Love and The Turning Seasons Read online

  men who sing ordinary songs

  now call themselves poets.

  They go into places and explain their

  songs to somebody

  they happen to find

  and they say to them,

  “You are aesthetes! You know poetry!”

  O God of Kāḷahasti,

  substance and emptiness are not distinguished.

  Poetry has been cheapened.

  Where is it

  good poets can go?

  :HH & VNR

  When I think of the past,

  the terrible sinful

  things I have done,

  I am sickened by them.

  When I see before me

  that grim death after death

  will come to me sooner or later,

  I am frightened.

  When I look at myself,

  when I think of my actions,

  terror descends upon me and

  darkness falls across time.

  O God of Kāḷahasti

  :HH & VNR

  I have had my satisfaction

  with pleasures at the doorway of the King of Love

  and those that have come to me through entering

  the palace gates of many kings.

  Now I want quiet. Show me

  the doorway to the highest truth

  where, through your kindness,

  O God of Kāḷahasti,

  I can be at ease and at rest.

  :HH & VNR

  Dhūrjaṭi

  In the state of Andhra Pradesh, on the bank of a river known as the Mogileru, sits the small town of Kāḷahasti. A temple with fortified walls, placed on a hill that commands a view of the surrounding country, is dedicated to Śrī Kāḷahasti Īśvara, the town’s resident god. The name is an odd amalgam of words for spider, snake, and elephant, three creatures that figure prominently in local stories about Lord Śiva. Kāḷahasti is the regional manifestation of Śiva.

  Somewhere in the mid-sixteenth century the poet Dhūrjaṭi arrived at the temple. Of Dhūrjaṭi’s biography hardly anything survives except what one can glean from his poetry. He composed a long ornate poem in Telugu court style (Telugu is the language of Andhra and several surrounding states). In them Dhūrjaṭi celebrates the Kāḷahasti temple, recounting in detail the legends attached to it. The poem’s colophon carries his name; the poem’s flourishes, laden with Sanskrit-style compound words, shows Dhūrjaṭi had trained as a court poet. Tradition assigns to him one further work, the Kāḷahastīśvara Śatakamu, or Hundred Poems to Lord Kāḷahasti. In this collection his anger and contempt, leveled at misguided pride and the terrible pettiness of rulers, sound so genuine they must reflect his personal experience. The translators consider this “hundred poems” an “emotional autobiography.” It lacks fact, episode, human names, but comes laced with passionate devotion and a fierce despair at worldly attachment. He levels particular anger at sexual vanity and the abuse of political power.

  The śatakam, a collection of a hundred poems (the Victorian British called them “centuries”), shows up all over India. Dozens if not hundreds occur in Sanskrit, Tamil, Telugu, and the literary vernaculars. The number one hundred is more symbolic than actual; most collections contain a few more, a few less. (One hundred and eight, a magical number for Hindus, Buddhists, and others, is common.) Dhūrjaṭi’s collection may hold 116 poems; no scholar has sifted through and compiled a critical edition. Telugu speakers chant its verses, so Dhūrjaṭi’s work remains active, quick to rise to those dissatisfied with worldly goals or the political power structure.

  The name Dhūrjaṭi, Twisted Locks, would be the name for a Śiva devotee. Śiva, as well as his sadhus—scary mendicants who sometimes follow extreme yoga practices—wear dreadlocks twisted into ropes, matted with cow dung. Some cake their locks with ash from the burning ground. These sadhus reject family and caste identity, saying they belong to the lineage of Śiva. Which may be why Dhūrjaṭi in the end left nothing but his poems.

  I never think of asking you to give me things,

  so if you don’t care for my poetry

  I’ll bear that all right.

  It’s only my tongue’s natural work,

  nothing other than my worship.

  (HH & VNR translation)

  THE VARKARIS

  : JÑANDEV

  (1275—1296)

  Blue is this sky, a blue filled with love,

  Blue is this entire symmetry.

  A blue being-in-itself, the blue of all karma,

  I see a blue Guru in his blue resort.

  Bluely I behave, I eat blue,

  I see blueness in a blue sort of way.

  Jñandev has entered the loving embrace

  Of the blue cowherd in the school of blue.

  :DC

  The quintessence of awareness,

  The knowledge of infinity,

  The one whom the sky clothes,

  Who has no form, no colour, nor property:

  That graceful One, Hari, the reliever:

  I’ve seen Him filling my eyes!

  Seeing Him, I’ve set aside

  Even the act of seeing!

  Says Jñandev, inside any flame is

  The Self’s very own flame:

  And that flame is imaged here

  Standing on The Brick!

  :DC

  Shall I call you the formed One?

  Shall I call you the formless?

  The formed and the unformed is

  Only the one Govind!

  He cannot be deduced

  He cannot be conceived

  The Shrutis say,

  “He’s not such; nor even such.”

  Shall I call You the vastest One?

  Shall I call You the minutest One?

  The vast and the minute

  Are only One Govind.

  Shall I call You the visible One?

  Shall I call You the invisible One?

  Both the visible and the invisible

  Are the only One Govind.

  By the blessing of Nivrutti,

  Jñandev speaks,

  “Our great parent, husband of the Goddess Rakhuma, is

  Vithal.”

  :DC

  : MUKTABAI

  (1279—1297)

  the zoom ant

  swallowed the sun

  the barren woman

  begot a son

  a scorpion went

  to the lower depths

  shesha bowed to him

  with a thousand heads

  a pregnant fly

  delivered a kite

  having seen it all

  mukta smiled

  :AK

  When one looks beyond the void,

  There is not even a void left.

  The one who sees keeps what’s seen

  In one’s own place.

  O mother mine! What a great saviour this!

  The One who illuminates All!

  He appeared in Pandharpur

  Bringing Vaikunth down with Himself!

  One does not know where He will go—

  Being, becoming, and vanishing at will!

  The resonance of the Shrutis is thus realized:

  “Not such is the One; nor such is the One.”

  Muktai is filled with love.

  Vithal amazes her.

  The mattress is emptiness.

  Lie down upon emptiness.

  :DC

  From Muktabai’s Dialogue with the Super-Yogi Changdev

  “Tell me where the Self is in its dreaming state.

  And how does it continue to chase us even then?”

  Says Changa, “O lady, Muktabai, will you explain to me

  How illusion finds a real home in the human body?”

  “Your body creates chaos,” Says Mukta to Changa,

  “Try dwelling in your inner self with a st
rong will.

  “It’s neither bound nor free

  It’s neither real nor is it illusory

  “It’s not different from you, so what difference can it make to you?

  Does the real dwell in the body or is it illusory?”

  Changa asks, “Tell me O Muktai.

  What dwells in the body? The real or the illusory?”

  “There’s no pleasure in the Self, nor is there pain; there’s no virtue, nor sin;

  No karma, no dharma; for nothing is ever conceived there.

  “There’s no bond; so there’s nothing to be liberated;

  O Vateshvar! There’s no Supreme Reality,” says Mukta, the born siddha,

  “If you show me gold, I can test it.

  Show me your own experience in what you say!

  “The human mind is stubbornly egocentric. But where are you

  If there’s no me?” Muktai asks.

  “The egoist’s mantra is ‘I am the Supreme Being.’” Says Muktai to Changa,

  “Me is my anguish, me is my desire.

  Temptation, possession—all this confusion—it’s your sense of me.

  “Just utter the name of Hari, He is literally the ‘Reliever’!

  And He’ll rob you of all your power, your pride and stiffness. Be One, with Heaven!

  “The body perishes. It’s just a bundle of five senses.

  Blow it into the wind! After all, it’s just air!”

  Muktai gave Changa his lost life back.

  She taught him how to have a home that’s no property.

  :DC

  : NAMDEV

  (1270—1350)

  The night is black. The water pot is black.

  Oh my mother!

  The waters of the Yamuna

  Are black too.

  The veil is black. The jewel is black.

  Oh my mother!

  The pearls I wear around my neck

  Are also black.

  I am black. My breasts are clothed in black.

  Oh my mother!

  The waist-knot of my sari is

  Also black.

  The maiden lover

  Goes alone to the river.

  O my mother! Send her the black image of her lover

  As company!

  Nama, the servant of Vishnu,

  Has a black mistress. Oh my mother!

  How black can the image of Krishna

  Be?

  :DC

  in the beginning

  is the ant

  mouth of the triple river

  is the mouth of the ant

  in darkness

  is the ant

  in flames a wick of water

  lights a lamp of soot

  in the wake

  of the ant

  all the sky follows

  the world of our making’s her droppings

  i pursue

  that ant

  i, visnudas nama

  unlock the ant with my guru

  :AK

  : JANABAI

  (1298—1350)

  Jani sweeps with a broom

  The Lord loads up the garbage

  He carries it in a basket on His head

  Throws it away in a distant dump

  So much under the spell of Bhakti is He

  He now performs the lowliest tasks

  Says Jani to Vithoba

  How shall I return Your favours?

  :DC

  Jani’s head feels awfully itchy

  Vithabai runs to help her feel easy

  The Lord loosens the bun of her hair

  Quickly picking out lice from there

  He combs and brushes Jani’s hair

  I feel so clean says Jani

  :DC

  Jani loosens her hair

  Among basil plants growing wild

  The Lord with butter in the palm of His hand

  Gently massages her head

  My poor little Jani has no one but me

  He thinks as he pours water on her head

  Jani tells all the folks

  My boyfriend gives me a shower

  :DC

  see the void

  above the void

  on its top

  another void

  the first void

  is red

  it’s called

  the lower void

  the higher void

  is white

  the middle void

  is grey

  but the great void

  is blue

  it contains

  only itself

  jani was struck

  with wonder

  when she heard

  the silent bell

  :AK

  i eat god

  i drink god

  i sleep

  on god

  i buy god

  i count god

  i deal

  with god

  god is here

  god is there

  void is not

  devoid of god

  jani says:

  god is within

  god is without

  and moreover

  there’s god to spare

  :AK

  : EKNATH

  (1533—1599)

  wonder of wonders

  a thief stole a town

  but when the trackers tracked him down

  no thief, no town

  the town was entirely unfounded

  the temple windblown

  god confounded

  the steeple shot across heaven

  the foundation fled

  to the recesses of hell

  and the wall wandered

  from door to door

  the foundation the wall the temple

  underneath all paradox

  the meaning is simple

  :AK

  : TUKARAM

  (1608—1650)

  This is really extraordinary, O Hari,

  You are supposed to relieve misery;

  And here I am, your own devotee,

  Whose house is haunted by poetry.

  The more I excel in poems praising you,

  The more my work seems flawed:

  This is yet another amazing paradox.

  Watchfulness is rewarded with anxiety.

  Says Tuka, My Lord, it’s just dawned on me:

  To serve you is the ultimate difficulty.

  :DC

  Some of you may say

  I am the author

  Of these poems.

  But

  Believe me

  This voice

  Is not my own.

  I have no

  Personal skill.

  It is

  The Cosmic One

  Making me speak.

  What does a poor fellow like me

  Know of the subtleties of meaning?

  I speak what Govind

  Makes me say.

  He has appointed me

  To measure it out.

  The authority rests

  With the Master; Not me.

  Says Tuka, I’m only the servant.

  See?

  All this bears

  The seal of His Name.

  :DC

  Advice to an Angry Wife

  “Now there’s nothing left for you to eat.

  Will you eat your own children?

  My husband is God-crazy!

  “See how he beats his own head?

  See how he wears garlands!

  He has stopped minding his shop.

  “His own belly is full

  While the rest of us must starve

  “Look at him striking cymbals

  And opening his grotesque mouth

  To sing to his God in his shrine!”

  Says Tuka, be patient, my woman!

  T
his is only the beginning!

  :DC

  Advice to an Angry Wife

  “He can’t stand the idea of work;

  He is used to getting free meals.

  “As soon as he wakes, he starts to sing.

  All hell breaks loose after that.

  “These fellows are the living dead.

  They have no conscience to prick.

  “They’ve turned a blind eye to their families.

  They have deserted their homes.

  “Their wives twist and turn for them

  While they crush their lives with a stone.”

  Says Tuka, that’s a good one, my wife!

  Here! I’ve written it down!

  :DC

  In this Age of Evil poetry is an infidel’s art:

  The world teems with theatrical performers.

  Their craving for money, lusting for women, and sheer reproduction

  Define their values and priorities:

  And what they mouth has no connection with their own being.

  Hypocrites! They pretend such concern for where the world is going,

  Talk of self-sacrifice, which is far from their minds.

  They cite Vedic injunctions but can’t do themselves any good.

  They are unable to view their own bodies in perspective.

  Says Tuka, a torturesome death awaits

  All those whose language is divorced from being.

  :DC

  Without seeing a thing

  I’ve seen entirely.

  I’ve achieved a likeness

  Of everybody.

  Without taking

  I’ve accepted.

  My arms and legs

  Are holidays.

  Without eating

  I’ve had my fill.

  My mouth as it watered

  Became the menu.

  Without a word

  I’ve spoken.

  I’ve presented what

  At best was absent.

  The poem occurs,

  Says Tuka,

  Unknown

  To my ears.

  :AK

  What will I eat now,

  Where will I go?

  Do I dare to stay on

  In the village?

  Villagers furious

  Their chieftain grumpy,

  If I beg I’ll only see