How the traditional guru-shishya system undermined critical thinking in India

A student recently asked me for my opinion on the traditional guru-shishya system, in which teachers transmit knowledge to students (usually referred to as disciples), who often even live with them and are totally dedicated to them. In this system, the word of guru is final. Recalling a discussion we had in class, he wanted to know what relevance it might have now. Is it positive or entirely negative? He also inquired about its significance in the context of learning music.

Pondering over his question, I recalled an article written five years ago by musician TM Krishna. Krishna had argued that the guru-shishya tradition – or rather, the institution it represents – ought to be dismantled altogether.

The guru-disciple relationship, he said, is founded on a permanent imbalance of power. What is striking is that this imbalance is not merely tolerated: it is celebrated. Within this structure, the disciple is expected not only to submit to the guru's authority but to surrender herself entirely to him. The flaw lies in the very architecture of the institution. Questioning the guru is treated as a transgression. Dissent does not even enter the realm of possibility.

In music, as in certain other artistic fields, there is no shortage of stories recounting the severe trials imposed by gurus before they agree to accept someone as a student. These trials are rarely related to knowledge or aptitude. Instead, the aspirant is often required to perform domestic labour for weeks on end – washing the guru's utensils, cleaning the house, running errands. Only once loyalty and devotion have been sufficiently demonstrated does the guru agree to impart instruction.

The guru is frequently imagined as possessing divine attributes. The philosopher Aurobindo suggests that when one surrenders before the guru, one is not surrendering to the human being but to the divine element within him. But who certifies the presence of this divine element? By what signs is it to be recognised?

Krishna's article was written in the context of allegations of sexual abuse made by disciples against one of the the renowned Gundecha brothers in Hindustani classical music. He observed that whispers about such conduct have circulated for years within the worlds of music and dance, yet very few find the courage to speak openly.

The cost of going up against powerful gurus can be prohibitively high. Gurus may be rivals in professional matters, but when it comes to preserving the authority of the guru as an institution, they can close ranks. An unwritten pact of silence operates here – one that was clearly visible in the near-total silence of star musicians during the Gundecha controversy.

In the guru–shishya tradition, the guru is beyond question. His decisions cannot be challenged. Drawing inspiration from Krishna's essay, an officer of the Indian armed forces wrote an article in which he talked about an incident from his training days.

During a session, instead of responding to a trainee's question, the instructor summoned him to the front and said, “You want an answer? Here is your answer”, delivering a sharp slap across his face. The trainee returned to his seat clenching his teeth, his eyes filling with tears of humiliation. The entire class remained silent, because questioning the guru was unthinkable. There was no question of disciplinary action against the officer.

The writer later reflected that by remaining silent in the face of such violence, he too had been complicit in wrongdoing.

Krishna rightly notes that while individual experiences of this tradition may vary, our attention must be directed towards the institution itself. Within the guru-shishya system, the guru's authority is absolute. He is under no obligation to explain why he accepts one person as a disciple and rejects another. The moment at which a disciple is deemed worthy of initiation is determined entirely by the guru's will.

This institution cannot function without the guru's unchecked authority. Since the question is being raised in the Indian context, it is impossible to ignore its deep entanglement with the caste system. Who is entitled to be a guru? Whom does he consider worthy of discipleship? Hindu mythic memory preserves two particularly instructive stories.

One is that of Dronacharya, who demanded that Ekalavya cut off his thumb as guru-dakshina, a token of gratitude to the teacher, even though he had never taught him.

The other is the story of Parashurama, from whom Karna received instruction after concealing his caste. When his caste was revealed, Karna was cursed to forget the knowledge he had acquired at the moment he would need it most.

In both stories, the disciple's caste and lineage become insurmountable obstacles to their legitimate acceptance.

Ironically, India's highest sports award bears the name of Dronacharya and hardly anyone has ever objected to this. This silence itself testifies to how deeply caste is embedded in our cultural unconscious. If we examine calls today for reviving the guru-shishya tradition, it becomes evident that this demand is largely an expression of the desire of so-called upper castes to reassert control over education.

Such demands are unlikely to come from Scheduled Caste or Scheduled Tribe communities, for it was precisely the guru-shishya system that historically barred them from educational spaces. A revival of this tradition would once again confine cultural capital to upper-caste groups. It is not difficult to imagine which gurus from which castes would be deemed worthy of producing disciples.

Modern education, by contrast, rests on the principle of equality. No one is barred from entry, at least theoretically. Indeed, special measures are taken to ensure access for those who were historically excluded from educational institutions. Admission does not depend on the discretion of an individual; it is governed by impersonal procedures.

In the guru-shishya tradition, however, the guru's will is supreme. Were such a system to be implemented today, there would be no need to speculate about which sections of the population would be excluded from education.

Equality in modern education is not limited to access alone. One of its broader aims is to establish the principle of equality within society itself. With the advent of modernity, the idea of universal access to education has gained steady acceptance. Knowledge is understood as a right, and it is the responsibility of the state to ensure that this right is realised.

Alongside this is the recognition that no domain of knowledge or skill belongs exclusively to any one community. Every field must remain open to all. Military education, for example, is not meant for a particular caste or for the defence of a royal lineage; it exists to protect society as a whole and is therefore open to everyone.

In today's educational system, curricula are shaped through collective deliberation rather than by the will of a single authority. A student is expected to work not with one teacher alone but with many. There are numerous ways of thinking and analysing, many modes of knowledge. Students cannot remain bound to a single individual; they must retain the freedom to choose. Their loyalty is not to a particular guru but to their field of inquiry.

Moreover, no field of knowledge exists in isolation; a wider intellectual horizon is essential. Such breadth cannot be achieved merely by being the disciple of one guru. Yet, as Aurobindo suggests, the Indian tradition insists that a disciple's loyalty must be directed to one guru alone.

The purpose of modern education is not to preserve the status quo but to transform it – and such transformation does not move in a single direction. The guru–shishya tradition, by contrast, functions to preserve social dominance rather than to unsettle it.

Modern education is founded on the freedom to question. The guru-shishya tradition does not permit this freedom. Within it, the disciple is expected to renounce her ego, efface herself entirely, and accept the guru's word as final.

The aim of modern education, however, is to cultivate an independent voice and autonomy. This often requires rejecting what is widely accepted.

A central objective of education is to expand the space for democratic thought and democratic feeling. Does the guru-shishya tradition help achieve this aim?

The reason the guru-shishya tradition is being celebrated so insistently in India today is that those in power no longer desire independent, critical minds. They seek obedient subjects, individuals trained to surrender before authority. The task of education is to warn against this tendency and to nurture a critical outlook. In this long walk, the guru-shishya tradition is not a support but an obstacle.

Apoorvanand teaches Hindi in Delhi University.

Source: Scroll
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