The rational man draws his sustenance from the world-as-it-is, as it appears to him, his 'real world'. Eman draws his sustenance from the world-as-it-always-was, the world-as-it-will-be and progressively... the world-as-it-can-only-be! In short, the world that he does not know, the potential world. No wonder, the rational man often describes Eman as his true complement.
The rational man interprets religion, defines the good man and moral man, lays down the rules of conduct for his race, distinguishes one race from another. Eman prays from his heart, searches his innermost heart for the right and wrong. And in so learning to see directly, to be free of
rationality, mixes up the gods, races and men. The gods whisper in his ears:
I am neither in the temple nor in the mosque,
I am neither in Kaaba nor in Kailash,
Neither am I in rites and ceremonies,
Nor in Yoga and renunciation.
Eman lets out a loud shriek:
None tells me of this bird,
That sings within me!
The rational man writes prose, strives to explain to the whole world the logic of his constructions, the order of his deductions, the complexity of the relationships. Eman writes poetry and forever tries to transcend the narrative. In doing so, his descriptions often acquires esoteric dimensions, a mystical air diffuse from his verses, and symbolic become his words. He sings his songs and recites his verses; but really he is forever perfecting his sruti, creating an ambience of divine sounds resonating the vibrant transmission to his own self, as he surrenders to his guru, his deities and gods residing in his heart. He fixes his gaze on the horizon, the limit of his universe bordering the infinite, the source of his life, the end of his journey, the unknown.
There is a land where no doubt or sorrow have rule
Where terror of death is no more!
Eman has to struggle to find words; his own words, he finds, are swallowed by the silence of eternity,' where the sounds of unstruck drums are not yet heard'. He cries out :
My Friend, my beloved Lord is within
There are no words to tell that which he is!
The Guru is great beyond words,
And great indeed is the fortune of the disciple.
Eman started his prayers long before the rational man began his ceremonies. When did his vocation begin? When did his love have its rise?
When he...
Whose forms are manifold' had not begun his day,
When there was no Guru and disciple,
When the world was not spread out,
When the supreme one was alone!
Then...
He exclaims: What a beautiful beginning that was! He then bursts into drumming a song:
In the plains and mountains of my countryside,
The sun's brilliance is beyond words!
He who is the creator and preserver is also the destroyer.
In the fields,...alas,
Not a single tree is dressed well
To receive the light of the matchless one,
The landmarks lie buried in heaps of dust.
To clothe my trees in tresses ,
to sweep the earth of the fallen leaves,
when will the storm come?
The rational man interprets religion, defines the good man and moral man, lays down the rules of conduct for his race, distinguishes one race from another. Eman prays from his heart, searches his innermost heart for the right and wrong. And in so learning to see directly, to be free of
rationality, mixes up the gods, races and men. The gods whisper in his ears:
I am neither in the temple nor in the mosque,
I am neither in Kaaba nor in Kailash,
Neither am I in rites and ceremonies,
Nor in Yoga and renunciation.
Eman lets out a loud shriek:
None tells me of this bird,
That sings within me!
The rational man writes prose, strives to explain to the whole world the logic of his constructions, the order of his deductions, the complexity of the relationships. Eman writes poetry and forever tries to transcend the narrative. In doing so, his descriptions often acquires esoteric dimensions, a mystical air diffuse from his verses, and symbolic become his words. He sings his songs and recites his verses; but really he is forever perfecting his sruti, creating an ambience of divine sounds resonating the vibrant transmission to his own self, as he surrenders to his guru, his deities and gods residing in his heart. He fixes his gaze on the horizon, the limit of his universe bordering the infinite, the source of his life, the end of his journey, the unknown.
There is a land where no doubt or sorrow have rule
Where terror of death is no more!
Eman has to struggle to find words; his own words, he finds, are swallowed by the silence of eternity,' where the sounds of unstruck drums are not yet heard'. He cries out :
My Friend, my beloved Lord is within
There are no words to tell that which he is!
The Guru is great beyond words,
And great indeed is the fortune of the disciple.
Eman started his prayers long before the rational man began his ceremonies. When did his vocation begin? When did his love have its rise?
When he...
Whose forms are manifold' had not begun his day,
When there was no Guru and disciple,
When the world was not spread out,
When the supreme one was alone!
Then...
He exclaims: What a beautiful beginning that was! He then bursts into drumming a song:
In the plains and mountains of my countryside,
The sun's brilliance is beyond words!
He who is the creator and preserver is also the destroyer.
In the fields,...alas,
Not a single tree is dressed well
To receive the light of the matchless one,
The landmarks lie buried in heaps of dust.
To clothe my trees in tresses ,
to sweep the earth of the fallen leaves,
when will the storm come?
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