Vivekananda: My Play is Done! by Bijay Kant Dubey SignUp
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Vivekananda: My Play is Done!
by Bijay Kant Dubey Bookmark and Share

The saint-singer after having wandered and sung the songs feels it that it is time to be back home and to seek for the blessings of the Mother whose maya he needs it ultimately. What has a saint to do with the binding of this samsara of sukha and dukkha? This is not his world to dabble in, cutting the bonds of maya-moha, sukha-dukkha he wants to be away from here. His work is done and now he wants to return back to. This is his prayer before the Mother. But who can say how the way of the Mother Divine? How long will have the traveller to travel? How long the pathway to reach the Inn? How to be free from this bond of coming and going? How long will it continue? When will She call him back? He is waiting for Her Clemency, Her Call. Life after life, age after age, he has waited for impatiently, restlessly for the gates to open and now it is time to be back to. He has nothing to ask for and seek except Her Blessings and Mercy. What has to get from the word he lived in? What has he to expect for? His work is almost done and now he wants to return. The sea of life lies it boisterous with the waves rising and falling and the furies seem to be engulfing it all, but what has a bystander to do with? He does not want to be a part of this sea of life. Why to be into the net of time which idles it away not, fritters it not?

The Master’s task he has accomplished it, he has spread it the message of the guru as per the Divine Will of the Mother and now he wants to be free. The poem was actually written in America when he went to attend the Parliament of Religions.

The waves will go tossing up and down as ever and the scheme of time is so as it was, as it will continue to be same in future too and there is no escape from this rise and fall, up and down. There is nothing as that to escape the clutch of time.

But he is sick of this phenomenon as it interests him not anymore. He wants to get rid of. Why to be into the binding of attachment and detachment? It is better to be detached and stoical.

The saint asks the Mother to free him from the chains, bondage of the eternal cycle of life and death. He asks Her to free him from the bonds of maya-moha, sukha-dukkha, life-death. He has no qualms; he just wants to be free to reach Her. He just wants to be released.

Why to be in the delusion of joy and sorrow? Man fails to banish desire from the inner mind, but it is at the root of all.
He is at the gates waiting to enter. When will it open? The appointment has not been made and the visitor too is not sure of when will he be called in. The saint is least interested in worldly affairs. He has nothing to do with metaphysical and spiritual thoughts either, he just wants to be free, He just wants to be in the bosom of the Mother Divine.
He wants to cross over that shore where is no pain, no sorrow, nothing to engage or care for. Mother Divine, show you your merciful face divine, not the one frightening and terrible to look at. Look you your tired son who wants to return. The wheel of grief and joy keeps it rotating. What it in joy if it is short-lived? What it in sorrow raking it badly? Now the cup is full and having drunk it, he wants to take it not more. From the seashore he sees the sea and thinks of crossing over to. But how will it be the other side of the shore? How the lands unknown, unseen and unvisited? Are there joys and sorrows too?

Ever rising, ever falling with the waves of time, still rolling on I go
From fleeting scene to scene ephemeral, with life's currents' ebb and flow.

Oh! I am sick of this unending force; these shows they please no more,
This ever running, never reaching, nor e'en a distant glimpse of shore!

From life to life I'm waiting at the gates, alas, they open not.
Dim are my eyes with vain attempt to catch one ray long sought.

On little life's high, narrow bridge I stand and see below
The struggling, crying, laughing throng. For what? No one can know.

In front yon gates stand frowning dark, and say: `No farther away,
This is the limit; tempt not Fate, bear it as best you may;

Go, mix with them and drink this cup and be as mad as they.
Who dares to know but comes to grief; stop then, and with them stay.'

Alas for me, I cannot rest. This floating bubble, earth-
Its hollow form, its hollow name, its hollow death and birth-

For me is nothing. How i long to get beyond the crust
Of name and form! Ah, open the gates; to me they open must.

Open the gates of light, O Mother, to me Thy tired son.
I long, oh, long to return home! Mother, my play is done.

You sent me out in the dark to play and wore a frightful mask;
Then hope departed, terror came, and play became a task.

Tossed to and fro, from wave to wave in this seething, surging sea
Of passions strong and sorrows deep, grief is, and joy to be.

Where life is living death, alas! and death- who knows but `tis
Another start, another round of this old wheel of grief and bliss?

Where children dream bright, golden dreams, too soon to find them dust,
And aye look back to hope long lost and life a mass of rust!

Too late, the knowledge age doth gain; scare from the wheel we're gone.
When fresh, young lives put their strength to the wheel, which thus goes on

From day to day and year to year. 'Tis but delusion's toy,
False hope its motor; desire, nave; its spokes are grief and joy.

I go adrift and know not whither. Save from this fire!
Rescue me, merciful Mother, from floating with desire!

Turn not to me Thy awful face, 'tis more than I can bear,
Be merciful and kind to me, to chide my faults forbear.

Take me, O Mother, to those shores where strifes for ever cease;
Beyond all sorrows, beyond tears, beyond e'en earthly bliss;

Whose glory neither sun, nor moon, nor stars that twinkle bright,
Nor flash of lightning can express. They but reflect its light.

Let never more delusive dreams veil off Thy face from me.
My play is done; O Mother, break my chains and make me free!

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04-Jun-2022
More by :  Bijay Kant Dubey
 
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