Swearing on the Gita

When Rishi Sunak placed his hand on the Bhagavad Gita to take his oath to serve as Prime Minister of Britain in October 2022, it was, for many, a quiet moment of cultural pride. A sacred text, carried across generations and continents, now resting at the heart of British public life. It felt, in some ways, like history folding gently into the present, a text first brought into English by Charles Wilkins in 1785 now resting in the hands of a British Prime Minister. 

He was not alone. Following the 2024 general election, a number of Hindu Members of Parliament also chose to swear their oath on the Gita. Traditions that once felt distant now sit comfortably within the rhythms of public life in the West.[1] 

And yet, as I watched, I found myself reflecting on what it means to swear upon a text like the Gita. 

Representing truth

For those less familiar, the Bhagavad Gita is one of the most revered texts within Hinduism: a philosophical and spiritual conversation set on the battlefield of the Mahabharata, between Krishna, understood by many as an incarnation of God, and his disciple, Arjuna. 

I wasn’t questioning the sincerity of the moment. Nor the reverence it represents. But something a little deeper. Something I had felt before, long before Parliament, in very different surroundings. 

Living in London, about a year before I left for monastic life in India, I remember a conversation that has stayed with me ever since. 

At the time, I was part of a Hindu temple community, learning what it meant to live under the guidance of a guru. I was still finding my way, learning what it meant to submit, to trust, to follow. One evening, I was called to sit beside my guru in his room at the temple. He spoke gently, almost fatherly, as though preparing me for something ahead. 

“Look,” he said, “when you become a monk, you may see all sorts of flaws and failures around you. But remember, the guru is pure. Whatever he does is divine.” 

He paused, then continued, more quietly. 

“If there are women around him, even in close proximity, he remains pure. You must never doubt that.” 

I remember listening carefully. Wanting to understand. Wanting, in many ways, to believe. 

‘Because that’s what we do’

This was not unfamiliar to me. I had grown up in a world where faith was rarely something you stood back from and analysed. It was received, lived, and carried forward. In many Hindu and Sikh families, what your parents followed, you followed. Questions did arise, but they did not always find space to grow. 

I remember a cousin once asking, quite simply, why he had to hold a coconut, covered in sandalwood paste, during a ritual. He was not being difficult. He just asked, “Why?” 

The answer came gently, but firmly. “Because that’s what we do.” 

I recognised that world. In many ways, it had shaped me. And yet, even then, something in what my guru had said did not quite sit easily within me. 

I would not have framed it as a question about truth at the time. But looking back, I can see that something in me was searching for ground that would not shift. 

As I began to read and learn from the sacred Hindu epics during my monastic training, the question seemed to follow me there. 

In the great epic, the Mahabharata, truth is honoured, even revered. Yudhishthira, one of the Pandava brothers who stands alongside Krishna, is known for his commitment to it. His integrity is such that it is said his chariot floated slightly above the ground. 

And yet, there comes a moment in the battle where that truth bends. 

At the urging of Krishna, Yudhishthira speaks words that are technically true yet intended to mislead. The effect is immediate. His chariot, we are told, touches the ground. 

The tension of truth

The story lingers over the moment. Something has shifted. Even in the service of dharma, the bending of truth is not without cost. 

Within the tradition, this moment is often understood as a tension. A point where truth, duty, and the preservation of dharma, the moral and cosmic order, are held together in a way that is not easily resolved. Life, in this telling, is rarely simple. Even the most righteous may find themselves navigating difficult and layered choices. 

I understood that world and I lived within it for many years. And yet, the question lingered. 

If truth can bend under the demands of dharma, if it can be shaped by circumstance or duty, where does one go to find something that does not shift? 

It took me time to realise that what I was wrestling with was not simply a few difficult stories. It was something deeper. The way truth itself was being understood. 

In the Hindu world I had inhabited, truth was never reduced to a single dimension. It was not simply about stating what is factually correct. It was something to be realised, something to be lived into. It moved alongside dharma, and was woven into the fabric of life. I began to notice this in small, ordinary ways. 

I remember travelling in India and asking a taxi driver how far the journey would be, or how long it might take. The answer was often given with confidence, and often with optimism. It was not quite accurate and not quite untrue either. It seemed, at times, to reflect what the moment required rather than what was strictly the case. He was telling me what he thought I wanted to hear. It would be easy to dismiss this as exaggeration. But over time, I began to sense that something deeper was at play.

Truth, in that context, did not always carry the same sharp edges. It could be softened by relationship, shaped by expectation, held more loosely. 

And these questions were never only philosophical for me. They were deeply personal. 

I was raised in the West. I still remember, as a child in primary school, being asked by a teacher, “Are you telling the truth?” There was a weight to that question. A seriousness that I did not fully understand at the time, but I felt it. 

There was a sense that truth mattered in a very particular way. That it stood on its own, and that one’s words either aligned with it or did not. 

Years later, those early impressions returned to me in unexpected ways. 

In my final year as a monk, I fell seriously ill and was taken to the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville, Florida. My mind was unsettled, restless and searching for quiet. 

He loved us first

One afternoon, the devotees took me to a nearby beach. It was wide, expansive and for the first time in a while, I felt I could breathe. I remember that moment vividly to this day. 

My orange robes catching in the wind, the wide stretch of sand before me, and in the distance, a man who had clearly noticed me first. He bent down and began to write slowly into the sand, as though he had been waiting. 

As I walked closer, the words became clear. 

“Jesus Loves You.” 

I did not fully understand what I was looking at. I did not know what to do with it. But something in it met me. 

And perhaps that is why moments like these still make me pause. 

Watching a hand rest on the Bhagavad Gita, hearing the words of an oath spoken with sincerity, I am reminded of a question that has remained quietly with me over the years. It is not something I felt the need to resolve quickly. It did not press itself forward. But it never quite went away. 

Over time, I have found myself drawn, not by argument, but by the possibility that truth might not need to be held together by us. That it might hold us. 

And that, perhaps, has been the beginning of a different kind of understanding. 

References

1. Sacred Hindu Text Presented to the House of Commons, 24th May 2024

Going Deeper

For readers who would like to understand the wider spiritual, philosophical and cultural background to this topic, these works may be helpful:

• The Bhagavad Gita (trans. Eknath Easwaran or Radhakrishnan)

          A foundational Hindu text exploring duty, devotion, and the nature of reality through a dialogue between Krishna and Arjuna.

• The Difficulty of Being Good by Gurcharan Das

          A thoughtful and accessible exploration of dharma and ethics in Indian thought, drawing deeply from the Mahabharata.

• The Reason for God by Timothy Keller

          A clear and pastoral introduction to the Christian understanding of truth, faith, and the person of Christ.