While travelling through the depth of life, this existence today finds itself blossoming. I see today the reality of this universe which stands far beyond my words to describe. The moments spent on its reflection look like a heavy weight on this existence. Is there no other means for the expression of this consciousness except the length and depth of the breaths booming through silence? In the murmur of the fast blowing gale, the awareness of this profound silence is an echo that swallows my thoughts. It:
Wants to indulge in a giggle, but is voiceless.
Wants to rain, but has no raindrop.
Which is the understanding of life, which bedecks life in the garb of ignorance.
The silence of death which lays life on the bed of relaxation.
Whatever I am—what I am despite not being— despite not being, I am—Perhaps I am infinite.
What name may I give it?
Shall I be able to recognise this existence while passing through these moments?
Shall I be able to recognise my existence which is passing through my moments today?
My wish has had the element of negation concealed in it. My thirst contains satiety. My pause hides motion. Some part of life is hovering within me to familiarize me with some profound experience; and its echo forms this symphony that I—what should I call it?
For I realize nothing is left to do or to become, then should I call it as to what it is?
Existence is stagnant life that is interrupted. What name should I assign for this speed in action in this halted existence, to the life emerging from this interrupted life?
It was half past four in the morning when I dreamt that I was endeavouring to climb a thin but very lofty wall. I was, at the same time, very careful to maintain my balance. I was in deep fear that if I fell, then? Despite my fear, I stood on the wall. When I opened my eyes the world of dreams disappeared and the dream of the past one hundred years started. Yes, the worldly dream started. It welcomed me in all its glory and splendour.
Occurring during my closed eyes the mental dream:
Running in my open eyes, the mind’s worldly dream. Then, moistened in the experience of the hissing feelings and perceptions, my existence became stable in deep calm and sober silence and it seemed as though whatever was motionless and still in this visible as well as invisible world. That it is I:
Who am in motion despite apparent stillness
Who, despite being incomplete, is complete
Who remains calm and quiet in the midst of noise or hubbub
If one takes one’s balanced stand in this experience, what name should be given to such a one?
Just as today’s’ fresh morn has spread a new aroma in my feelings and perceptions, likewise it has made me perceive the unique layer of ‘Bhakti’ (devotion) and faith. It is a most pleasant and progressive journey that asks questions. Then what answer can we give to lend grace and charm to life? ‘Bhakti’—this word that circulates in my breaths is the word that has ever held me in its awareness and melted me.
I have ever been keenly aware of the presence of several read as well as heard words; and I never thought of reaching that stage, for the besieging consciousness of my incapacity and inability ever pricked me like a thorn.
Words like ‘saints’, ‘seers’, ‘sages’, ‘devotees’, ‘timeless’, ‘formless’, ‘attributeless’, ‘virtuous’, etc.—and their elevation catches me in the hot grip of nothingness. The shriek echoing in the bones, helplessness scorched in sobbing breaths—wants to burst like an ebb and flow to singe itself in the dreadful heat of the thirsty being.
The idea of the grandeur of such words I cannot have, despite exploration. The words which delimit our life, words that do not allow life a moment’s respite, words that take existence in their grasp and cause it cancer—are no longer traceable today.
If one can attain to divinity with Bhakti or devotion, then where is my ‘bhakti’?
If someone is called a seer or sage, by virtue of his holy recitation and deeds austere, then where is my recitation and austerity?
Neither ‘bhakti’ nor prayer and Austerity (asceticism)
Then what is the nature of these feelings and perceptions which enrich our existence and make our life extremely beautiful?
Today, my feet move about, but not I.
Today, my hands rise, but not I.
What name should I assign to such a state of awareness? For—because of cataracts of relaxation flowing in my smouldering existence, these words lost their grandeur when I lost my ‘I’ness’ or ‘ego’.
For if I descend into the lap of the past moments of this flux of life, I realize that if the painful suffocation, suffocating despair, stinging, venomous helplessness, the tormented state of thirsty feelings, days and nights passing in fear, and the whole life consumed by worry— all that was life. Then today, when all that has vanished, when the caravan of tormenting moments is not only in peace but even at play in the colourful design, what name should I give to this flow?
Today, the freshness of this new morning has made me realize that this is the stage where the heat of big and profound words has subsided. It seems that these words are a mere activity or process, which lending an apparel to the feelings and perceptions of our unique moments, makes them proceed in the world—and which takes in its fold the basic elements of truth, beauty, and goodness— what name should I assign to it?
It is an awareness which has no name.
It is that manifestation which has no being.
It is that sensibility which is next to nothing.
Because even in this nothing there is everything, which has all names and all stages.
These moments of today, which provide the zest of a tranquil life, are beyond the approach of words. It is a movement of existence which lies at peace in this ‘everlasting’ ‘is’ness’. It is a wordless walk, it needs no name but all other names depend on it. It is only an uncommon stay of experience which is only a presence. What name can I propose for it? Nothing. Therefore, let it remain what it is.