Satyam, shivam, sundaram

Everywhere in nature, beauty abounds.  The hills are beautiful, the clouds and the blue skies are breathtaking.  And so are the starry skies of the night adorned with the moon.  There is beauty in the river and even in the twigs that float on it.  What shall I say of a flower then?  Every leaf breaks out of stalk in a mathematical sequence and has veins weaving a magical pattern in each leaf.  There is structure, organisation and beauty in nature’s every manifestation. Even everything still in nature has a pattern, has a beauty.  There is an obvious beauty here, apparent and visible.  

In animals however, we see some passion.  When a stately lion is walking majestically it is a beautiful sight to behold.  Even when it is stealthily stalking its prey, its focus and sense of purpose inspires awe.  But when it pounces on a victim, kills its prey and tears the carcass apart, we are shaken a bit.  This consumption is necessary for the survival of every form.  But there is no apparent beauty in this act.  It is nature’s way of surviving.  A lion hunts and kills only when it needs food.  There is no wastage even in its hunting energy.  And yet there is violence in the act of hunting.  All animal forms must resort to this minimum violence for survival and in turn must succumb to it when it is time to leave their form.  This violence comes from hunger, a hunger for physical survival.  And there is an optimisation about it.  Individual violence in nature is never excessive.  And hidden somewhere within this optimisation, one sees a law of balance in play, a law of natural survival in play.  And in the play of these laws, there is a truth.  And hidden within this silent truth there is beauty.  It is not apparent and yet it exists.  It is recognised by the seer of truth. 

The vast inert forces are also moving.  The clouds are moving and the rivers are flowing.  Deep within the earth, molten magma is boiling and the plates of its crust are moving against each other.  And at some point, a tension starts building up and a tremendous energy gets suddenly released as a volcano or as an earthquake dislodging various life forms and altering the landscape in some part of the earth.  A physical re-organisation of the living room by mother earth always bears the mark of violence.  On the mountain slopes, huge blocks of ice and earth may be dislodged causing massive slides and taking everything that come in one fell swoop.  In these actions, one feels wonder at its scale of operation, but there is also a hint of fear that arises in our mind when we watch such a thing on television.  As events unfold on the screen, you see how life re-organises itself in nature, perhaps after a massive forest fire and you are reassured to see the play of nature again.  There is a force and a transformation.  And at the end, when we see nature reclaim the same space with all the glory of its new and youthful foliage from the burnt floor of a forest fire, one learns to hold one’s judgement.  Beyond the apparent violence, there is something that is life-giving, something that is auspicious.  And deep within this auspiciousness, there is a beauty.   It is not apparent and yet it exists.  It is recognised by the seer of auspiciousness. 

When a man sees a woman, he may think that she is beautiful and vice versa.  But when a person opens his or her mouth, we may be turned off.  A little something askew in a single sentence is enough to jar one from this appreciation of beauty.  Beauty that is skin deep is no beauty at all.  At the same time, when a woman is the embodiment of all that is feminine and courageous, aware and alive, strong and caring, knowledgeable and sharing, then a charm gets added to the apparent beauty and it almost outweighs it.  It is the same with a man.  If there is truth in human expression and auspiciousness in human actions, then the human being becomes beautiful.  Every external beauty is captivating to the eye.  But the eye is but one sense.  Even if one is beautiful to all the senses, one false utterance can turn the master of the senses away from beauty.  The mind is a sensitive master.  And unless it has become a slave of the senses, it turns away from that which is not true, that which is not auspicious, that which is not beautiful. 

At first sight, beauty ‘lies’ in the eyes of the beholder.  It utters a lie.  It says, ‘She is beautiful’.  ‘He is handsome’.  External beauty lies to the beholder.  If the beholder hath not wisdom, he will be cheated by his own senses.  His own eyes will cheat him.  His own ears will cheat him.  A subtle touch may be enough to make a fool of one.  A single seductive glance may be enough to disarm another of his command.  A sweet taste is enough to carry one to eat to one’s own detriment.  Thus the senses and even a mind driven by senses, lie to the owner.  The mind must be detached from an influence of the senses and established in intelligence, in wisdom.  Only then can one perceive the truth about something. 

There is beauty in one’s own form.  Everything is in a wonderful and dynamic balance in a healthy individual.  A woman is naturally capable of carrying this natural identity with one’s own beauty with aplomb and in her most natural and exalted state, she is an ideal embodiment of pure being.   A woman seeks auspiciousness in everything she does, in all her work and celebration, in art and creativity, in her striving for harmony and happiness, and in all that is apparent and come into her own truest self of just pure being.  And therein lies the beauty of that which is feminine. A man seeks to see the truth behind everything, in his work and toil, in his striving for sustenance and freedom, and in all that is apparent and come to a settled wisdom.  Therein lies the beauty of man and that which is manly. 

In nature, beauty is obvious, it can be seen with the senses and felt without working your mind.  And that is why we wish to go out into nature for a holiday, to refresh our vitality.  Unsullied beauty is enlivening, it is invigorating.   Even in the transforming actions of the animate and inanimate worlds, hidden beauty is revealed in time.  In the bizarre human world, beauty is more deceptive than obvious.  It requires a discernment of truth – satyam, and auspiciousness - shivam, to come upon beauty which is true, which lasts.  And when both truth and auspiciousness come together in one person, then that person comes across as extraordinarily beautiful.  The converse however is not commonly true.  Thus it is that sundaram or beauty must be flanked by satyam and shivam, truth and auspiciousness.  Only that is truly natural, truly beautiful, truly a joy forever.   May our lives be blessed with truth, auspiciousness and beauty – satyam, shivam, sundaram.  

To write or not to write!

Sometimes I wonder whether it is the right thing to write. When one writes, one defines, one pledges.  And therefore it becomes important as to what one is writing and where the words are coming from.  I try to still my mind and absorb its wavering nature to tune into truth.  It is a necessary step.  It is somewhat like going to a temple.  One must quiet one’s mind by circumambulating the deity. And the deity must be to one’s right for one’s right side is the dwelling of the timeless and one’s left belongs to nature. We are thus made of two parts – a still and timeless part and a changing transitory part.  And when we express we must go around that which is ancient and eternal and allow the transient to express that which it sees through the inner eye.  Honesty therefore is a primary criterion. 

To the extent that a word is honest, to that extent it is purifying. The inner eye is awakened in meditation when the noise of the world around is quelled.  And yet when one expresses something with honesty sometimes an overlap occurs.  The truths that have been heard align themselves with the truths that have been seen.  It is as if a single path is becoming visible.  The path is seen.  As it is described honestly the fog seems to lift shedding light on a few more yards.  Towards such an end, it seems like a useful thing to write – at least useful in the writer’s own search.  And yet sometimes when the vision blurs between what is seen and what is felt, one must dare to express – it is as if one is testing the waters.  Without venturing one cannot know the depth of the waters ahead.  The path of a trodden truth hath both a distance and a depth.  And this depth is felt between the words, in that which is unsaid.  It is felt in the vibrations that the words carry more than in their meaning.  In fact the truth of every word is hidden in the womb of its apparent meaning.  The honesty of the writer gives birth to this felt truth behind the expressive shell. 

The courage of a writer must come from his own self.  My master seldom encouraged such writing.  He saw how easily an ego gets attached to one’s writing.  It is a struggle to face appreciation for the words that flow through one’s instruments [body and mind].  For every appreciation is a test to see if one will develop an egoic shell around oneself.  It is very easy to think that one has written.  And yet everything that one writes rings hollow when the words are not imbued with a timeless spirit.  Without a true spirit in its centre the words echo in a hollow shell.  

Who shall truly take credit for truth being what it is?  And what indeed is worth speaking other than the truth?  Truth is felt and needs no certificate.  But beliefs sometimes vie for the same space.  When truth emerges, beliefs run away because they cannot hide in the daylight of truth.  It is better to reflect and be honest than to carry beliefs about something.  The more you carry, the more burdensome it becomes.  Sometimes when someone asks me about something written by me, I take some time to answer.  Because I am not evolved enough to remain tuned into truth all the time.  When I write though, I try to be sincere and genuine and try to savour the truth as I write.  It is as a balm for a disquieting day.  

It is purely for my own upliftment that I write, and if I share, it is with a genuine feeling that it is of value to any human being.  Outwardly a writer, inwardly I must be a torch bearer.  As long as I carry that torch inside, my writing purifies me.  Else it corrupts.  Therefore the focus is on being the torch bearer, on keeping the inner fire alive, on being grateful for the privilege of being allowed to share this fire with another.   

I rarely resort to humour when I write.  Honestly, it does't come with truth.  There can be  gentleness or a feeling of warmth in an expression of truth.  But I have seldom come across humour in trying to express it.  One may use humour to communicate to a live audience perhaps, but when words flow and light up a path, there is very little of any emotion in it.  There is just some sort of bare work, shorn of form and identity, making one almost vulnerable.  Thus it was that the greatest truths were transferred in secrecy and from person to person in ancient India.  It was rarely transmitted in a public expression.  

There is something essentially personal about truth.  It is entirely impersonal and yet deeply personal.  Therein lies the answer to character and personality.  Truth defines character and reveals personality.  Not any development of personality but a structured revelation of the omniscient personality that is hidden deep inside us and reflected in nature around.

When we look around, we see nature and nature reflects truth in every little aspect of its functioning.  It is only man who chooses to be unnatural and to that extent untruthful.  There is nothing truer than nature.  And yet the science of nature and the nature of science hide the deepest truths from any external instrument.  For truth is felt and not seen outwardly.  It is seen through the inner eye of an intelligence beyond the talking mind.  The talking mind confuses by its very tendency to talk.  And that is why one wonders whether to write or not to write. 

The truth cannot be told and yet when one writes, it is felt.  When one reads something true one feels it.  The merit in writing must be humbled by the fact that truth is beyond words.  It is unspoken.  That which is spoken cannot be true.  That which is true cannot be spoken.  And yet the solution to this riddle is in speaking externally in a manner that reveals the silence in its depth.  It is as if one is walking in a stately manner.  The upper half of the body seems steady and unmoving while the legs move steadily to a calming rhythm.  Writing must be like this stately walk.  If one sees what is uppermost it is going somewhere and yet is still.  It is pointing towards something and yet it is unwavering.  Only the lower limbs are in motion.  The hands of a writer must be like these lower limbs.  Just carrying the upper still part in a walk on the path of truth towards a light from which the path emanates. 

Do we thank the legs profusely for reaching somewhere?  Never!  It is not for us to worry and get occupied with gratitude for all the work the legs are doing.  Legs exist so that they may take us somewhere.  It is their natural function.  It is part of nature’s design.  And when one writes it ought to be as if it is a part of nature’s design, not one’s own doing.  The value of the walk is in the focus of one’s sights and not in the energy of the legs.  Thus one’s focus must be inward and one’s writing must point towards that truth. 

What is an expression of truth doing really?  It is but a wordy worship of a sacred flame.  It is but a devotional song to that supreme spirit that resides and presides in all that is manifest.  Everything that is true unifies one’s mind and purifies one’s personality, revealing a little bit more of one’s authentic self.  Everything that is not, splits one’s mind.  And this is the danger of writing about something deeply spiritual.  It is mandatory to be honest; mandatory to feel the truth of one’s words.  Anything remotely personal and limiting must be discarded.  There must be no hint of judgement, sarcasm, opinion or even humour.  It must be pure and clear like water. 

To quench a thirst that is true, nothing comes close to water.  Some juice might do the trick for a physical thirst.  But for a spiritual thirst, the elixir must be pure like water.  This is why the spinal fluid is clear like water.  Within the backbone of every healthy being, a clear water like fluid is stored that is the essence of the life of every form.  Plasma is clear.  Water is clear.  Truth is clear.  And the words that speak of truth must be clear.  Not doctored or coloured.  They must come naturally and yet from that which is beyond nature.  They must speak of something unspeakable and point towards something that is beyond space.  When they are such, they will purify the writer and sanctify the reader.  That is the loftiest purpose of human expression.  If it can be done, then writing is one’s sacred duty. 

It is part of one’s duty to remind oneself of one’s true source.  It is part of one’s life purpose to fulfill an ancient promise to the Creator.  Therefore I beseech the Lord that I may not be  allowed to write, and yet that He may write through me.  I pray to Him that His stillness may always be palpable within me, and that if I waver, may He keep me awake and ward off any such forgetfulness and keep the flame of gratitude alive within my frame.  May He allow me to sing His praises through these words, protecting me from vanity and embellishing me with humility. 

Lord, bless me with the pleasure of allowing my limbs to write while you as the upper portion of my existence, keep my presence ever so steadily transfixed in your glowing self.  And in this wonderful arrangement may this work continue.  Nothing to convey, yet something conveyed.  Nothing to write, yet something written.