In our world, who else is kind?
You said you are the salt
in the surging ocean waters.
You declared you are the shining light.
We simple ones want to place
soft white rice in your mouth.
Come, we’ll play in the little houses,
fixing them with fine sand from the Kavery river.
Our Lord and our King
with a straight sceptre,
don’t destroy our little houses.
Holy one who flows with clear honeyed Tamil,
don’t destroy our little houses.
Translated from the Tamil by Paula Richman
Muktabai (13 CE)
Open the Wattle-door, O Jnaneshwar!
Show mercy to me:
Open the wattle-door, O Jnaneshwar!
A Yogi of pure mind is one
who suffers the offence of the people.
When the world turns to conflagration out of anger
the speech of the saints should flow like water.
When the weapons of words cause torment
suffer it by accepting the advice of saints.
If the universe is cloth, then through the entirety runs
the single thread of the Brahma! Open the wattle-door,
Jnaneshwar!
One becomes a saint only by suffering the abuses of the world:
he who is devoid of conceit attains greatness.
Where greatness dwells,
there dwells compassion.
Who can you be angry with,
when we are the all-pervading Brahma?
See all with equal regard,
open the wattle-door, O Jnaneshwar!
Translated from the Marathi by Pradeep Gopal Deshpande
Eesar Das Barhat (1538-1618)
Let the Pot with Just Water in It
Let the pot with just water in it
boil on the fire;
and, O you servant of God,
have faith in Him;
the Lord will provide the meal for you.
Where the wind and the rays do not reach,
farther than the sun and the moon,
and the firmament that holds them—
beyond them all is He;
and no one knows the way
that leads to Him.
Translated from the Rajasthani by Kesri Singh
Kanakadasa (16 CE)
Saku Saku
Enough, enough of this serving fellow humans, O Ranga
enough, enough, I’m weary of serving other people
Lord of the universe, Rangaraya, I want the worship
of your holy feet
Rising early in the morning, hurrying somewhere
scurrying, anticipating the whims of somebody,
like a slave I run so many errands each day,
but always I return home empty-handed
Enough, enough of this serving fellow humans . . .
I left off ablutions, religious rites, the observance
of silence, and daily sandhya prayers, became pitiable
and low, I went to bad people, spent days like a dog.
In my mind I boiled, harbouring all those evil greeds;
happiness? I never found enough to fill up a sesame seed!
Enough! Enough already! All this work for people.
Stuck like a fly fluttering hopelessly in a honeypot
because of my hungers—O Vishnu—I too
have my mouth wide open with greed—I’m stuck!
Free me from the fetters of this bondage
kindly give me the company of your devotees
O Adikeshava of Kaginele, Lord of Venkatadri
Madhava, Rangaraya!
Enough! Too much! I’ve had about all I can handle
Free me, O Ranga, I’m sick of serving other people
I want to serve the Lord of the universe’s holy feet.
Translated from the Kannada by William J. Jackson
Allama Prabhu (12 CE)
It’s Dark Above the Clutching Hand
It’s dark above the clutching hand.
It’s dark over the seeing eye.
It’s dark over the remembering heart.
It’s dark here
with the Lord of Caves
out there.
Translated from the Kannada by A.K. Ramanujan
Bahinabhai Chaudhuri (1880-1951)
From Bahinabai’s Life and Thinking
(As a woman) I have no right to listen to a reading of the
Vedas.
The Brahmans have made a secret of the Gayatri mantra.
I am told I must not pronounce the sacred word ‘Om’. I must not
listen to philosophical ideas.
I must not speak to anyone about them. My husband was Jamadagni
himself (if I did those things).
Says Bahini, ‘My soul is very downcast. God has no
compassion on me.’
Translated from the Marathi by Chandrashekhar Jahagirdar
From the Rig Veda (c. 17 BCE-11 BCE)
The Dove of Death
Gods, a dove has come here seeking someone, sent as a messenger by Destruction. We will sing against him; we will perform an expiation. Let all be well with our two-footed creatures, all be well with our four-footed creatures.
Let the dove that has been sent to us be kind; gods, let the bird be harmless in our houses. Let the inspired Agni relish our oblation. Let the winged spear spare us.
Do not let the winged spear attack us; it settles by the fireplace in the kitchen. Let all be well with our cows and with our men; gods, do not let the dove harm us here.
What the owl screeches is in vain; vain,too, the settling of the dove by the fire. I bow low before Yama, before death, who sent this dove as a messenger.
Drive the dove out, pushing him with a verse. Rejoicing in food, lead the cow around and wipe out all the evil traces. Let it fly forth, flying its best, and leave us strength to live.
Translated from the Sanskrit by Wendy Doniger
Guru Nanak (1469-1539)
Chet (March-April)
It is the month of Chet,
It is spring. All is seemly—
The humming bumble-bee
And the woodland in flower—
But there is a sorrow in my soul.
The Lord, my Master is away.
If the Husband comes not home, how can a wife
Find peace of mind?
Sorrows of separation waste away the body.
The Koel calls in the mango grove,
Its notes are full of joy.
Why then the sorrow in my soul?
The bumble-bee hovers about the blossoming bough,
O mother of mine, it is like death to me,
For there is a sorrow in my soul.
Nanak says: When the Lord her Master comes home to her,
Blessed is then the month of Chet.
Translated from the Punjabi by Khushwant Singh
Basavanna (1106-67/68)
Like a Monkey on a Tree
Like a monkey on a tree
it leaps from branch to branch:
how can I believe or trust
this burning thing, this heart?
It will not let me go
to my Father,
my lord of the meeting rivers.
Translated from the Kannada by A.K. Ramanujan
Devadurllabha Das (16 CE)
From Rahasya Manjari
The inner room too hot to sleep,
I came to the inner room on the south
To be with my Lord.
We smeared one another with water
Cooled with camphor and sandal paste
He ate cucumber, soft kernel of the tender palmfruit,
Green coconuts, candy laced with black pepper,
The morn-apple growing in water, and betel;
He made me eat all these after he finished his meal,
Contented I sl
ept in his arms.
Translated from the Oriya by Rajendra Prasad Das
Janabai (c. 1298-1350)
God My Darling
God my darling
do me a favour and kill my mother-in-law
I will feel lonely when she is gone
but you will be a good god won’t you
and kill my father-in-law
I will be glad when he is gone
but you will be a good god won’t you
and kill my sister-in-law
I will be free when she is gone
I will pick up my begging bowl
and be on my way
let them drop dead says jani
then we will be left alone
just you and me
Translated from the Marathi by Arun Kolatkar
Bullah Shah (1680-1759)
Strange Are the Times
Strange are the times!
Crows swoop on hawks.
Sparrows hunt eagles.
Strange are the times!
The horses from Iraq are lashed
While the donkeys are caparisoned.
Strange are the times!
Those who wear long hair are kings
And the erstwhile kings are beggars.
Strange are the times!
Says Bullah, it’s all ordained from above.
Strange indeed are the times!
Translated from the Punjabi by K.S. Duggal
Amir Khusrau (1253-1325)
Ghazal 257: Poverty Is More Pleasant than Majesty
Poverty is more pleasant than majesty;
depravity, more pleasant than piety.
Majesty has its headaches, and when
last I looked, beggary was more pleasant.
Since kings let no one approach them,
being indigent among the poor
is more pleasant.
When pride gets into someone’s head,
being pals with a dog from the streets
is more pleasant.
When the heart breaks with melancholy
over some beauty, that breaking is more pleasant
than any salve. Public love play with idols
is more pleasant than all this devout hypocrisy.
Once won, there’s no pleasure in love.
Separation, for those who play this game,
is more pleasant.
Put your base love out of your mind,
Khusrau. Love for the sacred secret
is more pleasant.
Translated from the Persian by Paul E. Losensky
Sheikh Mohamad (16 CE)
So It Is Done by God Gopal
So it has been done by God Gopal,
that nothing is sacred or profane any more.
Though the bush of ketaki is thorny,
inside grows the kewada.
The jack-fruit bears thorns on the body,
but conceals within life-giving water.
Though Sheikh Mohamad is a non-Hindu,
God Govind pervades his heart.
Translated from the Marathi by Pradeep Gopal Deshpande
Namdev (1270-1350)
From Returning from the Pilgrimage
I had heard that you are the Restorer of the fallen, so I came to
your door;
Realising that you are not the Restorer of the fallen, I go back now . . .
You give only when you receive, such is your generosity;
Why should I then hang around your door, the miser that you are?
You are not what you are renowned to be, so give up your claim;
Who has named you ‘The Restorer of the fallen’?
Beating the gong, I shall proclaim to all three worlds;
that though known as the ‘Restorer of the fallen,’
you are very treacherous.
Nama says, God, I expect nothing from you;
I touch your feet so that there should be love for me in your heart.
Translated from the Marathi by Pradeep Gopal Deshpande
Harinath Majumdar (1833-96)
Jaya—
Jaya
don’t wake up Hara’s wife,
I beg you.
Because she has to leave
she stayed up the whole night crying.
All night she was in pain;
only now she sleeps.
Alas, that moon-face is grey with grief.
When she wakes
Uma will abandon us for Kailasa city,
leaving Himalaya dark.
Kara has come to take her away;
that’s why I ask you to delay.
For, as long as she sleeps
I can still gaze on her moon-face.
Translated from the Bangla by Rachel Fell McDermott
Sheikh Farid (1173-1265)
From Eight Poems
11
Do not belittle the Dust, O Farid!
No one equals its worth, indeed.
While we live, it’s under our feet;
And over our head, when we are dead.
24
Engage yourself in the service of the Lord,
From every doubt be free.
Dervishes should, indeed, cultivate
The endurance of a tree.
27
Eager was she as a virgin;
When wed, concerns began.
Now her grief is only this:
She can’t be a virgin again.
28
O dog of a Farid, why neglect your prayer?
This scarcely is the right way.
You must, indeed, visit the mosque
Full five times a day.
Translated from the Punjabi by J.S. Neki
Vipin Parikh (b. 1930)
I Want a God . . .
I don’t need a God
who can provide a release
from the cycle of births!
I want a God
who can
free me from railway timetables
restrain the blood racing
at traffic signals,
stop time from being
dragged away in a jumbo jet,
chastise the emptiness
seeking relief in
radio and television,
keep me away in the morning
from truth-cloaked news,
and stop me from being
sold off cheap in ads.
I want
a God who . . .
Translated from the Gujarati by Pradip N. Khandwalla
Periyalvar (9 CE)
From Hymns of the Alvars
Who Shall Deliver Me from the Body of This Death?
Like tree that dwells on river bank
I timid am
Lest in the pit of birth again
I plunged am.
Lord, who art smell and taste and touch
And hearing . . . I have dared thus much!
Like sailors caught in midst of storm
I timid am
Lest in the pit of birth again
I plunged am.
Lord of the Discus, though my word
Be cause for wrath, let it be heard!
Like sharing hut with serpent-mate
I timid am
Lest into doleful births again
I plunged am.
Lord of the lotus eyes, my mind
Confus’d, no way to bear can find.
Like ant on firebrand blazing at both ends
I timid am,
Lest into pit of destined woe
I plunged am,
Eternal Sovereign, by thy hand
Thrust in, with all abatement bann’d.
The worm within the neem eats nought
Save neem alone.
Thy rosy feet thy servant I
Will love alone,
Thou Light Supreme, on serpent bed,
Who waning moon delivered!
Translated from the Tamil by J.S.M. Hooper
Mohammad Iqbal (1873-1938)
&
nbsp; Man and God
You made the night, I lit the lamp in it.
You made the clay, I moulded it into a goblet.
In the wild wastes, mountains and forests that you made
Orchards, flower beds and gardens have I laid
It is I who ground stones and turned them into mirrors,
It is I who out of poison extracted its antidote.
Translated from the Urdu by Khushwant Singh
Eknath (1533-99)
Wonder of Wonders
Wonder of wonders
a thief stole a town
but when the trackers tracked him down
no thief no town
The town was entirely unfounded
the temple windblown
god confounded
the steeple shot across heaven
The foundations fled
to the recesses of hell
and the wall wandered
from door to door
The foundation the wall the temple
underneath all paradox
the meaning is simple
Translated from the Marathi by Arun Kolatkar
Puspadanta (8 CE)
From Sivamahimnahstava
Oh Lord! If the Giver of Happiness
Were to write for all time
With a pen made from a branch of the best of all celestial trees
Using the whole earth as Her leaf
If the mass of ink equaled the blue mountains and the ocean
Were the inkpot
Still it would be impossible to express
The fullness of your attributes.
Translated from the Sanskrit by Arthur Avalon
Akha (17 CE)
Vaishnav Struts About Town
Vaishnav struts about town
sectarian in an ochre gown.
At parsad he loads victuals
on his plantain-leaf plate.
He showers praise
on the steaming rice: Oh, it’s great!
Course follows course, fetching his applause.
The more he is served, the more he wolfs down.
Replete now, paunch delirious,
worship turns ever more serious.
He sings devotionals and drums up a stew.
Akha says: Put it down
to the zap of youth.
These My Words Page 8