Triveni Journal
1927 | 11,233,916 words
Triveni is a journal dedicated to ancient Indian culture, history, philosophy, art, spirituality, music and all sorts of literature. Triveni was founded at Madras in 1927 and since that time various authors have donated their creativity in the form of articles, covering many aspects of public life....
(Translated from TELUGU)
[The saffron-robed Sadhu with the beggar's bowl and staff in hand, that wanders from place to place singing devotional songs, is the last relic of a characteristic phenomenon in the social life of Hindu India. He pilgrims thro’ the land from snow-bound Kashmere to sea-lapped Kanyakumari, chanting hymns and songs that the more educated and elderly of his coterie bad composed in moments of light and ecstasy. No high literary flavour or deep provoking thought is there; but a little touch of philosophy here, a light tint of mysticism there, a firmness of faith, a sincerity of purpose, and a directness of expression throughout, serve to render the songs that the Sadhus sing sparks of spiritual fire to light candles of vision on the altar-hearts of humankind.
The following are free translations of some of the songs as echoed in Andhradesa. V.N.B.]
I
Out of the depths of ages
I prayed to Thee,
Out of the depths of life
I waved to Thee,
Out of the depths of devotion
I beckoned to Thee,
But Thou wert adamant, reticent, calm.
Am I thus to languish in life
like a waterless plant,
And scatter all my dreams
like leaves to the wind?
Am I to pine in sorrow thus
groping in darkness eterne?
But ere I perish like the petal.
of a sunburnt rose,
Wouldst Thou not shine like the moon,
in the sky of my life
And draw me near with a ray of hope?
II
With trust and hope, alone I seek for thee–
Call me, O call me, Lord!
Dispel from this gaping wild
The deadly, deepening dark;
In this burning, reeling noon
Alone, alone I weep and swoon–
Let me, O Lord, Thy wisdom know.
Thou wouldst not shower rain in the fields
O, how can life to me its pleasures yield–
Let me, O Lord, Thy wisdom know.
Steeped in desire's unholy mire
I dare not think of the sunlit spire;
Nay, I cannot live this mirage-life–
Call me, O call me, Lord
And let me, Lord, Thy wisdom know.
III
When the inescapable fire-god
Snatches thy soul away . . .
Can thy brother and sister obstruct his path–
Can thy father and mother detain him out,
Can neighbours any stand betwixt,
Or any of thy kith and kin save thee then?
Confide not therefore in mortal worth
But praise and pray the Immortal One!