Letters From The Himalayas: Himalayan Scenes I.
VASISTHA ASHRAM
This evening it stopped mining. The clouds, assuming all sorts of fantastic shapes and different degrees of thickness, have somewhat parted in different directions. Light refracted and reflected from them makes the entire scene a blazing sphere of glory. Then the playful children of heaven put on fascinating colours of all varieties. What painter could paint? What observer could note all the pissing shades and hues? Look where you will, the eyes are charmed by the orange, purple, violet and pink colours and their indescribable varieties, while between these the ever welcome blue back ground is out here and there. The effulgent glory brings on ecstasy, and tears of joy appear in Rama’s eyes. The clouds dissolve, but leave a permanent message behind. They brought a cup of nectar from the Lord and went back to Him. Such are in fact all attractive objects. They appear, reflect Rama’s glory for a second and dissolve. Insane indeed must he be who falls in love with the passing clouds, and yet folks endeavour to hold fast to the unsteady clouds of seeming things and cry on like children finding them gone. How amusing! O! I cannot suppress a laughter.
Others again expend all their time in minutely observing and faithfully noting down the smallest details of the transitory changes in clouds (phenomena). O me! What are these creatures! There is a flood of glory around them and yet they care not to slake their raging thirst for light. These are what they call scientists and philosophers. Being too busy in splitting the hair, they take no notice of the glorious head of the Beloved to which the hair belong. O! I cannot suppress a laughter. Happy he, whose vision no clouds of names and forms could obstruct, who could always trace the attracting light to its true source, the Atman, and whose affections reached the goal (God) -not being lost in the way like streams dried up before reaching the sea. The pleasing relations must vanish. They are only postmen. Miss not the Lord’s love-letter they have brought for you. The match stick must soon burn off, but blessed is he who has lighted his lamp permanently therewith. The steam and food supply must erelong be consumed, but fortunate is the boat which before the fatal loss reached the Home -the Harbour. He lives who could make of every object whatever a stepping stone to God, or rather a mirror to see God. The world with all its stars, mountains, rivers, kings and scientists, etc., was made for him. Verily it is so, I tell you the truth.
The fields and landscapes, wherein lies their refreshing charms as contrasted with the sickening smoky streets of cities, by criticism or compliments, they excite not in man the sense of limitation and they drive him not into the corner (bodyhood). Man, in their presence, can well occupy the position of a Witness—Light. Inwardly, the vegetable kingdom has as much, and perhaps more, of strife and struggle, and unrest, etc., than the civilised societies, but even their struggles become interesting in so far as a man among cedars, oaks, and pines easily sees himself not one of them, but can keep himself the Witness-Light (Sakshi) unconcerned. He who can live in busy streets as anybody might move in forests, feeling the Self as disinterested Witness-Light, not identifying himself with the body which in this case may be taken as a plant among plants, who could deny that the Universe is a Garden of Eden to him? Such people of God-life are the light of the world. The Light which appears as unconcerned witness is the very life of all that it witnesses.
The river of Life is flowing. None exists but God. Of whom shall I be afraid, of whom ashamed? All life is my God’s life, nothing other, He and Me too is He. The whole world is my own Himalayan woods. When light dawns, flowers begin to laugh, birds sing, and streams dance with joy! 0 that Light of lights! The sea of light is flowing! The breeze of Bliss is blowing!
In this beautiful forest, I laugh and sing, clap hands, and dance.
Did they jeer? It was blowing of the breeze. Did they sneer? It was hissing of the leaves. Shall I be overshadowed by my own life pulsating in the streams, cedars, birds, and beeezes?
I dance, I dance, I laugh and dance,
The stars I raise as dust in dance.
No jealousy, no fear,
I’m the dearest of the dear.
No sin, no sorrow,
No past, no morrow.
No rival, no foe,
No injury, no woe.
No, nothing could harm me,
No, nothing alarm me,
The soul of all
The nectar fall,
The sweetest self
Yea! health itself,
The prattling streams,
The happiest dreams,
All myrrh and balm,
Rawan and Ram,
So pure and calm
Is Ram, is Ram.
The heavens and stars,
Worlds near and far,
Are hung and strung
On the tunes I sung.