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I
Sing of Equality
I
sing of equality
in
which dissolves
all
the barriers and estrangements,
in
which are united
Hindus,
Buddhists, Muslims, Christians.
I
sing of equality.
Who
are you?—A Parsee? A Jain? A Jew?
A
Santal, a Bheel or a Garo?
A
Confucian? A
disciple of Charbak?
Go
on—tell me what else!
Whoever
you are, my friend,
whatever
holy books or scriptures
you
stomach or carry on your shoulder
or
stuff your brains with—the Quran, the Puranas,
the
Vedas, the Bible, the Tripitaka, the Zend-Avesta,
the
Grantha Saheb—why do you waste your labor?
Why
inject all this into your brain?
Why
all this—like petty bargaining in a shop
when
the roads are adorned with blossoming flowers?
Open
your heart—within you lie
all
the scriptures,
all
the wisdom of all ages.
Within
you lie all the religions,
all
the prophets—your heart
is
the universal temple
of
all the gods and goddesses.
Why
do you search for God in vain
within
the skeletons of dead scriptures
when
he smilingly resides in the privacy
of
your immortal heart?
I'm
not lying to you, my friend.
Before
this heart
all
the crowns and royalties surrender.
This
heart is Neelachal, Kashi, Mathura,
Brindaban,
Budh-Gaya, Jerusalem, Medina, Ka'aba.
This
heart is the mosque, the temple, the church.
This
is where Jesus and Moses found the truth.
In
this battlefield
the
young flute player sang the divine Geeta.
In
this pasture
the
shepherds became prophets.
In
this meditation chamber
Shakya
Muni heard the call of the suffering humanity
and
decried his throne.
In
this voice
the
Darling of Arabia heard his call,
from
here he sang the Quran's message of equality.
What
I've heard, my friend, is not a lie:
there's
no temple or Ka'aba
greater
than this heart!
Poverty
O
Poverty! You've
made me great.
You've
bestowed upon me honor
like
Christ was honored by his crown of thorns.
O
Saint! You have
given me
the
irrepressible courage to speak freely,
formidable
naked eyes, a razor-sharp tongue!
Your
curse has turned my lyre into a sword!
O
Arrogant Saint! Your intolerable flame
has
tarnished my radiant gold,
it
has prematurely dried up
my
beauty, flavor, life.
Whenever
I reach out with my lean cupped hands
to
receive an offering of beauty,
O
Hungry One, you step ahead
and
drink it all up.
My
idyllic dreamland
turns
into a dreary desert.
My
eyes cast showers of fire
on
my own beauty!
My
pain-laden, yellow-stemmed desires
want
to blossom like fragrant shefali.
O
Cruel, you chop them off like a woodcutter!
My
heart begins to glitter
like
dew drops of an autumn morning
from
the dew-laden earth's crystalline drops of mercy.
O
Sun, your scorching heat
dries
up every drop of it!
I
pale even under the earth's soothing shadow!
My
dream of beauty and bliss shatters!
You
pour liquid poison down my throat
and
tell me: "What
good is nectar?—
No
burning, no intoxication, no madness!
O
you weak mortal—it's not for you
to
strive for immortality
in
this world of sorrow!
You're
like a serpent—born of burning pain!
You're
to stay inside thickets of thorns
weaving
garlands of flowers.
I
stamp on your forehead
this
mark of pain!"
So
I sing, weave garlands, with my throat burning,
my
entire body stricken with serpent bites!...
Like
the unforgiving Durbasa,
you
go from door to door with your begging sack.
Sometimes
you appear at night
before
a happily married couple
telling
them in your harsh voice:
"Listen,
you
fools—this earth is not a pleasure garden!
There
are wants, separation, sadness,
hurtful
lovers, beds of thorns—taste those now!"
Instantly,
the paradise is overtaken by grief,
the
light goes off, and the deadly night
feels
too long!
Starved,
thin, you walk the street,
suddenly
knitting your eyebrows at some sight.
Your
angry eyes cast arrows of fire—pestilence,
famine,
cyclones strike the land!
Pleasure
gardens burn, palaces explode!
Your
rule of law has only one sentence—death!
You
don't transgress to modesty.
What
you want is the blunt expression
of
stark nakedness!
You
don't even know what it is
to
be hesitant or ashamed.
You
raise high the heads that are bent low.
Those
on their march of death
wear
ropes around their necks
with
smiling faces!
With
the fire of want burning inside them everyday,
you
practice death-sacrifice
in
diabolical pleasure!
You
pull Lakshmi's crown down to dust.
Striking
on Sarada's lyre-strings—what tune
do
you want to play, O Virtuoso?
All
the tunes turn into cries of pain!
Yesterday
at dawn I heard a shehnai
playing
a mournful tune.
As
if the shehnai
player was weeping,
calling
for someone to return home.
The
tune was carrying with it
the
hearts of the brides to their beloved
faraway
waiting anxiously to return home.
Friends
ask: "Why
are you wiping your eyes,
your
mascara?"...
I
hear the shehnai
again this morning
playing
the same mournful call.
The
pale shefalikas
are falling to the ground
like
a smile on a widow's face—spreading
a
soft fragrance in the air.
The
butterflies are dancing restlessly
on
their wings, intoxicated,
numbing
the flowers with their kisses.
The
bees' wings are yellow from pollen,
their
bodies smeared with honey.
Suddenly,
new life
seems
to spring up everywhere!
Unconsciously,
I sing a welcoming song of joy!
My
eyes are filled with tears!
As
if someone has tied a Rakhi
of
my union with the earth!
The
earth offers me a gift of flowers
with
her dirt-covered hands—as if
she's
my youngest darling daughter!
Then
I startle!—
It's
you, O Cruel Saint! You
have appeared
in
my child—crying at home, who hasn't had
anything
to eat since yesterday.
Hungry—you
cry in my home everyday!
My
darling child, I haven't been able
to
feed you even a few drops of milk!
I
have no right to be joyful.
Poverty
is intolerable—yet
it
appears in my home everyday
as
my child and my wife!
Who
will play the lyre?
Where
will I see the happy smile of the Beautiful?
Where
will I find the honey drink?
I've
drunk, instead, a glass of dhutura
poison—
flowing
out as my tears!
Even
today I hear the shehnai again—
playing
the same mournful tune.
Woman
I
sing of equality.
I
don't see any difference
between
a man and a woman.
Whatever
great or benevolent achievements
there
are in this world,
half
of that was by woman,
the
other half by man.
Whatever
sin, grief, pain, tears—
half
of that was brought by man
the
other half by woman.
Who
calls you a hell-pit, woman?
Tell
him—the Original Sin
wasn't
a woman—
it
was the male Satan!
Or,
the Sin or Satan
is
neither a man nor a woman
but
neuter, equally
mixed
with man and woman.
To
all the flowers and fruits of the world
woman
has given to them their beauty,
juice,
sweetness, fragrance.
You've
seen the Taj Mahal from the outside,
but
have you seen what's inside it?
Inside
it is Momtaz—the woman,
outside
it is Shah Jahan!
Woman
is the goddess of wisdom,
music
and harvest.
Also
the goddess of beauty—
woman
returns again and again
in
a variety of beautiful appearances.
Man
has brought the burning, scorching
heat
of the sunny day,
woman
has brought the peaceful night,
soothing
breeze and cloud.
She
has given strength and courage
during
the day, as a bride at night.
Man
comes with desert-thirst,
woman
provides the drink of honey.
Man
ploughs the fertile land,
woman
sows crops in it, turning it green.
Man
ploughs, woman waters—
that
earth and water mixed together
bring
about a harvest of golden paddy!
Gold
and silver acquire their worth as ornaments
from
the touch of woman's body.
Separation
from—and union with—woman
has
turned a man into a poet!
His
words become his poetry,
his
sounds his music!
Man
brought hunger, woman brought honey—
out
of their union
is
born the great child of humanity!
Every
great victory, every great adventure
has
been ennobled by sacrifices
made
by mothers, sisters and wives.
History
records the names of men
who
have been killed in wars,
but
not the women who have been widowed.
Does
anybody inscribe on a hero's monument
all
the mothers who sacrificed their hearts,
all
the sisters who offered their services?
Never
in history has man's sword
earned
victory all by itself.
Inspiration
and strength
have
come from the goddess of victory—a woman!
The
king rules the kingdom,
the
queen rules the king.
The
queen's compassion washes away
the
kingdom's disrepute.
Man
is heartless—
woman
humanizes him
by
lending him a half of her heart.
Those
immortal, great human beings
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