Poems Of India - XXII

You can confiscate
money in hand;
can you confiscate
the body's glory?

 
Or peel away every strip
you wear,
but can you peel
the Nothing, the Nakedness
that covers and veils?

 
To the shameless girl
wearing the White Jasmine Lord's
light of morning,
you fool,
where's the need for cover and jewel?

-- Akka Mahādēvi [Translated by A. K. Ramanujan in the book - Speaking of Siva]

 

The world tires itself thinking
it has buried all shadow.

Can shadows die
for limbed animals?

If you rage and curse here
at the thief out there
on the other shore,
will he just drop dead?

These men, they do not know
the secret,
the stitches of feeling;
would our Lord of Caves
come alive
just because they wish it?

 

-- Allama Prabhu [Translated by A. K. Ramanujan in the book - Speaking of Siva]

The Rubaiyat: Quatrain LVI

 

And this I know:  whether the one True Light,
Kindle to Love, or Wrath consume me quite,
    One glimpse of It within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright.

This is the fifty-sixth quatrain of the FitzGerald's Rubaiyat. The poet says I know this, I am sure about this. The True Light, the one that drives such passion and emotion of Divine Love or Wrath. Those emotions consumes my entire self. It is better to get a glimpse of that Being in a casual encounter in a tavern where we meet and chance upon as friends or companions on a journey than to be lost utterly trying to find Him in a temple. As an equal companion in a informal tavern, a glimpse could turn into a conversation about the nature of things. But in a temple setting, where I am one of the countless seeker, chances are I will be lost than getting some answers from You.

Poems Of India - XXI

  

Like a silkworm weaving
her house with love
from her marrow,
    and dying
in her body's threads
winding tight, round
and round,

    I burn
desiring what the heart desires.

Cut through. O lord,
my heart's greed,
and show me
your way out,

O lord white as jasmine.

-- Akka Mahādēvi [Translated by A. K. Ramanujan in the book - Speaking of Siva]

 

How can I feel right
    about a god who eats up lacquer and melts,
    who wilts when he sees fire?

How can I feel right
    about gods you sell in your need,
    
    and gods you bury for fear of thieves?

The lord of the meeting rivers,
self-born, one with himself;

he alone is the true god.

 

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

Poems Of India - XX

  

Winnow, winnow!

Look here, fellows

winnow when the wind blows.

Remember, the winds

are not in your hands,

Remember, you cannot say

I'll winnow, I'll winnow

tomorrow.

When the winds of the Lord's grace

lash,

quickly, quickly winnow, winnow,

said our Chowdaiah of the Ferrymen.*

*Grace can not be called, recalled, or commanded. Be prepared to catch It as It passes.

--CHOWDAIAH OF THE FERRYMEN [Translated by A. K. Ramanujan in the book - Speaking of Siva]

 

See-saw watermills bow their heads.

So what?

Do they get to be devotees

to the Master?

The tongs join hands.

So what?

Can they be humble in service

to the Lord?

Parrots recite.

So what?

Can they read the Lord?

How can the slaves of the Bodiless God,

Desire,

know the way

our Lord's Men move

or the stance of their standing?*

*a rejection of orthodox ritual genuflections & recitations

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

The Rubaiyat: Quatrain LV

The Vine had struck a Fibre; which about
If clings my Being--let the Sufi flout;
Of my Base Metal may be filed a Key,
That shall unlock the Door he howls without.

This is the fifty-fifth quatrain of the FitzGerald's Rubaiyat. The wine (made from grapes from the vines) has stuck me hard, has stuck deep and has touched the marrow. It has wrapped around my Self and moved me to a higher plane. Such is the ecstasy of it! I do not care if the world sees me as a Sufi gone berserk! Let it be! This base and primal and unremarkable state of my Being has now been filed into a Key (by the pleasures of the vine) that will unlock the secrets of the existence, without the howling and fervour utterances that has till now achieved nothing. There is nothing to be found by zealous arguments and passionate devotion. A glass of this would move to a state of mystical bliss where all worries, all questions do not matter.. everything is ephemeral, but it has to be lived.

The Rubaiyat: Quatrain LIV

I tell Thee this---When, starting from the Goal,
Over the shoulders of the flaming Foal
Of Heav'n and Parwin and Mushtari they flung,
In my predestin'd Plot of Dust and Soul.

This is the fifty-fourth quatrain of the FitzGerald's Rubaiyat. To say these lines are obtuse would be an understatement. I have not been able to gather my head around it. There is references to heavenly bodies like Mushtari, Parwin and the flaming foal of heaven. Here is my take. When starting from the Goal (an eventual demise or a fulfillment of something) and looking back and over there in the heavenly sky, lies these eternal bodies flying around and amidst all this my predestined life is playing out from the goal to the birth. If my goal/end is given and decided already so already has my entire life and its origins been. Even if I were to live backwards, these bodies would be flying around and so ignore them for they do not decide the destiny of man. Here dust and soul covers both the material and the supernal and use to 'plot' is used to manifest an intrigue on part of the One who has already decided.

Credits - see here

Poems Of India - XIX

 

Did the breath of the mistress
have breasts and long hair?

Or did the master's breath
wear sacred thread?

Did the outcaste, last in line,
hold with his outgoing breath
the stick of his tribe?

What do the fools of this world know
of the snares you set,

0 Ramanatha?

-- DĒVARA DĀSIMAYYA [Translated by A. K. Ramanujan in the book - Speaking of Siva]

 

The sacrificial lamb brought for the festival
ate up the green leaf brought for the decorations.

Not knowing a thing about the kill,
it wants only to fill its belly:
born that day, to die that day.

But tell me:
    did the killers survive,

0 lord of the meeting rivers?

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

Poems Of India - XVIII

 

The eating bowl is not one bronze
and the looking glass another.

Bowl and mirror are one metal.
Giving back light
one becomes a mirror.

Aware, one is the Lord's;
unaware, a mere human.

Worship the lord without forgetting,
the lord of the meeting rivers.

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

 

 

You can confiscate
money in hand;
can you confiscate
the body's glory?

Or peel away every strip
you wear,
but can you peel
the Nothing, the Nakedness
that covers and veils?

To the shameless girl
wearing the White Jasmine Lord's
light of morning,
you fool,
where's the need for cover and jewel?

 

-- Akka Mahādēvi [Translated by A. K. Ramanujan in the book - Speaking of Siva]

Poems Of India - XVII

The pot is a god. The winnowing
fan is a god. The stone in the
street is a god. The comb is a
god. The bowstring is also a
god. The bushel is a god and the
spouted cup is a god.

Gods, gods, there are so many
there's no place left
for a foot.

There is only
one god. He is our Lord
of the Meeting Rivers.

******* 

 
He'll grind till you're fine and small.
He'll file till your colour shows.

If your grain grows fine
in the grinding,
if you show colour.
in the filing,

then our lord of the meeting rivers
will love you
and look after you.

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

 

The Rubaiyat: Quatrain LIII

With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man's knead,
And then of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed:
Yea, the first Morning of Creation wrote
What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.

This is the fifty-third quatrain of the FitzGerald's Rubaiyat.In previous quatrains, the theme was of how our lives are being controlled by powers that we know nothing of, how this world is just a game of chess for gods above. With this quatrain, this takes it further, the game of chess is actually rigged for the moves are already preordained. When the earth's first clay was molded, it was already decided what the Last Man would knead. The first Seed was actually destined to be sowed in the Last Harvest. And in the first morning of Creation, it was written how the Last Dawn of reckoning (of Judgement Day) will play out. Not only are we powerless, but also it does not really matter for it has all been decided before hand. Even the semblance of control or free choice in this cosmic game of chess is a fallacy for our "free choice" is already predestined.

Hermann Hesse - Siddhartha [Selected Sections - III]

Siddhartha learned something new on every step of his path, for the world was transformed, and his heart was enchanted. He saw the sun rising over the mountains with their forests and setting over the distant beach with its palm−trees. At night, he saw the stars in the sky in their fixed positions and the crescent of the moon floating like a boat in the blue. He saw trees, stars, animals, clouds, rainbows, rocks, herbs, flowers, stream and river, the glistening dew in the bushes in the morning, distant high mountains which were blue and pale, birds sang and bees, wind silverishly blew through the rice−field. All of this, a thousand−fold and colourful, had always been there, always the sun and the moon had shone, always rivers had roared and bees had buzzed, but in former times all of this had been nothing more to Siddhartha than a fleeting, deceptive veil before his eyes, looked upon in distrust, destined to be penetrated and destroyed by thought, since it was not the essential existence, since this essence lay beyond, on the other side of, the visible. But now, his liberated eyes stayed on this side, he saw and became aware of the visible, sought to be at home in this world, did not search for the true essence, did not aim at a world beyond. Beautiful was this world, looking at it thus, without searching, thus simply, thus childlike. Beautiful were the moon and the stars, beautiful was the stream and the banks, the forest and the rocks, the goat and the gold−beetle, the flower and the butterfly. Beautiful and lovely it was, thus to walk through the world, thus childlike, thus awoken, thus open to what is near, thus without distrust. Differently the sun burnt the head, differently the shade of the forest cooled him down, differently the stream and the cistern, the pumpkin and the banana tasted. Short were the days, short the nights, every hour sped swiftly away like a sail on the sea, and under the sail was a ship full of treasures, full of joy. Siddhartha saw a group of apes moving through the high canopy of the forest, high in the branches, and heard their savage, greedy song. Siddhartha saw a male sheep following a female one and mating with her. In a lake of reeds, he saw the pike hungrily hunting for its dinner; propelling themselves away from it, in fear, wiggling and sparkling, the young fish jumped in droves out of the water; the scent of strength and passion came forcefully out of the hasty eddies of the water, which the pike stirred up, impetuously hunting.

All of this had always existed, and he had not seen it; he had not been with it. Now he was with it, he was part of it. Light and shadow ran through his eyes, stars and moon ran through his heart. On the way, Siddhartha also remembered everything he had experienced in the Garden Jetavana, the teaching he had heard there, the divine Buddha, the farewell from Govinda, the conversation with the exalted one. Again he remembered his own words, he had spoken to the exalted one, every word, and with astonishment he became aware of the fact that there he had said things which he had not really known yet at this time. What he had said to Gotama: his, the Buddha's, treasure and secret was not the teachings, but the unexpressable and not teachable, which he had experienced in the hour of his enlightenment−−it was nothing but this very thing which he had now gone to experience, what he now began to experience. Now, he had to experience his self. It is true that he had already known for a long time that his self was Atman, in its essence bearing the same eternal characteristics as Brahman. But never, he had really found this self, because he had wanted to capture it in the net of thought. With the body definitely not being the self, and not the spectacle of the senses, so it also was not the thought, not the rational mind, not the learned wisdom, not the learned ability to draw conclusions and to develop previous thoughts in to new ones. No, this world of thought was also still on this side, and nothing could be achieved by killing the random self of the senses, if the random self of thoughts and learned knowledge was fattened on the other hand. Both, the thoughts as well as the senses, were pretty things, the ultimate meaning was hidden behind both of them, both had to be listened to, both had to be played with, both neither had to be scorned nor overestimated, from both the secret voices of the innermost truth had to be attentively perceived. He wanted to strive for nothing, except for what the voice commanded him to strive for, dwell on nothing, except where the voice would advise him to do so. Why had Gotama, at that time, in the hour of all hours, sat down under the bo−tree, where the enlightenment hit him? He had heard a voice, a voice in his own heart, which had commanded him to seek rest under this tree, and he had neither preferred self−castigation, offerings, ablutions, nor prayer, neither food nor drink, neither sleep nor dream, he had obeyed the voice. To obey like this, not to an external command, only to the voice, to be ready like this, this was good, this was necessary, nothing else was necessary.

************

At times he felt, deep in his chest, a dying, quiet voice, which admonished him quietly, lamented quietly; he hardly perceived it. And then, for an hour, he became aware of the strange life he was leading, of him doing lots of things which were only a game, of, though being happy and feeling joy at times, real life still passing him by and not touching him. As a ball−player plays with his balls, he played with his business−deals, with the people around him, watched them, found amusement in them; with his heart, with the source of his being, he was not with them. The source ran somewhere, far away from him, ran and ran invisibly, had nothing to do with his life any more. And at several times he suddenly became scared on account of such thoughts and wished that he would also be gifted with the ability to participate in all of this childlike−naive occupations of the daytime with passion and with his heart, really to live, really to act, really to enjoy and to live instead of just standing by as a spectator. But again and again, he came back to beautiful Kamala, learned the art of love, practised the cult of lust, in which more than in anything else giving and taking becomes one, chatted with her, learned from her, gave her advice, received advice. She understood him better than Govinda used to understand him, she was more similar to him.

That high, bright state of being awake, which he had experienced that one time at the height of his youth, in those days after Gotama's sermon, after the separation from Govinda, that tense expectation, that proud state of standing alone without teachings and without teachers, that supple willingness to listen to the divine voice in his own heart, had slowly become a memory, had been fleeting; distant and quiet, the holy source murmured, which used to be near, which used to murmur within himself. Nevertheless, many things he had learned from the Samanas, he had learned from Gotama, he had learned from his father the Brahman, had remained within him for a long time afterwards: moderate living, joy of thinking, hours of meditation, secret knowledge of the self, of his eternal entity, which is neither body nor consciousness. Many a part of this he still had, but one part after another had been submerged and had gathered dust. Just as a potter's wheel, once it has been set in motion, will keep on turning for a long time and only slowly lose its vigour and come to a stop, thus Siddhartha's soul had kept on turning the wheel of asceticism, the wheel of thinking, the wheel of differentiation for a long time, still turning, but it turned slowly and hesitantly and was close to coming to a standstill. Slowly, like humidity entering the dying stem of a tree, filling it slowly and making it rot, the world and sloth had entered Siddhartha's soul, slowly it filled his soul, made it heavy, made it tired, put it to sleep. On the other hand, his senses had become alive, there was much they had learned, much they had experienced.

************

Just slowly and imperceptibly, as the harvest seasons and rainy seasons passed by, his mockery had become more tired, his superiority had become more quiet. Just slowly, among his growing riches, Siddhartha had assumed something of the childlike people's ways for himself, something of their childlikeness and of their fearfulness. And yet, he envied them, envied them just the more, the more similar he became to them. He envied them for the one thing that was missing from him and that they had, the importance they were able to attach to their lives, the amount of passion in their joys and fears, the fearful but sweet happiness of being constantly in love. These people were all of the time in love with themselves, with women, with their children, with honours or money, with plans or hopes. But he did not learn this from them, this out of all things, this joy of a child and this foolishness of a child; he learned from them out of all things the unpleasant ones, which he himself despised. It happened more and more often that, in the morning after having had company the night before, he stayed in bed for a long time, felt unable to think and tired. It happened that he became angry and impatient, when Kamaswami bored him with his worries. It happened that he laughed just too loud, when he lost a game of dice. His face was still smarter and more spiritual than others, but it rarely laughed, and assumed, one after another, those features which are so often found in the faces of rich people, those features of discontent, of sickliness, of ill−humour, of sloth, of a lack of love. Slowly the disease of the soul, which rich people have, grabbed hold of him.

Like a veil, like a thin mist, tiredness came over Siddhartha, slowly, getting a bit denser every day, a bit murkier every month, a bit heavier every year. As a new dress becomes old in time, loses its beautiful colour in time, gets stains, gets wrinkles, gets worn off at the seams, and starts to show threadbare spots here and there, thus Siddhartha's new life, which he had started after his separation from Govinda, had grown old, lost colour and splendour as the years passed by, was gathering wrinkles and stains, and hidden at bottom, already showing its ugliness here and there, disappointment and disgust were waiting. Siddhartha did not notice it. He only noticed that this bright and reliable voice inside of him, which had awoken in him at that time and had ever guided him in his best times, had become silent.

He had been captured by the world, by lust, covetousness, sloth, and finally also by that vice which he had used to despise and mock the most as the most foolish one of all vices: greed. Property, possessions, and riches also had finally captured him; they were no longer a game and trifles to him, had become a shackle and a burden. On a strange and devious way, Siddhartha had gotten into this final and most base of all dependencies, by means of the game of dice. It was since that time, when he had stopped being a Samana in his heart, that Siddhartha began to play the game for money and precious things, which he at other times only joined with a smile and casually as a custom of the childlike people, with an increasing rage and passion. He was a feared gambler, few dared to take him on, so high and audacious were his stakes. He played the game due to a pain of his heart, losing and wasting his wretched money in the game brought him an angry joy, in no other way he could demonstrate his disdain for wealth, the merchants' false god, more clearly and more mockingly. Thus he gambled with high stakes and mercilessly, hating himself, mocking himself, won thousands, threw away thousands, lost money, lost jewelry, lost a house in the country, won again, lost again. That fear, that terrible and petrifying fear, which he felt while he was rolling the dice, while he was worried about losing high stakes, that fear he loved and sought to always renew it, always increase it, always get it to a slightly higher level, for in this feeling alone he still felt something like happiness, something like an intoxication, something like an elevated form of life in the midst of his saturated, lukewarm, dull life.

And after each big loss, his mind was set on new riches, pursued the trade more zealously, forced his debtors more strictly to pay, because he wanted to continue gambling, he wanted to continue squandering, continue demonstrating his disdain of wealth. Siddhartha lost his calmness when losses occurred, lost his patience when he was not payed on time, lost his kindness towards beggars, lost his disposition for giving away and loaning money to those who petitioned him. He, who gambled away tens of thousands at one roll of the dice and laughed at it, became more strict and more petty in his business, occasionally dreaming at night about money! And whenever he woke up from this ugly spell, whenever he found his face in the mirror at the bedroom's wall to have aged and become more ugly, whenever embarrassment and disgust came over him, he continued fleeing, fleeing into a new game, fleeing into a numbing of his mind brought on by sex, by wine, and from there he fled back into the urge to pile up and obtain possessions. In this pointless cycle he ran, growing tired, growing old, growing ill.

Then the time came when a dream warned him. He had spend the hours of the evening with Kamala, in her beautiful pleasure−garden. They had been sitting under the trees, talking, and Kamala had said thoughtful words, words behind which a sadness and tiredness lay hidden. She had asked him to tell her about Gotama, and could not hear enough of him, how clear his eyes, how still and beautiful his mouth, how kind his smile, how peaceful his walk had been. For a long time, he had to tell her about the exalted Buddha, and Kamala had sighed and had said: "One day, perhaps soon, I'll also follow that Buddha. I'll give him my pleasure−garden for a gift and take my refuge in his teachings." But after this, she had aroused him, and had tied him to her in the act of making love with painful fervour, biting and in tears, as if, once more, she wanted to squeeze the last sweet drop out of this vain, fleeting pleasure. Never before, it had become so strangely clear to Siddhartha, how closely lust was akin to death. Then he had lain by her side, and Kamala's face had been close to him, and under her eyes and next to the corners of her mouth he had, as clearly as never before, read a fearful inscription, an inscription of small lines, of slight grooves, an inscription reminiscent of autumn and old age, just as Siddhartha himself, who was only in his forties, had already noticed, here and there, gray hairs among his black ones. Tiredness was written on Kamala's beautiful face, tiredness from walking a long path, which has no happy destination, tiredness and the beginning of withering, and concealed, still unsaid, perhaps not even conscious anxiety: fear of old age, fear of the autumn, fear of having to die. With a sigh, he had bid his farewell to her, the soul full of reluctance, and full of concealed anxiety.
Then, Siddhartha had spent the night in his house with dancing girls and wine, had acted as if he was superior to them towards the fellow−members of his caste, though this was no longer true, had drunk much wine and gone to bed a long time after midnight, being tired and yet excited, close to weeping and despair, and had for a long time sought to sleep in vain, his heart full of misery which he thought he could not bear any longer, full of a disgust which he felt penetrating his entire body like the lukewarm, repulsive taste of the wine, the just too sweet, dull music, the just too soft smile of the dancing girls, the just too sweet scent of their hair and breasts. But more than by anything else, he was disgusted by himself, by his perfumed hair, by the smell of wine from his mouth, by the flabby tiredness and listlessness of his skin. Like when someone, who has eaten and drunk far too much, vomits it back up again with agonising pain and is nevertheless glad about the relief, thus this sleepless man wished to free himself of these pleasures, these habits and all of this pointless life and himself, in an immense burst of disgust. Not until the light of the morning and the beginning of the first activities in the street before his city−house, he had slightly fallen asleep, had found for a few moments a half unconsciousness, a hint of sleep.  

With a gloomy mind, Siddhartha went to the pleasure−garden he owned, locked the gate, sat down under a mango−tree, felt death in his heart and horror in his chest, sat and sensed how everything died in him, withered in him, came to an end in him. By and by, he gathered his thoughts, and in his mind, he once again went the entire path of his life, starting with the first days he could remember. When was there ever a time when he had experienced happiness, felt a true bliss? Oh yes, several times he had experienced such a thing. In his years as a boy, he has had a taste of it, when he had obtained praise from the Brahmans, he had felt it in his heart: "There is a path in front of the one who has distinguished himself in the recitation of the holy verses, in the dispute with the learned ones, as an assistant in the offerings." Then, he had felt it in his heart: "There is a path in front of you, you are destined for, the gods are awaiting you." And again, as a young man, when the ever rising, upward fleeing, goal of all thinking had ripped him out of and up from the multitude of those seeking the same goal, when he wrestled in pain for the purpose of Brahman, when every obtained knowledge only kindled new thirst in him, then again he had, in the midst of the thirst, in the midst of the pain felt this very same thing: "Go on! Go on! You are called upon!" He had heard this voice when he had left his home and had chosen the life of a Samana, and again when he had gone away from the Samanas to that perfected one, and also when he had gone away from him to the uncertain. For how long had he not heard this voice any more, for how long had he reached no height any more, how even and dull was the manner in which his path had passed through life, for many long years, without a high goal, without thirst, without elevation, content with small lustful pleasures and yet never satisfied! For all of these many years, without knowing it himself, he had tried hard and longed to become a man like those many, like those children, and in all this, his life had been much more miserable and poorer than theirs, and their goals were not his, nor their worries; after all, that entire world of the Kamaswami−people had only been a game to him, a dance he would watch, a comedy. Only Kamala had been dear, had been valuable to him−−but was she still thus? Did he still need her, or she him? Did they not play a game without an ending? Was it necessary to live for this? No, it was not necessary! The name of this game was Sansara, a game for children, a game which was perhaps enjoyable to play once, twice, ten times−−but for ever and ever over again? 

Poems Of India - XVI

Who cares

    who strips a tree of leaf

    once the fruit is plucked?

Who cares

    who lies with the woman

    you have left?

Who cares

    who ploughs the land

    you have abandoned?

After this body has known my lord

    who cares if it feeds

    a dog

    or soaks up water?

   
-- Akka Mahādēvi [Translated by A. K. Ramanujan in the book - Speaking of Siva]

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!