstance: seated on the Pushpak Viman, accompanied by the Vanaras and served by Lakshmana, bow and arrow still in hand. The second verse moves from the whole figure to Shri Rama’s feet—worshipped by Brahma and Mahesh, tended by Sita, and contemplated by devotees. The third bows to Shankar, remembering his compassion and seeking the fulfilment he bestows.

And Uttar Kand opens by bowing to Shri Rama: serene, eternal, beyond measure, giver of liberation, all-pervading, yet appearing in human form. But the second verse becomes a direct prayer: Tulsidas says that he has no other desire and asks Raghupati for complete devotion and for a mind freed from faults beginning with kāma. The third then bows to Hanuman—immeasurably strong, foremost among the wise, repository of virtues and beloved devotee of Raghunath.

From what we encountered, no—not in the sense of repeating the same invocation at every new beginning.

There is a shared movement across them: the Kanda begins by remembering, invoking, bowing or praying before the narrative proceeds. But within that shared movement, the Manglacharans differ considerably in whom they address, what they remember, what they ask for, and the circumstances in which Shri Rama is recalled.

Bal Kand creates a broad field of invocation and eventually speaks about the undertaking of the Katha itself. Ayodhya Kand remembers Shri Rama in relation to coronation and exile. Aranya Kand sees Shri Rama travelling with Sita and Lakshmana, while Kishkindha Kand remembers Rama and Lakshmana travelling in search of Sita and then turns towards Ram Naam. Sundar Kand moves through expansive invocations of Shri Rama and Shankar. Lanka Kand places before us Shri Rama on the Pushpak Viman, accompanied by Lakshmana and the Vanaras, and also turns to his feet and to Shankar. Uttar Kand moves from Shri Rama to a direct prayer for devotion and purification of the mind, and then to Hanuman.

Sacred Threads presented the Kanda Manglacharans as a series because we wanted to pause at these beginnings and listen to them individually, rather than pass through them on the way to the narrative.

As we worked through them, it became clear that there was both continuity and difference. Each Kanda begins with an act of invocation, remembrance, bowing or prayer, but what is placed at that beginning changes. Bal Kand opens through a wide field of invocations and reaches the undertaking of the Katha itself. Elsewhere Shri Rama appears within particular circumstances—coronation and exile, travelling through the forest, searching for Sita, or seated upon Pushpak. Other openings bring forward Shankar, Ram Naam, prayer for bhakti, the state of the mind, or Hanuman.

Presenting them separately allowed those differences to remain visible.

The series therefore was not intended to extract a single formula called “the Manglacharan of Ramcharitmanas.” Nor was it an attempt to demonstrate how Manglacharan should be performed. It was our way of staying with what the text itself places at each threshold.

We approached the original Manglacharan verses by trying to let each invocation remain what it was in the text before deciding how to present it.

We did not begin with a definition of what a Manglacharan should contain and then look for that pattern in each Kanda. We stayed with the verses individually—whom Tulsidas bows to or invokes, what qualities or forms he remembers, what he asks for, and what particular circumstance the verse places before us.

This mattered because the verses themselves resisted being flattened into one repeated form. Bal Kand moves through several invocations before Tulsidas speaks about the Katha he is undertaking. Ayodhya Kand places coronation and exile within its remembrance of Shri Rama. Aranya and Kishkindha Kandas remember Shri Rama within very different moments of the journey, while later Manglacharans bring forward Ram Naam, Shankar, bhakti, Hanuman and other movements of prayer and remembrance.

We therefore tried to retain the verses in their original sequence and allow their own movement to determine the presentation, rather than selecting only those portions that fitted a theme we wanted to communicate.

Our translations were intended to help a listener remain with the original verses, not to replace them. Where a Sanskrit expression carried something that could not be neatly compressed into an English or Hindi equivalent, our effort was to preserve as much of the textual sense as we could rather than turn it into a conclusion of our own.

Most importantly, we did not treat the verses as material from which we could extract a message about Manglacharan. The verses were the primary material; our presentation remained secondary to them.

Our presentation began with one priority: the original verses had to remain at the centre. Music, translation and visuals were there to help us stay with the verses, not to become a second layer of explanation over them.

In music, we deliberately moved away from treating the Manglacharans as conventional devotional songs. Different verses called for different musical responses, but the overall approach remained restrained—closer at times to contemplative recitation, at times to a restrained melodic rendition, and at times to stillness. We tried not to let Vandana become bhajan, Stuti become aarti, or recitation become performance.

The music therefore did not need to make every verse emotionally dramatic. Its role was to create enough space for the Sanskrit to be heard.

In translation, we kept the original verse primary and used translation as an aid to access it. Our purpose was not to paraphrase the verse into a lesson or explain what the listener ought to understand from it. We tried instead to remain close to what the verse said—its invocation, descriptions, prayer and movement.

This distinction became even clearer when we later revisited some of the Manglacharan videos. The original releases had been closer to pure listening: the verses were heard without continual textual intervention on screen. In the later overlay editions, we retained the original music and visuals but placed the Sanskrit verse on screen with its Hindi meaning, turning them into a more assisted form of listening without replacing the original presentation.

Visually, too, we chose restraint. The images were meant to accompany invocation rather than dramatize it. We avoided turning every description in a verse into spectacle or constructing a narrative that the verse itself had not supplied. The visual space was kept quiet enough for the verse and its invocation to remain dominant.

Taken together, these choices reflected something we discovered during production:

We were not trying to illustrate, explain and musically interpret every word. We were trying to create a space in which the verse could be heard.

We did not attempt to make the Manglacharan series a comprehensive study of the Manglacharan tradition. We studied enough of its literary and traditional context to approach what we encountered in Ramcharitmanas, but the series was not intended to establish a complete history, classification or theology of Manglacharan.

We also did not attempt to establish one meaning, purpose or formula that could explain all the Kanda Manglacharans. Once we stayed with the original verses, their differences became too important to flatten. Bal Kand’s extensive field of invocation, Ayodhya Kand’s remembrance of Shri Rama amid coronation and exile, Kishkindha Kand’s movement towards Ram Naam, or Uttar Kand’s direct prayer for bhakti cannot simply be made interchangeable.

Nor did we attempt to explain what every verse ultimately means. We provided translations and made musical and visual choices, but we tried not to turn those choices into conclusions for the listener. The presentation could assist an encounter with the verse; it did not need to finish that encounter on the listener’s behalf.

Similarly, we did not attempt to prescribe how Manglacharan ought to be recited, sung, visualised or understood. The musical forms, translations and images used in Sacred Threads were our choices for this particular presentation. They were not offered as a model of correct Manglacharan practice.

And perhaps most importantly, we did not try to make the Manglacharans say the same thing simply because we had presented them as one series.

The series brought them together so that we could listen to them together. It did not require them to become alike.

I think the central boundary could therefore be expressed very simply:

Our task was to present an encounter with these Manglacharans, not to settle what Manglacharan is or ought to be.

There is another distinction worth preserving because it runs through all the series pages we have worked on. We cannot claim that Sacred Threads presented the verses without interpretation. Translation is a choice. Musical setting is a choice. A visual is a choice. Even deciding to isolate the Kanda Manglacharans and present them as a series is a choice.

What we can say much more responsibly is:

We could not present without making choices; we tried not to make those choices the conclusion.

That is essentially the same boundary we discovered while working on Sab ke Ram, but here it becomes concrete in a different way. In Manglacharan, our restraint was not about withholding a judgement about a character or episode. It was about not allowing our translation, music, visuals or understanding of the tradition to stand between the visitor and the invocation itself.