Masti

[This is the translation of a few verses selected from each section of a rather long poem on Masti, (entitled “The Man of Noble Living” – Udaara Charita) published in my lyric sequence, Bala Deguladalli (In Life’s Temple, 1953), Sections 4, 5 and 6 sum up Masti’s own views and so also the first stanza in (7). The next two in (7) givemy version of his belief]

(I)

In your gentle laughter dwelt
The Beauty that was Truth,
Hardness to softness turned
Your moon-orb darkened at the edge–
­In early youth and infancy–
For that was all you earned.

Hung from an o’er-hanging sky
With ruby, diamond, amethyst
glow, far from earth the stars.
But kinsman, O, you are near us.
And on our sky-line you let flow
Nectar-streams from your moonbeams.

The Sun is King of Truth. His lustre
you hold. Made cool and beautiful
you serve it to the human crowd.
Sword-edge light is tempered Truth
With much tenderness you serve it
And those you serve are happy and proud.

(2)

Real today is Pain; tomorrow
’Tis pure illusion: this deep faith,
Pole Star, lights your inner space
Soaring above your needs, you give
To the eager world your nectar-touch
The ministry of love with grace.

(3)

Your crown is fame, Armour your joy
friendship and love your diamond-shirt,
The soul your naked sword, its sheath
your life. You held your soul aloft
And lived in battle; flung a way
Toys of illusion on the ground beneath.
Yoga is the indrawn breath:
Outgoing breath – attachment fierce
Where the two mingle rules the swan-soul.
Outgoing breath–soul-bankruptcy;
The mere indweller–colossal loss!
He who rules both rules the Whole.

(4)

In our culture, words and deeds,
The prime need is the smell of our soil
What health is there in alien taste?
If Allama’s unread, why read Shelley?
If Yajnavalka, why read Plato?
Study indiscreet; what waste!

(5)

The flute hypnotic enchants the world.
Its moving note a pillar ensouls.
None from its magic is immune.
The Gita’s metaphysic lore
Stretches, prolonging Arjun’s doubt.
Which is greater – word or tune?

(6)

The world’s a pledge God gave to man
for his redemption. Who condemns
This glory he no Mercy knows.
Dedicate your works to the Lord
Every hour; To Mother earth
Your body in its last repose.

(7)

The blest have taken wrong turns, false steps
The saints are human, all too human
Where is the doer no error knows?
If there is one who owns his faults
And mends his next step, one is good
And ‘perfect’ as far as ‘perfect’ goes.
Effortless was Jivaborn.
Effortless it gained the light.
Effortless, flower turned to fruit
Its faults and burrows manured its growth
And its was the grandeur of fruition.
Seed again, it turns to the root.

Beneath the branch, below the protecting soil,
I’ll draw from the roots what makes me ripen, ripen
Compose, impose my tints on rind and rim
I’ll fall to the ground when autumn come, and calls me
Like a silent tear of joy, like the moon’s full orb
When it slips beyond the sea and the sea’s brim.