Shravanabelagola,monk ,mystic

STANDING NAKED--II
The cosmos is a tantric canvas.
Emotions are like waterfalls, pouring harmoniously, pouring souvenirs....especially, as i realise that i have'nt put down everything about my feelings about this little village.
Sravanabelagola --Lost between coconut trees, the ricefields, cattle, dust, and lotus filled ponds .

The evening breeze is a broom sweeping Bahubali's environnements into a very profound silence,
every changing movement soaks into a "quiet aspect."

Sravanabelagola --- ever since i first set my foot up here i was overwhelm'd.

Here, i saw rocks in poetry and poetry in rocks .
Out of the rocks and sculptures ,an immortal spirit seems to soar constantly...like a long drifting aroma of" peaceful watchfulness".

Nikos kazantzakis says in his semi fictional biography " my life's benefactors have been journeys and dreams ... . . . ".

....this is exactly how i felt when i found myself in Sravanabelagola ;


The tulmultenous bus rides, the catnaps, the energy, the time short run,..... did'nt stop the adventure .
Something magical ,made all the rough side of travelling look almost sterile ; i pursued with enthousiasm ,my hasty visits to these sacred sites.

At Sravanabelagola, on the Chandragiri hills , 14 jain temples invites you ; the uninterupted silence is punctuated by a few chiming temple bells, mantras and children.
You could read the traces of the morning rituals inscribed on the freshly washed temple floor, chalk inscriptions, rice grains and flowers....left over by the worshippers of peace !!

Even if you 're in a hurry ,the majestic" tirtankas", carved in meditation are anything but vulgar rocks !!.

However ,if you watch them, you can witness their deeply absorbed selves shining through the dawnlit appertures of each temple.

For a moment you wonder who is" the rock" !!


On the other hill ,the Vindhyagiri ;
Stands , the most impressive structure i've ever seen ,the naked Bahubali...with his feet on earth, his head holds the heavens ,
or rather the heavens unfolds in his head.

Eyes gently closed, "doing nothing else" but watching!!
Eyes closed watching "the invisible" ;

this made me realise that ,to watch" the invisible "one must close the eyes and open the eyes of your heart,
And, besides the watching of "inner dawn" the rest seem'd to be immateriel .

The air arround is purified by prayers....

( prayers -- another cosmic broom.)...and the heart gathers the sparks of light from some chilly night wherein you 've been treading.

Here , one does'nt seek illuminations, because illumination is everywhere .
Here your meals are made of spiritual landscapes ---" the watcher "and" the watched" are one ; the voyage leads you more and more inwards.

Sravanabelagola -- is a pretext to be spiritual!
You move away from dying words and delve into living feelings.
A divine finger performs a divine surgery on you.
You're not here to convert or to be converted; someone peaceful awakening with each dawn moves out of the rocks, and you witness it!!

As i left Sravanabelagola , the immense statue remained silent, witnessing with closed eyes, tolerant, never asked your name nor culture, country, nor the list of your eruditions......... 

" Sit here, be here, and watch!! " 

" drop all your sterile gods -- dead they are, as your ideals" . 

"Here , there's place for only one -- 

the one "in you ", 

the only one worth watching!!
for when he awakes, the silence is full of miracles and births......
then, a word that escapes your lips will be a healing whisper of peace !!"

Your touch "heals" , because you 're healed!!.

No barrages,
no conflicts ,
no filters,
no ideals,
no parasiting emotions....
the profound currents of one single meditation washes them all away -- including , the loftly and the lowly!!!

Only the sponteneous remains.

A one day before indepence day celebration poem

 Dedicated to Kashmir, and to an old jesuit ... father Stanley.

Leaders in my country

Build gigantic statues on 3000 crore budgets

Instead of schools, roads, proper drainages and toilettes.

Open excretions still prevail

Except, the stink comes from the multiple political speeches, promises and propagandas

Broadcasted on tv for mass brainwashing.

On indépendance day they salute the flags

Makes the army parade around patriotic farces

Next day the same planned riots, murders, forthcoming élections schemes  and religious issues of

Who ate the cow, or who didnt drink the urine, or who didnt bow before its dung.

When the british left we recovered their methods 

--Thé taxes.

Wé threw them out to sit in their chairs to do the same things in new texts and legislations 

Wé became tax collectors

Taxes to eat, shit, pee, and breathe.

Tax money spend when a minister goes out 

Or changes his mind and comes in, or to pay for his appendicitis operated in the US.

And when he returns post-op, he returns with diplomatic immunity to custom pass his gold loaded bagages.

Now, 

Watch out for the new taxes on democracy.

For having said this much, i ve become a national traitor, a terrorist,  a threat to my country's security

À framedup warrant on my head

For not loving my country in their terms

For not becoming ready To be a ' dumb fuck citizen.'

 Writing has never been easy for me, it was never a logical construction of an idea. I wrote from a moment that would prod inside, transform my vision that very instant it enters. 

Yet i know what is boundless in my soul is accessible only when i shatter my heart into pieces,  even then, the words remains as a settling effect of that emotional implosion. 

 A pen is a powerful thing

It can drown you in its ink.

It can transform the parchments of your body and soul 

Weave  poems from a reed 

by 

a river bank.

It can free you like a bird

offering you the sky

It can take you to your darkness

Darker than its ink.

Yet it gives you the unawaited moonlight you need

To grope through the verbs nouns and adjectives 

Thus you may compose yourself. 

It has killed, conquered, build Thrones and Empires. 

It can nourish you without bread and water.

It can torment you, beat you like sheaves of wheat till your husk has gone. 

From  its immense silence it streams

The music of

your sorrow and joy.

It can lie beautifully

And cut you with unconforting truth.

It can be pure

And bring you the waters 

From the abode of the Gods.

Hold your pen

With your empty mind

With Beauty alone for ink

 Thé morning in your eyes so tender 

Wet with the night that swept through 

Many carressing fingers 

We found what we needed without the lamplight

Kneading the darkness out of your body 

Your blonde hair and silken skin

Tossed on my chest 

In the warmth of your mouth

Volcanicaly Love possessing the body

Became body again.

In moment together in a sponteneous completeness.