Morality Without Mythology: The Jain Proof

Morality does not descend from the clouds. It arises from consciousness. The great mistake of the West was to confuse revelation with reason and to think goodness must be commanded from heaven to exist on earth. Every prophet who claimed divine speech mistook thunder for thought. The Old Testament prophets were not moral philosophers; they were political engineers of a jealous god. Their “righteousness” was obedience, their “justice” was conquest. Their commandments, carved in stone, froze ethics into dogma. What began as awe of nature ended as fear of authority.

In the Hebrew Bible, morality begins with submission. “Thou shalt” is not an argument; it is a threat. The moral law is decreed, not discovered. When Moses orders the slaughter of Midianite children, or Samuel hacks Agag to pieces, or Elijah executes the prophets of Baal, we are witnessing the triumph of theology over conscience. Revelation becomes the mask of rage. A god who rewards faith and punishes curiosity cannot produce free morality; he produces slaves of conscience. The prophets were not moral exemplars; they were zealots enforcing divine policy. Their fury was not ethics—it was sanctified violence.

Yet morality does not need mythology. It needs empathy, logic, and restraint. The Jains of India proved this long before Europe imagined it possible. For twenty-five centuries they have lived without gods, without revelation, without apocalypse. They have never conquered, never crusaded, never coerced. Their ontology is atheistic, their ethics absolute. They hold that the universe is uncreated, eternal, self-governing—a vast moral mechanism in which every act has consequence. To live rightly is not to please a deity but to understand causality. A Jain does not fear hell; he fears harming.

Their philosophy is astonishingly complete. In the Tattvārthasūtra of Umāsvāti—their compact equivalent of Aristotle’s Metaphysics and Kant’s Groundwork combined—the entire structure of being and knowing is analyzed without reference to divine command. The universe consists of six eternal substances (dravya): soul (jīva), matter (pudgala), motion, rest, space, and time. These interact endlessly but are never created or destroyed. No god decides their order; law itself is sacred. It is a metaphysics of moral physics, an ethical cosmos without a cosmic tyrant. The Western mind, still seeking a Prime Mover, looks childish beside it.

The Jains’ epistemology is just as rigorous. Centuries before Descartes or Hume, they developed a precise theory of knowledge (pramāṇa)—perception, inference, and scripture—each subjected to verification. But their genius lies in anekāntavāda, the doctrine of many-sidedness, and syādvāda, conditional predication. They discovered that truth is perspectival: every judgment is true in one respect, false in another, indeterminate in yet another. Nothing is absolutely affirmed or denied without context. This is not moral relativism; it is logical humility. It anticipates modern physics, quantum logic, and dialectical reasoning. A statement like “the soul exists” is true under one condition (its experiential continuity) and false under another (its lack of material permanence). Such intellectual subtlety would take Europe two millennia to reach.

From this epistemology flows their ethics. To grasp that reality has infinite aspects is to reject fanaticism. To know that all beings possess consciousness (jīva) is to practice compassion. The Jain monk who sweeps the path before walking, lest he crush an insect, acts not out of superstition but ontological coherence. His ethics is not sentimental but scientific: he sees interdependence everywhere. Violence creates karmic friction, distorting the soul’s equilibrium. Non-violence (ahiṃsā) is not divine obedience; it is thermodynamic wisdom. Every act of harm disturbs the balance of existence; every act of restraint restores it. That is morality without mythology: ethics as cosmology.

Western theology built morality on fear. Jain philosophy built it on knowledge. The difference is civilizational. The Abrahamic mind needs surveillance to behave; the Jain mind needs understanding. In the Bible, virtue is enforced by divine command. In Jainism, virtue is deduced from universal law. The first produces guilt, the second responsibility. When a Jew, Christian, or Muslim does good, he hopes to please God; when a Jain does good, he avoids harm. One obeys; the other comprehends.

Jain thought also exhibits a continuity unmatched in the history of ideas. Greek philosophy vanished, revived, and transformed through Christianity. European rationalism rose and fell with the Church. But Jain philosophy—uninterrupted, textual, monastic, scholastic—has persisted for two and a half millennia. From Mahāvīra (6th century BCE) through Umāsvāti, Kundakunda, Haribhadra, Akalaṅka, Yaśovijaya, and Hemacandra, the chain of reasoning never broke. They produced systems of logic, epistemology, linguistics, and metaphysics rivaling anything in Athens or Königsberg. When Europe was burning witches, Jains were debating the subtleties of predication. When Augustine declared curiosity a sin, Jain monks classified six kinds of inference and seven kinds of doubt. Their intellectual civilization never needed a Renaissance because it never collapsed into ignorance.

This is not to romanticize asceticism. Jainism is austere, sometimes painfully so, but its severity arises from coherence, not cruelty. Its metaphysics demands that desire perpetuates bondage; thus renunciation is rational, not penitential. A monk’s celibacy is metaphysical hygiene. His silence is not submission but discipline. His non-violence is not weakness but ontological realism. For the Jains, to kill is to interfere with the self-propelled drama of being. To conquer another life is to thicken one’s own ignorance. They are, in effect, physicists of morality—measuring the ripple effects of intention.

No European moralist approached such precision until Spinoza. His Ethics—a geometry of virtue built on substance and necessity—is perhaps the closest Western equivalent. But even Spinoza retained a thin theism, a “God or Nature” compromise. The Jains needed none. They understood that morality can be purely naturalistic and still absolute. Goodness, for them, is not divine will but ontological harmony. Evil is distortion, not disobedience. In that sense, they were the world’s first consistent naturalists.

If morality depended on mythology, the Jains would have vanished. But they endure. Their survival is humanity’s proof that reason and compassion are sufficient for civilization. The West produced martyrs who died for faith; India produced monks who lived for harmlessness. One glorified crucifixion; the other sanctified restraint. When the prophets screamed about obedience, the Jains whispered about interdependence. History, deaf to whispers, called them passive. But in moral depth they outthought the prophets, outlived the empires, and out-reasoned the philosophers.

If we compare Jain ethics to the moral systems of Greece or Europe, the difference is not in intelligence but in innocence. The Greeks were brilliant but inconsistent. Socrates questioned, Aristotle systematized, and the Stoics disciplined the soul, but none broke the theological ceiling. Plato still spoke of the Good as divine form; Aristotle still needed an Unmoved Mover; even Epicurus, the atheist of antiquity, left gods in the sky as harmless ornaments. The Greeks began to rationalize morality but never secularized it. Their gods became metaphors, not principles. They had reason without renunciation.

The Jains achieved what the Greeks only imagined: a moral cosmology without gods. They did not simply detach ethics from religion—they replaced religion with ethics. For them, the soul is not created; it is co-eternal with matter. Its liberation is not a reward from God but a law of motion: every act of violence binds the soul with subtle matter, every act of restraint purifies it. Even Kant, two millennia later, failed to construct such a seamless natural moral law. He had to invoke the “moral law within and the starry heavens above,” and smuggle God back in to guarantee justice. Jain ethics needs no such metaphysical referee. Justice is automatic. Karma is physics, not theology.

Christian moral theology never reached this level of self-containment. It borrowed Jewish obedience and Greek abstraction, combining guilt with metaphysics. It made morality both divine decree and philosophical system, thereby producing a permanent contradiction. Augustine wept for sin while defending divine cruelty. Aquinas married Aristotle to Revelation and called it reason. The result was moral servitude disguised as love. The Western conscience became a battlefield between reason and obedience, never realizing that obedience itself is irrational.

Jain philosophy never suffered that fracture because it never surrendered thought to faith. Its logic, syādvāda, teaches that every statement must be qualified, every truth contextualized. This is intellectual non-violence—the refusal to absolutize one’s own view. To say “in some respect, this is true” (syāt asti) and “in some respect, it is not” (syāt nāsti) is to think ethically. A fanatic cannot use such language; a philosopher must. Jain logic thus becomes moral method. It is the dialectical antidote to the totalitarian impulse. In Europe, Hegel rediscovered dialectic through contradiction; the Jains had discovered it through compassion.

In this sense, Jainism and Buddhism are siblings, though Jain rigor is sterner and older. Both reject creator gods, both build morality on causation, both replace revelation with realization. But where Buddhism dissolves the self, Jainism preserves it. For the Buddha, liberation is cessation; for Mahāvīra, liberation is purification. The Buddhist denies an eternal soul; the Jain affirms it but makes it ethically responsible. Both paths converge in non-violence, but the Jain path is mathematically exact: it measures every act, every thought, every word in terms of its harm. Buddhism is psychological liberation; Jainism is ontological hygiene.

The Western world misunderstood both. It thought non-violence meant weakness, that celibacy meant escapism, that atheism meant amorality. But the Jains refute all three. Their celibacy is not repression—it is freedom from compulsion. Their non-violence is not passivity—it is the most active form of discipline imaginable. Their atheism is not nihilism—it is the highest affirmation of moral law. They built not cathedrals but civilizations of restraint. No Jain king ever led a crusade; no Jain text ever justified genocide; no Jain philosopher ever wrote that unbelievers deserve death. In a world built on war, they invented harmlessness and made it metaphysical.

Modern secular humanism, unknowingly, repeats Jain insight. When Bertrand Russell said, “The good life is one inspired by love and guided by knowledge,” he was restating ahiṃsā and jñāna in English. When Einstein declared that “a man’s ethical behavior should be based on sympathy, education, and social ties, not religious basis,” he was unknowingly channeling Umāsvāti. When logical empiricism declared that meaning depends on verification, it echoed the Jain insistence that truth is known through pramāṇa—tested experience, not divine decree. The Jains anticipated the Enlightenment by two millennia and lived it continuously without interruption. Europe rediscovered reason after the Dark Ages; India’s Jains never lost it.

The continuity of Jain thought is civilizational proof of its strength. Philosophies die when they depend on revelation; they survive when they depend on logic. Judaism splintered, Christianity reformed, Islam ossified, but Jainism evolved like mathematics—refining, commenting, extending, never collapsing. The Jain universities of ancient Vallabhi and Shravanabelagola produced generations of logicians, grammarians, astronomers, and metaphysicians while Europe’s monasteries debated angels on needles. Even under Mughal and British rule, their intellectual tradition persisted quietly, as rigorous as ever. No European school—neither Thomism, nor Scholasticism, nor Cartesianism—can claim such unbroken continuity.

This intellectual endurance is matched by ethical resilience. While religions fought holy wars, Jains practiced holy restraint. Their refusal to kill, even in self-defense, is not naivety but moral maximalism. They set the limit of conscience beyond what any theology could reach. To accuse them of impracticality is to confess one’s own moral laziness. They took non-violence to its logical conclusion because they believed logic demands it. If every being has consciousness, and every act of harm reverberates through the universe, then violence is not only unethical—it is irrational. To live harmlessly is to live intelligently.

Western morality still struggles with this. It speaks of human rights but slaughters animals. It preaches peace but builds armies. It celebrates charity but worships consumption. Its gods command love but thrive on fear. Jain morality exposes this hypocrisy by existing. The simple fact of a Jain monk’s life refutes the entire edifice of Western moral theology. A man who harms no creature, desires no possession, and worships no god stands as the moral superior of every prophet, priest, and philosopher who ever justified bloodshed in the name of the divine.

The paradox is that Jainism, the most rational and ethical of philosophies, remains the least known outside India. The world celebrates Greek reason, Christian compassion, and Buddhist serenity, yet ignores the one tradition that integrated all three. If moral philosophy had a natural hierarchy, Jainism would sit at its summit: logically precise as Aristotle, ethically uncompromising as Kant, compassionately universal as the Buddha, and metaphysically coherent as Spinoza—yet older than them all. It is the invisible foundation beneath humanity’s ethical evolution.

And still, it has never sought converts. It has never claimed monopoly on truth. It has never punished heresy. That is the mark of true confidence: the philosophy that knows it is right does not need followers. The prophets of revelation screamed; the Jains whispered. History remembers the noise, not the reason. But in the long moral ledger of civilization, it is the whisper that endures.

The future of morality lies not in worship but in understanding. Humanity’s ethical progress has always followed its epistemic progress. As knowledge expands, mythology contracts. The telescope dethroned the heavens; the microscope dethroned creation. What remains is not divine mystery but human responsibility. The Jains understood this thousands of years before Darwin or Newton: that the universe is self-regulating and indifferent, and that moral order arises not from divine command but from the intrinsic structure of reality. Their cosmos is lawful, not lorded; causal, not commanded. It needs no Creator because it is creative in itself.

That is why Jain ethics aligns perfectly with scientific rationalism. Both rest on the same premise: causality. Every cause produces an effect, every act leaves a trace, every harm rebounds. Karma, stripped of mysticism, is moral physics—the conservation of consequence. What science calls ecology, the Jains call ahiṃsā. To harm one life is to disturb an entire network of interdependence. This is not sentimental pacifism; it is ontological realism. In that sense, Jain ethics prefigures the entire modern environmental movement. Long before carbon emissions or climate models, Jain thinkers saw that violence against nature is violence against oneself. Their monks were the first environmentalists, the first ecologists of the soul.

Modern secular ethics is only now catching up. When Peter Singer argues for animal rights on the basis of sentience, he is rediscovering the Jain principle that consciousness is not a human monopoly. When environmentalists speak of interdependence and planetary balance, they echo the Jain ontology of living and non-living substances. When humanists insist that moral behavior does not require God, they are repeating what Mahāvīra taught before monotheism existed. The Western mind calls this progress; the Jain mind calls it continuity.

Even Darwinian evolution, properly understood, vindicates Jain morality. Cooperation, empathy, and restraint are evolutionary advantages. Species survive not through constant competition but through stable symbiosis. The Jains discovered this moral ecology without biology. They grasped that survival by compassion is superior to survival by conquest. The world that kills less lives longer. If nature’s law is interdependence, then non-violence is the rational adaptation. Violence may win wars but loses worlds. The Jains anticipated this truth long before science found its equations.

In politics too, the Jain spirit represents the highest possibility of civilization. A polity built on ahiṃsā would replace conquest with coexistence, hierarchy with harmony. The greatest experiments in modern democracy—the rule of law, human rights, pluralism—are secular translations of Jain ethics. The idea that no view holds absolute truth, that every citizen deserves respect, that dissent is valuable, that compromise is moral—all are applications of anekāntavāda in the civic sphere. Intellectual non-violence becomes political tolerance. The Constitution of India, secular and plural, unconsciously carries Jain DNA. Even Gandhi’s non-violent revolution, though expressed in Hindu and Christian terms, was metaphysically Jain. The spinning wheel was a moral statement: industry without exploitation, power without harm.

Western moral discourse still struggles under the shadow of guilt. It seeks redemption instead of restraint. It mistakes confession for correction. The prophets of sin offered forgiveness; the Jains offered prevention. A man who harms none needs no pardon. This is the cleanest moral arithmetic ever conceived. The West made morality theatrical—repentance, punishment, salvation. The Jains made it mechanical—cause, effect, consequence. In one world, the sinner kneels; in the other, he understands. One seeks mercy; the other seeks mastery over impulse. Between those two lies the difference between religion and reason.

Even in epistemology, Jain insight anticipates the modern scientific method. The doctrine of anekāntavāda—that reality is many-sided—prefigures the principle of falsifiability. Every hypothesis is provisional; every truth conditional. Just as the scientist knows his model approximates reality but never captures it entirely, the Jain philosopher knows his statement is true only from a standpoint. The result is intellectual humility. Fanaticism becomes impossible because certainty is never absolute. This humility is the foundation of science and democracy alike. In the age of artificial intelligence and algorithmic arrogance, Jain logic is the moral cure: to know that one’s own knowledge is partial.

What emerges from all this is not merely an ancient religion but a civilizational philosophy: a self-sustaining morality grounded in logic, causality, and empathy. The Jains do not pray to the universe; they participate in its equilibrium. They do not seek salvation through belief but through understanding. They have achieved the rare synthesis of metaphysical realism, logical empiricism, and ethical perfectionism. No other tradition has held all three together for so long without contradiction. Buddhism dissolved metaphysics into psychology; Christianity drowned ethics in theology; the Enlightenment rescued reason but amputated asceticism. Only Jainism preserved them in balance.

And yet, the world remains largely unaware. The West teaches Aristotle, Kant, and Nietzsche, but never Umāsvāti, Akalaṅka, or Hemacandra. Philosophy departments debate utilitarianism and deontology but ignore syādvāda, which could have saved them centuries of sterile argument. Moral philosophy still searches for an absolute law that does not require a legislator, unaware that the Jains solved this riddle twenty-five centuries ago. They built an ethical universe without a god, a logical system without paradox, and a social order without violence.

To understand the magnitude of that achievement, imagine Europe without monotheism. Imagine a civilization that never burned a witch, never crucified a dissenter, never waged a crusade, never colonized a continent, never declared an infidel. That civilization exists—it is Jain. It did not need apocalypse to find morality; it found morality in analysis. It did not need the myth of Eden; it saw that the fall of man is ignorance, and redemption is knowledge. The prophets of fear said man was fallen; the Jains said he was asleep. To wake up, not to worship, is salvation.

If humanity survives its technological adolescence, it will have to become Jain in spirit. A species armed with nuclear weapons, genetic engineering, and artificial intelligence cannot afford theological morality. Commandment cannot govern machines. Myth cannot guide science. Only a moral philosophy built on causality, non-violence, and interdependence can stabilize the future. Jainism is not ancient; it is futuristic. Its ontology fits cosmology; its logic fits computation; its ethics fits ecology. It is the blueprint for rational survival.

The tragedy of human history is that noise has always defeated nuance. The prophets screamed, and the world listened. The philosophers whispered, and the world forgot. The prophets of myth promised paradise but delivered empires; the philosophers of reason promised understanding and delivered peace. Yet civilization still worships the loud and forgets the wise. The Jain monk, silent, naked, walking barefoot through dust, harms no creature, holds no possessions, commands no armies—and yet he stands morally higher than every prophet who ever claimed divine speech. He is the negation of theology by conduct. His very existence exposes the fraud of revelation.

For what is revelation but a declaration that one man’s hallucination must be humanity’s truth? Every prophet who claimed to hear God’s voice demanded obedience; every philosopher who sought truth demanded inquiry. The two impulses—obedience and inquiry—cannot coexist. To obey is to suspend reason; to inquire is to suspend authority. The Jains took the second path completely. They made inquiry into a form of worship, knowledge into salvation, non-violence into science. Their faith, if it can be called faith, is in causality itself. The universe is moral because it is lawful. The soul evolves because it learns. The good life is not commanded; it is constructed through understanding.

Western philosophy reached fragments of this insight but never its fullness. Socrates asked men to examine their lives; Mahāvīra asked them to master their impulses. Spinoza defined virtue as understanding; Umāsvāti defined it as non-violence, which is understanding applied. Kant made morality universal through reason but still invoked heaven to ensure justice. The Jains needed no celestial guarantee. For them, justice is inherent in the fabric of existence: action creates consequence automatically. In their metaphysics, there is no moral loophole, no divine pardon, no last-minute redemption. Every being is responsible for itself—utterly, eternally, and rationally. That is both terrifying and liberating.

This metaphysical accountability is what modern humanity lacks. Theistic morality externalized responsibility: God judges. Secular materialism often trivializes it: nothing matters. The Jain worldview restores balance: everything matters because everything connects. Every action echoes through reality, binding or freeing consciousness. It is the most rigorous form of existential ethics ever articulated. Nietzsche’s proclamation that “God is dead” was an earthquake in Europe but an axiom in India. Jain thought never needed a God to die, because it never invented one to begin with. It was born post-theological.

In this light, Jainism is not merely a religion; it is the first humanist revolution. It dethroned divine authority twenty-five centuries before the Enlightenment. It replaced fear with knowledge, punishment with consequence, and confession with understanding. It is the unbroken bridge between metaphysics and morality, logic and compassion, science and spirit. Its monks anticipated moral psychology, cognitive discipline, and ecological ethics all in one stroke. Their silence is not escape from the world but resistance to its noise. Their nudity is not poverty but freedom from property. Their renunciation is not withdrawal but the ultimate rebellion against greed.

What remains astonishing is that such a system has survived in continuity while empires rose and fell around it. Jain thought is the world’s longest unbroken philosophical tradition—older than Christianity, Buddhism, and Confucianism; contemporary with the earliest Greek thinkers; and still alive. It has endured because it is rationally perfect. Every part reinforces the other: its ontology grounds its ethics, its logic disciplines its language, its metaphysics sustains its compassion. It is a closed system with open consequences—a moral universe that requires no miracle, no messiah, and no apocalypse.

Imagine, for a moment, if humanity had followed the Jain path instead of the prophetic one. There would have been no crusades, no jihads, no inquisitions, no genocides in the name of faith. There would have been philosophy instead of dogma, compassion instead of conquest, restraint instead of righteousness. The world would still have reasoned its way to science, but without the scars of superstition. Morality would have evolved from empathy, not obedience. Civilization would have advanced without slavery, without persecution, without divine justification for cruelty. The Jain vision is the lost alternative history of humanity—the path not taken.

And yet it is not too late. The twenty-first century stands on the precipice of power greater than any god ever imagined. Artificial intelligence, biotechnology, and planetary destruction have given man the attributes of deity but none of the wisdom. Theologies of command cannot restrain technology; only an ethics of understanding can. The future demands not belief but comprehension. Jain philosophy, with its insistence on causality, non-violence, and epistemic humility, is the only moral architecture capable of surviving modernity. It teaches us to see truth as perspectival, action as consequential, and compassion as rational necessity.

In that sense, Jainism is not ancient—it is avant-garde. Its metaphysics harmonizes with physics: both deny creation ex nihilo. Its logic harmonizes with computation: both rely on conditional reasoning. Its ethics harmonize with ecology: both insist on interdependence. The West, still seeking God in the sky, has not realized that the Jain has already found morality in matter. To exist harmlessly is to live scientifically. To act compassionately is to act logically. To know many-sided truth is to avoid totalitarianism. These are not spiritual slogans; they are survival laws.

The true measure of a civilization is not how many gods it worships but how few beings it harms. By that measure, the Jain stands supreme. In the entire span of recorded history, no Jain ruler led an army of conquest, no Jain priest ordered an execution, no Jain philosopher wrote a justification for violence. Their religion is the only one whose history contains no blood. The prophets of revelation promised peace after death; the Jains practiced it in life. The prophets offered commandments; the Jains offered comprehension. One sought to control humanity through fear; the other sought to liberate it through reason.

Morality, stripped to its essence, is the art of harmlessness. The Jains perfected it not through theology but through philosophy. Their achievement is not spiritual but intellectual—the discovery that goodness is a law, not a commandment. They replaced divine surveillance with rational conscience, sin with cause and effect, faith with clarity. They showed that you can be celibate, non-violent, compassionate, and atheistic all at once—and not merely personally but civilizationally.

The prophets gave humanity wars of righteousness; the Jains gave it the science of peace. The future will decide which survives. Every civilization that worships power perishes by it. Every civilization that understands restraint endures. The Jains, silent and logical, are still here. Their gods are metaphors, their temples equations, their scriptures algorithms of conduct. They did not wait for salvation—they calculated it.

When the last prophet’s echo fades and the last mythology crumbles under its own contradictions, morality will still stand—barefoot, non-violent, and reasonable. It will look remarkably like a Jain monk. And the world will finally understand that the greatest revelation was never written in stone; it was discovered through silence.

Citations 

1. Tattvārthasūtra of Umāsvāti (2nd century CE), trans. Nathmal Tatia, Jain Publishing, 1994.
2. Ācārāṅga Sūtra (1.4.1–3), Sūtrakṛtāṅga Sūtra (I.11), in The Sacred Books of the East, ed. Max Müller, vols. 22 & 45.
3. B.K. Matilal, The Central Philosophy of Jainism (Anekāntavāda), L.D. Institute of Indology, 1981.
4. Piotr Balcerowicz, Jaina Epistemology in Historical and Comparative Perspective, Motilal Banarsidass, 2001.
5. Paul Dundas, The Jains, 2nd ed., Routledge, 2002.
6. Hermann Jacobi, “Jaina Philosophy,” in Encyclopaedia of Religion and Ethics, ed. James Hastings, 1910.
7. Christopher Key Chapple, Nonviolence to Animals, Earth, and Self in Asian Traditions, SUNY Press, 1993.
8. John Cort, Jains in the World: Religious Values and Ideology in India, Oxford University Press, 2001.
9. Bertrand Russell, Why I Am Not a Christian (1927).
10. Albert Einstein, “Religion and Science,” New York Times Magazine, 9 November 1930.
11. Peter Singer, Animal Liberation (1975).
12. Charles Darwin, The Descent of Man (1871).
13. Baruch Spinoza, Ethics (1677).
14. Immanuel Kant, Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals (1785).
15. Mahāvīra, Uttarādhyayana Sūtra, chs. 10–29.
16. Akalaṅka, Tattvārtharājavārtika (8th century CE).
17. Hemacandra, Yogaśāstra, ed. A. B. Dhruva, Bombay Sanskrit Series, 1907.