The Cup: Swami Vivekananda

 

By: Bijay Kant Dubey

The Cup 

This is your cup — the cup assigned
to you from the beginning.
Nay, My child, I know how much
of that dark drink is your own brew
Of fault and passion, ages long ago,
In the deep years of yesterday, I know.

This is your road — a painful road and drear.
I made the stones that never give you rest.
I set your friend in pleasant ways and clear,
And he shall come like you, unto My breast.
But you, My child, must travel here.

This is your task. It has no joy nor grace,
But it is not meant for any other hand,
And in My universe hath measured place,
Take it. I do not bid you understand.
I bid you close your eyes to see My face.

This is your cup, My child, as has been assigned to you and how much of it your brew, is the thing with which the poem, The Cup by Swami Vivekananda begins with and the cup under our perusal is but the cup of one’s own life and the things to be ascertained thereafter, the recourse to be taken as willed or ordained by inculcating karma and dharma. None can say it what it is in one’s karma. None can say it what it is in one’s dharma. It has been rightly said, as you sow so you reap. But who can about the rights and wrongs of previous births, of the past, yesteryears or previous lives? The drink we are to sip is the cup assigned to containing the brew of fault and passion. Our faults we do not know them; our mistakes and sins, where are we flawed and guilty as we cannot see our mistakes and faults. A karmayogi and a sanyasin of a very high order, he keeps saying about our karma and dharma and the cup of our life with the brew to be taken. We do not know it what it is in whose luck and fate. Our destiny we cannot say it. But at a glance this seems to be the path of life as ordained by the Almighty. This is the cup to be sipped with the brew in it. But what is in whose luck one cannot and in the likewise manner, the renouncer too has a life of own. 

This is the road on which you have to tread and taking to it you have to go, is the theme of the second stanza of the poem at hand. The roadway of life is never smooth, never so easy, it is long and tiresome, a long way to go and cover up, just like a pilgrimage undertaken. God Himself has set the stones over it. God Himself has made the pathway. The course of life differs from each other. They will also go unto Him, but differently following their ways. But it is His Will that he must travel it taking the tiresome journey.

This is your task and you have to do it, is the voice that the sanyasin hears within, the task of life as assigned and allotted by God must be carried. It has neither grace nor joy. It is also not meant for other hand. In the universe where everything but lies it measured and calculated, nothing as unknown, he must accept it as there is no option than this and the assignment given too varies from man to man. God does not want to make it understand. He just wants him to close the eyes and to see His face.

While going through the Cup of Vivekananda, we get reminded of the life of Mirabai who was offered a cup of nectar not, but poison as for taking the company of sadhus and fakirs, a royal widow herself derogating the prestige of the palace, lost in Krishna bhakti so madly, dancing and singing, but the cup turning into one of nectar. So was the life of Vivekananda, in search of the Divine, the seeker after truth, the sanyasin adapting to bairagya. The Cup as a poem is a religious poem, a spiritual poem and herein lies it the philosophy of life, karmayoga. There is something of man’s fate as he has envisaged in this poem and this has been continuing for long. What does it lie ordained from before who can say it about?

The first four lines tell of the use of the metaphoric language with the application of the simile as life has been compared to the cup and the draughts of drink:

This is your cup — the cup assigned
to you from the beginning.

Nay, My child, I know how much
of that dark drink is your own brew

The  lovely lines from the second stanza tell of the road of life and the pains to be undertaken in journeying on the roadway if life:

This is your road — a painful road and drear.
I made the stones that never give you rest.

I set your friend in pleasant ways and clear,
And he shall come like you, unto My breast.
But you, My child, must travel here.

His cup he has to take it. The whole universe is the playfield of His. The Lord too does not wish   to indulge him in vague discussions, but what can He do, this is the way of man and the world. There is no escape from it. He wants him to close the eyes to see Him as He is ready to bless His son always:

This is your task. It has no joy nor grace,
But it is not meant for any other hand,
And in My universe hath measured place,
Take it. I do not bid you understand.
I bid you close your eyes to see My face.

God’s love is the thing of solace and ultimate blessing from the Divine. This is not for him to endure the pains so much. He knows how to love his sons best. Whatever be the elucidation, the devotional element is very strong in it.

The Cup is a philosophical poem in which the poet tells about the philosophy of our life and living. The theme is Miltonic in the sense, the poet knows that God does not need it man’s labour. The same thing Vivekananda also says to us in the poem titled, The Cup. What is His Divine Wish? There is something which but we know it not. The destiny of man lies it fixed which but dependent on karma, the cause and effect theory, as he does so will he reap.

To see it in the Tagorean words,

“What divine drink wouldst thou have, my God, from this overflowing cup of my life?”

 

 

 

 

 

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Songs of Rama

By: Bijay Kant Dubey

Songs of Rama: A Journey of The Self, A Song of The Soul

 

I do not know it nor can I say why have I called these poems to be put before as Songs of Rama: A Journey of The Self, A Song of The Soul and what is that makes them readable and if your want to read them, you may or otherwise leave them as I have written them in the memory of my youngest brother who was no doubt a promising martial artist who lapsed in addiction and depression as for in the absence of opportunities and I used to serve him, but the path of life for him had been very zigzagged and painful, recovering and recuperating and finally losing the battle of life. He used to try to climb up the thick rope hanging from the banyan tree in the highland area and used to run on the river bed, sparring, running for miles, lifting weights, doing asanas, pranayams, sit-ups, jogging, as such was his practice, but God willed it otherwise and he died away living a miserable death under neglect and poverty. None supported us too. Neither the relatives nor the officials, everyone exploited our cultural refinement and meek nature, scholarship and property as we had not been hard. He was the fellow who used to accompany me up to the brook, the crematorium, the cemetery, the hills, the woods and solitary landscapes as for to help me in the writing of poems. Honesty too pays it not always, neither simplicity nor high thinking. Our diary firms used to run in losses and the pure milk takers used to befool us. Tears welled up into the eyes when I had been writing the text of it as it did in writing Bapu, Asthi-Kalasha and Pinda-Dana.

 

They also sing the songs of Rama who but sing in whispers, they are also the devotees of Rama who pray it silently and the Lord hears them, definitely hears them coming to the bhaktas. The Singer of Rama singing the song reminded me of Mahatma Gandhi spinning the wheel and singing the song toothlessly, Raghupati raja ram patit pawan sita ram. What it is in Nissim Ezekiel’s Poverty Poems and Jayanta’s Dawn at Puri too flashes upon the mind’s plane. Side by side a picture of Ananda coming again before Chandalika to take water from her hands and going away singing the song of Buddha, dances before the eyes. There is something of The Listeners of Walter de la Mare in it as there lie in some imaginary listeners in the haunted house listening and saying in whispers. An autobiographical poem it is but a memoir in verse banking upon remembrances, anecdotes, memories and reflections. There is also something drawn from the gharana stuffs which may refer to cultural side and what it lies in Eliot’s Tradition and Individual Talent. The memory of the In Memoriam of Tennyson and The Waste Land imagery as applied by T.S.Eliot hangs over as an indirect impact over the writing of the poem. The Singer is but a listener of the poem while the writerly persona a speaker. A Dadhichi he was, a Karna to some extent in dana, a Bhishma in his vow, an archer like Arjuna in his art. But he could not take the things of the world into his stride, erred and fell down to be in hell. Had he been worldly, clever and farsighted, it would not have happened. Even King Harischandra had to ask for the taxes to be given for the cremation of his son, Rohit working as chandal of a samshana ghat and so how could he allow her without collecting the charges for his master under whom he was working. Similar had been the situation of the family full of chaos and pandemonium. Rahu and Ketu had affected the family with Shani looming large over and Ganesha or Lakshmi’s blessing too seemed to be withdrawn from. Drunken demons and devils started dancing nakedly in the house and with this ruined it all, everything up and down, at sixes and sevens. The whole world seemed to be a graveyard, a cemetery, a crematorium ground or a Tower of Silence; man a naked Jaina sadhu going. The burnt libraries of Taxashila, Nalanda, Vikramshila and their ruins brought me to the ground. Abnormals and drunkards, ganjeris, bhangeris and darpiyas seemed to babbling on the floor. Bootleggers, drug-traffickers and chain-smokers laughed like the hyenas. Daruwalla’s The Professor Condoles took me by strike and I remembered the beginning. Misfortunes never come alone had been the case with similar to that of Keatsian Ruth and Job of The Old Testament. The Mrityunjaya Japa too could not bring him back nor could the discourses of Nachiketa console. A wailing soul, he got lost wandering  with the wind, blowing and sighing by, whistling and ruffling it all like the Mystic Noon of Harindranath. At that time after being so much disillusioned and devastated in life, when it seemed to be on the crossroads, fate crisscrossing the lines of the palm, I in frustration thought of showing my hand to an astrologer who could be a thug. But I had no money as for buying his gems and stones. Devdas too seemed to be struggling with life when on the verge of his tragic end. Allen Ginsberg’s The Howl like elements cannot be denied and also those available in Sylvia Plath’s Daddy and other poems.

 

Something it remains even after the poem is finished, be it the poetry portion or the introductory note. Hence, the post-script is appended to when the re-editions are brought out. So, in the company of his I felt it all. While with him late into the evening in the graveyard, the Elegy used to take the canvas away from, but when to the secluded hilly tract the domain used to give the impression of Tintern Abbey  or Pope’s Ode on Solitude. Where did I not go to in his company? The musical murmur of the hilly brook used to enthrall me and  made me remember  of The Brook by Tennyson. Sometimes I used to be to the dam and standing on the footbridge we used to see the green waters flowing as Auden describes it in Look, Stranger. The hills used to shine blue when seen, pictured, imagery taken from far. Sitting under the grove, I used to hear the bird notes so musical and sonorous reminding me of Lines Written in Early Spring by Wordsworth. It has rightly been said, man goes, but memories remain it.

 

 

Prologue

Just the background has been given so that the matter can be taken into consideration easily. How will it be the path of life who can but say it? What it in my destiny? What it in my fate? What one thinks and what it happens, takes place. Three Artists is but a bronze replica imagined about the three brothers so close in thought, idea and rearing of life. They lived in a hut and passed the days in poverty and scarcity of resources, but were from a very good and noble family who never retorted in a harsh way and were from a landed, propertied family. But mismanagement and strict patriarchy never let them live a good life. The partition was a problem as people do not like to divide among so easily. None in a joint family likes to partition properties so easily and the case in hand takes to the Mahabharatan and Ramayanan tales doing the rounds. So the things raked up so badly, finally leading to the crumble and fall of the House of Maya. New members were inducted into but appeared to be indifferent and self centred rather than giving time to or showing any interest in him.

 

I Lost Them All One By One, The Fall of The Wickets

First, my father

After that

Then my aunt, 

My mother, 

My youngest brother

And my eldest brother

One by one.

Now I am alone, 

Alone, 

All alone

In my life.

Three Artists, A Replica of Three Unknown artists

A sculpture of three artists, 

The world did not know it

But they were artists.

 

The Text

Just the voices in the dark singing the song of Rama in whispers and so much soulfully with tears flowing the cheeks is the melting scene of the poem; a remembrance so full of fond memories. Here one can assess what life has given? What has it not? And who gets what? All the people do not get their dues. The situations of life keep changing so the times. How will be one’s time none can say it. The house I am going to build I may not be able to live in. The things which I think to be own may not be. A man may have everything, but bhoga may not be in his fate while the other fellow may not have things, but he is enjoying a good life. This is called luck. Many of us who had to be on the footpaths of life are on chair and vice versa. In the pull between poetry, poverty, philosophy, culture, heritage, scholarship and classicism on the one hand and while property, money, belongings and lands on the other ruined it everything.

 

I Heard The Souls Praying, Hare Rama, Rama-Rama, The Distressed Souls

I found them singing

The songs of Rama,

Hare Rama,

Rama-Rama

In a very slow voice,

Voice of their own,

The morose souls,

Frail and weak spirits

Singing,

Singing the song of Rama,

Hare Rama,

Rama-Rama.

I heard,

Heard the song

Sung silently

In whispers,

The song of the soul,

The liberated spirit,

The psyche in trouble,

I heard them

And felt pity for

The voices aligning,

The spirits whispering,

The souls praying,

Singing the song of Rama,

Hare Rama, Rama-Rama.

The distressed souls

Singing,

Singing the song

Of Rama,

Hare Rama, Rama-Rama,

They asking for not,

But the half-fed, half-clothed

Morose and maligned souls

And spirits seemed to be in pain,

Pain, but said they it not,

Went on singing,

Singing the song,

The song of Rama,

Hare Rama, Rama-Rama.

They asked for not,

But they seemed to be praying,

The dead and gone spirits,

The bereaved voices,

Souls and spirits praying,

Praying,

Asking it not for food,

But singing,

Singing the song of Rama,

Rama-Rama, Hare Rama,

Rama-Rama, asking it not

And having sung vanishing they,

Vanishing far into the gloom

Just like the voices never heard before.

Who Is Singing The Song of Rama? Whose Is The Voice Coming From Feebly?

Who is? Who is it singing,

Singing the song of Rama,

Who is? Who is it?

Who is in the dark

Standing afar

And singing,

Singing the song,

The song of Ram

So feebly, but lucidly

In whispers?

O, you, you, who, who you,

You the singer,

The singer of Rama,

Who you singing,

Singing the song,

The song of Rama

So devotedly,

So soulfully

As a true devotee of Rama,

Whispering and singing,

Singing in a feeble voice

But lucidly

And I hearing from far!

Perhaps the song,

The song of

The distressed soul

Is it, is it,

The song of the soul

In pain

Or liberated from pain,

One who is poor and destitute,

One who is neglected and ignored,

One living in abject neglect,

Wandering with the wind,

Loveless and love-lorn!

Your Love I Calling Me

 

Your love is still calling me,

Where are you, my love,

Your love,

Your love is still,

Where,

Where you, my love?

Your love is calling, calling me,

Where you, you, my love?

 

O, Who Are You Singing The Song of Rama In The Dark?

 

The voice came it not,

The voice

So marauded and maligned,

So pitiful and sadly-saying,

So feeble-voiced, but melodious!

I went on asking, asking,

Who, who you are,

But it came to naught, to naught

And went on, went on signing,

Singing the song of Rama,

The song of Rama with zest,

With zest but so spirited and inspired

From his within

Though was marauded,

Though was a maligned soul,

He went on, went on singing,

Singing the song of Rama

Hearing which I wanted to be closer to

And the more I approached, the more got he away from.

Say, what singer was he, what singer,

What singer of Rama?

And I returned back wiping the tears,

Wiping the tears,

The singer went away singing the song

And returned he not again.

 

Hey, Who, You, Singing The Song of Rama?

 

Who are you,

Who are you

Singing in the dark,

In the dark?

 

The song of Rama,

Who, who you

The singer of soul,

The singer of spirit

Singing the song of Rama?

 

The voice was so feeble,

But so delightful

Like that a devotee of God,

Singing with zest in so much delight,

But slowly singing

 

And saying the prayers

With delight,

But a morose soul,

A maligned spirit

With tears dried in the eyes.

 

Went Away He Singing The Song of Rama

 

A singer he stood

Singing silently

In whispers,

A poor destitute soul,

A self split miserably

And in crisis,

Asked he not for,

Went away singing the song,

The song of Rama,

A soul so distressed

But delightful,

He came and stood before,

Sang and vanished out of sight,

A poor soul so calmly composed and good.

 

O Singer Divine

 

 

Tears had been in the eyes

Of the singer,

The singer of Rama

And also in the eyes of mine

When I tried to call,

Stood he far from

But getting the message sent across just

 

A singer of Rama,

A poor soul destitute,

A maligned spirit he

Singing the song,

The song of Rama

With tears dried down

Which but I could not control.

 

I called him, called and called

And heard he,

Heard he so tearfully,

Though wanted he to,

But could not, could not

As a spirit was he,

A self liberated from the body!

 

In The Anand Ashrama

 

Came he the singer

Of Rama

Singing the song of Rama,

Though not willing to,

Tears had been in his face,

Tears had been in mine,

We wept inconsolably,

But what could we do?

 

And having sung,

Sung the song of Rama,

Sung delightfully

With all the zest

Went he away jollily

Taking permission,

Bidding goodbye,

The singer,

The singer of Rama.

 

 

Epilogue

Anand Ashrama, Ashrama of Delight and Anand Mela, Fair of Delight, these two have been presented as divine platforms of meeting where the souls can have a visionary sharing of feelings and emotions. Eklavya as a poem tagged in here too tells of the rearing of the aggrieved soul, but the things could not acclimatize in his favour. A poem on silence too has been dragged to give peace and calm of mind and soul. The poem may be designated a strange meeting with the Singer of Rama. The Strange Singer of Rama here lies it as a remembrance and the singer singing it to be back, on his retreat journey or just as for nostalgia sake we quoting it. There is something of The Murder in the Cathedral and the choruses here in this poem. If to see it differently, the autobiographical piece almost like the anecdote, Dream Children: A Reverie by Charles Lamb.

 

 

When the Music Is Gone

 

The music is gone,

The situation is changed

But whenever feel I sad and lonely,

Melancholic and painful,

I turn, turn to the singer of Rama,

The singer of Rama

Singing the song of Rama in zest,

In full zest

So soulfully and with love,

When Anand Ashrama got deserted

He felt lonely

When all the members went away

One by one

And there lived not anyone

He got depressed

And it wept the soul of his

Which I felt to see.

 

And when it finished it all,

The singer went away

Just promising to meet

In Anand Mela

But he was but a different man

Indifferent to it all

And philosophical,

Free from all the fetters

Which but bind us.

 

God’s Anand Mela

 

O God, Anand Mela, Anand Mela,

Anand Mela, Fair of Delight,

Here people come, meet

And go away

And so did he come again

But was indifferent,

Indifferent to joy and sorrow,

Completely a changed man,

Liberated from the bonds of maya

And moha,

Sang he not the song,

Just balancing himself

He came and went by

Just casting a glance over!

 

 

Eklavya

Eklavya,

How had it been

Guru Drona

That

He asked for

For your thumb,

Expertise thumb

As for guru-dakshina,

His guru-dakshina

And you gave,

Gave it

As your dakshina,

Dakshina

To him!

Why,

Why did you

Cut

Cut and give 

To him,

To him,

Eklavya,

Eklavya,

Was it good,

Good on your part

To cut,

Cut and give to him?

Silence

Silence,

Silence please,

Silence

For some time,

Silence,

Silence please

Stopping it all activity,

Keeping at bay

The brain, the mind,

Loosening it all,

Closing the eyes

To be lost in

To regain it all.

Freeing the mind,

Un-taxing the brain,

Letting the emotion go off,

Fixing the mind,

Closing the eyes,

Loosen you it all

For a minute,

A few moments

To regain the strength,

Silence,

Silence please,

Silence for some time.

What It In My Karma, Dharma? My Karam, Dharam

What it in my karma, 

What it in my dharma, 

I know it not, 

The unseen fate, 

The unseen destiny of mine, 

What it in my karma, 

What it in my dharma? 

My karam-dharam, 

I am going with

My karam-dharam, 

And the rest 

Into the Hands of His, 

The Master

Who knows it all.

The Strange Singer of Rama

Who is it singing

The song of Rama

Slowly, but delightfully,

Who the singer,

How the singer of Rama?

Who the distraught man,

Dishevelled and devastated fellow

Standing far from

And singing the song of Rama

In the dark?

Who the poor fellow,

How the song of his

And his submissive voice

And singing soulfully

With tears seemed to have

Dried into?

Who the poor spirit,

The poor soul

Singing,

Singing the song of Rama

But without any repentance

But so soulfully?

 

(The Singer went away and never came he again and as thus faded it the fond memories of his life, just like as a man comes into this world and goes away from here. But the song which he came to whispering, saying it humbly still reverberates with resounding with resonance as if he were here, he were here. The Song of Life is never done with; in every age man will sing whenever he will feel sorrow and pain.)

 

O, God test You not

As have tested You so much,

I am hopeless,

Hopeless and helpless,

Get me across!,

With these the protagonist looked upwards

And prayed for flowers to fall upon

As for blessing to be bestowed upon

The bereaved grieving  soul,

Have mercy, have mercy upon him,

The poor soul, the poor spirit,

My God, my God!

(Wiping tears)

 

This is the way one comes into the world,

This is the way one goes

And there lives it not anything,

Anything as own,

This is the way one comes and one goes away.

Enterprise: Nissim Ezekiel

By: Bijay Kant Dubey

It started as a pilgrimage

Exalting minds and making all

The burdens light, The second stage

Explored but did not test the call.

The sun beat down to match our rage. 5 

We stood it very well, I thought ,

Observed and put down copious notes

On things the peasants sold and bought

The way of serpents and of goats.

Three cities where a sage had taught  10

But when the differences arose

On how to cross a desert patch,

We lost a friend whose stylish prose

Was quite the best of all our batch.

A shadow falls on us and grows . 15

Another phase was reached when we

Were twice attacked , and lost our way.

A section claimed its liberty

To leave the group. I tried to pray .

Our leader said he smelt  the sea 20

We noticed nothing as we went ,

A straggling crowd of little hope,

Ignoring what the thunder meant ,

Deprived of common needs like soap.

Some were broken , some merely bent. 25

When, finally , we reached the place ,

We hardly know why we were there.

The trip had darkened every face,

Our deeds were neither great nor rare.

Home is where we have to gather grace.

United we stand, divided we fall, is the precept with which the whole edifice of the enterprise is built upon and the moment the fissures and frictions start raking it, the establishment begins to totter and fall one by one and the same is carried forward here in this poem titled, Enterprise.  When the enterprise saw the light of the day, the like-minded people collaborating with one another lent a hand to establish it and did the works with so much cordiality and co-ordination to put the venture on a footing of its own sparing so much of their precious time and labour. But there came a stage when suspense started clawing at, doubts cracked the walls of its foundation, whispers went viral, viruses of distrust affected them badly and the plasters of mutual trust came up for utter scrutiny, critical purview and disintegration, as the dry flakes started scattering as crusts.

This is when an industry is started, an enterprise made with its own prospering time to give, standing in expectation to the industry developed and financially established, labour given, efforts made and the things supervised provided there is some good will nurturing it. But there also comes a time when mutual distrust makes forays into it; whispers do the rounds and the establishment comes to a halt to be in shambles or productions stopped. This is but human nature, human frailty. Man is not above his nature and shortcomings and these are inherent in him.  Nissim Ezekiel in a very holy and allegorical way starts the discussion to make us understand the value of good thoughts and ideas, noble minds and hearts while doing one thing or taking to one’s own understanding, but there lie in the weaknesses of man planning for his fall. It is easy to disintegrate, but it is very difficult to enjoin. To see it in the Tolstoyan terms, if good virtues continue to nourish, as his stories tell us, it will last and if the bad things start taking over, the whole industry will topple and fall down. Kabir also asks of keeping the critic in his house making him seated in a cottage built for him especially, but he should be good and constructive, not the bad critic. Nissim has also perhaps tried to learn through the concept of the Seven Deadly Sins. But has not given any scope to the doubting Thomases. Had it been Indian Trishankus, Three-forked  Skeptical Ones with ‘Tin ticket mahawickat’ (Three tickets a mismatch) great danger theory, it would have wreaked havoc with these rustic background astronomical and palmistry believing inactive, fatalistic, idle-seeking superstitious and suspicious people.

We are also made to believe, as if we were undertaking a pilgrimage, as the story of the poem is illustrated in an allegorical way, telling us about the nurturing of good moral thoughts and ideas, be it any sphere of life. The integrity of character, the solidarity of understanding and the desire of standing together with are all important in life rather than dismissing it at one go all that is good in us which is but easy to break, but difficult to recreate. There is something of Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales in it, something of Kolatkar’s Jejuri.

The enterprise starts with a promise and hope wishing to cater to the needs and demands and establishing as a new venture or set-up, members lend a hand to it as for whatever they can for its well-being. Just like the pilgrims they set out on the journey of the enterprise taking it as a noble challenge. The minds already in exaltation of doing or furthering it cross over the things lightly which it may come onto its way, lightening the burden of each other and keeping the novice industry in mind.

The second stage explores the possibilities rather than bothering about the test of the call. The sun beats down to match the rage and they make the sweat for to be borne for it. Standing together with, they try to bear it down vicissitudes with so much so fortitude. They maintain the ledger books and notes keeping the account of all that spent or delivered or produced calculating it in the best possible manner the balances, profits and expenses whatever the peasants buy or take to, entering in the minutest way as the goats and serpents go the way, visiting three cities where the good sage lessoned he and deriving from his precepts.

Apart from the enterprise running, doing the rounds, doubts and suspense start creeping into and seem to be on the prowl like the beasts of prey. Differences start, rifts widen among the members when there arises a problem with regard to crossing it over, that is how to cross the desert patch and in tackling it, the friends as members for the industry, miss a fellow so famed for his stylish prose and clear handling who is perhaps in the words of the writer the best of their batch. As shadow beings to fall over them and grows it deeper to strike, they start leaving the company one by one.

This is not the end of the story, what it happens during the pilgrimage is more interesting than the make-believe things as the people like it not to tell the real things. Another phase is reached as a milestone when some of the members are attacked and they lose their ways. A section claims liberty and declares them independent and leaves the group. The poet tries to pray so that the things may be patched up. The leader of the group smells the sea to cross over to. But the other members see it nothing but a staggering crowd of little hope, ignoring what did it the thunder say it, he deprives of even small necessities. Some take it very bad and feel broken inwardly while keeping them bent and lowly to hear all that what one likes to as his a time to say and the business too is a collective venture.

When the pilgrimage reaches the final stage, they find it that it is good for nothing. They hardly come to feel it why they are actually there. The trip darkens the face of everybody as their deeds had been neither great nor rare. The home is there where there is grace, where there is peace and happiness and if it is not then that is not a home even after being a home. That house does not remain a house, that establishment not an establishment if quarrels rake it badly and the members keep blaming and conspiring against one another. There must be some reasons for bonding and trust which must fasten it altogether, but we as human beings fail to keep it up.

Enterprise is really a very good poem from Nissim Ezekiel. This life is like a pilgrimage or everything that do we will be done if our intentions are noble and good and if not, the work will not be executed so is the case with here. Every work that we start must look like a pilgrimage, every enterprise that we collaborate with  will run as long as our intentions are clear held by mutual trust, faith and bonding and the moment mistrust creeps in or somebody does it the backbiting to be taken into, the industry will start tottering and coming to a close unexpectedly. As long as we are good and noble, the things will flourish and prosper and the moment grow we suspicious of each other, the bonding will come to a naught.

Really, Nissim Ezekiel outwits us here with his wit and humour not, but with allegory and metaphor, his sense of knowledge and wisdom, virtue and judgement. Where does it lie in virtue really? What is it goodness? How to be charitable and philanthropic? There is something in it which it is in George Herbert and John Bunyan. How to be right and dutiful? How to take good counsel into confidence? How to be a man?

Let us see what it remains in the end, the residues of meaning:

The trip had darkened every face,

Our deeds were neither great nor rare.

Home is where we have to gather grace.

The journey which is started with good hope does not remain it unto the end as because it is but human nature and so the change of our taste. His mind and mood, heart and nobility too change it under the situations and circumstances. Few can really stand before. He is really a pilgrim who takes it just as a pilgrimage every work of life, personal or impersonal.

It is not the Indian sage whose counsel Nissim would have minded to take into consideration; it is definitely the Western counsel, wisdom that he counts upon here in this poem so beautifully explained and so allegorically narrated.

Enterprise as a poem from Nissim Ezekiel, so metaphorical and so much allegorical, outdoes it other poems in terms of wisdom that it lessons, jurisprudence it teaches, vision it lends to. The poem gives us a good moral advice with the virtues held aloft. Why did the enterprise gather a momentum as they braved it all in making it stand? And why did it fall? It failed for lack of trust, confidence and goodness of heart.

Night of the Scorpion: Nissim Ezekiel

By: Bijay Kant Dubey

I remember the night my mother

was stung by a scorpion. Ten hours

of steady rain had driven him

to crawl beneath a sack of rice.

Parting with his poison - flash

of diabolic tail in the dark room -

he risked the rain again.

The peasants came like swarms of flies

and buzzed the name of God a hundred times

to paralyse the Evil One.

With candles and with lanterns

throwing giant scorpion shadows

on the mud-baked walls

they searched for him: he was not found.

They clicked their tongues.

With every movement that the scorpion made his poison moved in Mother's blood, they said.

May he sit still, they said

May the sins of your previous birth

be burned away tonight, they said.

May your suffering decrease

the misfortunes of your next birth, they said.

May the sum of all evil

balanced in this unreal world

against the sum of good

become diminished by your pain.

May the poison purify your flesh

of desire, and your spirit of ambition,

they said, and they sat around

on the floor with my mother in the centre,

the peace of understanding on each face.

More candles, more lanterns, more neighbours,

more insects, and the endless rain.

My mother twisted through and through,

groaning on a mat.

My father, sceptic, rationalist,

trying every curse and blessing,

powder, mixture, herb and hybrid.

He even poured a little paraffin

upon the bitten toe and put a match to it.

I watched the flame feeding on my mother.

I watched the holy man perform his rites to tame the poison with an incantation.

After twenty hours

it lost its sting.

My mother only said

Thank God the scorpion picked on me

And spared my children.

Night of the Scorpion is one of those poems of Nissim Ezekiel which have been admired, read and discussed in the anthologies of Indian poetry in English with so much profit and pleasure as well as have engaged the critics as for critical analysis and elucidation. Nissim Ezekiel as a poet is one of the post-independence period of Indian poetry in English who is famed for as the poster boy of modernism. A Maharashtrian Jew, he is a modern poet of modern poetic idea and expression who aims at clarity going along the colloquial idiom. In a very conversational style of his own, he tells the things commonly. Shorn off Indian thought and tradition, metaphysics and spirituality, ethos and history, myth and mysticism, he takes the things in his usual way as he sees them happening around commonly. A poet of Bombay and the cityscape, he is modern and urban. An alien insider, he can just talk about a visit to the cinema hall, the theatre, the park, the    picnic spot; he can about birthday gift and party, wedding ring, wedding party and love marriage. There is something of the identity crisis which he suffers it no doubt, but is peculiarly Indian. 

The poet remembers the night his mother was stung by a scorpion which might have hidden behind a sack of rice as for the rains continuing steadily for several hours. But having bitten her, it parted with risking again. The people too came and searched for, but in vain, as they could not trace it. But when the bite started corroding the self of the mother, the news spread it around and the people from the nearby started coming just like the swarms of flies and in bunches and batches buzzing the name of God to paralyze the effect and to pray for her recovery. With candles throwing giant shadows cast against the mud-baked walls, they searched for it, but could not find it. They clicked their tongues with regard to the further movement of the scorpion and the increase in pain. Had it sat still, the pain could have been stable.  

A few of them asked not to disturb the scorpion while a few talked of the previous sin and its dispensation while a few talked of karma and dharma, good and bad and their balancing while the others said about the lessening of misfortunes and the purification of the flesh and for granting of one more life or time. With his mother lying at the centre lying on the floor, they went on discussing and debating, the villagerly countryside rural Indian folks. But all them of them had been just with the good wish of seeing her recovered and the faces too showed the peace of understanding shining on each of them.

His mother twisted through and through on a mat while bearing the pain with the men and women wishing her early recovery. It had been a rainy night of endless rain and the people had been with more and more lanterns and candles in their hands to see her writhing in pain. But his father, a sceptic and rationalist of his type, thought in his own way, tried and applied everything as far possible, be it curse or blessing, powder, mixture, herb or hybrid. The holy man tried to tame the pain through mantras. The herbalist tried to apply the paste on the bitten toe to give some relief. But in the end of all, his father burnt the matchstick to put it over the paraffin oil applied toe and the fire flames went on feeding upon for a few seconds.

The pain mitigated after twenty hours and she regained her consciousness. But when she came to her sense, she thanked God as for picking her and sparing her children which but every mother will like to say it.

Night of The Scorpion as a poem is about the night on which the mother of the poet was stung by a scorpion, people coming from the area to see her, wishing for recovery, the exorcist trying their best to tame the poison, the herbalist putting the paste on the bitten toe and his rationalist father putting the paraffin oil over with a match-stick lighting the fire and the flames feeding upon to mitigate the pain.

Night of The Scorpion which aims at clarity in expression and is evocative of Indian rural imagery is definitely one of the representative poems of Nissim Ezekiel, an Indian poet of Bene-Israeli origin writing in English. A poet of the sixties, he employs a modern idiom for his poetic expression and is conversational in his style. Just through the scorpion-bite he says it all which the others have failed to say. Such a thing it is in Huxley's visit of Benares and Orwell's essay on Gandhi.

Night of The Scorpion as a typical Indian poem describes a rainy night of incessant rain when the mother of the poet was stung by a scorpion which might have taken refuge beneath a knapsack or might have crawled somewhere back to its safety penetrated against the backdrop of an Indian crowd of villagers and peasants uneducated and typically rural and the through the whispers and mutterings of the crowds coming and going one can sense their thoughts and views, their belief in karma and dharma, balancing of the previous sin and letting the things rest in peace. Nissim sees the mother writhing in pain, at the centre of hectic activity. The exorcist is busy with taming the pain with mantras, the herbalist applying the herbal paste on the bitten toe and the rationalist father with the paraffin oil sprinkled over and lighting over and the fire flames feeding upon. The villagers and peasants with the lamps into their hands, casting shadows over the muddy walls and the rains fallen take the centrestage from us. People searching for the scorpion and some asking to let it be with its restricted movement keeping it undisturbed give twists to the drama of the story and if it moves, this may cause evil for her. So let it be at peace. Why to disturb it? This is but Indian philosophy. To bite is its dharma. If one is mean and vile, will others be? The non-violence of Mahavira, the peace of Goutam Buddha, how to dismiss them? The other thing too is this that we are so much inactive, irrational and illogical and superstitious. Is our superstition not our inaction?

Nissim has a style of beginning a poem and this is as if we were reading a narrative:

I remember the night my mother

was stung by a scorpion. Ten hours

of steady rain had driven him

to crawl beneath a sack of rice.

The second stanza break shows the scorpion with the diabolic tail, biting and hiding away somewhere, gone missing and untracked:

Parting with his poison - flash

of diabolic tail in the dark room -

he risked the rain again.

Parting with the poison flash, the diabolic tail in the dark room add to the poem with the crooked appearance of the bizarre and grotesque creature and the evil purpose of it which but cannot change its nature.

The third stanza break tells of the movement of people coming and crowding the space with the   lanterns and candles into their hands, praying for and whispering:

With candles and with lanterns

throwing giant scorpion shadows

on the mud-baked walls

they searched for him: he was not found.

They clicked their tongues.

With every movement that the scorpion made his poison moved in Mother's blood, they said.

The rural folks, especially the womenfolk start the discussion really with regard to Indian life and living, age-old belief-system and thinking, opening a plethora of thoughts with regard to good and bad, previous birth and this birth, right and wrong, karma and dharma, unseen fate and its writ, time and its situations. They also think it, if the scorpion is disturbed and it moves away, the pain may increase.

May he sit still, they said

May the sins of your previous birth

be burned away tonight, they said.

May your suffering decrease

the misfortunes of your next birth, they said.

May the sum of all evil

balanced in this unreal world

The discussions they are doing are but very interesting and dramatic too which is but a specialty of India and its idle gossips, but not always without meaning.

against the sum of good

become diminished by your pain.

May the poison purify your flesh

of desire, and your spirit of ambition,

they said, and they sat around

on the floor with my mother in the centre,

the peace of understanding on each face.

More candles, more lanterns, more neighbours,

more insects, and the endless rain.

My mother twisted through and through,

groaning on a mat.

The picture of a father known for scientist temperament also works as a catalyst for this all:

My father, sceptic, rationalist,

trying every curse and blessing,

powder, mixture, herb and hybrid.

He even poured a little paraffin

upon the bitten toe and put a match to it.

We also need such a fellow to be really educated and up-to-date. Sometimes ignorance misleads it.

The below-mentioned lines show the anxiety and helplessness of a son waiting for her mother’s recovery:

I watched the flame feeding on my mother.

I watched the holy man perform his rites to tame the poison with an incantation.

After twenty hours

it lost its sting.

The holy man here may be a pundit, a sadhu, a gunin or an ojha. ‘I watched the flame feeding on my mother’, is no doubt a beautiful line full of meaning and idea and expectation. What man thinks and what it happens. There is something as the writ of destiny.

The last lines show the inner wishes of a mother, what she thinks and feels it within her motherly heart for her children:

My mother only said

Thank God the scorpion picked on me

And spared my children.

It has rightly been said, a mother can never be a bad and indifferent mother. The last lines tend towards a benediction. The poem is not only interesting to read, but is dramatic too, so scenic and picturesque as well.