Act Two — Conflict
Next morning. A bathing ghat in the river Ganga of Navadwip. Two pundits, Keshav and Murari, are seen bathing close together, and a young woman, Romasundari, a few feet from them. Keshav who owns a 'tol' (Sanskrit school) is reputed for his scholarship. A man in the early sixties, with a flowing white beard and of an imposing appearance, he has a high opinion of himself. Murari, in the late forties, owns a similar 'tol' and is gifted with a sense of humour. Roma is a young widow of about twenty-five who, though poor and ekes out a bare living by spinning, comes of a good Brahmin family and was brought up in an atmosphere of culture and learning for which Navadwip has always been famous. But although intelligent and gifted with spiritual insight, she fears equally the Divine and the Devil.
KESHAV (with the Ganges water in his hands formally intoning a hymn)
O thou, red like the hibiscus, born of the Sage Kashyapa, O vast Glory, who tirelessly Dost with dark Night thy mystic battle wage Redeeming all our sins! — I bow to thee.
MURARI But have you not, sir, mispronounced a word?
KESHAV (nettled) What?
MURARI
I only mean sir ...
KESHAV
You need not, I say.
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For nothing that you mean has any meaning.
MURARI (ironically)
But you behave like a judge who has gone deaf And hangs the witness taking him for the robber!
KESHAV (furiously) You dare —
But sir, in daring who can beat you?
For if I have affronted a sombre human, You insulted the hoariest God in Heaven, Although the wicked sceptic may indeed Ask if the Gods live not too far to notice Your grievous accent you now flaunt so boldly!
ROMA (scared)
O Lord, my Lord Gouranga! Were you here Ganga would ripple again with happiness.
Stop mumbling, woman! nor invoke a human When nothing less than the Lord of thunder and lightning Can blast the irreverent, as the Gita says And when He'll come to relieve the earth of sinners,
(turning to Murari)
You shall be hauled to hell with your foul tongue Reduced to silent ash. So shudder, fool!
MURARI (unperturbed)
There I'll obey you willingly, for once, If only to swell the choir of Gods aghast And shuddering, sir, at your pronunciation. For it's for priests like you the Chandi wrote:
(He starts reciting in mock solemnity)
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Smile thou on me, O Goddess of Gods,
If my breath, unwittingly, Has missed a vowel while I sang
Of thy Divinity.
Or if my tongue has mispronounced
A consonant in between, In thy deep Grace, O merciful
Mother, absolve my sin.
KESHAV (contemptuously)
Yes, such implorings suit the philistines Like you and those you teach, the lisping infants, Who will stay lisping infants all their lives Even as there are some others ...
(smiling proudly)
it's not boasting, But truth is truth — although the blind, alas, Never can see and so shall never know That a few there are who stand out like to peaks Whose greatness is thus hymned by the greatest Poet:
He who is master of himself Will laugh to scorn his chains: The thunder's boom and lightning's flare His high-born soul disdains.
He who is master of himself
Will laugh to scorn his chains:
The thunder's boom and lightning's flare
His high-born soul disdains.
MURARI (bowing in mock humility)
Your high humility does, sir, overwhelm. But even the high peak is laid low by earthquakes, And that is why you stumbled over a word, Let Nimai Pundit, the great, adjudicate.
KESHAV (sneering)
A mighty authority, indeed, this green Infant of yesterday! And pundit! Tut! Who knows not even the rudiments of grammar!
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ROMA (shocked)
But what are you saying, sir? Our Lord Gouranga Was reputed as a prodigy of learning At the age of twelve — when he had read through all There was to read on earth. They say once came A fearful scholar whose voice was like a gong And this blood-curdling giant interpreted A holy couplet faultily which he, Our Lord Bishwambhar, pointed out and proved In a great consistory of priests and poets:
And he was only seventeen at the time!
Oh, hold your wagging tongue, wench! How I loathe This purblind hero-worship, bred by gossip! At seventeen to be reckoned a great scholar! Pooh! Have I not been poring over the great Panini from the day I learned to lisp, As everyone knows, and still — behold me, woman! I have but just won through to the initial status Of a fool!
MURARI (clapping his hands)
And how I applaud your judgment, pundit! For the first time in my life — with all my heart.
KESHAV (frowning) What do you insinuate, sir, may I ask?
ROMA
O sirs! I pray to you with folded hands:
Let not the little light of peace there is, The little friendliness that still survives Be blurred for nothing, as says Lord Bishwambhar —
KESHAV You say it's nothing — when this idiot
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Impugns my reputation as a pundit Saying I mispronounce — I, who, a diver In the oceaned wisdom of Panini —
But sir, I am a simple woman: yet I wonder ...
You may — and gape, too — since your starless soul Will genuflect to dismal humans knowing Naught of Panini's godhood.
ROMA (diffident)
But I, sir,
Was given to understand that your Panini Was the author of a grammar, was he not? How then could you, a mighty scholar, worship A mere grammarian as a Sage of wisdom?
KESHAV (scandalized)
A grammarian? Woman! utter a blasphemy At your own peril, I warn you! For the great Panini was a Sage of sages who delved Into the mysteries of the three worlds. Only the morons fail to appraise his greatness. His masterpiece is, even as the Vedas, A compendium of all our human knowledge, An apocalypse of life and destiny. So prattler, beware! — I warn you once again.
ROMA (nervously)
I meant no harm, sir ... I... I... only wanted To plead that our great Lord Gouranga is Not a common man, but a holy Avatar, A God incarnate in the human mould. And may I humbly add: he too can lecture
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On the three worlds and the mysteries divine.
KESHAV (infuriated)
O hush, I tell you! I have come to worship The Sungod in this holy river, Ganga, And not to hark to dire obscenities. What! Shall a human walking on two legs Assume the status of Godhood? Oh, fie!
Oh be not angry, good sir, I implore you. But what do we know of God's ways after all? We may indeed be versed in human things:
But the things divine, because they are divine, Can hardly be ... I mean ... within our reach. So how can you presume, sir, to assert That the high Almighty could not for His own Lila accept a human mould on earth? The other day, while singing in ecstasy, Our Lord Gouranga danced as though on air And as he cried: "O Krishna, art thou come?" His body did become self-luminous As countless witnesses will testify.
(Her voice trembles)
And then. ... Oh, how can I with human words Portray the superhuman miracle? For as he went on singing, we saw a halo Girdle his shining brow and all fell down Prostrate at his twin feet acclaiming him As an incarnation, in one human frame, Of Radha and Krishna in mystic union!
KESHAV (touching his sacred thread in rage) O horrible blasphemer! You are doomed For ever: you shall be roasted in black hell On a frying pan in the stinking oil of sharks And the dread demons shall belabour you
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With red-hot tridents burning all your hair Till you'll be bald as — as this fool Murari Who will insult me and yet bend his knees To a callow youth and call him my superior. Yes, he too shall be haled to Hades with you.
I crave your pardon, sir. I will not say One word more, nor ever dare to pitch My poor opinions against the learned wisdom Of a great pundit who has touched the bottom With the plummet of reason lent him by the mighty Grammarian Oracle.
KESHAV (propitiated)
I may forgive If you will eat your words.
MURARI (interjecting)
But that's unfair.
If you would have her abjure what she still Believes as true, then sir, you must not thus Intimidate her with God's own fear of hell Thrust into her feeble head. And what a terror! For shame! A blusterer might sometimes behave Like a gentleman for a change.
KESHAV (stammering in rage)
You ... you infamous
MURARI (smiling blandly)
Sir, tremble not in wrath. For say, how could you Have the heart to freeze her timid, feminine soul By the pathetic prospect of dire baldness? Fancy, a woman whose long flowing hair Rippling even as a sable waterfall, Is envied of the Apsaras in Heaven —
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ROMA (blushing)
Pray laugh not at a girl. For it's, I tell you, No laughing matter — but a dread nightmare For a woman to be bald in hell or heaven.
KESHAV (chuckling)
I like that, Roma, and so will forgive you This once: nor baldness nor hell need you fear.
(He looks upward and recites a Sanskrit couplet invoking absolution)
O Goddess, whose unfailing Grace
Redeems all sinners who cry in pain ! We bow to thee, we bow to thee,
We bow to thee — again and again.
ROMA (with folded hands)
And I too bow, in deep relief. But then, sir, May I just tell you one thing — but... I mean ...
KESHAV (encouragingly) Oh come, speak out — now that I have forgiven you.
ROMA (undecided) I'd rather not, sir. For I dread offending The pitiless agents you just conjured up. I hope and pray they may not visit me In my dreams tonight — a poor and helpless wench With not a friend in the world save mother Sachi, The one and only neighbour who enquires With her kind smile if I'm alive or dead.
MURARI (in mock solemnity again)
But I can tell you what she wished to say But dared not, scared by your prognostications:
She wanted to return the compliment
To you, my pundit, when you recommended
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Her soul to hell and pate to perfect baldness.
You dare again crack such foul frivolous jokes With me, your elder both in years and wisdom! To hell you shall be consigned for this grave sin.
God bless your tongue, for there I'll meet the youthful Like Roma and not the senile erudite. For 'tis not age gives wisdom. Look at Nimai Who can defeat you in an argument On anything — from Panini to Vishnu, And he has lived but four and twenty years While you are ancient as the barren hills.
(He chuckles mischievously) Ah, that reminds me, sir, of something priceless. The other day he gave a merry twinkle, And said: "Age is a visitant strange like pain Whose contact makes the wise into oracles But the fools it matures into imbeciles."
KESHAV (foaming at the mouth)
I — I — curse you ... be doomed to deep perdition And, solemnly, I challenge you and him To a public debate where I'll expose you both:
And show you up as a witless ass and him For a circus clown, a mountebank, impostor.
ROMA (stopping her ears) Oh, utter such words no more, sir, I implore you:
For hell or not — I will not bear such base Slander against my heart's one Lord and Guru.
MURARI AND KESHAV (almost simultaneously) Your Guru!
3
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ROMA (defiant)
Yes — and my life's one peak and plinth And none shall ever supplant him till I'm dead. Yes, that was what I wanted now to tell you:
That my heart and soul had bowed to him, first and last, As a being divine to whom the revealing light Is native as is warbling to the cuckoo, Depth to the ocean and wideness to the spaces, Rustling to leaves and irised hues to rainbows, Bloom to wild flowers and innocence to children.
(She warms up) No wonder he's hailed by those to whom he comes:
Lone men and women robbed of joy by Fate, For 'tis with such souls he consorts, our great Lord of divine compassion, who will not bow To the pride and pomp of haughty royalty. And so he shunned not me, my King of Grace, Nor ever withheld from me his angel smile, The unfailing friend of every pauper in this Our land of empty claims and clamours where Book-lore banished the One the books have sought, And resonant slogans came to enslave the mind;
Where the pedant priest talks glibly of things that slake .
No thirst of soul till we faint from pain and drouth,
Or else but mumble, half-deliriously,
Faint airborne rumours of the Ultimate
Ocean of nectar taking these, alas,
For the deep of Krishna sung of by the wise!
But we strive to fill the heart's void with vacuum,
Wooing the flitting shadows for the Form
And echoes for the Song .... Yes 'twas my Guru
Gouranga who has taught me this and all
I know, although 'tis little I have learned.
But what can a woman like me ever imbibe
Through her uneducated understanding?
I only know of one thing, my good sirs
And that's enough for a girl born ill-equipped,
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Who never was by fortune favoured, nor
Marked from her infancy by any gift
Or intellect, who lived through her lonely life,
A childless widow spinning from dawn to dusk
To eke out a bare living. 0 tell me what
Could such an ignorant and feckless creature
Hope to achieve? And yet, sirs, 'twas to me,
A flotsam on the crests of Time, a puppet
Of many moods that the Avatar of Grace
And Light and Bliss and Knowledge and Glory came
Unasked to give me a swift and everlasting
Asylum at his dawn-rose feet I kiss.
Everyday, in my waking hours, and nightly
In sleep or in my dreams I am cradled now
In an abiding peace I never knew.
And so a hope was born that even I
Might reach the Haven beyond my wildest hope.
It's God's truth — all I say, though you may smile.
The pundit, mother, may — but I believe you. For something upheaves in my breast and whispers:
Such miracles may happen even in this
Dark age of little living you described
As one inspired. I feel within my heart
A nameless beat of hope ... an exaltation...
A sudden wing-waft of a Bird of Fire. ...
A momentary glimpse of a mystic Truth
Through some chance opening ... rending of the curtain ,
An adventitious vision through a fissure
In our granite wall of jealous Ignorance.
I fail to account for what I see or why.
But this I know: it's something rich and living
Which is at war with its antipodes:
The phantom falsehood which yet seems more real Than the great Reality while it holds out. And so I too have lived a citizen,
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Even though sick of its hollow make-believes, Of words, words, words — of soulless pendantry Till it has grown now into a deafening blare. No wonder we hear nought else but words today In this our age of din. No wonder we But grasp at shadows letting slip the Form. No wonder Krishna has to be born on earth Again and again and wounded by our arrows That He may heal our wounds with his own blood:
To simulate our blindness that He may
Deliver us from our blindness grown so dear.
Who knows — our Nimai might be He Himself!
How can they who have not once glimpsed the King
Depose He has not come incognito?
So have no fear of hell nor listen, awe-struck,
To our arrogant friend, but follow your heart's one leading.
KESHAV (taunting)
The Sage never made a brighter observation Than when he said: "A fool shines at his best Until he breaks out into speech." And here A mad fool, harnessed to a doting gossip, Will be driven to doom, goaded by blasphemy, Condemning the words of wisdom of the Scriptures By ravings bred by suicide lunacy, Little suspecting, while they wag their tongues, That learning is only mocked at one's own peril. But, as the Gita says: "Dark ignorance Must babble true to its own inspiration." No wonder night holds up to ridicule The sunbeams when they hymn the bliss of light.
(His mounting wrath now gets the better of his sarcasm) I pity you both who fail to reverence The greatness of one who deigns to talk to you Of sober sense to save you from yourselves.
(grandiloquently) I am the son of Ramgopal the great
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Philosopher who taught me from my cradle To lisp in Sanskrit, made me read Panini From cover to cover when I was barely twelve, At twenty I lectured on God's ways to mighty Assemblies of the elect and erudite. And you dare flaunt before me a simple swindler Who has mastered only one art in his life:
How to impose on credulous men and women And be adored of them as an Avatar Of Vishnu Narayan — a modern Krishna!
(contemptuously) An Avatar indeed! — a lachrymose Day-dreamer who, with sentimental tears, Has won the hearts, I wager, of a few Gullible housewives! — Oh, what idiocy Is this, I ask you: to hoist an earthly creature On the altar of God Himself! No wonder we, Blind Hindus, are now in full decadence. No wonder aliens hold us in subjection. It serves us right: you cannot perpetrate Criminal heresies and yet stay moral! I wish I could but once meet this Pretender Who dare stand on the pedestal of Vishnu.
ROMA(stopping her ears)
0 hush, please — I implore you — or I must Come here no more to bathe — ah, there he is! Oh hail, my Lord! Deliver me from this —
(Sri Chaitanya''s voice is heard. ... Presently he comes into view. He descends the steps of the ghat, singing)
Why will men say they know Thee not
When Thou still callst them so ? How can the tree its roots ignore,
Or the river its seaward flow ?
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The eye wails: "Light's a myth, alas!"
The night weeps: "There's no dawn /" Wherever I look — in diverse forms
I only see the One.
We win no peace because we love
The eddies of desire;
We cleave to darkness and then sigh:
"Why must the sun retire?"
No bud outpetals but opens her heart
To the blue's imperial call;
No bliss that visits but leaves a trail
Of Thy joy's carnival.
We hear not for we will not hark,
We would outlaw Thy Light And then sob, exiles from Thy Gleam:
"Why reigns on earth the night ?"
(Roma ascends a few stepsof the ghat, weeping and falls down at Sri Chaitanya'sfeet. He blesses her. Murari salutes with folded hands. Even Keshav - moved in spite of himself - gives him an involuntary smile of greeting.)
MURARI Oh, why do you pause? Sing on.
Yes, do my boy!
SRI CHAITANYA (bowing to him) But, sir, my songs are simple.
KESHAV (somewhat off his guard)
True. But this
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I will concede: your voice has a pleasing timbre. Can you sing a Sanskrit song — or even a couplet?
SRI CHAITANYA
Just a hymn or two. But I would rather not Venture to sing before Your Eminence:
I may mispronounce some word. Before a pundit Of your great altitude, who will not quail?
KESHAV (pleased and complacent)
But I'll correct you. Ignorance is no crime, Unless, like mist, it clings to its native blur. It's never too late to mend, my boy! And I Am ready to give you lessons in Panini And, through his medium, knowledge of Heaven and Earth.
I am grateful. But, sir, I want only one Knowledge — of Krishna, the One who is the home And country of all knowledge, divine or earthly.
KESHAV (sententiously)
But that is wrong. You cannot, says Panini, Attain the skies save on the wings of learning.
SRI CHAITANYA But I love Mother Earth more than the skies:
It's here my Krishna lived and not in the clouds. So I will now to Brindavan whose dust Is hallowed by the touch of His feet divine.
KESHAV (smiling superiorly)
But this is spurious, sentimental gush. For Krishna could at will defy the skies And span the void as He revealed to Arjun.
SRI CHAITANYA I know that, sir: or rather, shall I say,
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He has made me know that I know naught of His Deep ways. I only know that Him I need To adore and love more than to plumb or measure. And even Arjun was overwhelmed, remember, By what he saw — and, dismayed, supplicated:
"O Blaze of Fire, with suns and moons for thy eyeballs! Thy multitudinous, universal Form (With a myriad mouths and orbs and tusks and bellies And maws which darkle even as the abysms, And stature which fills the sky and chokes the spaces) Makes me dizzy with terror dark as doom. Lo, into Thy gullets rush the mighty heroes, Even as rivers streaming to meet the ocean Or moths which enter the flame of their destruction. 0 tell me who Thou art, I bow to Thee. Discover Thy lone apocalyptic Self Whose ways are vast beyond imagination."
(He smiles cryptically)
And who was the great suppliant? A giant whom Krishna Himself assured in His pledge of Grace:
"Thou belongst to Me, 0 Arjun, even as I
Belong to thee: whatever is Mine is thine
And whoever hates thee must My essence, hate
And whoever loves thee shall grow dear to Me."
So when the mighty Friend of God himself
Was baffled after having known and loved Him,
How could I hope to score where he had missed?
I am not made of his great heroic stuff
Or yours, sir. To each his Eden. Nor would I venture
Beyond my depth.
But what then do you want? A man must be a man and act like one. Worship is not enough: you must win knowledge Even as love — unless you hate true vision. Suppose your Krishna came to you, what would you
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Ask of your Lord, my boy?
SRI CHAITANYA (his eyes filling instantly)
What would I ask
If He, my Krishna, came to me. His slave? Could there be any asking then? But no, I would ask something. Shall I say it, sir, In a Sanskrit song — since you invite me kindly? (He breaks out ecstatically into song)
Renown nor wealth nor a paragon
Of beauty. Lord, I crave Nor even the Muses will implore:
I long to stay Thy slave.
Through countless births this boon unique
I sought, may Thou approve:
My heart be surrendered at Thy feet
In an unbargaining love.
KESHAV (once more moved in spite of himself) This is... not bad. But who was the composer?
Why ask the human author's name when all That thrill our souls derive from Him alone?
KESHAV (with asperity)
If a son is born one wants to know the father's Name — and the mother answers if she's chaste. A straight and simple question calls for a straight And simple answer.
SRI CHAITANYA (smiling sadly with a tinge of irony)
Sir, you walk in light And I do envy you and yet... I wonder ... For a question may seem straight to a simple child
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But not to an adult. The one infers the gold From the outer glitter: not, alas, the other Who has been disillusioned. And yet how oft Have I not vainly searched for an answer — when The Lord of Life has put the question straight:
"If thou hast loved Me more than all the world, Why dost thou still hark back to siren life When My Flute calls to thee to leave thy all?"
Oh, do not say you are called to leave us all:
Our only light in this dark Navadwip, The only minstrel in this mart of clowns And the only poet in this hive of pedants. None but yourself in this benighted town Could ever compose the lovely song you sang.
ROMA (enthusiastic)
You guessed aright, sir. Who else but our Bard Could make such a song divine?
KESHAV (curling his lip)
Impossible!
The song's in flawless Sanskrit. Tell me, Gora —
ROMA (hotly)
But I am telling you: it's he himself, And he has composed many more as flawless. Oh, listen, sir! Some seven years ago A famous poet came with a bunch of poems. But when he read the poems of our Lord He sighed and said: "Oh, who will read my stuff After such lyrics as these?" And then our Bard Just laughed and flung away his sheaf of songs Into the Ganga that the other might win The fame he coveted.
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But that was wrong. As said our learned poet, Kalidas:
"Pearls never woo men but will be wooed by them." And the pearl of pearls, the laurel of laurels, is learning.
(reproachfully) Mother Saraswati is fastidious Nor visits all and sundry but demands That those she favours set store by her boons. Woe betide the philistines who will not Welcome her smile of Grace.
SRI CHAITANYA (with a smile of sad irony)
You are her favoured Beneficiary and therefore know, sir, What is right action and what is the reverse, Being virile of conscience and enthroned in science Of the erudite. Only, I never have sought What you, the pillars of society, crave. I wrote my poems nor for fame nor lucre:
I wrote them, sir, because I felt like giving Voice to an urge that clamoured to be born. And, as I sang now: even from my childhood I have but longed for one boon and no other Whose name is Krishna. Him alone I have loved. And yet I have craved other things as well. (Not for nothing I feel now too bewildered To answer a straight and simple question simply, Nor can I claim my nature is consistent.) But as time passed, a nameless melancholy Deepened in me and with it my one yearning For Him who plays His haunting Flutelet hiding Behind a veil ... and with my years there grew In me a strange averseness to our earth Of shadow and fire and evanescent gleams... I felt I was being weaned from all I once Hailed as the most desirable of God's gifts.
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I was dismayed and strove to temporize ... To dally with what they called life's greatest boons.
(He shakes his head sadly) But alas, when one is seized with a mystic passion One cannot help but let oneself be taken, Even as a ship caught in a violent cyclone, When naught avails — helm, rudder, stars or compass, And I must now wend — whither His gale will lead.
Oh, come my boy, all this will never do. You must not throw away the tangible For something which no real prudence can Ever approve. Beware of the mood of folly Which hankers after the moon — as say the poets. The Flute of Krishna is a myth, a legend, An ignis fatuus no wise man would chase. Come, I now offer voluntarily (A thing I seldom do — but one must strive To save one's fellows from dire suicide):
You come to me: I will take you in hand And wean you from this perilous fantasy. I confess I judged you harshly from reports. For I see in you potentialities Rare as diamond. If a trifle wayward, You are lovable and gifted and endowed With humility: I was unfair to you.
SRI CHAITANYA (with a bow, smiling) O utter not, sir, such a monstrous thing:
For surely you and unfairness could never
Hive together. Can error and erudition
Live locked in love — the sun and morning mist?
KESHAV (taken in)
You are ripe in judgment, dear boy. But, sometimes, Even mountaineers may stumble on level land.
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However warily one marks one's steps, Our human mind, like flesh, must come to grief On occasion, though the wise grow taller in wisdom Even through pain. And 'tis in this true wisdom I offer to initiate you, my son!
Your Grace is overwhelming sir, I own. But I regret 'tis too late now: tonight I leave my home and all for Brindavan, A mendicant in His name.
ROMA (stifling a cry)
What! You, my Lord!
It is incredible, Gora! For you are The only pledge of sun in our deep night, The only thrill of song in our wrangling din, The beloved of all, the hope of Navadwip, Whatever a few benighted fools may say, Who do not count.
SRI CHAITANYA (heaving a sigh)
No more than do the others Who will acclaim me or extol my gifts. For only one thing counts on our dismal earth:
The loving approbation of Sri Krishna,
Beside whose one sun-smile of welcome pales
The whole world's chorus of applause or jeering.
KESHAV (impatiently)
But what, in the name of sanity, are we here Debating now? What is this approbation Of Krishna, Vishnu, Shiva, Brahma or Indra? And how can a human consciousness be sure Of the Gods' approving smile or deep or pale?
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It seems to me, this, stark midsummer madness!
(He fixes Us eyes on Sri Chaitanya's) You do not claim, I hope, that Krishna plays His Flute for you alone in this big world? So I infer you are joking.
Never have I Been more in earnest, sir. Last night my mother Gave me her sanction that henceforth I may Put on the ochre garb of a wandering beggar Living for Krishna on the alms of others.
You mean: you will forswear the obligations You owe to her and to your —
SRI CHAITANYA (nodding)
— wife and friends And what men in common parlance dub 'the world'. For I heard Him calling: "Stake your all for me."
(He turns to Keshav) You may, sir, deem this, too, midsummer madness;
But he who has heard even once that hauting call Can to another hark back nevermore.
(He shakes his head ruefully) But no, 'tis futile striving to explain What happens to one's psyche when one hears His mystic Flute so soft and yet imperious. One might as well, sir, strive to put in words What love's eye sees in the beloved's face. And so, may I suggest: you put away My madness, as you call it, from your mind.
KESHAV (insistently)
But this is serious, since your mind, my son, Is a trifle unhinged; for when you claim that Krishna
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Is weaning you from this our world of Karma,
You indulge your fancies. For no God-note ever
Calls one away from the world of fact to loll
As a lotus-eater in a hanging garden,
Nor sanity desires to drift away
From its cherished moorings toward a meaningless
Life of the parasite — the mendicant's.
Come, come, my lad! You are a green youth still
Who cannot tell the right move from the wrong;
And men of wisdom will unanimously
Tell you: "This giving up the world for God
Springs from a wrong escapist urge — an impulse
Calamitous because it makes one end
In the stagnant bog of a purposeless existence."
SRI CHAITANYA (animatedly)
But what use is this existence we eke out From day to day, sir — drifting, drifting, drifting On the crest of circumstance? You talk of the world Of fact: but what is this world as we see it? Is it not an aimless round of pointless squandering Of our most precious energies on — what? Building on the plinth of hopes a house of dreams Our dismal wakefulness makes tumble in ruins:
A legacy of tears and questioning sighs, Composing raptures' overtures that end In desolate finales of frustration.
Come, come, you are no country innocent Who fails to understand that two and two Make four. It is too mad by half, it's senseless, This ideal, long outmoded, of leaving all One's given by God Himself for God! My boy, I adjure you not to barter away the real For mere moonshine. Besides, where would you go? To Brindavan? For what? Sri Krishna's Light?
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But as a God He must pervade all space:
How could He live a prisoner king in oneSmall hamlet? Come, a householder must keepHis own dear house in order first and last.Frustration? Can one stave it off by beingA lone escapist, a recreant? Furthermore,How can a son his duty shirk to his ownParents who ushered him into this world?How can a man desert a faithful wifeAnd, once a father, cease to love his childrenAnd rear them till they grow to their full statureAs men and women? Each has his own dharmaAssigned to him which he may not disclaim.In the Gita did not your own heart's Lord say:
"Even death accept to fulfil your native dharma?"
SRI CHAITANYA He did, sir. Only who will tell me now:
What is my native dharma in this world ?
KESHAV (with a superior smile)
Oh, I can answer that. Yours is to be loyal To your worldly duties which, as a man of the world, You owe to the world. Had you been born an orphan Reared by homeless vagrant mendicants, You might perhaps have roamed the woods and scaled The hills and gone on begging from day to day, Knowing no better — living an otiose life. One could forgive these. But when one has been Born to a family of birth and breeding, One cannot even plead one's ignorant;
And so, my son, I'd solemnly remind you You cannot chase and cull a skyborn bloom, Nor turn your back upon a useful life To accept a parasite's whose only claim To our compassion is that God made him.
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You are a seer and prophet — whereas I Am born unarmoured for this alien world Of high-sounding responsibilities. The Gita says: "One cannot flout one's nature," The wise see from their wisdom's aerial towers:
The fool from his abysm of folly and blindness. One cannot achieve a stature not one's own. We are born we know not why, and ask in vain:
Why we comport ourselves like helpless puppets,
Driven by unseen forces, lured by strange
Urges — like foams on tides of chance and fate.
We hark at every turn to invisible prompters,
Swayed often against our will this way and that!
We voyage on but rarely come to port,
And what we coveted but yesterday,
Find, when we grasp it, but a thing of shadow.
Like rockets we zoom to return to earth — mere ash.
We are haled by life but our souls stay baulked of peace.
This is the ancient tale of human fate.
It seems a riddle to the outer eye,
A chimera calling the more as it recedes.
The householder reads great sermons on life's march,
Hugging his chains that cause his feet to bleed,
With no destination set — far less a goal!
He cites sonorous phrases from the books
To prove that our hearts' Ever-living Beloved
Is regnant allwhere when, alas, his own
Heart mopes unsated — ignoring the simple truth,
Life's stark experience, that until one loses,
Through loving Him, the last trace of one's ego,
One hunts in vain for a trace of His Omnipresence.
But one who has not loved Him never can know
How the pilgrim soul yearns to the faintest echo
Of the past and through its self-lost concentration
Can work the miracle and resurrect
A frozen cadence into a living Presence.
4
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How shall he know that love's great magic can, Through symbols, touch the One they symbolize? How can stone feel with the heart-beat of the bud, Or mind see with the eyes of lovelit soul.
(He looks straight into Keshav's eyes and smiles) But undivining what it has not glimpsed Nor doubting its own reason's sanity, It trudges on like the camel who only knows The load of sandal-wood but not its scent! The multitude accept this blindly — claim That the bale he weds must bring forth ultimate bliss. But does it, sir? Does life fulfil its pledges? I hope 'tis a question straight and simple as well?
KESHAV (embarrassed) I know not what —
. If you will pardon me, I'll make it simpler still: have you, sir, ever Stood before a mirror and scanned your face?
KESHAV (awkwardly) A mirror? ... What a question? ... I decline—
SRI CHAITANYA I beg you'd answer. Have you ever looked?
KESHAV (at bay) Well, yes, I — but — this is preposterous —
But why sir? — since Panini never enjoined On his devotees to shun the mirror like hell?
KESHAV (dignifiedly) I must resent such childish levity —
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SRI CHAITANYA (smiling)
I apologise. But suffer me to explain:
When I formulated this my simple question, 'Twas nor irreverence nor levity Prompted me, sir! I only meant to hint That if you scanned your own eyes in the glass You would agree they were not radiant With bliss nor light that came from self-fulfilment Nor even the certitude that one was treading The right path and no other.
(He pauses and holds the other's eyes)
And I will hazard:
Even so rayless are the eyes of all
But a tiny handful. Listen: by chance last evening
I saw a mendicant with a begging bowl
Come to my door. I gave him a plate of rice.
He blest me and then fastened his eyes upon me.
I stood like one bewitched. Then something strange ...
Oh, it was wonderful! ... For as I gazed
Into his eyes effulgent like twin stars,
I felt they sprayed deep bliss into mine own
And a rapture I experienced never before
And a peace of which there is not even a hint
In your great eyes irradiate with learning.
Why must I then, sir, for this famished learning
Come to your door a-begging? What can you give me
Who are at heart a pauper for all your wisdom?
And what is the worth of this your worldly knowledge
Which, for all its opulence, cannot even compete
With a beggar's fortune? A tree, sir, shall be judged
By its last fruit. The tree of human achievement
May be dense with the greenest leaves and rarest flowers,
But never till now has it been known to bear
The fruits of peace and bliss and harmony
Which we must pine for and could never rest
Until we found them. Something deep within us
Must goad us sleeplessly and make us lose
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Our sleep till the dream of sleep be realised, And the worldly wisdom is not this last dream Of our restless aspiration which, as a seed, Must sprout and grow till it attain its zenith Fulfilment which is Krishna —as the eyes Of this strange mendicant reminded me, Stinging me last night with the peace they shed. Oh! do not glower at me in indignation, For I came here not to argue but to bathe:
'Twas your own harangue on my worldly duties, Your castigation of the beggar's bowl, Evoked my comment. I would only beg To submit — science nor art nor worldly wisdom Can furnish groping life with the clue to life's Inscrutable purpose, the clue we seek in vain.
(He smiles quizzically) You did, sir, take my measure when you said:
I was not the fool I looked. I know the Scriptures
And the philosophies with all their commentaries.
You will forgive me if I claim I am
Versed in Panini and the Vedic lore,
And can declaim on entire Brahmasutras,
Lecture on metaphysics and improvise
On these like pundits till the insomniacs
Shall doze off into sleep for weariness.
But I confess — such wordy feats have never
Led me to the Home my homesick, orphaned heart
Longed for in vain — till, last night, in a flash,
The veil was rent and, overwhelmed, I saw
That for that beggar's simple happy heart
Throned in the love and bliss of the King of kings
I could barter all my learning away for good
And the fame I have won as a great scholar and poet
And the envied self-complacence that accrues
To a burgher of respectability.
(He warms up) And this is no mere fancy of a fool,
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A sentimental dreamer. For I have drunk Deep at the fount of worldly bliss as well:
I have known how precious is the mother's love, How sweet the embrace of a loving wife, How beautiful a pupil's loyalty, How delectable the sympathy of true friends. But still our life, as I feel more and more, Is a quest ever deepening, through all that attend us, For something that, starting as a nameless ache, Grows even as a tree until its every rustle Dissolves in a dirge, a questioning: "Whither, Oh! whither Shall wend my Radha-heart to find her Krishna Who plays at hide and seek, I know not why!"
(He lowers Ms voice somewhat abashed)I came here not to be theatrical,Far less to read you a tedious sermon, sir!How could I, an ignorant, who only knowsThat he knows not even what he once believedHe knew infallibly. I speak not of the great,The elect, who commune with the heart of Krishna.I cannot even claim I saw my wayClearly through the maze of wrestling forcesTill 'twas relentlessly borne home to meThat so long as one probes with human eyes,One cannot even tell an avenueFrom a blind alley, and that, when in one's groping,One takes a forward step — one seldom canBe sure one will not land in a fatal pitfall.
I take it, you are highly-strung, my boy, And so imagine ghouls in every bush. For I wonder if you grasp the implications Of what you now contend in your deep doldrums. 'Tis true that to be wise is to be wary, I'll even concede that sometimes one may find It hard, at life's cross-roads, to know which path
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Will lead to the heights and which to the abyss.
But even when one owns one's apt to err
Through ignorance or inexperience,
Surely it would be folly to assert
One never could move a step avoiding pitfalls.
Ah no, my alarmist, sentimental pedant!
Only the blind can say: they see no light
In their hearts' caves to guide them to the Goal.
But what's the Goal? For unless this were known, How would the guiding light reveal the Way? With no sun how would you tell the east from west?
KESHAV (pouncing on him)
Ah, there, my boy, I have got you at long last. For the sun is there on high and even so There is in every heart that breathes a sun Assuring our nights that daybreak's not a myth.
SRI CHAITANYA (with an ironic melancholy smile)
I am defeated, sir. I knew I would be. Could it be otherwise? Could a humble spark Prevail against an avalanche of wisdom? But I too knew the sun must still exist Even when the ruthless logic of night disproved it.
(with a deep sigh) Only, my soul now traverses the night Whose shadows make light dim as a dream-glimpsed face.
KESHAV (triumphantly)
I know, my lad. Man's life can never be Like to a child's who has no knowledge of death. To err is human and none can win wisdom Except through tribulations. And the highest Knowledge is only born through a painful travail. And that is why to the learned you must turn
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And hark to the oracle of experience:
The wise you must consult, and they, our saviours, Said with one voice: it's folly not to want To be circumspect — marking one's every step. None can be reckless with impunity, Part never, my son, on an impulse of the moment From the harbour men have built against the fates With infinite pains and courage and vigilance, Nor give your ears to Voices of the Night Which lead men to the abyss with the pledge of Heaven.
(He pats him on the shoulder) Wake up, sleep-walker! it's high time; remember:
You have a loving mother, a doting wife,
Loyal disciples and admiring friends.
God's all very well: I know the mystic longing;
But He is not ensconced in the skies alone,
A rootless Presence. "All", say the Vedas, "is He,
The Brahman." Also, the Sage of Katha said
Vibrantly: "What is here is there as well,
And what is there must here on earth be traced."
So deny Him here at your own peril, son!
For never then shall you find Him anywhere.
But find Him here and then you'll sing with the Saints:
"Krishna is on land and water and mountain peaks." One should be sane and normal in one's seeking.
Ah, now you are caught, sir, by your own words' snare. For words are faithless, sir, and will betray us Alas, too often, conjuring up a world Of utter unreality and hoist us On a phantom throne with no sign of a kingdom;
And, constantly invoked, they will induce us To take chimeras for the flickerless beacons, The shadow for form and make us home in voids Of perfidious fantasies and make-believes Which are worlds away from soul-experience.
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(He shakes his head sadly) And so the great Acharya Shankar said In his own peerless vein of irony:
"You may discuss the boon of a medicine, But no cure's for you unless you take it, friend! Even so through great discourses none shall win What's only by experience attained." And so be not offended if I tell you That all you say is true and yet false, false, Like love or death enacted on the stage, Whose aim is to perpetuate the Maya, The great Illusion, which is cosmic life Espousing compromise to breed perversion. Forgive me if, when I applaud your thesis, I flout it still as null — as when you quote:
"Who finds Him here must find Him everywhere." But what if you miss Him here for all your seeking?
(He heaves a deep sigh)
I too once mouthed these words of hollow wisdom Of the Sun in the soul, the Guiding Voice in the heart. But they speak to me no more as once they did When I, like you, sailed on their nomad crests And went on drifting, coming never to harbour. I blame you not, sir. How can I find fault Who am still unsure of everything but this That I must burn my boats and may not tarry A moment more?... My die is cast. I know not Why this great yearning has possessed me so That I cannot choose but yield to it — surrender All, all my cherished lights and preconceptions To its imperious call and take the plunge.
(A cryptic smile flickers round his lips) Not that I love life less, sir, I assure you;
Nor even that I am grown too blind to see:
I have a lovely wife who may, in the end, Die of heart-break. I saw my mother crying And sobbing till I felt her heart would split.
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But still I may not linger here although I long to cling to the painted shore of life With all its magic gleams! But something stronger Than destiny will sunder me now for ever From this our siren world of tears and laughter;
Of voices that ring like sweet familiar bells;
Of eyes that shed caressing love-warm light;
Of dear old footfalls that bring shivers of joy;
Of chequered plains I have explored in rapture;
Of the very dust hallowed by memories
Of ancestral feet; of temple-carillons
That wake me athrill at morn; of chirping birds
That greet me day by day; of loyal cows
That yield me milk so sweet; of faithful dogs
That jump at me in a frenzy of delight;
Of purring cats that woo me for caress;
And not the least, this rippling, purling Ganga Whom even in dream I hear reproaching me For leaving her for a nameless far-off phantom....
(His voice grows thick) All, all have grown into a part of me, My being's core, the marrow of my bones. And yet I cannot stay... I know not why, Or whither I am going. I only know:
I must find Him who, for His mystic Purpose First tethering me Himself to alien roots, Will now uproot me thence once more for some New rhythm of His deep dance to manifest, Wrenching me from this magic world of beauty He made me love so dearly. So bid I must Farewell to you and all: I have no choice.
(He smiles again cryptically) But take it, pundit, I am sane and normal, For the hearts of all I still feel with my heart-beat. I have lived intensely, loved with all my passion And fire and can still answer love with love And touch with touch.
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(He stifles a sigh)
And yet my all I must
Stake for my All-in-all whose haunting Flutelet
Calls to me in my wakefulness and dream:
"Oh come to Me, my Radha-heart, delivered
From thy last anchorage: put out to sea,
The shoreless Deep accept, cutting away
From thy dear moorings set thy bark adrift
To founder, if it must, in My bourneless Bliss."
(He throws his hands up and goes into a trance, Murari and Roma fall at his feet. ... Keshav gazes fixedly at him with folded hands as tears trickle down his cheeks.)
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