Sunday, January 27, 2019

Bhaktivinoda Thakur, lapsed Anglophile

What was it my parama gurudeva saw
in the rulers of the world, that recognized their weakness?
Those he admired to the end for their acuity
for their knowledge and science and philosophy
and for their language, its poets,
would dance one day to the tune of Nitai Gauranga
and the Holy Name, so he said.

With arms upraised and filled with joy, he said.
With their Bengali brethren, he said.

That Bengali brethren these civilized rulers thought
even lower than their own peasants back home.
They who thought themselves,
the very epitome of human attainment,
the very fruit of God's evolutionary desire tree,

Demonstrated by the time they could spend
choosing the correct clothing for the correct time of day
to .preserve the codes that marked
how the epitome of human civilization should behave:
perfect discipline in all things,.

The ruling class. Soldiers filled with disdain
Educated men, Eton Harrow Oxford Cambridge men,
with an educated curiosity, a sense of knowing
their own superiority in understanding
what the perfection of humanity should be,
along with an educated disdain for the penurious heathen,
the uneducated, the illiterate, the insular, the almost naked
even the best barely better than the lowest peasants
of their own island world.

Contempt even for the educated Indian,
even for the Anglophile Indian,
who was nothing better than a house servant
calquing his manners on the British master, inside and out,
what color of the skin made a difference
if one who had been thoroughly turned into Englishmen
equipped with the capacity to speak to the aristocrat
almost as an equal, but never as an equal,
always as a servant.

As a child, little Kedar went to gawk at the Mem Sahebs
and their clothing, the skirts and dresses and petticoats
the corsets, the bustles, up to their rouged faces and coiffed hair.
Witnessing the glitter of a society that consists of nothing but
polite talk with constant glib reference to the classics,
Latin, Greek, Shakespeare and the Good Book,
around tea, madeira or something stronger,
whatever the appropriate drink for the appropriate hour,

The uprightness, the discipline, the sharp intelligence
the inability to tolerate untruth,
who recognized truth as the force by which they ruled,
knowledge of weaponry, of military science
and then of all things technical and industrial,
overflowing into India with all the potential
of the modern world. What a glitter it was,
that glitters even stronger today in the global village..

So it was wisdom, some thought,
to recognize they could not be free
until they could play on the same pitch
with their masters,
they needed to master the crafts of the time
world standard. They needed to be able to compete..

Whom did Kedar meet that inspired him?
Was it Dall Saheb and the American Transcendentalists.
who could be persuaded that there was meaning in the Gita?
or a Jones who recognizes the divine beauty of the Gita Govinda,
or an Avalon entranced by the truth of Tantra,
that made him believe that the glory of spiritual India
would exercise its magic and triumph in the end?

Let the British strut and steer
with the energy of youth;
they would one day tire and turn inward
and yearn for the riches of the soul
that were the science that India had spent
dwelling on these many thousands of years..

The Thakur was an Anglophile
But the diet of Britishness, the meat,
the ever present spirits and cheroots,
finally brought him down.

He had served the powers
he knew the powers
he learned all he felt there was
to learn from the powers,
and in the end,
he believed he could meet them as equals on the turf of philosophy
of religious insight and practice, and show them the way.

If he was grateful to them for one thing
it was their devotion to Jesus
and aspiration for a universal brotherhood of man,
but he saw that they did not really know the science of love,
that thing the Savior of the East had brought.
They did not know the joy of prema bhakti,
the one lack that overrides all worldly attainments.
That is what he came to know and then to show.

Jai Bhaktivinoda Thakur.


Thursday, January 24, 2019

Crappy poetry


Poems should be crafted
by those who love the language.
And I don't love English,
so I am a fool to think that
my untidy gushing of vomit-like sequences
of eloquence and insight deprived
sounds pertaining to the English language
should ever be called poetry.

Poetry is rasa dhvani.
It is the art of the unsaid,
the reverberation that both
spreads light and meaning
and burrows its way into one.

Like the arrows of a weak archer,
What good are a poet's words
if they do not make the hearer's head spin?

The words are just the tools that are used
to evoke the inexpressible, to suggest
something unsaid.

I am a dull and helpless lover
as bad at love as the untidy,
degraded drunkard is to drink.
I have only the most empty, primal scream,
which knows no capacity for self description.

To describe it clinically
would just be to say it is what happens when
a poor man finds a treasure and then loses it,
and can thenceforth think of nothing else;
it begs for a meaningful explanation
but cannot find it.


Monday, January 21, 2019

The anthropological history of love


The history  of books, the history of men
Is the story of the disruption in the flow of love.

That is the essence of human civilization.
It from the beginning was the creator of human civilization.

Did thought come first, or was it love?
When  love was seen to be good,
Intelligence was born. Love works.
And intelligence is there to make it work.
Better and better. Even if its end rule
Is that you must deceive the intelligence
In order to truly know love.

Your faith must be greater than your reason,
For without it reason knows not what to do.

There is no couple but for Radha and Krishna.

Freud's story of the birth of human self-awareness:
It came when the jealous young’uns got together and killed
The overbearing dominator, the alpha male, their father
Who hoarded all the females and enjoyed them at his leisure
And left the others to surreptitious canoodling under hidden branches.

After the parricide they were consumed by guilt
And so began to venerate his memory in contrition
Neurotically inventing ritual to expiate the guilt.
By exalting his memory, exaggerating his powers
internalizing whatever virtues they suddenly realized  
they had lost
By their sin against love.

They had fallen from an ordered paradise
And so intelligence was born
And the analysis of love was begun
And thus it was that
the human race began to grow up.


The Speaker and the Listener


I come back to you.
It comes that talking to you
Whether you listen or not
is the proper remedy for
this particular disease of being me.
I think certainly there is a hearer
At the end of this line. A listener.

You, my dear human person,
May listen or not, but when you listen
You give me life. And what is more Godly than that?

The 8.30 end meditation alarm sounds
And I am suddenly pursued by ecstasy.
Rasa is ecstasy. It flows inexplicably
But it means nothing but love for everything.
It is the golden jewel around which all the other purusharthas lie.

It was  not you who listened. It was God.
And if you stop listening that is also God.
It is the lessons that still remain unclear.
But the pursuit of ekanta nishtha has its own rewards.

So to speak to you becomes speaking to the world.
What has to be said to you is what has to be said to the world.
At least the world that has tattooed itself on me
Despite the best efforts I have to be someone or something
I am always just a series of layers.
The external personality is also not the self.
But a reflection of it.

I see your ears perk up.
Suddenly you think there is something meaningful here.
If not wisdom, it is perhaps a marker on the road to wisdom.
But the mystery I seek is that of the truest wisdom,
That of love.


Tantric confessions



I suppose I allow my mind to dwell too much on you,
What can I do? It has become the habit of all my senses.

I have sat in meditation, watching what happens to me
As I remember you. As my chest swells with prana
And my heart explodes from the compressions of my belly.
A light explodes from the yoni sthan and into my brain
Spewing some subtle elixir of immortality.

And it comes from you
Whose breast I press against my skin.
Who is joined with me at all the points,
The lakes and lotuses and whirling wheels
That are the markers of my journey
Along roads I have cultivated and cared for,
Along  the stem I have climbed laboriously
From roots fed by the subtle elixir of immortality
you poured on a slumbering seed.

I breathed you in.
I don’t know whether I can breathe you out,
I breathed you in and you stayed.
We shared breath.
Breath that was blessed with the Divine Name.

You first penetrated my body and mind
And then gave laborious birth to this something
that I dare not call love.
In pessimism, let us call it a deformed child,
The bastard child of rasabhasa,
Like the love of parakeets or panda bears.

Your indifference now
Joined to my helpless stubbornness
is merely a pressure cooker
Building to yet newer explosions of this obscure
Mixture of pleasure and pain,
both embraced and despaired of simultaneously.

I would that I could turn my mind back to
That Radha and Krishna that are somewhere outside
But I cannot.
I must see the Divine Couple in the only love I know.

Are you God? Can you be God?
Can I make you God if I want?

Is the flowering of the thousand petaled lotus
Meant to reveal you alone or the Divine Couple?
Or is it pointless to differentiate?