Veils and Things

I spent those nights in Radha Kund;
I had one long dream of Vrindavan.
And I awoke, hearing shukas and sharis,
watching the sunlight waft over
the smooth and spotless sheets
of my North American bed.

I thought to myself:
Surely Radha and Krishna have left me a garland;
surely there is a legacy of prema left by this dream
that will embrace the world,
that will envelop it like a veil.

But as I look again,
I see that I was given
a strange gift--a sword,
which runs me through,
which beheads my world,
which punctures all my colored balloons.

I am exposed: Am I unable
to carry the sword of conviction,
though like a beast of burden,
my back has been made strong
from bearing the bricks
of so many sweet theories?

Unlike Rabindranatha's maid,
my yes is not so ready made.

=============================

Rabindranath's poem.

I thought I should ask of thee - but I dared not -
the rose wreath thou hadst on thy neck.
Thus I waited for the morning,
when thou didst depart,
to find a few fragments on the bed.

And like a beggar I searched in the dawn only for a stray petal or two.

Ah me, what is it I find? What token left of thy love?
It is no flower, no spices, no vase of perfumed water.
It is thy mighty sword, flashing as a flame, heavy as a bolt of thunder.

The young light of morning comes through the window
and spread itself upon thy bed.
The morning bird twitters and asks,
'Woman, what hast thou got?'
No, it is no flower, nor spices,
nor vase of perfumed water
- it is thy dreadful sword.

I sit and muse in wonder, what gift is this of thine.
I can find no place to hide it.
I am ashamed to wear it, frail as I am,
and it hurts me when I press it to my bosom.
Yet shall I bear in my heart this honour
of the burden of pain, this gift of thine.

From now there shall be no fear left for me in this world,
and thou shalt be victorious in all my strife.
Thou hast left death for my companion
and I shall crown him with my life.

Thy sword is with me to cut asunder my bonds,
and there shall be no fear left for me in the world.

From now I leave off all petty decorations.
Lord of my heart, no more shall there be for me
waiting and weeping in corners,
no more coyness and sweetness of demeanour.
Thou hast given me thy sword for adornment.
No more doll's decorations for me!

========================

When I first read the poem, I admit to having first thought of the phallic implications of the sword. This is not just because I am a man and I see phallic symbols everywhere.

Really there is no difference between a phallic symbol and what this sword symbolizes in the poem--empowerment. Men need swords as much, if not more than women do. This comes of something called "castration anxiety," which men need to overcome. Overcompensation of macho characteristics is, to me, the great malady of the male psyche. Manjari bhava is the medicine I prescribe.

The idea being that prema is ultimately more powerful and more resilient than the sword. The indication here being that the love of God, the only Purusha, in relation to whom we are all Prakriti, precedes genuine heroism, which comes in equal measure to man or woman in this world.

And this makes it important to give the context of where I found this poem. I am reading a book about Kabir by a well-known Indian scholar, Hajari Prasad Dvivedi. Dvivedi is a very entertaining writer, even while being informative historically and critically. Besides this, he is a fan and follower of Kabir, which altogether makes a mix that I find particularly appealing. He quotes Rabindra and other Bengali works, including Vaishnava ones, though writing in Hindi.

The first poem he quotes to begin the chapter is centered on the metaphor of a veil, the meaning of which is somewhat obscure. One thing we can be sure of, however, is that the veil is a feminine symbol—it is enclosing and covering, protective and soothing.



cunariyA hamarI piyA ne sanwArI
koI pahirai piya kI pyArI
ATha hAtha kI banI cunariyA
panca ranga paTiyA pArI

cAnda suruja jAme Ancala lAge
jagamaga joti ujArI
binu tAne yaha banI cunariyA
dAsa kabIra balihAri

My beloved gave me a veil--
who could wear it but the one he loves?
This veil is eight hands long
and the fabric dyed with five colors.

The moon and the sun shine on the border
Filling it with sparkling light.
This veil was made without a loom,
Kabir gives it glory above all.

Dwivedi interprets the veil as bhakti, which he says is a causeless gift from God. He quotes the famous Upanishadic verse—

nAyam AtmA pravacanena labhyo
na medhayA na bahunA zrutena
yam evaiSa vRNute tena labhyas
tasyaiSa AtmA vivRNute tanuM svAm

The Self cannot be attained through learned discourses
Nor through intelligence, nor through long study.
The Self is attainable to the one He chooses.
To him, the Self reveals His own form.

Kabir's poem is full of allusions. Dwivedi identifies the eight hands as the eight periods of the day ("Time"). He interprets the five colors as the “pancha tattva,” though unfortunately he is obscure about which set of five tattvas he thinks it means (most likely the five great elements). This is sandhya bhasha, and I cannot say whether he has received his info from a genuine tradition or not.

It seems more likely that the meaning is "body." Another Kabir song with a veil in it--

merI chunarI meM pari gayo dAg piyA
panch tatta kI banI chunariya
solaha sai band lAge jiyA
yaha chunarI mere maike tem AyI
sasurA meM manuAM khoya diyA
mali mali dhoI dAg na chhutai
gyAna ko sAbun lAya piyA
kahai kabir dAg tab chhuti haim
jab sAheb apnAya liyA

My Love, my veil is stained.
Made from the elements five,
Absorbed in sixteen hundred sensory traps,
The veil that came from my parental home
Lost its luster in my in-laws’ house.
I wash it over and over, yet the stain goes not!
My Love, bring the soap of knowledge.
Says Kabir: These stains will eventually leave
When my Love makes me his own.

Strange though it appears, in this love song, Kabir the weaver, uses the word Chunri (Veil) deftly to unveil the misperception of "truth" as an identification with one's body rather than with the invariant "Self." Perhaps rightly so, as the "Self" cannot get tainted! The love song seems to be indicative of a complete union towards oneness by which one transcends the merely sensual existence to one that is universal. The latter to me personally makes more sense as an absolute union or Samadhi is possible only when the mind becomes focused on a single idea, the idea that there is none other than the Self." (This comment from Kabir love songs)

He decides here to make a point not really found in Kabir’s song, nor apparently in any Kabir song, because he has to use the above Rabindranath poem to make it. He says that though God makes the gift of the “shringar” veil of bhakti, it is not “light” or “soft,” but comes with a heavy burden of responsibility. So he takes the feminine symbol and turns it into a masculine one, which seems unjustifiable, at least from the point of strict adherence to the interpretation of Kabir.

Next: The Flower Garland and the Sword

The Flower Garland and the Sword

The flower garland and the sword,
From safety to the brink,
It’s all a case of binaries,
For that is how we think.

The flower garland and the sword,
As old as yang and yin:
One is all about going out,
The other, going in.

Ah, but it’s not such a simple thing
This business of yang and yin,
It’s not as clear as black and white,
Or piety and sin.

Brahma is the God without,
Atma, God within.
Women look for Brahma God,
The Atma is for men.

But that’s because what each one owns
Is the other’s secret need,
The man has always held the sword,
While woman holds the seed.

And so, the woman wants the world
The man, he wants repose.
The woman yearns to wield the sword,
The man to hold the rose.

Now please don’t get all huffy, folks,
I don’t want it on the chin.
Sexual identities in themselves,
Are not of gold, but tin.

The identity of Brahma and Self
Is where the Srutis end;
And the unity of opposites
Is where the genders bend.

The sexes are our greatest clue
To Sri Jugal Kishor,
Where contrasts are at last resolved,
And One makes love not war.

From GD. Again, see the Rabindranath poem.

Mostly silly stuff from GD

The brain and the heart had a fight
that lasted a day and a night.
The heart said, "It's dawn,"
the brain looked forlorn
and said, "I still can't see any light."

++++

Our Sri Roopah is soopah doopah.
If you don't like her,
You're a bheng in a koopah.

++++

This website is a cheat? That's pretty neat!
Who here's the culprit who must take the heat?
So go ahead, sell books out on the street--

That's where shastra tells us we shall meet
a rasik guru at whose lotus feet
bhakta bees taste the raga honey treat.

++++

kRSNa-bhakti-rasa-bhAvita-matiH
kriyatAM yadi kuto’pi labhyate |
tatra laulyam api mUlyam ekalaM
janma-koTi-sukRtair na labhyate ||

O friend, if you should find it anywhere,
that heart absorbed in Krishna rasa so rare,
be quick to buy, how much the soul’s in need!

In that bazaar is posted just one price;
millions of pious works will not suffice,
the cost is to be paid in coins of greed.

++++

You should have asked your G.B.C.
before you came and talked to me.
Then you’d have known I've got the curse:
Sanskrit knowledge makes me dangerous.

And then I go and made things worse
by giving answers just in verse.
So now you think, “That’s aparadh.
He thinks he’s better than Prabhupad.”

It’s silly just to write in rhyme.
Sorry, promise I won’t next time.
But you be good, do what you’re told,
and stay away to save your soul.

That’s good advice: just stay away
from asat-sang like me, and pray
to Prabhupad, you’ll be O.K.

But I think it may just be too late,
the horse is gone, why lock the gate?
The fish has swum off with the bait.

++++

O Great Fish!
My sakhi baited the hook of her heart
with the delicacy of love just to catch you,
casting it into the ambrosial waters.

Not only did you swallow up
both bait and hook,
but you broke the string of her reason--
Alas, what can the poor girl do now?

++++

Call this the flute’s fault, or call it his name,
Call it his form, or my own past fate;
Call it God if you will—still this flame
burns not with ecstasy, but with pain.

++++

The Moguls come, the Moguls go.
The British come, the British go.
We take the best and leave the rest.
We still eat curry, our women wear sari,
We live real close and arrange to marry.
So East’s part East and now part West,
That’s globalizing at its best.

Based on a quote by Jerry Rao. (CEO of MphasiS) quoted in The World is Flat by Thomas Friedman.

++++

The Gods of This Earth

The gods of this earth
dragged me bound and chained
to the battlefield of choice.

Amidst the noise and rain,
they laughed and said,
“Behold the armies here aligned;
survey now what will be lost,
and what, if aught, you'll gain.”

My feet were motionless,
locked in the hardened mortar
of my dharma.
I rattled my hapless chain.

The gods cackled and shrieked, “Look:
There is no worldly goal, no aim,
no task before God but dharma:
Do your duty, day after day,
There’s no Sabbath, so claim no rest.
There is no rest to claim.” (1)

Another whispered hoarsely—“Yes!
Stick to your wretched dharma,
given you by Nature, God and Guru!
There is only hope for you
if you unravel your hopes:
For these are the binding ropes.” (2)

I strained to see the Vraja fields,
once held up to me as hope.
“Will I get this from my dharma?”
I cried. And they said, “Nope.”

“Surrender!” urged the worldly gods.
“Do your karma! Take your karma!
Fear for sankar of the varna!
Worry ‘bout the kula dharma!

"Oho! Show your stuff to them
who disdain your God.
Love means you’re not a stain
on your guru's spotless raiment.
Love means you take the pain,
even when there’s nothing
in this world or the next to gain.”

And, as an afterthought, they said:
"Save yourself from shame."

“Make your choice, make your choice!” They egg'd.
“The choice has long been made,” I said.
“It has been made by my concrete boots,
and by this tree with both upward
and downward roots,
for I have eaten of its
shrivelled, lifeless fruits.”

[**This cannot be! This cannot be!
Did I have no real choice
that would have set me free?]

*Based on (1) and (2) from Religions in Four Dimensions by Walter Kaufmann (NY: Reader's Digest Press, 1976). Pages 290 and 242 respectively. Originally these were quoted in full, but have now been totally altered.
** To be whispered.

Postscript: A little heroism, Arjun,
a little less moping in corners.
Wherever heroes die,
there are always joyful mourners.

I Am An Ocean

I am an ocean : on the surface names and forms
ruffle and ripple like waves, tides and storms.
But sat, chit and ananda are my depths,
waters untroubled by viraha or death.

So listen : When I say that Krishna saves,
I do not mean he stops or stays the waves.
It means we meet him in the inner deep,
a holy realm beyond profoundest sleep.

I do not fear or shy from karma’s phal;
I do not seek freedom from my sins or hell.
The Name pulls me with infinite grace
To my deeps where They are e'er enlaced.

I am an ocean : on the surface names and forms
ruffle and ripple like waves, tides and storms.
But being, knowledge and love fill my depths:
Where no curse shall e'er trouble me, nor regrets.

Waves too are the verses you have just read.
Why make these waves? What needed being said?
It's this: You too are an unfathomable sea,
So sink the horned hare, and be with me.



First posted on Gaudiya Discussions (May, 2005)

Sweeter Than Sweet

I was once inspired to try my hand at translating in verse, but it came out sounding too much like doggerel and so I abandoned it. Here was one such attempt (CC Madhya 21.137-141):

Sanatan! Just contemplate the sweetness of the Lord!
A mellifluent sea of mead
For which my mind in lusty greed
Has come and sits in waiting by its shore.

And thinking it will quickly drink its fill
Is fated but to know it never will.
Misfortune comes dressed up in doctor’s guise
and allows it not one drop, despite its cries.

Pray tell, can sweetness be still more than sweet?
And then more sweet, a sweetness even more complete?
With just one drop, the entire cosmos fills
And drowns within those lovely honey swills;
In sweetness all directions merge and meet.

The smiling rays of camphor touch his lips,
The smile melts from his misty mouth and drips
Ent’ring by force the ears of all the skies
Beguiles, and ravishing it ties
The hearts of all, and most of all, the girls.

Just hear about that dulcet flute’s disgrace!
It steals wives from their husbands’ sweet embrace,
Destroys their dharm and their chasteness vows.
And Lakshmi too in heaven is aroused,
So what hope have we poor gopis to save face?

It looses the brides’ clothes before their grooms,
Makes them leave their chores unfinished in their rooms;
It makes them dance as if tied to a string
Forgetting fear, shame and every thing,
And drags them where the lotus lord’s smile blooms.

Sri Krishna’s arms like jewelled bars of steel--
No! Not arms but cobras black who steal
Between the furrows of the gopis’ breasts
To pierce their hearts and put their fangs to rest,
And leave a wound that only he can heal.

The Bare Bones of a Poem

The world is a world of metaphor—
No thing is a thing in itself.

If horses had gods, their gods would be horses,
said one with a Trojan horse laugh.

And ever since, each day
a sad child grows
to find there is no Santa Claus,
no bearded grandpa on a celestial throne,
no shining blue boy playing a flute—
"These tales are all a bit too cute;
I am no child," says he.

How astute the human brain!
Horse gods, Norse gods, little-boy-blue gods,
or bearded old-man-in-the-sky gods--
just food for the hopeless insane!

And yet...
The phone booth out behind my fence
is where Clark Kent secretly
kicks off his outer pants!

It's where a broken-hearted girl
tries one last time to retrieve her man.
It's where a trembling toxicomane
scours the towers for another horse to ride.
It's where an exhausted wheeler-dealer
grasps at one last straw to get a loan,
and, failing that, does not go home,
but rings a local whore’s phone.

It’s here the ingenue got the nod;
It’s here that someone talked to God.

I have eyes! I am not blind
It’s just aluminum and glass,
wires, square metal ugliness—
No Central Square of miracles!

But those are empty eyes
that see just aluminum and glass
wires, metal, ugliness:
They see just empty truths, and those are lies.

Naked facts are the sound of one hand clapping,
They're the tree falling in an empty forest,
They are bones without the flesh of meaning,
while meaning gives flesh to the barest of bones.

And this is why I worship stones.