I walked through Manhattan in the
snow. Then I came into a dim-lit room, a room of Rembrandt
shadows, where rose and gold were veiled so deeply that they
were felt, not seen. I sat down in the old position of Siddhasana, mindful of the days when, as a holy beggar, I
meditated without the gates of Madura.
Then I became aware of a white
face, of the lotus face of Bhavani, or so it seemed, that
distilled itself like strange perfume through the gloom. It
was beautiful, almost terrible by reason of its beauty, but
calm and strong. Yet it was soft as the full moon upon the
Nilgherries, and pale and sweet as honey in a secret bower.
Under the ray of the champak
flower that was her face the Indian jungle dawned about me.
Great banyans writhed like serpents in mysterious shrines.
Suddenly the fierce and subtle scent of nargis smote me, and
I knew that she was singing.
Through the boughs of the great
tree under which I was huddled I could grasp the stars. One
by one they budded from the breast of the velvet-footed
night, the great cat that stalks the deer of day through the
glades of Eternity. And then I saw that the tree was the
Bo-Tree, whereunder Buddha sat in the great Hour of his
emancipation.
The song was over.
Stunned by the intensity of the
vision, I saw but a still ocean, waveless and tideless.
Shoreless it lay beneath the sun—and almost I sensed the
Dhatu of Nibbana from afar.
And then she sang again. Love,
like a king-cobra, struck his ruby fangs into my pale heart.
Never had such glory fashioned itself in me. I took wing—,
And then— Time passed . . . perhaps . . . who knows? And she
sang again.
The voice was frail as a tear and
strong as space. The flowers, the fireflies, the very rocks
became song. The elements were refined and enraptured into
music. All things declared their nature; they were eternal,
they were beauty, they were love. Nothing fades. Spring, not
winter, is the truth of Life; yet only through winter is
spring made perfect. Death is but the handmaiden who braids
the tresses of her lady Life. Fainter and fainter, yet ever
more persistent grew the drone of the music.
Life . . . life . . .
I walked through Manhattan in the
snow.
