Poems Of India - XV

Outside city limits
a temple.
In the temple, look,
a hermit woman.

In the woman's hand
a needle,
at needle's end
the fourteen worlds.

0 Lord of Caves,
I saw an ant
devour whole
the woman, the needle,
the fourteen worlds.*

*The city-limits symbolize the physical limits of the body. The temple, the inner mental form. The power of knowledge, is the hermit-woman, holding the mind (needle) on which are balanced the fourteen worlds. When the great enlightenment begins (the ant), it devours all these distinctions.

-- ALLAMA PRABHU [Translated by A. K. Ramanujan in the book - Speaking of Siva]

Chinua Achebe - Things Fall Apart (Summary)

Just finished reading Chinua Achebe - Things Fall Apart. This probably is the only second novel that I have read that has Africa as its setting (first being Heart of Darkness). This novel is about the rise and the disgraceful fall of Okonkwo, a well respected leader in the clan of Umuofia.

Okonkwo is a self made man, hard working and a wrestling champion. His father was totally unlike him and died leaving a legacy of debt and neglect. Okonkwo is ashamed by his father's life and vows never to be weak. He has build himself a decent estate and has three wives and many children. His father's timidness and debts haunts him and so he strives for wealth, strength and respectable place in a society which he ultimately all achieves. Okonkwo is appointed a guardian of Ikemefuna (who is taken from his clan as a settlement for a murder) and this boy lives with him now and their relationship flourishes. Later the village oracle orders the boy to be killed. Okonkwo, to avoid looking weak killed the boy himself despite having a choice to not be party to the killing. Amid a enveloping gloom for killing the boy who he cherished (and the feeling was mutual), things start going wrong for Okonkwo. In a community funeral, Okonkwo gun accidentally kills someone. He and his family are sent into seven year exile to please the gods that has been aggrieved.
While away in exile, he learns of the advent of christian missionaries who have started their proselytizing among the tribes. Slowly as their numbers grew, they introduced the white man's law and government. The locals adjust to this new environment with a bit of give and take for they do not believe their society could be upended by them. Okonkwo's son joins the missionaries as he resents his father's behavior towards him. Okonkwo is ashamed by this. After finishing his exile, Okonkwo returns to his village and find it a changed place. Tribal customs & practices have been replaced by Church and its followers intent on mischief and disrespect. After a convert vandalizes a cultural ceremony, the clansmen destroy the local church. Okonkwo and other community elders are arrested and badly insulted in the custody by the fledgling administration pending a payment for damages. After their release, the disquiet quickly swells into calls to finally uproot this new system. Okonkwo, ferocious as ever saw this as a chance to wage the decisive war against white people. In a meeting of community elders to decide future course of action, messengers of the government intervenes. Okonkwo in a fit of rage, beheads one of them. The clansman allow the rest of the group to flee. At that moment Okonkwo knew that Umuofia will not go to war. Instead of resolute action, he heard voices of tumult and of questioning his action. When the white government came to arrest him, he had already hanged himself to avoid getting tried in the courts that he did not believe in. In his suicide, Okonkwo was repulsed by his tribe for its a sin to kill oneself. Its an abomination for them to even bury such a man!

*******

Couple of theme are very evident in the book. One about Okonkwo and his fall from grace in the tribal society and the other being the clash of cultures and the uncompromising world view that the new world order brings that wipes clean anything that it does not see fit. Both are conflicts that are eternal. One is the individual conflict, of finding one's place in the society of men, of greatness and respect, of not appearing to look weak, of being ashamed by failures and non-conformity. The cast and situations may change but these struggles are same in human society since time immemorial. Okonkwo was haunted by his father's failure. For him, that shame was life long and everything he did was to undo that legacy. That drive and ambition and his innate sense to appear strong drove his every day behavior. The greatness that he had accomplished was something that constantly need to be groomed and worked upon. It was not given or ordained to him and he did good for himself. But a sudden misfortune (by accidentally killing a clansman), this was all lost. His estate, his wealth, his place in society but he keeps his honor by going into exile. That surety about his place in society, that familiarity of pace of things is lost when on return he sees his world has been trampled by new order that does not care or accommodates. He shakes it off violently and in that end up losing his life in ignominy. He suffers the same fate as his father who died in shame. Even as cultures as old as Okonkwo the trials and tribulations of the life are same.

The other theme is of change and especially in context of proselytizing religions. Okonkwo had lived off that land for thousands of years. His world view, his customs, his religion, his law, his society has been created and refined over countless generations to suit his needs and his people and his lands. To an outsider it may appear brutal or without taste and monotonous but there was life and there was every day drama in it. But the social order could not hold under the aggressive and over zealous nature of the missionaries who come with the self appraised notion of 'bringing the lords name' or 'reforming the savages'. The natives could have measured up to say a devastating famine or incessant internecine wars or hunger. But how to measure up to a system or a social order that is totally new and unforeseen and uncompromising. Of what will become of clan elders when white man's runs it's courts. Of what will become of our gods when we have to pray to his foreign god. Of what will become of our spoken tradition when our children go to their schools and learn their language. Our whole lives become meaningless. That certainty of life, of how things are, of death , even a heroic death in war or sudden death due to preventable fever has been lost. Things fall apart, of center that could not hold.

The Rubaiyat: Quatrain LII

And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop't we live and die,
Lift not thy hands to It for help--for It
Rolls impotently on as Thou or I.

This is the fifty-two quatrain of the FitzGerald's Rubaiyat. The poet says under this inverted bowl that we call sky,  under which we live and die our small lives. Our lives that calls helplessly to the sky, asking for help.. pleading for succor from the heavens above. but the heavens does not lift its hands to help us in this hour of need for it also rolls meekly like us in its helplessness. Even the Gods above who play us like pieces of chess are unable to help us... They are as helpless and powerless as we are!

Hermann Hesse - Siddhartha [Selected Sections - II]

Quoth Siddhartha: "One thing, oh most venerable one, I have admired in your teachings most of all. Everything in your teachings is perfectly clear, is proven; you are presenting the world as a perfect chain, a chain which is never and nowhere broken, an eternal chain the links of which are causes and effects. Never before, this has been seen so clearly; never before, this has been presented so irrefutably; truly, the heart of every Brahman has to beat stronger with love, once he has seen the world through your teachings perfectly connected, without gaps, clear as a crystal, not depending on chance, not depending on gods. Whether it may be good or bad, whether living according to it would be suffering or joy, I do not wish to discuss, possibly this is not essential--but the uniformity of the world, that everything which happens is connected, that the great and the small things are all encompassed by the same forces of time, by the same law of causes, of coming into being and of dying, this is what shines brightly out of your exalted teachings, oh perfected one. But according to your very own teachings, this unity and necessary sequence of all things is nevertheless broken in one place, through a small gap, this world of unity is invaded by something alien, something new, something which had not been there before, and which cannot be demonstrated and cannot be proven: these are your teachings of overcoming the world, of salvation. But with this small gap, with this small breach, the entire eternal and uniform law of the world is breaking apart again and becomes void. Please forgive me for expressing this objection."

Quietly, Gotama had listened to him, unmoved. Now he spoke, the perfected one, with his kind, with his polite and clear voice: "You've heard the teachings, oh son of a Brahman, and good for you that you've thought about it thus deeply. You've found a gap in it, an error. You should think about this further. But be warned, oh seeker of knowledge, of the thicket of opinions and of arguing about words. There is nothing to opinions, they may be beautiful or ugly, smart or foolish, everyone can support them or discard them. But the teachings, you've heard from me, are no opinion, and their goal is not to explain the world to those who seek knowledge. They have a different goal; their goal is salvation from suffering. This is what Gotama teaches, nothing else."

"I wish that you, oh exalted one, would not be angry with me," said the young man. "I have not spoken to you like this to argue with you, to argue about words. You are truly right, there is little to opinions. But let me say this one more thing: I have not doubted in you for a single moment. I have not doubted for a single moment that you are Buddha, that you have reached the goal, the highest goal towards which so many thousands of Brahmans and sons of Brahmans are on their way. You have found salvation from death. It has come to you in the course of your own search, on your own path, through thoughts, through meditation, through realizations, through enlightenment. It has not come to you by means of teachings! And−−thus is my thought, oh exalted one,−−nobody will obtain salvation by means of teachings! You will not be able to convey and say to anybody, oh venerable one, in words and through teachings what has happened to you in the hour of enlightenment! The teachings of the enlightened Buddha contain much, it teaches many to live righteously, to avoid evil. But there is one thing which these so clear, these so venerable teachings do not contain: they do not contain the mystery of what the exalted one has experienced for himself, he alone among hundreds of thousands. This is what I have thought and realized, when I have heard the teachings. This is why I am continuing my travels−−not to seek other, better teachings, for I know there are none, but to depart from all teachings and all teachers and to reach my goal by myself or to die. But often, I'll think of this day, oh exalted one, and of this hour, when my eyes beheld a holy man."

The Buddha's eyes quietly looked to the ground; quietly, in perfect equanimity his inscrutable face was smiling. "I wish," the venerable one spoke slowly, "that your thoughts shall not be in error, that you shall reach the goal! But tell me: Have you seen the multitude of my Samanas, my many brothers, who have taken refuge in the teachings? And do you believe, oh stranger, oh Samana, do you believe that it would be better for them all the abandon the teachings and to return into the life the world and of desires?"

"Far is such a thought from my mind," exclaimed Siddhartha. "I wish that they shall all stay with the teachings, that they shall reach their goal! It is not my place to judge another person's life. Only for myself, for myself alone, I must decide, I must chose, I must refuse. Salvation from the self is what we Samanas search for, oh exalted one. If I merely were one of your disciples, oh venerable one, I'd fear that it might happen to me that only seemingly, only deceptively my self would be calm and be redeemed, but that in truth it would live on and grow, for then I had replaced my self with the teachings, my duty to follow you, my love for you, and the community of the monks!"

With half of a smile, with an unwavering openness and kindness, Gotama looked into the stranger's eyes and bid him to leave with a hardly noticeable gesture. "You are wise, oh Samana.", the venerable one spoke. "You know how to talk wisely, my friend. Be aware of too much wisdom!"

[....]

When Siddhartha left the grove, where the Buddha, the perfected one, stayed behind, where Govinda stayed behind, then he felt that in this grove his past life also stayed behind and parted from him. He pondered about this sensation, which filled him completely, as he was slowly walking along. He pondered deeply, like diving into a deep water he let himself sink down to the ground of the sensation, down to the place where the causes lie, because to identify the causes, so it seemed to him, is the very essence of thinking, and by this alone sensations turn into realizations and are not lost, but become entities and start to emit like rays of light what is inside of them. Slowly walking along, Siddhartha pondered. He realized that he was no youth any more, but had turned into a man. He realized that one thing had left him, as a snake is left by its old skin, that one thing no longer existed in him, which had accompanied him throughout his youth and used to be a part of him: the wish to have teachers and to listen to teachings. He had also left the last teacher who had appeared on his path, even him, the highest and wisest teacher, the most holy one, Buddha, he had left him, had to part with him, was not able to accept his teachings.

Slower, he walked along in his thoughts and asked himself: "But what is this, what you have sought to learn from teachings and from teachers, and what they, who have taught you much, were still unable to teach you?" And he found: "It was the self, the purpose and essence of which I sought to learn. It was the self, I wanted to free myself from, which I sought to overcome. But I was not able to overcome it, could only deceive it, could only flee from it, only hide from it. Truly, no thing in this world has kept my thoughts thus busy, as this my very own self, this mystery of me being alive, of me being one and being separated and isolated from all others, of me being Siddhartha! And there is no thing in this world I know less about than about me, about Siddhartha!"
Having been pondering while slowly walking along, he now stopped as these thoughts caught hold of him, and right away another thought sprang forth from these, a new thought, which was: "That I know nothing about myself, that Siddhartha has remained thus alien and unknown to me, stems from one cause, a single cause: I was afraid of myself, I was fleeing from myself! I searched Atman, I searched Brahman, I was willing to to dissect my self and peel off all of its layers, to find the core of all peels in its unknown interior, the Atman, life, the divine part, the ultimate part. But I have lost myself in the process."

"Oh," he thought, taking a deep breath, "now I would not let Siddhartha escape from me again! No longer, I want to begin my thoughts and my life with Atman and with the suffering of the world. I do not want to kill and dissect myself any longer, to find a secret behind the ruins. Neither Yoga−Veda shall teach me any more, nor Atharva−Veda, nor the ascetics, nor any kind of teachings. I want to learn from myself, want to be my student, want to get to know myself, the secret of Siddhartha." He looked around, as if he was seeing the world for the first time. Beautiful was the world, colourful was the world, strange and mysterious was the world! Here was blue, here was yellow, here was green, the sky and the river flowed, the forest and the mountains were rigid, all of it was beautiful, all of it was mysterious and magical, and in its midst was he, Siddhartha, the awakening one, on the path to himself. All of this, all this yellow and blue, river and forest, entered Siddhartha for the first time through the eyes, was no longer a spell of Mara, was no longer the veil of Maya, was no longer a pointless and coincidental diversity of mere appearances, despicable to the deeply thinking Brahman, who scorns diversity, who seeks unity. Blue was blue, river was river, and if also in the blue and the river, in Siddhartha, the singular and divine lived hidden, so it was still that very divinity's way and purpose, to be here yellow, here blue, there sky, there forest, and here Siddhartha. The purpose and the essential properties were not somewhere behind the things, they were in them, in everything.

"How deaf and stupid have I been!" he thought, walking swiftly along. "When someone reads a text, wants to discover its meaning, he will not scorn the symbols and letters and call them deceptions, coincidence, and worthless hull, but he will read them, he will study and love them, letter by letter. But I, who wanted to read the book of the world and the book of my own being, I have, for the sake of a meaning I had anticipated before I read, scorned the symbols and letters, I called the visible world a deception, called my eyes and my tongue coincidental and worthless forms without substance. No, this is over, I have awakened, I have indeed awakened and have not been born before this very day." In thinking this thoughts, Siddhartha stopped once again, suddenly, as if there was a snake lying in front of him on the path. Because suddenly, he had also become aware of this: He, who was indeed like someone who had just woken up or like a new−born baby, he had to start his life anew and start again at the very beginning. When he had left in this very morning from the grove Jetavana, the grove of that exalted one, already awakening, already on the path towards himself, he he had every intention, regarded as natural and took for granted, that he, after years as an ascetic, would return to his home and his father. But now, only in this moment, when he stopped as if a snake was lying on his path, he also awoke to this realization: "But I am no longer the one I was, I am no ascetic any more, I am not a priest any more, I am no Brahman any more. Whatever should I do at home and at my father's place? Study? Make offerings? Practise meditation? But all this is over, all of this is no longer alongside my path."

Motionless, Siddhartha remained standing there, and for the time of one moment and breath, his heart felt cold, he felt a cold in his chest, as a small animal, a bird or a rabbit, would when seeing how alone he was. For many years, he had been without home and had felt nothing. Now, he felt it. Still, even in the deepest meditation, he had been his father's son, had been a Brahman, of a high caste, a cleric. Now, he was nothing but Siddhartha, the awoken one, nothing else was left. Deeply, he inhaled, and for a moment, he felt cold and shivered. Nobody was thus alone as he was. There was no nobleman who did not belong to the noblemen, no worker that did not belong to the workers, and found refuge with them, shared their life, spoke their language. No Brahman, who would not be regarded as Brahmans and lived with them, no ascetic who would not find his refuge in the caste of the Samanas, and even the most forlorn hermit in the forest was not just one and alone, he was also surrounded by a place he belonged to, he also belonged to a caste, in which he was at home. Govinda had become a monk, and a thousand monks were his brothers, wore the same robe as he, believed in his faith, spoke his language. But he, Siddhartha, where did he belong to? With whom would he share his life? Whose language would he speak?

Out of this moment, when the world melted away all around him, when he stood alone like a star in the sky, out of this moment of a cold and despair, Siddhartha emerged, more a self than before, more firmly concentrated. He felt: This had been the last tremor of the awakening, the last struggle of this birth. And it was not long until he walked again in long strides, started to proceed swiftly and impatiently, heading no longer for home, no longer to his father, no longer back.

Poems Of India - XIV

Look here,
the legs are two wheels;
the body is a wagon
full of things.

Five men* drive
the wagon
and one man is not
like another.

Unless you ride it
in full knowledge of its ways
the axle
will break,

0 Lord of Caves. 

* five men refers here to the body's five senses.. 

-- ALLAMA PRABHU [Translated by A. K. Ramanujan in the book - Speaking of Siva]

 **********

A running river
is all legs.

A burning fire
is mouths all over.

A blowing breeze
is all hands.

So, lord of the caves,
for your men,
every limb is Symbol.

-- ALLAMA PRABHU [Translated by A. K. Ramanujan in the book - Speaking of Siva]