Showing posts with label Krishna. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Krishna. Show all posts

Thursday, August 2, 2012

Amid the din

Skies turn over a grieving earth
As men perish and are born again
Amid laughs and tears and unending horrors
And moments of fleeting joy.
Warriors clash and thieves steal
And darker hearts grow darker still.
Children laugh and lovers kiss
And yogis sit silent in forests deep.

And amid this din, Krishna moves
From bliss to bliss, from bliss to bliss...

Thursday, July 5, 2012

Kshatriya

Shivaji - one of the most remarkable Kshatriyas to walk the Earth.

It is a glorious story that everyone in Maharashtra knows very well. Over 350 years ago, on the slopes of Pratapgadh, the destiny of the Marathas stood on the edge of doom. It was the meeting of Shivaji, the fledgeling king of the Maratha rebels, and the gigantic Afzal Khan, the powerful and ruthless general of Bijapur. It was supposed to be a peaceful meeting, and Afzal Khan invited Shivaji into a friendly embrace. But even as he embraced him, he tightened his grip around the Maratha's neck, choking him, and tried to stab him in the back with a dagger. To his surprise, he encountered the chainmail that Shivaji had worn under his clothes. But he had no time to attack again. Shivaji had already torn open his belly with his own concealed weapon. Afzal Khan's bodyguard, Sayyad Banda rushed to defend his master. But before his sword could reach Shivaji, his arm had been chopped off by a swift blow from Shivaji's own bodyguard, Jiva Mahal. Within just a minute, the siege of Pratapgadh had essentially ended. The young Maratha king, who was to change the destiny of a nation, had survived.

There are thousands of minutes in a day and hundreds of days in a year. And hundreds of years have rolled by since that battle on the slopes of Pratapgadh. And yet, that one minute lives on in memory. Every blow that was struck, dodged or blocked within that one minute has been chronicled. That one minute has been enacted in plays and films and sung about in songs. And we still say "होता जिवा म्हणून वाचला शिवा" ("Shiva survived because Jiva was there"). How did the people who lived that minute experience it? What was Shivaji thinking then? What went through Jiva Mahal's mind as he stopped the blow that could have ended a dream? That has not been chronicled, but we can easily guess the answers to those questions. The answer is - absolutely nothing. If either of them had taken a moment to think at that time, the story would have been entirely different. That one minute was made glorious not because of great thoughts but because of the precise flash of a blade.

Mankind has been unfortunate enough to have gone through far too many wars. And every war has had its heroes - men and women who have done extraordinary things in the face of absolute peril. And yet, as far as I know, most of them have simply said that they were just doing what was necessary at that moment. We think of a hero as being very courageous, as someone who conquers his fear and does something difficult. But the fact is that being courageous in such situations does not involve conquering one's fear. It simply requires being genuinely sensitive to the moment and doing precisely what is required. If one were to take time off to find one's courage, it would just be too late to act.

Absolute peril has that wonderful quality - it can either paralyze a man and destroy him, or it can take him into that rare state when he is aware of nothing but the present moment. For that brief while, it can bestow godliness upon him. It almost makes it worthwhile to seek danger. It is possible that some people are just built that way - to face peril is the only way they can be at their absolute peak. In his book "Krishna - the Man and his Philosophy", Osho describes Arjuna as such a being - a true Kshatriya.
He is a swordsman; in his makeup he has the sharpness and thrust of the sword. He can shine only if he has a sword in his hand. He can find his soul and its fulfillment only in the depths of courage and valor, of battle and war. He cannot be fulfilled in any other manner. That is why Krishna tells him, ”It is better to die upholding one’s true nature than to live a borrowed life, which is nothing less than a horror. You die as a warrior, rather than live as a renegade. Then you will live a dead life. And a living death is better than a dead life.”
For the past few months my circumstances have been such that I have been under a constant peril of some sort. No, it has not been mortal peril, but circumstances have arisen in such ways that certain parts of my life were constantly under a genuine threat. I tried to manage this situation in different ways with limited success. One thing is, I told myself that I needed to accept the situation completely to deal with it in the best possible way. That did work at times, but not too well. Intellectual acceptance of this kind has only a limited effect. But then came those wonderful moments when the situation became genuinely unbearable. Yes, those were the wonderful moments since those were the moments when thought simply had to stop and action flowed. Something wonderful happened - a strange new life, a strange new bliss in the middle of hell. Of course, what I have been going through certainly cannot be compared to mortal peril, but for a brief moment, a little understanding dawned upon me. For a brief moment, I understood what true Kshatriyas might have been like. For a brief moment, I understood why Krishna wanted Arjuna to fight, why Arjuna needed to fight, whether he wanted to or not.

Genuine awareness can dawn upon a person in so many ways. The path of peril is a truly remarkable path for those who are able to walk upon it. People have so many theories about why Krishna allowed the Mahabharata war to happen. I think that one reason might have been that he saw the peril of war as a wonderful opportunity for so many people. It is said that Krishna himself did not strike a blow during the war. But I think that is a lie. Krishna, the man, may not have struck a single blow. But Krishna, as a spiritual possibility, was alive in the edge of every sword and on the tip of every arrow. 

Sunday, June 3, 2012

Radha's song

It sang once, now fallen mute,
To my bosom I clasp his flute.
I bring it to my lips to play
But only one thing does it say,
All the notes speak as one...
That I am his, I am his!
The music says that I am his!


They see the madness in my eyes
And hear my lost, plaintive cries.
I look for him here and there.
They follow me in mute despair.
They weep and weep and they say...
That I am his, I am his!
The gopis say that I am his!


The birds that once saw him and me
Sing flying from tree to tree.
"You taught us how to love," they say,
"And yet, where is your love today?"
But in those songs I only hear...
That I am his, I am his!
The birds do say that I am his!


The patient earth bears my feet
In cold and rain and burning heat,
And catches tears when they fall
As for him I call and call.
Only echoes call back to me...
That I am his, I am his!
The echoes say that I am his!


The Yamuna once beheld our dance,
The sacred grace of our romance.
Grieving today with me is she.
Her soothing waters speak to me,
As lovingly they caress my feet...
That I am his, I am his!
The waters say that I am his!


The winds still bring me his scent
As I wonder where my Krishna went.
I follow the gusts of this breeze.
It takes me winding through the trees.
As it dries my tears it says...
That I am his, I am his!
The wind does say that I am his!


Now he dwells on another shore.
I know I will see him no more.
And yet my eyes behold his face,
My limbs quiver in his embrace.
For before he left he said to me...
That I am his, I am his!
My Krishna said that I am his!


Behold, O gods! And be pleased!
For Radha today has truly ceased.
She broke the shackles of her fate
And the Lord walks in her gait!
Now she can say no more...
For she is his, she is his!
The silence says that she is his!

Radha's pots

Seeing Krishna at her window, the gopi's heart leapt with joy. With shining eyes and open arms, she called out to him.

"Come, O thief. My pots are filled today, to the brim. The butter is fresh, and you have no need steal any more. Just for a few moments at your feet, I offer you everything I have."

However, today, Krishna was not tempted. Though he smiled at her, full of love, he passed her by and went to Radha's house.

When Radha saw her beloved at the window, she did not welcome him.

"Go away, you thief! I have nothing left. The pots are empty. You and your friends have robbed me clean!"

But he did not go away. He entered the house, through the window, as was his wont. Meeting Radha's defiant gaze with his smile, he peered into her pots. He found them empty, as she had said.

Then the Lord sat next to those empty pots. He put his flute to his lips and began to play. The whole of Creation stood still, in anticipation of that heavenly sound. And yet, somehow, no one heard anything.

The sound never left Radha's house. Sitting next to those empty pots, Krishna played his flute. The world heard nothing, but the pots were filled with the sound.

And so was she.

Post-Samyama

Post-Samyama... anyone who is associated with Isha would need no explanation for this term. But for those who do not know, Samyama is an intense eight day yoga program conducted by Sadhguru Jaggi Vasudev at the Isha Yoga Center near Coimbatore. It has been over 3 months since I attended this program and I would like to write about how life has changed since then. The term post-Samyama is quite apt since, as anyone who has been through the program would know, life does change quite dramatically within those eight days.

Of course, it is not possible to speak about what is actually done during the program - partly because it is forbidden to speak about it, but mostly because what happens there is far beyond my understanding anyway. But I think it would be quite appropriate to speak about some general impressions.

As I said, most of the things that happened there are far beyond my understanding. I certainly ran into some difficulties during the program. Physically, I had prepared myself as well as I could have. But then I caught a cold which lead to a fever. And yet, despite my illness and a million other limitations, fortunately what happened there was so huge that I could not escape it. Perhaps if I had prepared myself better, perhaps if I had been psychologically more stable, I could have gotten much more out of it. But there is no point in thinking about that. What matters is that, even with all my limitations, he managed to drag me, kicking and screaming, through a transformation of some sort.

Impressions of Samyama -
Over a thousand people meditating in silence. A man with a white beard and fiery eyes walks among them. Even in that silence, his presence bears down on everyone with the ferocity of the wildest of storms. Sometimes, nothing seems to happen. And sometimes the air crackles and another dimension of life pours in out of nowhere. It is as if he is everywhere at once, there is no escaping him. He is ruthless and almost impatient about our limitations, and yet his compassion shines through his willingness to carry on. A thousand souls, whether they know it or not, whether they believe it or not, are carried to the doorstep of a completely new possibility of life. And after this superhuman effort, he just goes on...




I cannot say much more about the program apart from these vague impressions, but much can be said about how my life changed afterwards. During the program, participants are initiated into the meditational practice called Samyama. I don't know how much I missed during the program, but this practice is the greatest gift I have ever received from anyone. And he gave it to me even though I was so obviously unworthy. It makes no sense to thank him for this. Thanking someone, expressing gratitude is, in a way, a form of repayment. That would make no sense here. It is far better to walk through life being in his debt.

Those who are close to me would know that I went through some very trying experiences immediately after the program. Everything in my life was changing and still is changing with such rapidity that under normal circumstances I would have fallen apart. Through all this, the practice of samyama meditation has served as a lifeline. I will not say that I have not suffered at all. But through all the suffering there has been an undercurrent of silence, and at times even laughter! When I say that there has been an undercurrent of silence, words cannot really convey what that means. It has not been the silence of an empty room. It has been the deeply nourishing silence of life at ease - the kind of silence that carries fire in its belly.

I have begun to experience life with heightened sensitivity. For instance, I recently read the book "Krishna - the Man and his Philosophy" by Osho. It is certainly an extraordinary book. But an extraordinary book can be read in very ordinary ways and then it amounts to nothing. I do know that the very way I read this book was a consequence of Samyama. And as a result, it came vibrantly alive for me. The words poured into me like liquid laughter and Krishna seemed to come alive in a very deep sense. Krishna has always been a character that I have been fond of. Yes, Hindus worship him as a God, but there is no denying the fact that no matter how we pretend to "believe in him", he is just a character in a story for us. And he is a character that we think we know very well. And yet, after I read this book, it was as if I was drowning in something completely new. Of course, that is the greatness of Osho, but I would have never been this receptive to it if it had not been for Samyama. Perhaps this is how people felt when they participated in "Leela" - the program on Krishna that Sadhguru had conducted some years ago in the Isha Yoga Center. 

So intense was that experience that I automatically took to writing. Now, like many other people, I have been guilty of writing atrocious poetry(?) as a child. And I mean, really bad poetry - the sort that later makes you wonder what your parents were doing when you were up to something like this. But that was long ago and I have been sufficiently embarrassed with myself to not want to try anything that rash. But what happened here was truly amazing - the poetry, if I may call it that, poured out of me in one swift motion. Experiences come to us in many ways, but I never really experienced anything in the form of a picture or a song. And yet, that happened to me. One night I was drowned in a powerful image (and no, I don't mean that I saw visions or anything stupid like that) which I turned into a short story called "Radha's pots". Some days later, a song poured out of me, one that I titled as "Radha's song". I am not sure how this would rate as poetry, but for once, I was not embarrassed! Perhaps that is because I don't really see myself as having written any of it.

And who knows what else...