Goddess of Poetry, to you... (Part One)

If we could just spend each moment of this mistake-filled life in our own way, we might escape self-reproach. Our small sorrows would then seem justified. These sorrows remake us into some new kind of human being. Then one day, looking back suddenly, we see that everything is actually in its proper place—only I, absent-minded, was searching for something else. What was meant to happen has indeed happened. Why worry so much about it?

Our life is very short. Just as long as it takes for the gunpowder in a matchstick to burn out when lit—that's exactly how brief this life is. Certain events teach us to live anew; the arrival of certain people in our lives changes our habits, our acquired notions, helps us see life as life. Then much about ourselves begins to feel unfamiliar. We must look toward new days with new eyes. Yes, then new sorrows come and possess us too. Sometimes they bring us to a halt. Later we think perhaps this was our destiny. We begin to feel deeply sorrowful, deeply helpless. Yet we forget to be grateful for these very sorrows that brought us to where we are today. These sorrows are actually our wealth. Why? Because we are naturally resilient. The greatest wealth of our lives comes only through sorrow. These sorrows teach us to recognize joy, to find the right path as we walk. There is no one more unfortunate than someone who has never known sorrow.
Well then, why do we keep running from our sorrows? Because we fear accepting truth simply. Finally, when we are compelled to accept it, sometimes we have no choice but to accept it whether we want to or not. The result may not always be to our liking. If we want to get what we desire, first we must accept both reality and circumstances, however they may be. Then we need to think calmly about these matters to see whether we're really making them as difficult or as easy as they actually are. Often we find that the situation isn't what we imagine. We're making it very simple or complex in our minds, which has little correlation with the actual state of affairs. Some things work themselves out with time, while time slowly deposits layers of dust on other matters. Things happen in such a way that we can no longer hold onto events in our minds as we once did. Some things seem utterly trivial as time passes. Why does this happen? Because our emotions cannot distinguish between truth and falsehood, the worldly and the transcendent. Our emotions and our intelligence sometimes cannot work together. When our emotions speak to us, our mind steps away. And when the mind shows a path, it doesn't always align with our emotions.
Yet for life, to conduct life, emotion is a crucial element. Sometimes our emotions become subject to excessive sentiment and act as mere feeling. All our lives are generally driven by two aspects: personal life and circumstantial life. Though our circumstantial life influences our personal life, we can keep it under our control and move forward, but sometimes after forming a special bond with a new person, everything in our personal life often suffers some disruption. Then sometimes, even when we want to, we cannot keep it under our control and direct it as we wish. Life then seems terrifying to us. To transform from the old self to the new self, we must shake off much from our minds. Similarly, upon entering any new life, we must, for the very necessity of this life, adjust a completely new person to ourselves, to everything about ourselves. This is quite troublesome work. Still, people must do it. We must adapt ourselves to many new and changed circumstances.
During this process of adapting and settling in, the old personal 'I' gradually dies. This death is sometimes unwanted, sometimes voluntary. This voluntary death gives people as much peace as unwanted death burns within. Gradually that inner flame prepares for a kind of rebellion. Then suddenly it explodes massively and begins erupting lava from its crater. When we realize that our personal 'I' has actually died completely, it disturbs our conscience. How can I simply accept this 'I' in which there is no 'me,' this 'I' in which the simple 'I' died long ago? Yet voluntary death never burns us. We know that we are discarding an old being and embracing a new being in our lives, and in this embracing we are inviting, welcoming this death of ourselves. When we are growing up, if we entangle ourselves with someone else without fully preparing ourselves at that moment, then the time for self-formation doesn't happen properly afterward. Many people die this way every day. Without taking sufficient time, many people entangle themselves with a new person under family pressure. If that person doesn't suit their heart, or if they don't suit the new person's heart, and neither can escape from this, then the anguish, suffering, burning that follows—the family doesn't bear that; it remains purely personal to those two people. Rushing into such situations leads to much sorrow later. Remembering the family's selfish role then brings only pain; we can curse the family, but nothing more can be done.
Enough talk of sorrow—now let me turn to the goddess of poetry. There was a time when I too thought there really was no such thing as a poetic muse. The goddess I would enthrone to write poetry—that goddess didn't actually exist in reality. Gradually I was trying to accept this as truth, and the work of establishing this truth within myself was also proceeding. Then suddenly you entered my life. Little by little, without my knowing, I began to change. I couldn't imagine that one person could change so much under another person's influence! I had profound faith and pride in my pre-established selfhood; I thought no one could break me, no one could change me unless I wanted it. No one but myself had that power, no other person had it. But I was very reluctant to accept that change is a necessary principle of time and life, and that it's logical. I couldn't see any flaws or errors within myself, didn't even want to acknowledge them. I felt this 'I' could never be wrong. Of course, there was a reason for this too: I never did anything rashly. I would give serious consideration to any task, weigh it carefully, then decide. That's why I felt I could never be wrong. There's no greater mistake than nurturing the notion that 'I make no mistakes.'
There was only one great mistake in my life, and that mistake later brought disaster. Then I began to reconsider myself and my decisions. After you came, the old 'I' slowly began to break down, and the rebuilding began anew. I thought of you in all my desires and aversions, all the time. Actually, I could see you in everything all the time. In every imagination, every feeling, you would come without my knowing. That's where it all began. I had never expressed feelings for anyone in poetry. It had never come, so I hadn't done it. When I first started writing about you, I remember, these uncalled-for, trivial feelings wouldn't let me sleep. I'd stay awake all night thinking all sorts of nonsensical thoughts that had neither destination nor meaning. Eventually I'd fall asleep thinking. When I'd wake up in the morning and normal consciousness returned, you'd be the first thing I remembered. Actually, someone who has no one special to remember perhaps understands exactly how helpless they are. Like dragging life forward by force. Someone who has never had the light of a full moon or the pitch darkness of a new moon come to their courtyard won't understand these differences. The day I first wrote something to you, I wrote with great trepidation. I knew it would be wrong, but my main fear was how you would view my mistakes. Accustomed to bathing in moonlight, if I had to bathe in the darkness of a new moon, such fear naturally remains.
Everything I've written, I've written with you as my goddess. But I still knew nothing about what a poetic muse was. I learned from you what a poetic muse is. Actually, setting a poetic muse in your head has many advantages. For instance, if you write some poetry or prose, and while writing you imagine me in some place in that writing or throughout, then I become your poetic muse. Imagining me, using my various behaviors, words, thoughts as capital, you could write many things. Even if you're angry with me, if you feel hatred, you could write pages and pages about my bad aspects if you keep me there. This work would make your task much easier. I don't have to set you as my poetic muse, never have. Whatever I think, whatever I write, it's all around you. Because you're my beloved, this gets set automatically. All feelings of love and affection, all words then revolve around you. That piece you wrote about death the other day, where you wrote about that poor person, whose rickshaw-puller husband had died, remember? The place you described, CRB I think, you wrote that after going there and seeing such a scene, didn't you?
That boy you wrote about there, the one whose dignified face you described so vividly, who never learned to extend his hand to anyone—even when someone, pleased with his work, seeing his honesty, his character, happily offered five rupees instead of three, he wouldn't take it! That boy was the muse of your writing then, wasn't he?
When you set a muse in your mind and write with that muse as your focus, then actually alongside that person, all the fundamental qualities of people with similar virtues emerge and surface through that writing. Through that one person, the personalities of thousands of such individuals find expression. When I write a love poem making you my muse, all the anger, hurt, and grievances surface through it. Actually, those who love—their feelings are exactly like that. That's precisely how everyone thinks about the person they love. These matters are truly eternal. That poem of Sunil Gangopadhyay's... the one that goes, 'Thirty-three years have passed, no one kept their word...' The poem was written long ago, yet see how relevant it remains today. And even a hundred years from now, it will remain equally relevant. These are eternal truths; they never change. All this talk of sorrow that people engage in, the poetry they write, the prose—all of it remains relevant. The other day someone wrote on your wall calling you disabled. Just like that, for no acceptable reason. Perhaps they can't tolerate you, perhaps they wanted to be like you but couldn't, or maybe they wrote from some other pain. There are many who need no reason to misbehave. They're accustomed to it—if you don't let them be rude, they'll suffocate. Then you wrote a poem in fierce anger. "Waiting to Become a Fountain." It contained these lines:
After I'm gone, some letters will bear witness to my birth.
After they're gone, only septic tanks will testify to their birth.
...Tell me yourself, isn't that boy the muse behind this poem of yours? Doesn't he deserve some gratitude? This is how it is—even those who cause us pain, whether with reason or without, we remain somewhat indebted to them.
For me, the most beloved material for writing is sorrow. I love to feel pain and I love to write about pain. You'll see that the most beautiful, the finest literary works in the world—poetry, songs, prose, fiction, film scripts, whatever you name—all of them are written about sorrow. Your very old piece "Beautiful Melancholy"—in that writing itself you explained about sorrow. From that piece alone I learned why human sorrows occupy the highest place in life, why humanity's sorrow-based creations are the greatest in the world. All these feelings are eternal. Just as everyone has passed through such circumstances before, they continue to pass through them now, and will continue to do so in the future. Every creative person in the world is sorrowful. Every creative person in the world is depressed, frustrated. I have never seen anyone who is both happy and creative at the same time. Happy and creative—this never happens. Every creative person in the world is unhappy. Why? Because happiness never produces any great creation. Every great creation must contain a certain melancholy or despair. If you want to be happy, you must never approach a creative person. You might find happiness in their creations, but you mustn't approach their lives. Even loving a creative person brings pain. They have no grammar. Each creative person has their own individual grammar. With whatever intelligence we have in our heads, whatever concepts our minds can hold, whatever we can understand—using these as capital, we cannot comprehend the creative person.
If my words seem scattered to you, you could read the biographies of great personalities if you wish. You'll see that every one of them was sorrowful. What could you possibly write about happiness? At most two or three pages can be written about happiness. You might write that you feel very good, watched a movie, enjoyed some puchka, went on a trip, saw the sun, saw the rain—if you really want to add some modernity to your writing, you'll write about having drinks, some fun, doing this, doing that... What else would you write about happiness? But about sorrow, page after page can be written. Because when we can see this world with our sixth sense, with our third eye, then we must calm and compose ourselves. Just as a person remains in the grave. Then you must see this world with your inner being, with your inner heart. A connection will then be established with the 'you' inside you. This connection is called worship. When you call upon the Creator with single-minded devotion, you're actually calling upon the person within yourself. When you say "Inshallah" or "By God's will" or something similar, you're actually telling your soul, yes, this work will be done! As a result, a strength is created within you! That strength is what moves you forward. The Creator doesn't exist somewhere outside; He resides within your heart. You yourself are God, if you can awaken from within.
When that inner 'you' begins to speak, no scripture is needed to illuminate yourself. That inner 'you' is the Creator. One must learn to make it speak. But not everyone's inner 'you' speaks. Even if it speaks, it doesn't speak all the time. Being able to converse with the inner 'you' is a matter of long practice. This requires no rituals, no holy books. For this you need only sorrow, a cool mind, despair, stillness. For this you need to know how to speak with the inner 'you'. However, yes, if a person, from their place of firm belief and faith, based on past experience, engages in prayer or worship through any religious place, scripture, or practice, that too awakens their inner being through their belief, and thus they also attain a kind of peace, comfort, and happiness. This depends on each person's habits, beliefs, and experiences. And all the supporting elements that people use in this process of prayer—each one is different for different people. None is superior, none is inferior. Each is necessary, each is indispensable, because many people live through these very things. One must have the utmost respect and tolerance for another's way of living or circumstances of existence. Otherwise this world seems terribly gray. However people find happiness, they must be allowed to remain happy in that way. Only fools try to forcibly impose their own beliefs, customs, and methods on others. However anyone may practice religion or pray, everyone has the same fundamental purpose—awakening the 'I' within themselves, nothing else. Without harming anyone in this world, however people want to live to awaken themselves, it's best to let them live that way. Live and let live—there is no greater religion than this in the world.
So where was I! The power of happiness is actually momentary. The power of sorrow is infinite. When you sit and contemplate these things, it truly creates a different kind of feeling. This correspondence of thoughts that I have with you—sometimes I wonder, you know what I think? I think, if someday this 'I' suddenly changes for some reason, will you still love me as much as you do now? Though I feel that these feelings within me will never change, just as you say your inner being will never change, because you know everything about yourself very well, you know yourself very well. Perhaps sometimes you become angry or hurt about various surrounding matters, for whatever reason, which is why you remained silent for so long, wrote nothing for many days. But then you yourself say that this realm of writing is a strange realm. It's such a realm where there's no training school to learn the rules of residence, no directions on how to enter that realm, no directions on how to walk once you enter that realm, no directions on what to do if you stumble and fall while walking in that realm. Nothing at all exists. And perhaps that's why we're not separate, we cannot be separate either. For two people to stay together, whether their thoughts align or not, there must be mutual tolerance and respect for those thoughts. As long as that exists between us, we needn't worry about being together or not.
I also know that in this entire world, your most precious thing is your writing, and whoever understands that writing, that world of thought you share constantly—that person will be most dear to you, someone who knows how to write or knows how to make you write—who wouldn't understand this! Perhaps that's why approaching you became so easy for me, receiving your love, having you—all of this came through that one thing. And that's why I'm always on your mind, constantly bothering you, yet you silently endure everything from me. Of course, as your beloved, bothering you is also my unwritten right. I will bother the person I love—this is natural. If I don't bother you, should I bother my friend's person?
The day you compared me to the moon, said that I bring tides to your being, those tides of power—perhaps I myself don't know what that is—I can't express how wonderful that felt to me. You said that the moon creates tides in the ocean's heart, but it doesn't know this itself. That I could become that moon for you, that I have a special place with an artist of such generous spirit as you—this achievement urges me from within to become even more pure. After hearing those few words from you that day, I immediately felt I needed to purify myself much more. I know that the more refined a diamond is, the more brilliantly it shines. I felt, alas, there's still so much left in building myself! When you are the reason, that urgency comes from within. You know better than I what value the words of someone who loves you only for the sake of loving you hold for you. You are first the person I love and then an artist to me, and being able to love someone is another form of a person's artistic being.
One who knows not how to love, nor how to receive love, can never become an artist.
You are all my excuses, you are all my exuberance—this person you see before you now, all of it is truly your creation. Look at that moon in the sky—how wildly I celebrate it. Do you remember that day when I first wrote you a poem? That evening I was speaking with the moon from the corner of the rooftop. Since you are the moon of my sky, it occurred to me to pour all my words for you, all the things left unsaid, all my grievances—everything—into that moon's ear. Why do I lodge so many complaints about you with the moon? I should be happy simply knowing that wherever you are, however you are... you are well, you are alive. The person I love may not know how deeply I love them, or how thoroughly I am wrapped in feeling for them. Yet at least they exist in this world—if I wish, I can see them, even if only from afar. Wherever and however one's beloved may be, their wellbeing is what matters most. And this is the final word.
Still, caught in that stream of moonlight, restless and overwhelmed with emotion, I could no longer contain myself. My eyes kept welling up with tears. In that moment I felt that whether I win this person or not, whether I receive nothing but their hatred, shame, neglect—whatever it may be—I must at least let them know my thoughts. When love comes crashing down like this, I had no idea where such currents might sweep one away. Perhaps it's because I was prepared to accept all damage that I have been able to possess you so completely today. You say that love cannot be explained by speaking—it must be felt through experience. I understand this too, but when you can no longer contain it within yourself, isn't it right to release it to follow its own course? I have held as primary whatever my heart can hold. Love, to me, is as sacred as worship, because in the end it merges into the heart. Whatever my heart can contain—there lies its flowering, there lies its final refuge—all such things I place in the realm of prayer. When I write with complete focus, think of people with complete focus, cry with complete focus, feel peace with complete focus, listen to music with complete focus, watch the moonlight with complete focus, love with complete focus—and so many other things where there is no stain, no deception, no ill will, no intolerance—where there is only peace, joy, comfort—to reach such places one must accept much suffering, shame, and sorrow on the journey of self-offering—all of this, to me, is prayer, worship, religious practice. Religion is that which sustains us—and these are what sustain me, day after day.
The languages of love are truly different—sometimes one must speak to convey, sometimes in silence. I know when you bind me in silence. If I had remained quiet that day too, if I had bound myself in silence and hidden from you, how much would I have gained of you today? That moon in the distant sky has brought me all this shelter from you, all this care, all this love. When you compare me to that moon, where in your sky should I hide myself, tell me? Did you ever know that I would appear this way as the moon of your sky? And how much did I know of what was within me, which I tell you nowadays? I am a very reticent person, you know? I could never tell anyone anything—I didn't even know the language of the simplest protest. This person within me who speaks so much with you—I had no idea such a person was hidden inside me, one who could even speak openly. This is the fruit of my prayers, this is the reward for being able to awaken myself.
(To be concluded in the next part...)