The Magical Flute

Whenever I hear great artists like Hariprasad Chaurasia or Kudamaloor Janardanan play the flute, I am captivated by the rich timbre of its sound and the lilting sweetness of the ragas played. And my mind is always swept to the same thought.... If a mere mortal can create such an exquisite sound, what must it sound like when, to His sweet lips, Krsna places His bamboo flute?? It made me think of a poem I recently came across, in a book entitled "White whispers: Selected poems of Salabega", Salabega being a 17th century Oriyan poet and Vaisnava. Despite being born to a Muslim father, he was utterly and completely devoted to Lord Jaganath, who is none other than Krsna Himself. His poem is titled, 'Who Plays on the Magical Flute?' That is what is must be like when Krsna plays His flute...magical!

Who is it on the magical flute

from beneath the kadamba tree?

Blowing it, He stole away

my heart's glittering gold.

Listening to its mellowed song

rocks melt away, withered twigs

merrily dance with new foliage.

And listening to it my eyes do away with sleep.

Listening to its sorcerous songs

the mild Yamuna goes wild,

and her multicoloured trouts

wince on the bank's unkind bosom.

Will there be no meeting

of my Lord with His hearts priceless gem?

Thus prays Salabega,

the down-trodden, the lowborn.

Early morning darshan

With Your sweet, sweet smile

The tilt of Your hips

Your kind lotus eyes

The bamboo flute at your lips

Early in the morning

Without Your mukut in Your hair

Free of Your ornaments and all the fanfare

...

Just a sweet, simple cowherd boy

That is how I love you best

An explosion of colour

I can hear the raindrops, pitter-pattering on the roof
"Springtime is coming", they sing, "and we are the proof!"
To soft gentle raindrops the snowflakes have turned
And brought with it weather for which we have yearned
A few weeks ago the snow was steadily falling
And with it a wind icy cold, whistling and howling
But with each passing day it gets warmer and warmer
The wind has died down and the air is much calmer
The blankets of snow are melting away
The sun has come out and chased off the grey
The earth may be muddy, but the grass is green
The roads may be slushy, but the air is clean
The tulips are blooming - loud and bright
Daffodils and hyacinths - such a welcome sight!

Radha and Krsna begin Their spring sport
He throws on Her colours once She's been caught
Vermillion and yellow, blue, pink and green
Such an explosion of colour has never been seen
A festival of beauty, of joy and of love
Bursts forth in the colours that fall from above
And just like in Vraja springtime, does bring
A time of devotion - for Krsna we we'll dance and we'll sing

So winter is over and here is the proof -
The pitter-patter of raindrops falling on the roof

- P.S Happy Holi!!

I am the stone

I love that Canada is surrounded by such great diversity and culture.

I came across this poem last November, posted up on the inside of the bus, as I travelled to an exam. Its quite a different scenario from travelling in a bus in South Africa (which I would probably be too afraid to attempt anyway). But if I did, I would be bombarded by issues on public health, AIDS, immunisation etc. Actually in South Africa, it has its place and plays an important role in educating the many people who take public transport, and did not grow up knowing basic things that a lot of us take for granted.

But it was a nice change, an unexpected bit of pleasantness, taking the bus and being surrounded by Canadian poetry. I would sit on one side of the bus, read the poetry along the opposite side, then switch sides to read the the poetry along the other side. It made a dreary bus trip an enjoyable one.

This is a poem by George Faludy, said to be one of Hungary's greatest poets. He lived in Toronto from 1967 - 1989, before returning to Hungary, and passing away in 2006. It is entitled 'Michelangelo's Last Prayer.'

Your anvil is the earth, and with your right arm

You span the arc of heaven like the sun.

Eight decades on this scaffolding a - lifetime -

I sought a sign of you, but there was none

Under my chisel marble fell to stonedust,

But only torsos, idols would be born.

I found you not, elusive, radiant, sunburst,

Who glowed there pulsing under every stone.

I have myself become an ancient stone block,

Split by vines, a still, curmudgeonly old rock,

But in my soul the old flame yet burns on

How can I shed this flesh that holds me prisoner?

Strike me, if you can love a hoary sinner,

Divine Sculptor, My God. I am the stone.

It's nice to be able to sit in a bus and have a realisation related your spiritual life.

I am the stone - rough, hard, plain, uninspired, uninspiring.

I pray that Krsna, as my Divine Sculptor, can shape me into the type of devotee He wants me to be, the type of devotee I should be.

I pray that I see all my life experiences, whether painful or pleasant, joyful or heartbreaking, as Krsna shaping me, chiseling away at my false ego, my pride and my material attachments; smoothing away my imperfections; carving out a devotee who is worthy of serving Him, not only in this lifetime, but in all my lifetimes to come.