Meera and Krishna II

I wanted to title this ‘Muddled conversations with Meera’ or a more proper ‘Conversations with Meera’ or maybe, with apologies, ‘Conversations with a muddled Meera’ – but this has to be titled the way it has been. The following is a continuation of the previous post:

Do I see him even then? – You ask me. After he leaves – you mean? – Do I feel him? Can I hear him?

Yes. I do. I feel his presence in his absence. Is that strange? Is that madness? I feel him, sense him, hear him, and even when I try not to or experience ludicrous doubt about my experiences or am miserable or angry or even try to be very composed and reasonable. It is his voice I hear streaming through the breeze. It is a glimpse of him that I glance at when I see the blue of the sky kissing the green of the leaves on tall trees. It is his eyes that I chance upon when the storm rips the sky and black clouds gather billow upon billow over the lonely white sands. It is him I see laughing and winking at me when I see an iridescent river flowing by even when I, very solemnly, try – to think of other things. It is his touch that undulates within me when an impatient gust of air slows down upon meeting its very own loved one. It is him I see as the raindrops finer than the tiniest shards of glass pierce my skin and become one with my tears. It is his smile for me that I see when I live and die a little every day as I breathe in and out. So I suppose I see him, and then, I suppose, I do not see him always? Or do I? I do not know what to say – I am sorry. I do not know everything. I told you I am not a saint. I feel him unless I am too full of anger, resentment or spite or misery to notice.

You look shocked and discomfited and nonplussed – all at the same time. Why? – You ask me. Why what? Why do I feel resentment, anger, spite and misery? Do you think I must not feel such lowly emotions because I am a saint? Or do you now see me as being not so saint-like? I have a twinkle in my eye –? I am tickled to see you now wondering what I am: a saint or not-a-saint but then, 'what is she'? I am supposed to be a bhakti yogini, am I not? Not a gyana yogini. The latter are far more composed and rational and very reasonable. So are the karma yoginis. I imagine I can be all-in-one – but I fail.

Yes, yes – I have fallen silent. I am gathering my thoughts, am I not? I want to be clear, do I not? You have been trying to look at my thoughts for a long time but you can never pin them down to see the whole picture. You get muddled in your higgledy-piggledy head. You listen to something I say and not to other matters because they do not fit your pretty but imaginary picture of “the beautiful and blissful and beatific Meera”. You get all garbled and then you go around bellowing and yelling from the rooftops about love! You do not?! Of course you do. Almost every year for so many years. Haha. I have noticed. That is not about me and Krishna – you say? That is what you think. Now quiet! Stop your chatter. Let me tell you what I have to say, and listen and look carefully – if you can – without interrupting. Otherwise we will be conversing till kingdom come. Do you have nothing else to do apart from talking with beings in your head – you silly girl!

Yes – so where was I? Yes – those emotions. I feel all those emotions and more. He loves so many – do you not see? Do you not know anything – about history? He has his favourites. And he has his second and third lists and fourth lists of favourites and many more, and on and on. So I rage and am filled with dumb and angry resentment and angry tears right when I imagine I am far above such lowly sentiments. And I wonder where or when exactly I went wrong. You are tittering? I am jealous, you say? I am mean-spirited and small-minded, you say? I am mindless, you claim? I am like a little imbecilic, sad simpleton who does not know about expansive love webs? I am spoilt, pampered and mad – you say?! How dare you?! – You silly girl. You said none of these things? – But you thought all of them and some more. You imagine only you can espy thoughts? – I am none of those things. There you were calling me a saint, now you are calling me all this, and in the middle you wanted to pack me off to a loony bin?! Tsk-tsk. No, he does not love me – do you not see? I am nowhere on his list of sixteen thousand or sixteen thousand and three! I am not even on his – what do you call it? – waiting list. I do not care whether I am contradicting myself! You can go away now. I do not want to talk to you. Of course it irks me! Not you, you silly girl! Him. I could smack or bite or scratch him or embrace him and cry against him now and then – if I could. But then when I can hear him or he does appear – my rage and resentment – all – disappear. I cannot even cry when he is there in front of me. It seems pretentious and fake to cry when I can see him or hear him. I weep later.

Why can I not cry, you ask me? I answered that already. Why does it feel pretentious and fake? – You ask me?

He glows like Life which is real and matters. I cannot cry when Life stands in front of me. He is dark, you see. But he is light. He glows with his changing moods – sometimes darkly, and sometimes through the dark – lightly. Oh, of course he is mine – you silly girl! So what if he is God and everybody’s God? – He is still mine. No, you cannot have him – that is why you cannot see him. There – I have answered your second question.

Why are you smiling?!

Am I his? – No – I am not his – you pesky girl pestering me with presumptuous questions. That is so because he does not want me and is not fond of me in such a way. And do not ask me what I mean by “Such a way”. I will not tell you.

Yes, yes. You can ask me other questions. – Why does he visit me then if he is not fond of me?  

That is how he is – is he not? He knows all there is to know – does he not? He knows Meera loves him and has forever loved him and always will unless Meera stops being born and dying altogether and enters into some state of oblivion that she cannot imagine. And he is sometimes – what do you call it? – suffused with kindness and compassion or maybe pity, and so he blesses his lonely and useless devotee by dropping in or by calling in to – .

What, now?

 – Of course, I am useless! I have not won battles. I have not conquered lands and people and ruled over with a benevolent, just but canny hand. I have not created grand empires with my wit and guiles and wiles. I have not created and amassed grand and almost endless material wealth, and then given almost all of it away. There have been powerful and stunning queens who have gone to battle and even a young peasant girl – so I hear or did I dream of her? Anyhow. I do not lead a many-dimensional, many-tiered, busy, grand, great life – do I? He glowers at me for looking at him sometimes or for trying to talk to him or for asking him questions. It irks him. So what do I really do? – I sing. I compose poetry. I dance. I worship him. It is all to give voice and form to my love for him and because I cannot help it – and I wait for him. I am not beautiful – so beautiful, so full of breathtaking grace, exquisite finesse and innate talents that I can enchant him with my very being, shy smile and limpid eyes from behind a veil. What is it that you say? – I am? Beautiful? – Why, thank you. There are more than thousands and thousands and another thousands like me and they all love him. I often wonder how that is possible – do you know? To be singularly enchanting – what else? No. I see. Of course, you would not. I am grimacing? No, no. It is nothing. I certainly did not say or think your ugliness is revolting! The things you imagine! What - ? Oh, okay. It was only a passing, insignificant thought. Forget that now. There, there. Stop moping – it does not matter how you – look. But you were saying I sing, were you not? – I do sing. Did you not yourself hear me, at least once – maybe faintly but clearly – so many years ago? That is what I can do and so I do what I can do.

I write poetry? – You ask me? Yes, I dream up poetry – because I must and I can and it is a beautiful act. I forget what I am at. I am with him or some disembodied being of pure consciousness floating about, skimming about, coursing the universes with him – even when the poems are angry or measured or full of abandoned passion or I am disconsolate or I have perfect clarity or I am yearning for him. It is as if there are two beings when I am writing poetry – one physical Meera who is here and another Meera who is there with him laughing and making him laugh with wild abandon.

Of course I love him. So do millions – do they not? – He does not want me around. He appears when he does – fleetingly, in snatches – and he leaves just as unpredictably. Bad? – You ask? What is bad? Bad to need him? Bad to love him? Whom would you need then? Who else would you love if not him? What would you need if you do not need him and his love, and for him to accept you and your love? 

– but, what?! But what do you do after loving him and needing him? – You ask me, again?! Are you deaf and silly and forgetful? – You do whatever it is that you do and keep at it! Did I not say that a hundred thousand times already? – That is what you do. Whatever you can and are able. I too do what I can, do I not?!

Easy? – Who said anything about it being easy? Did I say it was or is easy? Do people imagine that that is easy? Why should it be easy? I am not a cow. A cow has a fairly easy life – I would say. A cow may disagree with me and may grumble and moo, and sadly say that I know nothing about being a cow and how difficult it is being a cow. There is nothing wrong in being a cow and maybe the life of a cow is very difficult in a way I do not know about – but I did not come to the world as one of his cows which he used to love. I came here as a human being. I did not come here to win trifles as a human being. That too would be easy. Maybe. Many people will disagree with me and so I shall add – maybe not. What do I know? – Maybe it is very difficult indeed to win and hoard trifles, and preen and prance and dance about flaunting trifles. Indeed, maybe it is exhausting and very difficult. What do I know? – Maybe their trifles are very important to them or mean everything to them, and they will take those trifles with them when they die and they will look upon their trifles after they are dead, and feel jubilant. What do I know? – Maybe the Lord will love them always for being who they are. Let them be. I cannot be one of them and do not want to be. So, no. It is not easy. And no, I do not ‘move on’ – whatever that means. But it is terribly simple sometimes and I am made to move along sometimes despite my obstinacy.

What do I mean? – You ask me? – I am being difficult and contradictory?! 

Is it an adventure, you ask me?

Now which question do you wish for me to answer?! 

Oh, I am being called. I have to go now. Why? I have to go attend to the preparations for the Sravan palace celebrations. I am in charge of some of the preparations – am I not? The staying arrangements, the accommodations, setting up the palace grounds and the competitions. I am a participant too. In what? – archery, horse riding, sword fighting and a few of the debates. Who will be attending? – all kinds of people from distant lands and people from our kingdom too. Yes, yes – princes and queens and ministers and teachers and courtiers and singers and philosophers and merchants and writers and painters and performers of all kinds and silversmiths and blacksmiths and wandering minstrels and more. Sing?! – No, of course I will not sing. Are you quite mad?! – The prince is calling me. I must go now. You go do something else. – Do you not have any work? Do you not have anything else to do? Oh, stop looking like a glum goblin, you silly girl. Do you not believe in God? – And even after yesterday?  – There is a time and place for everything – do you not know anything? I will talk to you some other time, maybe.