Summary
The first part of
the poem "On the birch leaves of eternity" is a richly symbolic and
lyrical exploration of life, nature, and spiritual awakening. It begins by
depicting the eternal music of nature, which reflects the cyclical yet
ever-changing rhythms of life. The scene then shifts to Uttara, who encounters
a hermit dressed in green near a waterfall, symbolizing the harmony of nature
and spiritual wisdom.
The second part
of the poem delves into philosophical reflections on beauty, desire, and the
nature of existence. The dialogue between Uttara and the monk, Anand,
continues, exploring the transient and eternal aspects of life.
The third part of
the poem continues the deep philosophical dialogue between Uttara and the monk,
Anand, exploring themes of beauty, desire, the transient nature of existence,
and the pursuit of truth.
The fourth part
of the poem delves into the nature of beauty, the soul's journey, and the quest
for truth, with Uttara and Anand continuing their philosophical discourse.
In this fifth
part, the dialogue between Anand and Uttara continues, exploring deep
philosophical themes about life, illusion, and truth. Uttara reflects on the
transient nature of life, expressing that moments are fleeting and enchanting.
Anand, now detached from illusions, urges detachment from worldly attachments,
yet acknowledges that life, despite its impermanence, leaves deep imprints. He
questions the purpose of life's grand play, suggesting it's all a mental
construct.
In the concluding
part, the narrative delves into the profound inner turmoil and reflections of
the protagonist, grappling with the complexities of existence, knowledge, love,
and the ultimate search for truth. The "churning of intellectual
nectar" symbolizes the intense process of introspection and emotional
struggle, leading to a deep silence that encompasses both the pain and the
beauty of life.
The Poem
On the birch
leaves of eternity,
the intoxicating
music of nature plays.
Fleeting in its
melody,
life, in the form
of entrancing music,
breaks the
rhythms of its own cycle.
In the flowing
waters of the stream,
a pot dipped,
head held high,
Uttara gazed
,
from the rocks
where the waterfall fell,
from far off
a hermit
approached,
dressed in
emerald robes.
Like the spectrum
of seven colors,
or a thousand
shades, radiating sunlight,
the golden lotus
in the water's web,
uplifting the
brilliant dawn.
Like flowers
wielding weapons,
the overwhelming
fragrance fades,
scattering
ambrosia like the moonlight.
Light shines
everywhere,
as if silver
rainbows bathe the jewels of the earth.
Who comes, like
the spring breeze,
onto an untouched
yet familiar land,
like the eternal
ebb and flow of the ocean?
A realization
dawned—
this is the
heart, the horizon,
the moonlit
essence of the night.
The brilliance of
existence,
a divine light in
a circular form.
Light upon
light,
there is no
darkness.
Uttara spoke to
her heart—
Who are you? Who
are you?
A heart-lotus
blossoming,
fresh and pure,
newly blooming.
A soft, soothing
joy
from your touch
at my feet,
dispersing
tremors deep within.
A new season's
colors arrive,
sweetly fragrant
and inviting.
Unfathomable
intoxication stirs,
life trembles in
every particle.
Fresh as rain
from the azure sky,
the drenched
earth,
filled with the
nectar of life,
birth after
birth, awakening.
Who are you? Who
are you?
In my heart and
mind,
a thousand golden
lotuses bloom.
**Life**
Now filled with
the nine emotions of meaning,
the ocean of the
mind has always been calm.
Why has the tide
suddenly risen today?
Why has this
inexplicable mystery emerged uninvited?
Why is the mind
restless now?
I observed the
flames continuously kindling on earth,
today, why has my
very consciousness become disoriented?
Why has the
twelve-hued chariot of dawn
stopped right
here?
Why does the beautiful
one, the goddess,
stand firm,
pulling at my consciousness?
This rain of
vibrant colors,
why do the
fragrant blossoms bloom,
each varied and
exquisite?
Why does the bee,
greedy for nectar, become restless?
Everything has
taken on a new and novel guise.
The empty
courtyard is brimming with patterns.
Who are you,
deity?
Whose arrival has
graced us?
The dormant
strings of the veena resonate on their own,
for whom is the
mind now completely surrendered?
Why have earth
and sky become lost
in a transcendent
purity,
everything damp
and vibrant?
Where shall I
place this? Where shall I safeguard it?
The mind has
surrendered, defeated.
Gazing at joy
rushing by,
with a bowed head
and a smile, I spoke,
“I bow to you,
Lord!
How cultured is
this greeting—
may you flourish,
beloved!”
What service
shall I offer, O seeker?
What service will
you require, O spirited one?
I pondered
within.
Such is the
anomaly of this nature.
I beheld it—
the gleaming
waves cascade on a luminous forehead,
as the wild locks
sway and dance,
maddened like a
moonbeam,
parched like a
restless serpent.
The silver light
washes over.
A hint of natural
beauty unfolds.
With a new
face,
the lotus at the
root of the ears blooms.
Drunken eyes are
enamored by the dew,
that creation
astounds.
How astonishing
is this form,
this soft light,
like moonlit warmth!
In garb of white,
so serene,
she appears as an
unparalleled enchantress.
The overflowing
golden jug of water
is compelled to
her intoxicating presence.
A line drawn in
the eyes, like the trace of kohl,
has never been
seen even by the finest of flowers.
The soft,
delicate fingers quiver
like the strands
of fluid pearls,
an exquisite
moment of beauty,
the very
definition of wonder.
She examined it
closely,
a golden pitcher
overflowing,
and the monk
asked,
“Why do the
seven-colored sunbeams
dance upon the
waves,
undulating and
restless?”
Uttara gazed
intently,
her eyes like
elongated lotuses,
fixing on the
monk.
The thick lashes
scattered
like the petals
of a blooming lotus.
Sweat glistened
on her cheeks,
as saffron dust
fell,
blending with the
dew-kissed pearls.
Movement was
gentle, like the surface of water;
this
"why" became a sharp wheel
spinning within
Uttara's heart.
Why did the
bright flame
pierce through
her very being?
Her long,
lotus-like lashes quivered,
and on those
thick lashes,
tremors
rippled.
In a moment of
bashful delight,
someone seemed to
have scattered
the saffron of
modesty
over the dewy
petals.
Uttara
shivered,
as though struck
by an arrow,
and with a smile
that was bittersweet,
she spoke
softly,
“Lord!
This is the interplay
between the
transcendent and the mundane,
each challenging
its own identity.
Where does one
person's supremacy end,
and another's
begin?
It’s a reversal
of power,
a struggle within
all.
Beauty asserts
itself,
without a doubt
water is simply water.
One purpose binds
it all—
whether the
vessel be golden or clay,
it is merely the
diversity,
the disparity of
garments.
It is just a
distinction between vessels;
the same water
flows within all.”
Delight bloomed
in her words,
“Perhaps you are
deceived.”
A laugh escaped
Uttara's lips,
and she observed
the monk
with a teasing
smile,
then glanced at
her own
golden pitcher
filled to the brim.
With lowered
lashes, she said, “Lord!
The undulating,
vibrant waves—
the rainbow of
rays
entwines the pool
of water.
Water knows not
deceit.
Deceit.
Two water
vessels,
one filled,
another empty;
it is merely an
illusion of sight.
Who has tasted,
who is tasting—
it is difficult
to tell.
This is a dance
of satisfaction and dissatisfaction.
Why then does one
entangle
with nature in
such a way?
Why is the sound
of the dance,
so filled with
deceptive echoes?
Both forms exist
eternally,
yet they lie in opposition.”
With a joyful
face and a fulfilled soul, the spirit spoke, “Goddess! We are renunciants,
those who have
forsaken riches and splendor.
We dwell not in
the individual but in the collective.
Oh Moon!
You are the
poignant definition of untouched distance.
Still, the
restless sea,
yearning for your
embrace,
flutters its vast
tidal wings in vain hope,
clashing against
the shore,
crashing
endlessly.
And Chakor!
With half-closed,
tear-filled eyes,
you gaze at the
Moon,
simmering in a
quiet agony.
This is the ruins
of unfulfilled love,
the known
outcome.
This is not
loyalty,
but a blinded
illusion, dear friend.
Uttara spoke to
the monk—
The flame ignites
the lamp from its essence.
Is this focused
devotion,
this complete
surrender not true?
The monk observed
her for a moment—
“Goddess! This is
merely the fervent plight
of an ego,
entangled in its own delusions.
It is not total
surrender,
but a
self-centered desire.
True surrender is
liberated surrender—
the downfall of
the ‘self’ or ‘ego’.
This is not
surrender, Goddess!
The state is of
the ego.
It cannot
comprehend or live through itself.”
Uttara
replied,
“In the identity
of the 'So’ and 'Ahm',
where does the
difference lie?
The path is
exceedingly slippery, monk.
The mind cannot
grasp even while knowing.”
The monk
said,
“Dear
Goddess,
the steps must be
steady and firm.
In this dazzling
chaos, only the wise can stand firm.”
Uttara responded,
“Monk!
The embellishment
of immortality
is the
ever-changing nature.
How enchanting
are its moments!
Honeybee! Why
shun a mere moment
of honeyed
sweetness?
Just one sip of
the cup of Kadamba,
does it not bring
joy?
Bhante!
Why is nature so
insistent,
so fluid and
vibrantly changing?
Anand spoke
gently—
“Dear
friend!
Nature is
fleeting and ever-changing.
The more quickly
something perishes,
the more alluring
its charm.
Flowers
scatter,
and only
fragrance remains in the wind.
Why this attraction
to transience?
This is nature's
turmoil.
Destruction bears
its own ugliness.
Why does the
blind enchanted heart
linger upon
it?
Oh Lord!
If that is the
case,
then why,
whenever Sati was
consumed,
did the count of
one head increase upon Shiva?
Why, Lord?
Listen!
In the midst of
the impermanent and the eternal,
how indifferent
it becomes?
Here lies the
truth.
Beauty warps in
its own intolerance.
It is falsehood,
not the truth of consciousness.
Where have those
moon-like faces gone?
Where have the
lotus-like eyes disappeared?
Where are the
lush green Kadamba blooms?
Where have those
forms of harmonious dawn gone?
Ashes! Ashes! All
is ash!
This is the
essence.
Lord!
Even ashes can be
opaque,
impenetrable, and
eternal.”
“What does Anand
say,”
he
questioned—
“for those who
remain amidst the ashes?
What value do
those hold who rise above?
The great
cremation ground,
the paths of
light are being formed.
How many great
cremation grounds and
celestial paths
remain unknown in this universe?”
Uttara spoke, “O
Monk! You!”
He laughed—a
trembling haze.
Ashes move
onward, lifting their own weight,
that is all.
Uttara asked, “Is
beauty merely disdain?”
Anand replied,
“Beauty is one thing—
the true essence,
eternal truth;
otherwise, it is
merely clay.
Beings play among
this.
With their own
hands,
they raise their
own ashes,
inflicting a
blow.
One must
diligently shield oneself
from these
fleeting impulses.
Life is not
measured by transitory waves,
but counts every
time through truth.
Those who accept
it,
who illuminate
themselves as lamps,
for them, Nirvana
opens the door of liberation.
Life is the
staircase of true deeds.
Invoke the call
of knowledge and yoga.
Arun!
Comes riding with
chariots of seven colors.
The bright,
resplendent flag of victory
flutters at
noon.
The selfless,
devoted doer of action
maintains only
the honor of truth.
Uttara
proclaimed, “Beloved!
Squeeze the
essence from youth’s fragrant bloom.
Drink this in
every moment, O Monk.
This is the
vibrant pride of all lives.
Look at me!
I am the
embodiment of nature’s
tender
acceptance.
What could not be
said,
I am that unsaid
expression.
This form of mine
is undeniably clear.”
Anand gazed upon
her.
In the
intoxicated eyes
of youth lifted
by the sun,
the fragrant
blooms of nature
sparkled in a
sublime, ultimate beauty.
It was a
challenge.
The heavenly
river descended from the sky.
To be called
Jatashankari,
she sought,
longing for
Shiva's flowing locks,
for a garland for
her eager neckline.
Bright, white
waves of milk.
Seventh color, a
thousand hues, dancing rays.
Waves of
shapeless white attire.
Bright radiance
surrounded all.
Bathing the
waters, the blue sky.
The luminous glow
of the sacred face.
Light radiated in
the forest glade.
The purest musk
of virginity draws near.
Innocent and
carefree, the youth steps into the bloom of adolescence.
The intoxication
of the deer’s spirit lingers,
a heavy,
languorous passion enveloping body and mind.
In a fragrant,
blossoming lotus grove,
the waves dance,
unaware,
as the dark locks
of the kadamba tree sway.
Glistening green
stems entwine amidst the petals,
half-opened,
blush-colored blossoms hang down,
swaying gently,
intoxicated with pleasure.
The sounds of
dawn echo as the veena is played—
soft notes
dismissed by the morning sound,
touched by the
Malaya breeze,
startlingly pure
yet subtly muted.
Amid the paths of
countless lives,
a contemplative
gaze seeks itself,
a wounded soul
yearning with curiosity and pain.
In solitude—the self
illuminates itself,
question and
answer intertwined,
blue waters and
white milk,
both a search for
truth,
bearing the
weight of knowledge.
The spirituality
of the moment astonishes,
climbing
higher,
yet perpetually
silent, detached, and alone.
Inexpressible
beauty resides in the depths of the soul,
the rare gem of
existence shines forth,
an embodiment of
“Be a lamp unto yourself,”
a self-evident,
meaningful testament.
Once again, the
monk gazed.
A steady, glowing
flame illuminated the night,
draped in pure
white moonlight,
a self-fragrant
essence, touched by new beauty—
the statue played
with a thousand hues of light.
Eyes met eyes,
holding each other,
revealing deep,
dark kohl lines.
The monk smiled
internally,
reflecting upon
the hollow watchfulness of those kohl-rimmed eyes;
they are adorned
elsewhere,
cultivating the
ascendant joy of youth.
A pristine lotus,
unblemished and detached,
with delicate,
tender feet,
blooms of
fragrant petals drawn close.
The vibrant
colors of dawn,
the saffron of
early light danced here and there.
Slender fingers,
delicate as champak, trembled,
shivering from
the known unknown.
Fingernails
glowed with a brilliant hue,
radiating
luminosity like the moon.
Droplets from the
heavens cascaded,
beauty!
Indomitable!
Not to be
diminished,
unmatched in
eloquence.
In those eyes,
sharpness endowed
by the dawning
glow of knowledge,
open within a
sweet embrace.
Nature herself
seemed to stand,
swaying like a
garland of bright flowers.
Free-flowing hair
cascaded,
beauty so
boundless.
The water was
earth’s golden vessel,
overflowing with
an uncontainable force.
When the golden
vessel brimmed over,
and the lotus
eyes of the moonlit face
were graced with
beauty’s reflection,
the mind fell
captive, entranced.
Anxiety wrapped
around a blossoming form—
the vivid blue of
sapphire,
eyes bright as
undrained white milk at dawn.
Steady, balanced
on the scales of wisdom,
the self-aware
consciousness gathered strength.
Anand looked
on,
unblinking,
wide-eyed.
He spoke—
“From the roots
of the ears,
intoxicating wine
spills from countless eyes,
and time,
countless blows upon the heart,
has been turned
to ash.
Countless times—blows!
Now the horizon
is nothing but ashes,
lined with the
dark dust of an unfulfilled desire.
This is not the
line of kohl,
nor the drawn
kohl line.
In the distant
crematorium,
that line betrays
the ash of my desire,
now surrounded by
the bewilderment of nature,
an unfurled
connection forgotten.
In the brilliance
of silver-laden eyes,
in the depths of
the icy forest,
clouds of worry
have gathered.
Desire stands as
an insurmountable barrier,
the final limit
drawn by Laxman.
Why then the
slight contraction at the edge of the gaze?
In what
ideological disparities has revolution erupted?
Achievable,
unachievable;
contentment,
discontentment—
against whom has
unrest surged?"
With a slight
pressure on her lips, Uttara spoke in a soft voice:
“Unfulfilled
desires, dissatisfaction, and unfulfilled longings,
these are the
ordered steps of the relentless ego.
No one is ever
satisfied, no one fully content.
O Lord! The pain
of unfulfilled dreams is profound—
to establish
oneself in the ego,
the process of
ego itself is
a paradox, a
curious conflict—
what is a silent
truth for one
becomes a
bewildering illusion for another, divine.
Joy, smiling in
the eyes, spoke—
“Sumane! In both
questions and responses,
be strong,
capable.
The truth of the
wise is not what has been experienced.
But why does this
happen?
To enter this
‘why’ is no easy feat.
It’s simple to
see whether the gates are open or closed,
but to enter and
witness is difficult.
We are spectators
of results!
We advocate for
introspection, for depth.
What do we call
beauty?
A harsh, bitter
truth.
Upon skeletons,
the five elements
create a strange,
intricate tapestry.
Where is form, O Goddess?
It is mere
illusion,
the blazing lava
expelled by a volcano.
In the end,
destruction is all there is.
Whom to
trust?
This sandalwood
forest, rich with fragrance.
The intoxicating
invitation of a serpent’s poised hood.
Sumane! Why is
the bright fabric of the cremation ground
spread across
your radiant, sparkling eyes?
Throughout the
distance, pangs of anguish shimmer,
crowds of broken
idols drenched in tears stand in silence.
This unending,
blazing heat of the soul—it traverses toward detachment.
In which doubt do
you remain silent all this time?
The gold melting
in the fire
slips away on one
side.
No, not a
recluse.
Here is where the
mind is deceived.
What is the aim
of the gold, the desired goal,
but why must it
melt?
It becomes a
strange, multicolored
form through
depth.
I too ponder
this.
Only the ignorant
remain silent.
Wisdom, insight
wrestles with the confusion,
weighing reality
on the scales of reason.
I do the
same.
In the words of
the Tathagata,
“Be a lamp unto
yourself,”
I embody this
literally.
In this deep
mystery,
where to go and
what to do,
the very essence
of life—sunshine and shade—
is contained
within.
Why not, let us
sip this elixir together.
In the end,
everything is always transient,
so why not live
each precious moment we encounter?
O Sayyaman!
Reflection,
contemplation,
the nurturing of
the self—
these are the
tools of the spiritual realm.
Gradually, these
steps lead to deep absorption.
Then why this
wandering in the external world?
Goddess!
This wandering
is, in truth, the perception of reality.
Creation is the
center point,
a hidden signpost
of truth.
The journey of
truth is an unbroken path of exploration,
leading toward
the ultimate essence or liberation.
It is about
erasing all tendencies,
embracing eternal
nirvana.
In the inky
darkness of Kali,
the unconscious
slumbers,
while in
Dvapara—a dual consciousness awakens.
In Treta, we
rise
filled with
feelings of “we,” “you,” and “others.”
Truth
continuously traverses,
ever engaged in
seeking.
Movement or
journeying belongs to
both mind and
body.
Both are
observers in the
social, mental,
and geographical forms,
fulfilling their
roles in the myriad manifestations of truth.
We are aware not
just of the sky,
nor merely of the
celestial paths,
but we also
resonate with the heartbeat of the earth.
We are mutual
witnesses of truth!
Uttara
spoke,
“This is merely
the age of Kali, O divine one!
In this darkness,
we are selecting our dreams.”
“No, Sumane!”
joyfully replied Anand,
“It is not all of
us;
in that alluring
darkness,
the worldly
remains in slumber,
the ascetic
awakens.”
“Thus, in the
free winds, let us test the truth, Sumane!
Lord!
My truth is
wounded,
my injured steps
falter on this journey.
But what about
this creation?
Is it not a
beautiful expression of someone’s self?
Why disregard
it?
What is this
disdain?
Goddess! Golden
dust
will continue to
play with remarkable hues,
and thus will
endure through the dense darkness.
Why should we
endure the venomous sting
of insatiable
desires
when we are
invited
to eternal bliss
and peace?
Even among the
diverse, beautiful flowers,
one scent wafts
through the air.
These pearl
adornments,
this
magnificence, this excitement—
they all partake
in the same surge.
Uttara spoke:
"Lord, what will you understand?
There exists but
one essence of the life-light.
This is the
discord of existence.
The monk, with a
heart as piercing as a blade,
finds a theater
for the intoxicating magic of the mind's eye.
O seeker!
Even a single sip
of this enchanting transience
weighs heavy
throughout one's life.
The blue-throated
one only tasted the lethal poison,
but from the
mixture of nectar and poison
emerges an
unfathomable, formless, undefinable essence,
known only to
those discerning of elixir.
It absorbs all
hues on its enlightened horizon,
the allure of
nature.
Who understands
this fleeting playfulness of impermanence?
In the heart of
the chakor, with sharp, stabbing thorns,
each breath is
filled with the venom of separation.
Memories waver,
days and nights
burn like lamps
of tear-filled eyes.
In the depths of
relentless despair,
who lives, how
long, and to what end?
Bearing the
bitter experiences of a harsh reality,
yet I still
live,
sipping the
nectar drawn from the cosmic churning.
On the barren
stones,
I walk
unceasingly,
somewhere in
search of shade.
All the streams
have dried up;
at times, a sip
of water is needed.
My cracked,
parched lips plead for relief.
The chaatak and
chakor—their disregard for consciousness,
this critique is
not rational.
A touch of smile,
a hint of joy, O Sumane!
Blindness of
desire, allure, proximity—
when did true
love embrace their hospitality?
Attraction,
closeness—these are mere material distortions.
Love is but the
radiant elevation of the soul.
All relationships
dissolve,
the narrow
divisions vanish
when the flood of
love overtakes them.
Physical efforts
become still;
the identities of
separation and reunion are lost.
This is the
journey of the soul’s ascension.
Profound
experiences are its milestones.
What knows the
difference between self and other?
There flows one
and the same elixir from the divine source.
There is no
lesser measure of appearance.
Thus, Goddess!
Why reduce the
whole to the part?
Let us all remain
for each other.
Parvati shaped
Ganesh from her own body—
he became the
lord of the eleven ganas.
Let us also shed
the constricted nature of our being
and move
forth.
Why not remain in
the light of truth,
allowing
intellectual reasoning to illuminate our path?
The joyful
investment of lofty thoughts arises from some thoughtful paths.
Truth’s light
guides us rightly.
Religion is not
an object,
nor is it
someone’s exclusive domain.
Religion is that
which the unselfish, translucent eyes behold.
In a moment,
Uttara saw joy manifest before her.
The fiery god,
bright as molten gold,
radiated with
intense light.
She suddenly
spoke, “O ascetic!
Where will you
carry this blazing fire
of the fierce,
awakened soul?
Ultimately, you
won't find a place to contain
this overwhelming
radiance,
not even in the
constellation of Rohini.
It will burn even
there.
Bhante! Your feet
are in motion.
Have you not
thought?
This silent
acceptance is so gentle,
yet this
youth,
this
indestructible beauty,
is merely a
retaliation of the vibrant nature.
The full moon
anxiously gazes
at the troubled
sea.
The swan of
joy,
I looked upon the
pearl-like teeth upon the lips.
“Stop, woman!” I
urged.
After the surge
subsides,
the sea’s every
limb breaks apart.
It is said to be
destruction or a change of form.
The mind merges
into the vastness,
and these tides
are merely
insignificant
transactions of separation.
Truth desires
something,
the heart craves
something.
The dance of
nature comes forth,
somewhere
destruction, somewhere creation.
Ultimately, all
is but a transformation of one essence.
The restless, blind
mind,
isolated in its
trembling,
knows no
tranquility.
Where does it
crumble and dissolve? Understand this.
Is this
beautiful, delicate form truly yours?
This captivating
carnival of the five elements—
even amidst all
that,
there is an utter
solitude.
Disconnected from
all,
it endlessly
seeks.
Perhaps it
constantly wonders,
“Who am I?” This
is the quest of the self,
the exploration
of higher consciousness.
Uttara spoke: “O
ascetic!
A flower blossoms
on this earth
when its petals
unfold,
sending fragrance
upon the wind.
Otherwise, who
acknowledges them?
Without a cause,
no action occurs.
The soul does not
remain uninhabited.
O ascetic! This
is my beauty.
The water beneath
the waterfall trembles.
What do we call
this joy of beauty, O Sumane!
True eternal
beauty is
offered upon the
radiant, pure scale of wisdom,
this conclusion
is determined.
It is the
pinnacle of mental austerity,
the essence of
beauty.
Form cannot
encapsulate it;
the
thousand-petaled lotus of the soul
is drenched in
nectar.
I call that
beauty.
This beauty—
the beauty of
transience,
an immensely
intoxicating elixir,
the sea brimming
over with foam and bubbles,
is solely an
effort
toward the
upliftment of the soul.
Therefore, O
Goddess!
Whoever knows
this,
where will they
remain
in this web of
fiery illusion?
**Uttara laughed.**
Is there not a
certain intoxication
in the momentary
essence?
This is not
intoxication, Sumane.
It is the burden
of sorrow,
the veiling of
pain,
the blinding
ignorance, O Goddess.
In the heat of
the mind's austerity,
these do not
enter.
The potter
endlessly shapes
clay into forms.
Ultimately, clay
is but clay.
With a smile in
her radiant eyes,
Uttara
spoke—
and what
exquisite beauty
bursts forth from
it!
Anand smiled
slightly.
Gazing at it, he
said—
the idol has
nothing to do with this.
It reflects
instead the potter’s
ever-aspiring
journey of self-betterment,
the inherent
beauty of the soul.
In this
effort,
the clay
transforms into ruby, sapphire, diamond.
As the penance,
so the fruit.
I shall
reiterate:
in the clay, all
returns to clay.
What worth is
there in clay?
This is merely
the vibrant upheaval of nature.
Apart from the
eternal nectar,
is there any
essence worth cherishing, Sumane?
Descend!
Descend!
Into the
mysterious riddles of life.
Look how
enchanting it is,
to immerse
oneself
in the tranquil
pool of a new,
pure
essence.
Anand said,
“Come, Sumane, come.
The chains of
futile attachment
have enclosed
us.
The blissful,
soothing presence of the Lord
is but a
shadow.
The nights of
delusion’s rope are dark.
There, everyone
belongs.
We walk together,
always side by side.
This
companionship lasts a lifetime.
In each other’s
joys and sorrows,
we dwell.”
Seeing him,
Uttara replied, “Shraman!
The matter has
taken a different turn.
Just now,
the vibrant hues
of the season's bloom
have
blossomed.
Love and
companionship—
there lies a
profound difference.
In one, life
walks together,
step by
step,
yet we never
truly meet
in one
another.”
With that, she
took a deep breath.
Selfless, devoid
of desires,
free from
attraction—
that nameless,
unfathomable,
transcendent
truth of love
is never
found.
Simply, we live
in its shadow.
Those who have
had even the slightest
inkling of
it—
they wander like
the musk deer,
lost in the
forest.
Thus, both are
meaningless
in this context
for me.
Love and
companionship,
there is always a
difference.
One is
superficial,
the other sinks
into the depths.
Where lies the
immense, towering ocean?
Who dips into its
turmoil?
Others, who have
even a faint awareness,
take breaths
steeped in unknown pain.
Poets, painters,
sculptors,
or those who
renounce themselves—
this love
does not allow
for peace.
There is no
wonderment
in relation to
any tangible,
worldly form.
What is truly
unique in this world
is to live within
it.
An untouched
purity
is the adornment
of nirvana.
Though the
journey of life is always incomplete,
between the
supreme light and illusion,
there lies great
distance.
Yet, every birth
is a journey.
To pause at each
stage of life
is to experience
the paralysis of feelings,
void and
empty.
The Vedas and
Vedanta,
how restless they
remain.
Within them lie
narratives
of inner
explorations,
as each
perceives, finds, understands, and knows.
Through the fire
of knowledge,
devotion, and
action,
all have spoken
their truth.
But for the Lord,
there is only one—
“Abandon all
religions,
seek refuge in me
alone.”
This too is what
the Tathagata declared.
Anand said—
“Know this
well,
then why are your
steps so restless?”
“Shraman! It is
my own decision.
This life is
shaped by my thoughts.
I have never been
bound
by anyone,
anywhere.
Thus, I stand
utterly alone
in a crowded
space.
Deep within, I
have endured.
My own discerning
vision,
weighing,
measuring time,
how pure the
gold—
where is time
bent or elevated?”
Anand said—
“Thus, those who
are resolute in truth,
self-reliant,
are not swayed by
temptations.”
Looking closely.
Startled, baffled
Uttare replied ,
No. No. Not like
this.
Contemplation
isn't blind,
and passion,
it trembles with
wisdom.
Thus,
seeker!
Steps don’t just
surge forward.
Emotions of the
heart
don't flow merely
in sentiment.
Peace is a
consciousness of the mind,
a collection of
lofty self-reflections.
It doesn’t reside
in temples,
in mounds, in
caverns,
in valleys or
stupas.
You don’t even
have to seek it.
It exists only in
self-effort.
The sea or the
mountain
don’t wander
somewhere for riches.
They nurture
those riches within.
Seeker!
Mother and
homeland are indeed
greater than
heaven.
This is not said
in vain.
The oldest
philosophy of this place,
where do such
rare fruits flourish?
Some for you,
some for me,
some in the hands
of the world,
these rare
immortal fruits.
Each one tastes
as they perceive.
The mind is
illuminated by that very essence,
vibrantly
blossoming or not.
Place this in
whatever temple or shrine,
name it however
you wish.
These are the
ancient self-revelations.
A search for
pain,
a thought
process,
this is
stability.
Where is this
stillness?
Is there any
equivalent to this fullness?
It’s not the
individual but the surroundings that change.
Geographical ups
and downs
Shift the
spiritual, the verbal, the arrangement.
Yet, there’s a
single language shared by all.
In the arduous
web of difficult rituals,
how one
interprets it makes all the difference—
it is both
utterly simple and utterly complex.
Thus, O
Ascetic!
This is what I
bring to you.
My Enlightened
Ones have walked this path,
finding serenity
along the way.
Do not be anxious
about the journey, Ascetic!
For even the
heart, agitated by emotion,
has not yet found
its rest.
We are travelers
on the same road.
How far to walk,
where to pause,
where to advance,
we have not pondered.
With a smile, the
Ascetic spoke—
"Logic! It entangles in branches
and twigs.
Logic! It is the
upheaval of incompleteness.
There is no
transparency within it,
no end to be
found."
Faith embodies a
dedicated surrender.
Ah! There is no
duality here.
Nothing remains
unfulfilled in it.
Before that
supreme truth, the Self-Illuminated,
all entangled
threads of reasoning unravel.
Goddess!
My path is
simple,
your speed is
rare.
I am the
passionate moth to the flame of knowledge.
Yet you are
hesitant, even towards the lamp.
My motion is
unimpeded,
you are tangled
in doubt at every moment.
So, O Beautiful
One!
Be pleased!
Grant me
permission.
Since you have
come, do not leave like this, Ascetic.
Pause for a
moment.
Even Spring, when
it arrives,
halts for a while
before moving on.
I played eye
games with beauty,
the full moon, like
a playful child.
Again and again,
I weathered the rising,
falling
waves,
as the moonlight
kissed my face.
Yet, how was it
that my closed
sugar-drenched
eyes
directly
perceived the cosmic presence?
That immense
one—
He was not
me,
the one dancing
with the tides.
That vast being
and I!
Completely
detached, free from conflict,
we were simply
observing each other.
He, the pinnacle
of dignity,
while I, damp and
tender,
a mere dust at
His feet.
But I
realized—
even there,
beauty was the medium.
You spoke—
"Nature, lifeless, is the
greatest illusion,
it was on the
shoulders of Shiva."
Yet, that too is
not truth, O Ascetic!
Illusion itself
is a complete truth.
Otherwise, it
would not remain
on the shoulders
of drought.
Only a
magnificent discus
which shattered
everything,
yet did not
destroy that illusion.
It turned into
the place of liberation,
the site of a
hundred and eight sacred pilgrimages.
Was it not a
memento of falsehood?
A form of
inversion?
Only one
essence—
truth and
falsehood changing their forms,
revealing what
each nature possesses.
Joyfully, I
said—
How profound is
all this knowledge!
Where are you
stuck?
Why do you not
wander
in the serenity
of the Buddha or the Chaitya?
For you,
it is so easy to
detach from the meager desires.
Once you
experience the appearance of truth,
what remains to
be attained?
In a tone of
resignation, she replied—
The inversion of
the five elements is quite enchanting.
O Ascetic!
This moment will
not return.
Sweet nectar
rains all around, intoxicated.
What is past does
not return,
the present goes
nowhere.
Anand said,
"Suman!
I have shattered
my illusions,
become detached
and unrestrained.
You should do the
same as I say,
or else I will
take my leave.
Stop, O
seeker!
Everyone departs
in their own time,
yet the
footprints remain deep.
This is
life.
What is
truth?
Every moment
burns in the molten core,
silent yet
ablaze.
Who does not
go?
Then why do these
moments pause,
for
breathing,
if destruction is
life itself?
What significance
remains
in orchestrating
such an elaborate play?
Why did the flute
player create
the grand dance
of the universe?
What is the
reason for repeatedly
tormenting beings
on earth,
turning them into
thirsty deer
in a shadow
game?
O seeker! It is
all a play of the mind.
As we find
it,
we accept it in
harmony with our thoughts.
Both mind and
intent belong to it.
Because decisions
rest always
in the hands of
the untimely.
Where there is
peace, contentment, and happiness,
there lies the
truth.
Both sweetness
and bitterness are truths,
that gift
satisfaction to the soul.
A being is like a
sacrificial lamb,
but where does
life end on the altar?
With a sword upon
the neck
or a garland of
worship?
It remains
suspended between both.
I ask you—
what joy are you
seeking?
Shaved head,
desolate surroundings,
dry lips, feet
covered in wounds—
what happiness is
worth enduring all this pain?
Look, life!
One day, the end
will come.
Why not
smile,
celebrate
grandly,
and move on with
laughter?
The talk of fire
altars and sacred ash,
that’s merely the
inflated ego of the divine,
a morsel, nothing
more.
There, neither
blessings nor curses exist.
It is completely
serene and selfless.
Why does every
joy culminate in sorrow?
What is the
remedy for the thorn that pricks my feet?
It is all just smoke.
Sumane!"
There is great
brilliance in transience.
It is nothing but
the ashes of a burnt firecracker.
No new creation
arises from the ruins.
In that moment,
Uttara halted him—
“O seeker!
These entire
natural festivities,
they sprout and flourish
from ashes,
they are vibrant
and smiling.
All are merely
transformations of the eternal and the transient.
We are the
manifest voices of time.
Look, O
seeker!
From ashes to
ashes.
What can be
gained from ashes?
Suman!
Illusion!
The fragrant,
blossoming golden form.
One who cannot
understand, even when acknowledging,
cannot be made to
understand.
You are only
nature.
This universe is
a mirror.
You behold
yourself within it.
Since timeless
ages,
the creation has
been adorned.
The
transformative nature of forms
is its
medium.
Colors soar each
time.
Each time, a
worn-out being has faced oblivion.
Only a skeleton
remains,
as the form turns
to ash and flame.
Time and again,
it has faltered,
and colors keep pouring
into it.
This river,
streams, mountains, oceans, seasons—
they are its
limbs and organs,
which it has
adorned and nurtured.
Uttara
smiles,
with radiant rows
of teeth, filled with purity.
O seeker!
The dance of
existence is just a play of light and shade.
Curiosity.
It is a stopping
point of inquiry.
The mind resides
in these.
Where is it free
of desire?
Renunciation is
but a fleeting detachment from the moment.
O seeker!
The cycles of birth
and rebirth revolve right here.
There is an
unbroken attachment to the pain of unfulfilled desires.
Why, O mind,
do you linger in
false illusions, even when you know?
This is the
weakness of the mind.
It abides within
that.
Goddess!
Light does not
host darkness.
Yet the
mind,
closes its
eyelids and weaves only dreams.
This is the web
of desires.
The mind is a
wheel, engaged in battle.
A faint smile
from Uttara.
O divine!
Dreams behind
closed eyelids can be intoxicating.
Closed
eyelids.
They separate
from the world,
and dreams—
take one far
away.
Thorns.
They dream of
flowers.
Those who walk on
grass do not know the barren desert.
In deep
meditation—
are they not
those who, with closed eyes,
enter a state of
transcendence?
Is it not an
extraordinary, formless bliss?
Isn’t the
aspiration for truth a dream?
O Lord!
The worldly and
the unworldly dreams walk hand in hand.
Both truth and
falsehood extend their hands to one another.
Where is the
illusion?
Truth and
falsehood are mirrors reflecting each other,
Weighing
themselves against one another.
They are opposing
responses—
O seeker, the
mind that flees from truth
Justifies itself
in this manner.
Even while
knowing the fruits of consequence,
It remains
blissfully unaware.
Tempted by the
golden deer,
It does not see
the lifeless symbol,
Pierced by the
arrow of truth.
The pure faith in
the heart's temple is abducted;
Life becomes
Wounded, pained,
and detached—
A slow
decay.
The evidence is
evident.
When truth and
falsehood conflict,
Eternal
renunciation chooses the transient.
These transient,
enchanting, golden vessels—
They are what is
impermanent,
Yet the eternal
remains constant.
Observe.
This ongoing,
smoldering, unknown pain,
An urgency of the
soul.
Prohibition,
warning, a sign—
It is a
denial.
A dormant,
unconscious, formless soul.
Step aside. Step
aside.
O mind,
honeybee,
In which
nectar-filled blooms do you fall?
The amrita
(elixir) flows elsewhere, cascading.
For the sake of
this nectar,
Focused and
concentrated,
The yogi, the
seeker of truth,
Is weighed and
measured by intoxicating eyes,
Laughing in
silence,
Smiling with a
golden voice—
As the Bhairav
rises from the east.
Do not make
mortality seem so dreadful;
Until now,
Only the eternal
has faced
A steady
challenge.
The ascetic
spoke—
Indeed, every
time. Every time.
They turn into
skeletons,
Yet the essence
remains eternal,
Always new,
unfading.
The anklets,
remnants of the dance,
Are ever
steadfast,
The embodiment of
Shiva’s cosmic dance.
Nature adorns the
cycle of destruction.
The eternal has
remained untouched
By the rituals of
the wedding night.
Who will depart?
Motionless,
detached, unveiled,
Everyone stands
wrapped in the wings of illusion.
None are the
mighty,
Like Bhadrā
Kapilāyinī, Mahākāśyapa,
Or the fulfilled
Tathāgata,
Unaware of
truth.
Radiant,
blazing,
Self-luminous,
In the aspect of
truth, unique, inimitable.
O Lord, your
teachings bring us
To the utmost
ease in self-inquiry.
What they said, I
too
Convey, feasible
through experience,
Tested and
verified.
Here, there is no
division
Based on caste,
color, or creed.
This is an
all-encompassing, expansive
Invited,
inclusive thought—
The world is one
family.
**I**
Brother of the
Lord,
Of the royal
lineage.
There is none
like me who has washed the feet.
Here, there is no
distinction between high and low.
There is no
regret toward duty or dedication to action.
O Goddess!
This entire human
creation
Is merely a
creation of countless particles of a single atom.
All distinctions
are
Investments of
artificiality and selfishness.
On the lips, a
self-satisfied smile flickered, a lunar ray of electric light.
It is formed from
one's own falling droplets of blood. Perhaps this blood seed is
The essential
process of the demon.
The roots of
divinity and demonic nature are one.
Their identity
lies in two different branches. Saying this, the monk looked northward.
Laughter from the
North—
Yes! Yes!
The unbroken line
of births across ages.
O monk! Life and
death—
An unchangeable
truth.
Who has lifted
the veil of death to look?
The valiant Abhimanyu
fell at the closed gates of the Chakravyuha (the circular military formation).
But the mind—
How stubborn it
is!
It persistently
bangs its head against the closed doors. What unfathomable attraction! What
delusion!
O monk! Each
time, it burns beneath worn-out cloth.
Still, life—
Continues to
savor the essence of the flowers of birth and death.
A thousand
vessels of flames are opening,
Petal by petal,
layer by layer.
The lure of the
essence is alluring.
Eternally
imprisoned behind the barriers.
This momentary
whirlwind is a festivity of the formless.
The colors of the
yearning dance with intensity.
How captivating
it is.
The mind has
fallen into the burning flames;
It knows the
end,
Yet how profound
is this delusion!
Before the
deceiver, the destroyer,
There is the
helplessness of bowing in submission.
In a deep, solemn
voice, Uttarā spoke—
Have you realized
the truth?
I walk in its
aura,
Until there is
fulfillment,
The spinning will
remain continuous and eternal.
Uttarā said—
Certainly!
The truth is
eternal— "Chareveti, chareveti."
This is the
essence of "Neti, Neti" (not this, not this).
O Lord! You have
conquered the ego.
Joy—Not at
all!
Uttarā—Global
consciousness
Is but the shadow
of someone’s ego.
The echo of
"Om"
Is the
germination of the ego.
That I am, I will
be, I have always been.
We have thrived
in this very shadow;
Beyond this, O
monk,
We cannot
remain—
Even if it is
self-expression,
Self-manifestation.
These are but the
tinkling bells of the body.
The play of the
great cremation ground and Uma is eternal.
Ananda said—
Whenever nature
is destroyed,
the monk with a
skull garland, Amarnath, appears.
Uttara
chuckled—
So who is victorious?
Why did ashes
please the Lord?
The monk replied
with a touch of humor—
“Ashes are
opaque, indivisible, unbreakable;
they are an
imperishable armor, O Goddess.
They are even a
sign of renunciation.”
In that moment,
Anand spoke, gazing intently—
This is beauty,
stubborn and profound.
Knowledge is
directionless.
The unsullied
dawn rises,
scattering jewels
from the golden urn,
may it not remain
empty and desolate.
This is creation.
This is nature.
It is a strong
signature of transience.
How ephemeral it
is,
yet within it
lies the clear, radiant truth. O Goddess!
Why cling to a
handful of dust?
The eyes of
discerning wisdom ignite.
Every moment, new
thoughts emerge,
a festival of
intense emotions,
an upheaval of
well-cultured logic.
Use them wisely,
O beloved.
Uttara
responded—
Amidst the
turmoil,
the ambrosial
poison is our sibling.
But let there be
an impartial, clear, just decision, O Lord.
Ananda
spoke—
The diamond! The
jewel,
the adornment of
the crown.
Yet, fastening
oneself to the ground,
it becomes merely
a shining ornament.
Light—
it does not
consume its own light, O Goddess.
O essence of
supreme knowledge!
Let’s move forth,
walk by the banks of the flowing river.
Come, break free
from these constraining bonds.
Behold the
radiant,
pure sky of
unfathomable knowledge.
Keep this
knowledge—
a
thousand-petaled lotus, unblemished.
Don’t hold just
one tune,
but resonate with
the inner, vast form.
Choose the
ever-fresh, immortal bloom.
Nature is not,
but the truth of humanity is.
Pause to think on
this.
Do not let your
river of wisdom
flow away to
another place.
At the heights of
the stairway, divine radiance sits.
“Be a lamp unto
yourself.”
In you, O Uttara,
it is complete.
Stay steadfast in
the pursuit of self-discovery and elevation.
As I depart, this
remains my blessing.
Observing the
Shraman’s departure,
Uttara gently
scattered beautiful, fragrant offerings at his feet.
“Lord! Make this
into a garment.
Let us not
overlook it.”
Anand,
momentarily startled, gazed at Uttara and said, “O Shubhe!
Your beauty is
exquisite, a mirror reflecting radiance,
I know the depths
stirred by the pulse of life.
I cannot crush
it. O Shubhe!
The flower, the
divine crown,
cannot be pressed
beneathfoot.
What flower? What
fire?
True austerity is
just that—
to burn in the
flames.
It doesn’t dwell
in choices;
fire always
rises.
There is no
descent in it.”
Uttara chuckled
as pearls fell from the coral branches above.
She said, “O
Sun!”
With a smile, the
Shraman responded,
“The luminous sun
stands unmoved.
The pain of
rising and setting
is borne by
specific spaces.
In rotation and
revolution,
certain places
are affected.
The ultimate
truth shines bright.
It is the moth of
creation that burns.”
“When shall we
meet again, Lord?”
“Not now.
Union only occurs
in truth, O Devi.
Earth and sky
never truly meet.
Only illusion
thrives.
The open, thirsty
horizon,
even it longs for
the truth,
yearning for the
nectar of reality.”
In fear of
separation,
Uttara closed her
eyes in distress.
When she opened
them again,
all enchanting
verses had broken apart.
She thought to
gather the offerings,
bringing the dust
of the Shraman’s feet to her forehead,
hoping to cool
her heart with it.
But what was
this? No footprints remained.
The weeping
Uttara spoke in agony,
“Oh Lord! You
left not a single trace.
With such ease,
you shattered your own ego.
Where is this
diminutive beauty,
and where is the
grandeur of the moonlit sky?
What a ridiculous
illusion this mind had spun!
The earth could
not even touch your feet,
yet my foolish
mind sought to embrace it.”
Gathering the
offerings,
Uttara stood
silently.
With unblinking,
tear-filled eyes,
may your path,
dusted with the ashes of penance,
be watered with
tears.
Ah!
When has there
ever been a union of knowledge and the heart?
That barren and
dry renunciation,
and this blooming
love—a tidal wave.
In response to my
words,
his smiling
shield had rendered them powerless.
Repeatedly he
warned me, “O Suman, save yourself, still save yourself.
Do not weave your
life's tapestry
with fantasies
colored by the blue lotus and saffron."
I, immersed in
emotion, was filled with ecstasy like Devayani,
while he was
unwavering, resolute, and immovable,
a serene being
untouched by the tumult of passions.
There is a
terrible, unyielding truth beneath this hazy, limitless ocean of
existence.
Destiny's
indifferent puppeteer danced,
forcing me into a
dance I could not resist.
What kind of
upheaval is this emotional storm that has arisen?
How shall I save
myself from this arrow-stricken bed,
devoid of
direction, the ominous northward path?
In the fierce
onslaught of autumn’s withering,
I see slim,
yellow vessels swaying.
During the
midnight hour,
a star plummets
from the dark sky.
There is no
destination here.
Heart, your fate
is not clear.
He took a deep
breath,
resting his hand
on his throbbing heart.
Silently he
mused,
"When, where, how, and why?
In this cup of
nectar offered by the king of rasa,
the
mind-distracting honeybee has plunged deep, held in rapture.
All discussions,
consolations, and arguments have withered away.
He, with his
nectar-filled quivering body,
kept saying 'no,
no' to his own rhythm,
and still flowed
with the melody.
From these
familiar, well-known moments,
unfamiliar
moments brush against us.
These bewildering
moments cannot be grasped.
The mind, as
intoxicated as a musk deer,
suddenly becomes
overwhelmed.
But until the
fiery curses are quenched,
the gentle breeze
will not come as a boon.
In the solitary
mental sky,
an empty chalice
of yearning lies open.
Whether draped in
nectar or poison,
it is difficult
to say how much competitive sharpness there is within.
The dense
gathering of sweetness-like poison
has no
counterpart to this absorbing trance.
The unstruck
sound reverberates:
"Truth, auspiciousness,
beauty."
The buzzing of
the Sahasrara.
Before the
recognition of this completeness
there is no
turning back.
Why, like a
thirsty cuckoo,
does the breath
yearn for the rain of Swati?
When the inner
sky is shadowed
by the
inexhaustible rain of wisdom,
there is no
connection.
When will the
chakor, steeped in the milky white moonlight,
not be
intoxicated?
In this
undulating, radiant light,
there is neither
beginning nor end.
The
self-resounding cosmic sound,
there is no Radha
and Krishna in this melody.
All creation,
flooded in sweetness,
leaves nothing
behind to cling to.
This churning of
intellectual nectar,
after all, finds
its end
in the silent
depths of a serene river,
stirring the
heart’s turbulence,
as the touch of a
moist heart
caresses the
flickering flame of tearful candles.
The thorny sting
of the hundred-leaved creeper
pierces day and
night,
yet no clear form
emerges;
the mirror of the
mind shatters.
Still, oh
Invisible One!
I bow to you with
reverence uncounted.
With unblinking,
tear-soaked eyes,
I witnessed your
boundless, abstract light,
the deeply
radiant, golden-hued
lamp of eternal
secrets hidden deep within,
as the maddened
moth circles around.
This silence is
the pain of the heart;
it is not the
dawn of an endless night of separation.
This is my
experience, my contemplative style—
I am in no
competition with anyone.
Contained within
are all questions and answers,
a joyful,
ever-blooming, fresh nature.
There is no
greater embrace of love than this.
Like the gentle
caress of monsoon breezes,
it sparks within
memories the
recollection of
the autumn moon’s child, the traveler.
Amidst the
anxious pangs,
thousands of
serpents of pain wound me.
Intellectuality,
beauty, femininity, and pride—
all crushed under
that heavy gaze.
Mocking their own
tear-laden reflections,
he inhaled deeply
as his heart burned.
All established
convictions laid to waste.
Truth and love
never find success—
there is never a
union in the realm of love.
In this upward
journey of introspection,
there is no
downfall.
Though it may
serve as the medium for knowledge and sacrifice,
it is not the
essence of life,
nor its highest
joy or possession.
The wounded
experiences alone bear witness to eternity.
In this
profoundly solitary journey,
there is no
company at all.
Then that
laughter—
but why this
smoldering silent pain?
Unattainable, it
remains unattainable.
Even knowing
this,
why this
intoxicated moth-like inner conflagration?
Why?
Who am I?
Who are we?
Amidst these
burning questions, resonating echoes
pierced the
agitated, wounded sky, which bowed down.
Like empty,
parched clouds drifting,
the restless,
confused questions sought the essence of the self,
grinding beneath the
wheel of time.
The flowing time
did not cease its course.
Inquisitiveness,
like a deer struck by an arrow,
was looted by its
own scent.
Thousands of
arrows were launched,
and a solitary
question from the heart's mirror
shattered into
countless fragments.
Life danced like
bubbles on water,
adorned in the
multicolored hues of sunlight,
with jewels
reflecting from golden ornaments,
whirled
joyfully,
now bursting,
then bursting forth.
Why?
The mind
tirelessly grappled,
measuring the
unfathomable depths, heights,
boundaries,
peripheries, and diameters.
No clear
solutions emerged even for the prescribed processes in the Upanishads.
An incessant rain
of questions.
The mental sky
drew the veil,
by some invisible
attraction, forcefully.
A difficult
encounter with truth.
In the knowledge
sacrifice, the blazing
questions
remained as flames—
incomplete,
unanswered, unsatisfied,
still
sulking.
Truth—
the unexpressed
expression,
the unattainable,
the divine, the unimaginable,
untouched,
untainted, undefined, voiceless,
experience-based,
mute, unparalleled, unique.
"Why?" All the doors of the
maze are closed.
Prisoned in this
confinement, how untroubled is humankind.
Every breath is
pulled by a thread,
not at all
free.
Engaging in the
exchange of each moment,
how constrained
it feels.
When will time,
the fisherman, pull in the net?
Death is the
embankment.
Every cycle of
birth and death
is an unknown
journey,
only the shadows'
enigmatic weeping.
Perpetually
wrestling with oneself—
how alone the
heart feels.
In the
pitch-blackness of monotony,
there is not a
single hue.
A fleeting moment
of the mind's eye,
the curious pain
churned within the heart, it gave.
In the clash of
logic and reasoning,
amidst the
laughter and mockery,
the brilliant
light was struck down.
The date of the
new moon arrived,
before the dawn
of a new love,
the moving life
slowed down in its orbit.
The moments of
pain increased,
before the steps
of longing, painted in melody,
the inkpot of
despair spilled over the forehead.
Lost in thought,
she returned once more to the flowing waterfall—
knowledge and
love,
where nature felt
abundant yet disparate.
One rises while
the other falls away.
The mind endures
both.
Moments freeze as
I watch the ascetic.
Deep in thought,
I ponder—
the dawn that
rises, a soft pink hue,
spreading
countless colors like gulal in the air,
by midday it
climbs high,
asserting its
dominance.
But as the path
descends,
the labor grows
weary and burdened,
dust-laden and
dreary,
casting deep
lines of despair that fade away.
How painful is
the bond of separation and union.
She drew a deep
breath.
Why can't reason
come to terms with the heart?
The heart,
burning when the
earth and sky collide—
I, under the
intoxicating touch of life,
every tree's dry
lips trembling.
Quiet my
blaze,
he is the man; I
am nature.
Life is indeed a
sweet invitation.
But why has he
gone?
He too is a
swift, earthy pulse,
my
love—untouched, unblemished.
Always facing the
agony of pain.
Tears swell like
clouds,
dreams strumming
the chords of a gentle melody,
breaking apart,
flowing endlessly.
The tide of love,
impartial and unfeeling,
continued to
impart lessons.
The long-thirsty
pallu of my shawl
remains empty,
spread out wide.
This is man!
For whom
destruction beckons,
faith shatters
every moment.
Who knows
whom?
In the heart,
countless streams of tears
ripple and surge
restlessly.
How can I express
this?
In a moment,
everything has changed.
The courtyard
filled with dust and smoke,
in a haze, the
steps faltered.
Words broke
apart,
turned into
murmurs upon the lips.
In the moonlight,
all blooms of spring,
suddenly turned
into stone.
Eyes drowned in
the river of dreams—
but why have the
light and shroud flown away?
Just a moment.
Just a single moment.
Countless births
have coalesced within it.
Life, filled with
reasoning, never ceases even for a moment.
The essence of
ego continuously hisses,
why does it never
sleep?
No seeker
remains,
there’s no
question.
My mind remained
the question,
an eternal enigma
unresolved.
The nectar of
knowledge continued to bloom,
never tilting,
never bowing.
Why does no one
stand taller than oneself?
Those who
appear—
are mere figments
of imagination or an unknown entity,
forever elusive.
I am the
blossoming mango bud,
the fresh and
dewy Kadambini,
embracing the
scorching stones,
flowing cool like
a gentle stream.
From which dark
caves have I arrived?
I am the
enchantress,
I hear the sound
of the flute,
yet I have not
yet met the deity of my soul.
What is the
question? Is it merely form?
When no one has
become a true seeker.
My heart, woven
with tears,
held deep burnt
lamps of hope,
safeguarded in
the wait.
Nature too is a
declaration of love.
Amidst the
circles of pebbles,
why do the
stamping feet tremble?
Has humanity
transgressed the divine?
Why do the lamps
flicker in the temple?
With a cry of
sorrow, they weep in tears—
a life like a
fallen pillar,
even the shores
have become unfamiliar.
Yet still, I bow
at your feet;
wherever you may
be, may you always be victorious,
forever
smiling.
I am the moist,
glowing fuel of the fire of knowledge,
suddenly lost in
thought.
The woman's form
is an acceptance,
from beautiful to
the most beautiful;
both must rise to
the heights,
the waves
inevitably calm the smaller streams.
Form! If this is
the form!
I have seen the
truth—
defined in
reality.
I have witnessed
the harshness of mortality,
and have seen
truth as always humble and silent.
I have seen it on
the unwavering scales of time,
measured like the
day against the sand.
Yet its metric,
the balancing of truth and falsehood,
is the definition
of the subject of life.
Whosoever has a
decisive vision,
let them
choose.
Is form the
ultimate goal?
From the eternal
truth, when has it opposed?
Form!
It is the cruelty
of nature,
a call for
retribution.
In the dense
shade of the tree,
she sat by the
bank of the stream.
Both lotus feet
dipped in the water,
splashing and
pondering,
lost in her own
thoughts.
Should I forget?
No, that’s impossible.
Should I
remember? That's not an option either.
These are but
fleeting moments of the mind's celebration,
they deliver
shocks, some deep wounds.
Then, the mind
forgets once more,
becomes purified
again.
This is the great
cataclysm of the heart.
In the thunderous
roar of powerful waves,
the ocean of the
mind is agitated,
and then there is
pain—
the groan of
existence.
Why does the
sound of Om swirl,
it is not just
the resonance.
Pain. Groaning.
Hurt.
Strikes and
counter-strikes—
isn’t this the
invitation for a new creation?
Creation, after
all, is a trance within itself,
a call for a new,
original awakening,
a conceptual
creation, a sacrificial fire of knowledge.
And then I!
Why should I
accept wounds as defeat?
This is the
essence of self-exploration.
Why is
discernment so merciless?
The heart remains
shuddering, humbly apprehensive.
O North
Star!
What you have
gained in your humble abode,
where do you
truly reside?
Who has even seen
you?
Only the true
seeker,
heaps of
experiences reveal themselves to him.
Thus, he utters
his blessings,
not even able to
pause for a moment.
He lifts his own
essence,
inwardly
reflecting,
he senses the
closeness here,
a development of
new thoughts is at play.
Saraswati,
daughter of the flowing river,
the confluence of
sacred pilgrimage.
Why not have
wisdom, knowledge, and melody,
a
union—extraordinary, unprecedented, unheard of,
a sacred fire of
knowledge,
triumphant,
the glory!
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