That inexplicable joy and peace I always experience when I think of you guides me through thunderstorms and burning sunbeams.How veiled by Maya am I, that I so often become depressed when contemplating “those things which go wrong in my life, around me, because of my decisions” – the identification with the Self never fails to bring us sorrow.
Let me always remember that I am indeed your Bansuri, through which but a dash of your all-powerful energy strives to produce enchanting music through word, thought and deed. Hare Krishna!
I know I have posted this song before, but such is my love for it. This must be a live recording if I am not mistaken, even more beautiful than I remember:
Lyrics & translation from here.
Hey Govind Hey Gopaal Hey Dayaal Laal.
Paraan Naath Anaath Sakhay Deen Darad Nivaar.
He Samrath Agam Pooran Mohi Mayaa Dhaar.
Andh Koop Mahaa Bhayaan Naanak Paar Utaar.
O Lord of the Universe, O Lord of the World, O Dear Merciful Beloved.
You are the Master of the breath of life, the Companion of the lost and forsaken, the Destroyer of the pains of the poor.
O All-powerful, Inaccessible, Perfect Lord, please shower me with Your Mercy.
Please, carry Nanak across the terrible, deep dark pit of the world to the other side.
Faith is internally cultivated. The loving relationship comes first, always.
It’s funny how most of us are nurtured the other way round. We are taught that public displays trumps all. What we eat, how we dress, what we do are apparently important determinants of who we are and what we believe in. Isn’t it the other way around though? Our beliefs lead us to where we need to be, to do what we need to do.
Watering faith with love can only ensure the blossoming of beautiful flowers. Right now, I can see beautiful, beautiful flowers around me which, amongst all the thorns and unwanted weed, stand out with amazing clarity and beauty. A gorgeous pathway paving the way to Him.
Blessed Govinden to all those celebrating!
Remembering Him all the time is a bit like me lying on my bed, watching out the window just now.
You marvel at twinkling stars in a pitch-black sky, heave a sigh at the passing shooting star (i swear, i did see one). Then suddenly you doze off.
And when you suddenly jerk back to reality (damn you annoying heat!) you struggle to see the stars again. It’s just a pitch-black sky that you see. You blink, you yawn, you adjust your glasses, you slip in and out of that alternate state of consciousness.
And you realize that the only way to see those pretty stars again is to believe they are there.
Give all strength, give all love,
Give all patience and kindness.
Help us forgive ourselves,
Help us help ourselves.
In you we seek
Strength, solace and hope.
In you we believe
That love, forgiveness and compassion
Your Bansuri I am.
My dear Krishna
for always sending the right people my way when i need them
for the regular slaps, reminding me to keep my ego in check
for all the obstacles, encouraging me to work on the Self
for the way my sitar strings make me smile
for the comfort of written words, even those constituting research articles!
for mom.dad.and sisters of my heart.
this bansuri still has a weakness for diyas, and deeply envies those who will be adorning beautiful kuttivillakus for Him over the next month. Blessed Govinden to all!
My dad always used to tell me “Il faut de tout pour faire un monde” whenever I would start complaining about people and things. and btw, that would be often. I just never realised how deep it ran. .My kids always hear from me how people come in various sizes and colours, and that’s what makes all of us so beautiful. One of them once commented how that means that when ‘all people in the world come together, it will make a beautiful rainbow’. Innocence. I miss that.
smaraṇe onde sāladē gōvindana nāmavu ondē sāladē!
“One can reach moksha just by chanting Lord Hari’s name with devotion and faith.”
I get very nostalgic around this time of the year. And I realised it’s not just because it is Govinden.
Lata couldn’t believe she had finally given in. Sure, she had always known how persistent and stubborn her mom was. But still, it was a trait she herself had inherited, and which she believed she had cultivated with much more care and passion. Apparently not.
Draped in her newly bought blue cotton saree, Lata sat cross-legged on the edge of her bed. It was Saturday afternoon for heavens’ sake. She should be in her dance saree perfecting her thillanna, not getting ready to be showed off to some stupid people who think she would be the perfect latest addition to their family. That wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. That wasn’t how she had always imagined it to be. Lata looked up and saw herself gazing at her kohl-lined eyes in the mirror. She had always been so sure that she would one day meet her Krishna. And that was what she told her mom a few days ago. She had heartbreakingly told Lata to stop daydreaming and look at reality. Her Krishna must have lost his way, she had said, and meeting him ain’t gonna happen. “We have a thirty year old unmarried girl in the house. What bad deed did we ever do in our past lives?” she had wailed to Lata’s dad.
So here she was. Draped in her soft blue cotton saree with perfectly kohl-lined eyes waiting for her prospective groom to come and see if she was good enough for him.
Thirty minutes later, Lata was sitting on her mother’s rustic one-seater couch with her five year old niece on her lap. The room was filled with the smell of homemade pancakes and tea mixed with the alien smell of what Lata attributed to strangers. This was so wrong, Lata thought with a lump in her throat. No one had the right to invade her comfort zone like that. Gentle and polite chatter was going on around her, and the pouring rain was providing a hell of a background music. Lata hadn’t lifted her head since she had been brought in. She couldn’t bring herself to. And she was distinctively aware that this was being attributed to her being shy. Yeah. Right.
She had had a dream the previous night. It was as if she had been thrown back in her teens, in her yellow and red ghagra choli and with her long black hair twirling wildly with the wind. She couldn’t remember much of the dream, apart from fleeting sensory recollections. The rough ground underneath her feet; the sound of her anklets; the intense smell of incense and rose water; diyas and diyas everywhere. She was in the yard of Kovil Montagne, she knew it. Lata remembered lighting a diya in front of the Krishna in the yard, just like she always does, before giggling and prancing up the famous steps with her sisters. A light-hearted, carefree spirit, humming the padam her guru had just taught her.
So many years of being immersed in the world of music and dance that she had not realised there was a real world she was expected to function in.