THE FLUTE (OR MURALI) When Thou broke this piece Away from its mother bush Oh, how it hurt my Lord ! And how the bamboo cursed When it Thy knife pierced And left gaping wounds ! But Thy lips touched it, Thy sweet breath filled it, It found itself a flute And ever since then It never ceased to sing. *** *** But why folk and funny tunes And not the classic ones The Flute could never find Nor does greatly mind For, it is Thy hands that hold And Thy breath that flows.
Last night I let darkness fall on my eyes
Shadows crept into my home
Sneaks of all sizes confidently poured in
Clinging to any little hard thing they could get hold of
Seep, creep, slither thither
‘Left, right, tiptoe
Here we are, never to go’
Hop stop In
I slashed away in all directions
They gave way like red butter
Fell into gory little pieces
But one would not go
Dead, lifeless but not powerless
The crabby, skeletal ghost won’t let go
I hit hard but it clings tight
I jerk, I shrug, I chuck
I toss, I fling, I throw
I do everything so that it goes far,
Out of my way
It does that.
But I sense its ruthless march back
Oh, I don’t have the strength to halt it!
(Or is it that I don’t have the mind?)
I am left with the perpetual remnant
Am I?
The soft sun caressed my eyes
The holy waters are wetting them
Where are they, the phantoms?
Where have they drifted away to,
those dry flakes?
Ah, Darkness is thy doing
Let at least the lightest of flames be
(That will do, to drive away
the darkest of demons)
Till thou catch the blaze
From tip to toe
(or Till thou art all ablaze)
Once this disciple went about the streets
Saw a fat landlord kicking up his keep
Heart shed tears as he saw the boy weep
He intervened and stopped the heavy beats
Rage frustrated, the landlord rained his fists
On our holy boy, he fell down senseless
Brothers and teacher heard the news, and themselves
Brought him gently home laid in bed to rest
One sprinkled water and he came around
'Nother fed him milk and asked him `Do thou
Recognize him who feedest milk to thou ?'
Hear his words with halo shining round
`He, the Great God, who beat me indeed sits
Lovingly with concern with milk me feeds'
* the photo is that of young Sri Ramana Maharishi. It is here to serve the purpose of illustration. My most respectful pranams to Sri Maharishi.
He stands alone with ghostly pale
Starring stunned with disbelief
At the mystery before him
A day before
With joyous hearts
They had bid
Farewell to him
And had gone
To enjoy their
Twentieth spring
Of togetherness
Did they wave
Goodbye to him
Or were they
Saying that
They will not
Return to him?
Was it them
Which returned
Or is it
The empty nest?
The old puzzle
Left him dumb
In the screen
Of his heart
Flashes past
Vivid scenes
Of happy days
In company
As the scenes
Change and change
A sudden thought
Chills his heart
A day before
They had been
A day hence
Nothing will be
An old fool’s
Lifeless words
Resonates
With life anew
As he asks
`All a dream?’
The priest juggles
With strange words
Machine-like
He complies with
All that is
Asked by priests
His infant hands
Had fed before
Tender food
To eager mouths
The hardened hand
Feeds now
Coarse rice
To forced mouths
The eyes that were
Flashing stars
Stares lifeless
At the sun
Two fire-pots
Come to him
Holding these
He goes ahead
Along the road
With bare chest
Can one know
Where he looks ?
The curious
Passers-by
Seem to be
Dead to him
They come to a
Stop now
The two lie on
Their last bed
Covered by
A professional
The fire pots
Become light
The fires start to burn without
The fire starts to burn within
The fires now rage without
The fire now rages within
Ashes start to collect without
Ashes start to collect within
Cracking sound are heard without
Cracking sound are heard within
A big cracking sound is heard
`Shiva’ he cries and comes to life
He springs towards the piles of ash
Undaunted by the shouts of all
Before they all could contain him
He had grabbed two handfuls
Now his face shines with ash
All his clothes tear apart
`Poor boy’ they say of him
They all begin to call him mad.
This is an instance of `Smashana Vairaghya’ (Cremation ground renunciation) turning to birth of real knowledge. Nothing like this happened with the boy whose father died. But these were the reactions in my mind.
THERE was a farmer who lived in the countryside.
He was a real jnani. He earned his living by
farming. He was married, and after many years a
son was bor to him, whom he named Haru. The
parents loved the boy dearly. This was natural,
since he was the one precious gem of the family.
On account of his religious nature the farmer was
loved by the villagers. One day he was working in
the field when a neighbour came and told him that
Haru had an attack of cholera. The farmer at once
returned home and arranged for treatment for the
boy. But Haru died. The other members of the
family were grief-stricken, but the farmer acted as
if nothing had happened. He consoled his family
and told them that grieving was futile. Then he
went back to his field. On returning home he
found his wife weeping even more bitterly. She
said to him: "How heartless you are! You haven't
shed one tear for the child." The farmer replied
quietly: "Shall I tell you why I haven't wept? I had a
very vivid dream last night. I dreamt I had become
a king; I was the father of eight sons and was very
happy with them. Then I woke up. Now I am
greatly perplexed. Should I weep for those eight
sons or for this one Haru?"
The farmer was a jnani; therefore he realized that
the waking state is as unreal as die dream state.
There is only one eternal substance, and that is the
Atman.
Haru, they fondly called him, their only one
Long awaited child, they loved him dearly
Did the best for him. All he wished for, had he.
The father, a pious man, head held high
Respected by all lived he. Days went by.
Gained wisdom as he mused while he tilled day long
Mother with her son, fussing all along
One fine morn, the farmer woke up musing
Found his only son ill and dying
Brought the best doctors, did all that he could
The boy died but no tears did he shed
Grieving mother grieved the more seeing him
Unmoved. `Your only son, young, full of vim,
Fate struck him but you grieve not, cry not !
Heartless you are, a stone's what you've got !'
The gentle farmer replied, `Hear my dear,
I am puzzled for whom to shed my tear
In the early morn I ruled a rich kingdom
Had six strapping princely sons with wisdom
And valor to win the world twice over
Then woke up to find them gone for ever
Now tell me dear, whom should I cry for ?
My Haru or those sons valorous in War ?'
This a dream ? That true ? Or the real is beyond, far ?
Truth flashed on her too. Dim brooding she quit.
Life with scenes of waking and dream is but
Tip of the living force solid and spread out.
 |
| http://bugsandbear.blogspot.in/ |
