ABC Classic FM, my favourite radio channel streaming lovely classical music et al 24 hours, surprised me with a touching story this morning, read by Stephen Fry to some classical music accompaniment. This story by Oscar Wilde has inspired even a Russian Opera. Read it, and be touched by it!

The Nightingale and the Rose by Oscar Wilde

Osho shows the mirror

तु जिस्म के खुश रंग लिबासॊं पे हो नज़ान
मैं रूह को मुह्ताज ए कफ़न देख रहा हूँ

क्या हाल पूछ्ते हो मेरे कारोबार का
आईने बेचता हूँ मैं अन्धों के शहर में 

Roughly it can be translated:
Don’t ask me, sir, what I am doing here.
You are enamoured of the dreamlike psychedelic colours of the body and the mind,
but I can see death knocking at your doors.
You are lost in a dream world, and I can see death approaching every moment closer and closer.
Don’t ask me, sir, about my business here.
I sell mirrors in the city of the blind!

AAINE BECHTA HOON MAIN ANDHON KE SHAHAR MAIN.
I sell mirrors in the city of the blind!

And this is certainly a city of the blind! This whole earth is full of blind people – blind because they
cannot see death approaching, blind because they cannot see that life is evaporating every moment,
blind because they cannot see the momentariness of all that they are accumulating, blind because
they don’t know from where they come, why they come, to where they are destined, blind because
they are not even aware who resides at the innermost core of their being.
When Alexander the Great came to India... and he came at a very right, ripe moment... Buddha
had left his body only three hundred years before; his vibe was still alive. People were still filled
with the joy, with the silence that they have experienced in Buddha. He had gone, the flower has
disappeared, but the fragrance was still in the air, still lingering. It lingered on at least for five hundred
years.
Alexander was very much surprised; he had never felt such quality. He came across many people
he had never come across in his whole life. They were strange – they talked a strange language,
they lived a strange life. He was mystified.
He met a naked fakir and he was so much impressed by the man’s beauty, his grace, his silence, his
bliss, that suddenly he felt his own poverty. And he was the conqueror of that time, the conqueror of
the then known world, the greatest conqueror ever. And he felt his beggarliness before this naked
beggar, because he could see he was empty. And this naked man was overflowing with meaning,
with joy, with splendor.
Alexander begged from this beggar that, ”Give me some gift that can be of help to me!”
The beggar pulled out a small mirror – so goes the story – from his bag, and gave the mirror to
Alexander the Great. Seeing that it is just an ordinary mirror, and very cheap too, Alexander said,
”Do you think this is such a great gift? From a man like you I was expecting something really
miraculous!”
And the naked fakir laughed and he said, ”It is more than you could have ever expected. Keep it
safe for the day when the question arises in you ’Who am I?’ and then look into it.”
Alexander could not resist the temptation. That very night when he was alone, he looked into the
mirror and he was surprised: he saw his original face.
This must be a story, because no mirror can show you your original face – unless that mirror means
meditation. Meditation can show you your original face. The story simply says that the beggar gave
him the secret of meditation; it is a metaphorical way of saying. Meditation is a mirror. All the mirrors
can only show the physical face, but meditation can show you your spiritual face.
And that’s what I am doing here:
AAINE BECHTA HOON MAIN ANDHON KE SHAHAR MAIN.
I am selling mirrors in the city of the blind.

(quoted from I am that, 1980)

Is Singapore just a mall?

Celebrating Windows

Bhawaani Dayaani - Parween Sultana

Begum Parween Sultana's name is synonymous with this bhajan. The passion with which she brings in front of us the immanence of Durgaa or Bhawaani, is hair-raising. There are two versions on the Youtube. One is given below... it seems a truncated video. The other one has perhaps a copy of her recording from Saregama.

In case you are interested, you can create a compilation of Parween Sultana's recordings at hamaraCD.com. Just search under Hindustani for the artiste's name Parween Sultana. There are over 60 tracks.

For those interested in lyrics, here is the text of the Bhairavi bhajan (so appropriate for a prayer to Durgaa or Bhawaani. In Carnatic music we call it Sindhu Bhairavi):

भवानी दयानी
महा वाक्-वानी
सुर-नर-मुनि जन्मानी
सकलबुधज्ञानी
जग-ज्जननी जग-द्दानी
महिषासुर-मर्दिनी
ज्वालामुखी चंडी
अमर पद दानी

Meaning

Dear Mother, the creator, the munificent!

You gave the cosmic mantra Om

You gave birth to gods, men and saints
And you are the repository of all wisdom

Verily you are the cosmic mother, and the ultimate source of grace.

You destroyed Mahishaasura the demon

You spewed fire then, you were truly terrifying!

And yet you also confer liberation through your loving grace!

=========

There is a lovely concert of  Parween Sultana just posted at http://chowdaiahandparvati.blogspot.com. Enjoy!

Art beside nature

I went today to the NSW Art Gallery. A lovely place, and lots of art-lovers there. I even bought at the end a CD on Jodhpur Miniatures, with music by Dr. N. Ramani!

You can see the photos in Picasa Albums here

You will notice a statue of Robert Burns in the photos. He was a very earthy man, and a deeply humanistic poet, in my opinion. Here is his poem, written after he noticed that he had destroyed a mouse hole while ploughing his field:

 To a Mouse
 by Robert Burns (1759-1796, Scotland)

Burns original

Standard English translation

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty Wi bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murdering pattle. I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth born companion An' fellow mortal! I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request; I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, An' never miss't. Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! It's silly wa's the win's are strewin! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage green! An' bleak December's win's ensuin, Baith snell an' keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld. But Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang aft agley, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, For promis'd joy! Still thou are blest, compared wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But och! I backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear!

Small, crafty, cowering, timorous little beast, O, what a panic is in your little breast! You need not start away so hasty With hurrying scamper! I would be loath to run and chase you, With murdering plough-staff. I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, And justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth born companion And fellow mortal! I doubt not, sometimes, but you may steal; What then? Poor little beast, you must live! An odd ear in twenty-four sheaves Is a small request; I will get a blessing with what is left, And never miss it. Your small house, too, in ruin! Its feeble walls the winds are scattering! And nothing now, to build a new one, Of coarse grass green! And bleak December's winds coming, Both bitter and keen! You saw the fields laid bare and wasted, And weary winter coming fast, And cozy here, beneath the blast, You thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel plough past Out through your cell. That small bit heap of leaves and stubble, Has cost you many a weary nibble! Now you are turned out, for all your trouble, Without house or holding, To endure the winter's sleety dribble, And hoar-frost cold. But little Mouse, you are not alone, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes of mice and men Go often askew, And leave us nothing but grief and pain, For promised joy! Still you are blest, compared with me! The present only touches you: But oh! I backward cast my eye, On prospects dreary! And forward, though I cannot see, I guess and fear!

And don't you think the painting of the Aborigine actor Gulpilil somehow relates to this poem?

PS: Two lorikeets came over to my table at lunch in the cafeteria. They loved the date pudding!