I am Sankara, the yogi who left home
When barely eleven. I am philosopher
Scholar, guru and friend to many, now seated
Beside the mighty Narmada. My time
Moves backwards and forwards—
I am child, Sivaguru’s son,
Seeking sanyasa, and my mother’s blessing
Willed and destined through the act of the crocodile
To wander forthwith across the western-ghats
Traverse jungles and deserts, across many rivers.
I have come face to face with scholars and pundits,
Poets and philosophers, beggars and kings.
Seen divinity in stone and deed, the Brahman’s many forms,
Spoken and discoursed as youth and man.
When did I ever shy away from action?
Now seated beside the great river
Having conversed with many a sensitive soul
I hear my mother’s clear voice from across the waters.
Calling, Sankara, Sankara, Sankara…
Since when has a Sannyasin ever returned home?
What is home for one who has renounced all?
What meaning does relationship hold forth
For the one who seeks the brahman’s awesome embrace?
Time does nothing, neither do we
Who with folded hands move round in circles and silence
Surrounded with dreams and desires.
My mother’s cry resounds once more.
I must return and carry out her final rites--
Her passage and mine across the mighty waters
Of memory and anguish.
Barking of the village dogs greets me in my native land
Fear and panic spread like huge green banana leaves
As the sannyasin descends the steps to do the ancient rites.
Here beside the river once again I stand all alone—
I who have learned and taught so much and yet so little.
I am Sankara, the yogi who left home
When barely eleven. I am philosopher
Scholar, guru and friend to many, now seated
Beside the burning pyre. Learning and unlearning
Walking about in the darkness of human ignorance
In the tiny circle of light. Seeking my self forever. |
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