Shraddha, Pitr and Pindadana: The Inner Meaning Behind the Ritual
When we hear the word śrāddha, it sounds simple. And the rituals we perform also seem simple. But it isn’t actually that simple—at least not once we understand its real intent. So let’s take each point of dīkṣādh one by one, and at the end we’ll talk about why śrāddha feels hard, why we do it, and why—even after grasping its real purpose—we still hesitate to do it. Let’s begin.
The moment we say “śrāddha,” three questions inevitably arise in our minds:
Why do we do śrāddha?
How do we do śrāddha?
Is doing śrāddha necessary?
Most of us think we know the answers: we do śrāddha for the upliftment of our ancestors (pitṛ); in śrāddha we feed a brāhmaṇa; and doing śrāddha is very necessary. Yet, despite knowing and doing all this, we’ve drifted far from the true meanings and purposes behind these three points. So the real question becomes: what do these things actually mean?
What does śrāddha mean? If it’s for the deliverance of the pitṛ, then who exactly are the pitṛ? We feed brāhmaṇas—what does that actually signify? And there are other acts in śrāddha too—like piṇḍadāna. What does that mean?
First, we need to understand that our scriptures—Veda, Purāṇa, Upaniṣad, Rāmāyaṇa, Mahābhārata—are composed in a symbolic style. Because we don’t grasp that symbolism, many vital truths about knowledge have slipped out of our hands. So to understand śrāddha, we must try to understand the words pitṛ, brāhmaṇa, śrāddha, and piṇḍa. Let’s take them one by one, starting with pitṛ.
The true meaning of pitṛ is “impressions” or saṁskāra—the imprints of our actions. Whatever we do—through mind, speech, or the senses—leaves an imprint on the citta (the subconscious mind). So pitṛ really means saṁskāra, the impressions of our actions. In English, you could call them “impressions.” Every act—of thought, word, or deed—etches a mark on the citta, the subconscious. Over not just one birth but many, countless impressions pile up on the subconscious mind.
When the soul leaves the body, these impressions determine the next birth. Each time we die—each time we drop the body—these very saṁskāras set the course for our next life: where and how we will be born. Because these impressions are the origin, the cause, of our next birth, they’re called pitṛ—“progenitors,” janaka. Janaka means “one who produces.” In Sanskrit, pitṛ (which colloquially becomes pitar) carries that sense of “father/progenitor”—the cause.
So our saṁskāras, the imprints of our actions, are what pitṛ refers to—not, as we commonly think, our relatives who have passed on like a father, grandfather, or great-grandfather. Here pitṛ doesn’t mean our family members or relations; it means the impressions of our own karma.
These impressions are of two kinds: positive and negative. Though they reside in the subconscious, they surface according to circumstances and strongly influence the conscious mind. For example: if someone has an old saṁskāra of smoking, the moment a cigarette is offered, that impression rushes up from the subconscious to the conscious mind and prompts the person to smoke. The reverse can also happen: in the absence of such an impression, even if a cigarette is offered, the person refrains.
In other words, whatever defect or desire appears on the conscious plane—say, greed—there is a matching impression already lodged in the subconscious. The conscious impulse automatically pulls the corresponding subconscious imprint up to the surface. This is an automatic process; we don’t “do” anything. In a flash, the subconscious impression rises and amplifies what’s on the conscious mind. That’s why the subconscious is so important.
If our saṁskāras are positive, there’s no real problem—love arises and grows; we benefit. But when they’re negative—lust, anger, greed, attachment, pride, jealousy, likes and dislikes, envy, comparison, slander—those impressions rise up and throw us into suffering. How? Suppose a little anger appears in the conscious mind. Immediately the deep-seated impression of anger surges up and multiplies it many times over. A small trigger becomes a big flare-up, and even the angry person wonders, “I didn’t think I was that angry—where did this much anger come from?” That’s the trouble with stored impressions.
Saṁskāras exist on three levels: kriyamāṇa, prārabdha, and sañcita. The marks of actions we’re doing now are kriyamāṇa. The marks from the previous birth are prārabdha. Those from many births long before are sañcita. The older the impression, the harder it is to release—like an ink stain: wash it immediately and it’s easy; wait, and it sets in.
It seems that these three levels—kriyamāṇa, prārabdha, and sañcita—are what the ritual language calls father, grandfather, and great-grandfather: pitā, pitāmaha, and prapitāmaha. In śrāddha we say, “Offer for the father, the grandfather, the great-grandfather.” We assume they’re our forefathers, but symbolically they’re our three kinds of impressions. The ones we’re creating in this life—say over sixty or seventy years—are kriyamāṇa, and easier to erase. The previous birth’s are prārabdha—call these the “grandfather” level. And the very old ones are prapitāmaha—the “great-grandfather” level. So when we offer to pitṛ as father, grandfather, great-grandfather, it points to our own impressions—not literal ancestors. Now, moving on.
Every person wants freedom from these impressions. “Deliverance of the pitṛ” really means the deliverance of our own impressions. It is not the liberation of some relative or loved one. Why not? Because on the spiritual plane, no one can liberate anyone else. I may wish to liberate my father—but that isn’t possible.
Each person must settle their own karma and its fruits. That’s the karmic law we’ve often discussed. The one who does the action receives its fruit—no one else. And to be free of those fruits, one must make one’s own effort. On the material plane we can transfer wealth or goods—write a will and pass on property. But spiritually we cannot transfer our virtues, our purity, or our merit. We cannot hand over our knowledge or purity to another. We can give guidance, yes—but the person must purify themselves and free themselves. That’s karmic law. So if we still imagine we’re “redeeming our relatives,” we haven’t understood karma at all.
We cannot give anything “from outside” to those who’ve left the body. Whatever they did, they themselves must face and finish in their next birth. Keep this firmly in mind. Now, let’s take the next term: brāhmaṇa.
During śrāddha, we feed a brāhmaṇa for the upliftment of the pitṛ. What does “feeding a brāhmaṇa” truly mean? Its inner meaning is to nourish and strengthen our own brahmatva—our own Self-nature, our Brahman-consciousness. Externally we invite a brāhmaṇa and feed him—that’s the symbol. Internally, we must nourish our own Brahman-hood.
To “strengthen brahmatva” is to live in the understanding “I am not the body; I am the pure, intelligent, conscious energy—the Self. And everyone else is the same pure conscious Self.” To understand this, to know it, and to live in it—that is nourishing brahmatva. As we feed the brāhmaṇa outwardly and affirm brahmatva inwardly, love, compassion, service, cooperation, acceptance, surrender—these noble feelings grow. And that very brahmatva burns up the negative impressions in the citta.
So why do we feed brāhmaṇas in śrāddha? For the deliverance of the pitṛ—meaning: only when we strengthen our inner Brahman-feeling will the stored impressions of lust, anger, greed, attachment, envy, likes-dislikes, etc., be dissolved and freed.
There’s a story in the Bhāgavata Purāṇa about King Daksha. It says Daksha married Prasūti, daughter of Svāyambhuva Manu, and had sixteen daughters. The fifteenth daughter was named Svadhā. Daksha dedicated Svadhā to the pitṛ. Here, Svadhā means “to hold the Self”—to abide in one’s true Self-nature. Offering Svadhā to the pitṛ means: to live established in the Self for the sake of freeing our impressions. The same truth expressed two ways—through the external rite of feeding a brāhmaṇa and through this tale of Daksha giving Svadhā to the pitṛ. The essence is one: hold the Self; by holding the Self, the pitṛ (impressions) are delivered.
So, keep the ritual alive—otherwise we might forget the inner meaning altogether. The symbol helps us remember the reality behind it.
The Bhāgavata also says: of Daksha’s sixteen daughters, thirteen were given to Dharma; the fourteenth, Svāhā, was given to the gods; and the fifteenth, Svadhā, was given to the pitṛ. Again, Svadhā means “to hold the true Self.” In the Vedas, sva can mean the body (“I am the body”) or the Self (“I am the soul”). Here it clearly means the Self. If we live as the Self, the stored impressions in the citta will be freed. So both the tale and the feeding of a brāhmaṇa teach the same thing: to be free of impressions, hold brahmatva—the Self.
Now, the third word: śrāddha itself. The word śrāddha comes from śraddhā. Etymologically, it is śrat (an indeclinable that intensifies) + the root dhā (“to hold”). So śraddhā means “to hold firmly what is excellent”—to hold knowledge and virtues. Thus, for the deliverance of impressions, sustaining knowledge or sustaining virtues is śrāddha. In other words, śrāddha means to hold knowledge or to hold virtues. Therefore, its necessity is self-evident; it’s not about belief or no belief.
When we look at śrāddha purely as ritual, thoughtful people wonder, “Should I do it or not? Does it help?” If my forefathers did good, they got their due; in a previous life I too lived, died, and am now here paying off my own karma. If those from my prior life are doing śrāddha for me now, what am I getting from it? Nothing—because I must live out my own karma. That thought naturally arises.
But once we grasp the spiritual meaning—that śrāddha is not for someone else at all, but for the deliverance of our own impressions—then śrāddha becomes indispensable. Our sages wove such festivals and rites into life precisely so that, leaning on knowledge, we could stay free of sorrow. Over time, we forgot the inner truth and clung only to the outer ritual. The remedy now is to understand the real meaning and perform the ritual with that awareness—not to abandon the ritual, but to remember the truth behind each act.
Now, that’s household śrāddha. The scriptures also describe Gayā-śrāddha. Many of you know: there is a place called Gayā where people go to perform śrāddha. I asked someone and they said, “Gayā-śrāddha is prescribed for pitṛ who are displeased—go there to appease them.” Let’s examine the word Gayā.
Gayā is formed from ga + ya. Gayā refers to the life-forces (prāṇa) that reside in the vijñānamaya kośa (the “intellect sheath”). The scriptures speak of six sheaths: annamaya, prāṇamaya, manomaya, vijñānamaya, hiraṇmaya, and ānandamaya. The prāṇa dwelling in the vijñānamaya kośa are called gaya, so the abode of those gaya prāṇa is Gayā. In short, Gayā signifies the vijñānamaya kośa itself.
What’s special about the vijñānamaya? Below it is the manomaya kośa, where both pure and impure thoughts arise. But in the vijñānamaya kośa, intellect and thought are pure—unstained. So “to dwell in Gayā” means: abide in the vijñānamaya kośa—purify mind and intellect.
People say, “Our pitṛ are angry; go to Gayā to pacify them.” Spiritually, it means: for our hard, stubborn impressions—like anger or ego—we need Gayā-śrāddha. These are tough impressions; we struggle to be free of them. Gayā-śrāddha means: abide in the vijñānamaya, purify mind-intellect. Then even the hardest impressions can be dissolved.
At the very start of the Bhāgavata Purāṇa (in the Māhātmyā), there’s the story of Gokarṇa and Dhundhukārī. Due to his evil deeds, Dhundhukārī became a preta (a restless, fallen state). His brother Gokarṇa performed Gayā-śrāddha for him, yet Dhundhukārī was not freed. Only when Dhundhukārī himself listened to the Bhāgavata did he gain release from pretatva.
So what is pretatva? It isn’t a physical state. To become a preta means the soul, bound by sense-attachments, falls into degeneration. Such a fallen soul does not immediately obtain a womb; it must wait. The scriptures say two kinds of souls don’t get immediate rebirth: the very exalted and the very debased. Ordinary souls—like most of us—leave one body and quickly take another, like a leech shifting from one leaf to the next, not fully letting go before catching hold of the next.
So when Gokarṇa’s Gayā-śrāddha didn’t free Dhundhukārī, it implies that, just as money can be transferred but inner purity cannot, mind-intellect purification is non-transferable. To rise from pretatva—that is, from downfall—one must strive oneself. Only by purifying one’s own mind and intellect can the degrading impressions be shed. Hence, doing Gayā-śrāddha outwardly won’t “redeem” some ancestor—and even for our own hard impressions, we must actually live in the vijñānamaya (purify mind-intellect) to be free.
Now, in Gayā-śrāddha people also do piṇḍadāna. What is this piṇḍa we offer? On the material level, when we mix water into ground barley flour, scattered particles come together into a solid mass—the dough. That solid ball is a piṇḍa.
Spiritually, we must do the same with our scattered thoughts and the feelings hidden behind them: gather them up and, by adding the water of knowledge, give them a solid, handled form. How? First, carefully observe which feelings sit behind which thoughts. Say there is hatred behind some thought. How did that hatred arise? Likely there were things about someone that I really disliked, and I allowed that dislike to harden into hatred.
Now we must bring in knowledge: No two people are the same. Everyone has their own likes and dislikes. Why am I insisting my preferences are “right” and imposing them on others? I like speaking softly; someone else speaks loudly—that’s their preference. Why am I forcing mine onto them?
When this understanding becomes clear—and we keep it in awareness—one day the very thing I disliked may stop bothering me. Earlier, my dislike was generating hatred. Now, with this knowledge—everyone’s preferences differ; some of mine annoy others and vice versa—I will no longer let hatred arise inside.
And remember the earlier mechanism: when a feeling doesn’t appear on the conscious level, the matching subconscious impression, even if it rises up, finds nothing to amplify and becomes ineffective. Ineffective means the negative feeling is finished—its deliverance has happened.
So piṇḍadāna means: gather your own thoughts and feelings into a “piṇḍa” by clearly seeing them, then offer them up through knowledge—let them go.
Ritually, the flour piṇḍa is fed to a cow. In Sanskrit, go means cow, and it also means consciousness. So we feed the physical piṇḍa to the cow, and the spiritual piṇḍa—our clarified feeling—we “feed” to go, i.e., place it in consciousness. When we place it in consciousness, just as a cow eats the dough, consciousness “consumes” that knowledge-formed piṇḍa—and the corresponding negative impression dissolves. That is piṇḍadāna.
One last point: many people carry fear around śrāddha. Even after hearing these meanings, they worry, “What if the pitṛ get angry and harm us?” That sense of “harm” hides an important truth: we must diligently free our pitṛ—that is, our impressions. If lust, anger, greed, attachment, pride, jealousy remain inside, they will indeed harm us. The difference is: not our forefathers, but our impressions cause the harm.
So, for the elevation of our personality and consciousness, we must become free of these defects—and that becomes possible when we do śrāddha: when we hold knowledge and virtues within, so we can be free of our own impressions.
In short, I’ve tried to bring some awareness to śrāddha: if we keep the spiritual meaning alive behind the ritual acts, śrāddha becomes truly meaningful. Clinging to ritual alone has no value. Perform the rites, yes—but with the inner understanding of what they signify. Then benefit is certain—because our real life-trouble is our saṁskāras. They keep surfacing—now anger, now desire—and keep us restless. To be free of them, we must do śrāddha.