Got no checkbooks, got no banks,
Still I’d like to express my thanks;
I’ve got the sun in the morning and the moon at night.

Irving Berlin

A devotee who can call on God while living a householder’s life is a hero indeed. God thinks: “They are blessed indeed who pray to Me in the midst of their worldly duties. They are trying to find Me, overcoming a great obstacle, pushing away, as it were, a huge block of stone weighing a ton. Such a one is a real hero.”

Sri Ramakrishna

Sarva Mangalam!
May all beings be enlightened!
WISDOM WINGING WITHIN

By

SURYAKANTHI TRIPATHI
Based on

1. CONFERENCE OF THE BIRDS by Fariduddin Attar
2. SRI RAMACHARITAMANASA of Goswami Tulsidas

and

3. BYA CHOS RIN-CHEN HPHREN-BA
The ancient Tibetan text
‘Lord Buddha’s Religion for the Birds’ 

WISDOM WINGING WITHIN
FIVE SCENES

I. TAKING WING TO THE KING
II. THE TEACHING OF BHAKTI
III. THE SEED OF DHARMA
IV. THE INNER RESOLVE
V. A WINGED SYMPHONY
*********

I. TAKING WING TO THE KING

The King kneaded clay with water and with air.
Next, with a vial of spirit, vivified its every pore.
He gave it intelligence that the clay may discern,
Then He Himself seeped through it all as longing,
And trapped the clay yearning in a forever enigma,
Of body-soul interlace, this restless mortal mixture.
But, about that, they say, it’s better to keep silent.
We will. But first we’ll tell of winging to the King!
Travel with us, the journey is but the destination,
And after we reach, then, we will keep silent.

Human and bird, we have each an intellect adamant,
But need a guide delving deeper than can our mind!
We want the King, who made manifest you and me,
The One who floats cosmos on a sliver of His will,
Who, in a turtle shell’s speckle, could conceal infinity!
But who’ll lead us to Him, is there any one that can
Wing us to the King who baits us silently, eternally?

Yes, it’s Hoopoe, a feather fan as its crown spray,
Yes, that bird, its small breast blazes the Spirit’s way!

We know nothing of the King, save that He exists,
Can you take us to Him, the birds asked Hoopoe.
Yes, said Hoopoe, for our deluded, unseeing self
Is blind to the King’s royal road right before us.
It is here and far, near and distant, His throne,
Let us together end our quest, not do it alone,
Give up oneself, for the whole is our only goal,
For the King, He waits to give us his inmost soul.
Nothing can words say, let us go seek the way!

Truly, Bismillah is etched deep on Hoopoe’s beak,
So praised the birds, but reverted and found excuse,
Nightingale could not part from his love, the rose,
Peacock, painted bird, sought just his lost paradise,
Duck said, my pond, it is the prayer-mat of perfection,
Why, asked Hawk, I already perch on a royal wrist,
So also said no Finch, Owl, Hen, Homa and Heron,
But all, incoherent and lame, did voice only their fear.
But Hoopoe urged, Truth is not pale, but brightest light,
The heart craves the sun’s fire, let us fly to the flame!

II. THE TEACHING OF BHAKTI

Uma Bhavani, power of nature, nature of energy,
She asked Shiva Mahadeva, the omniscient yogi,
Of all, you know best the majesty of Lord Rama,
But why did you first tell the story of Lord Rama
Of all, tell it first to the old crow, Kak Bhushundi?
Shiva Omkara, the ever-present essence, replied:
Few are they, who truly grasp the story of Hari,
Again, fewer that can truly tell the story of Hari.
None as rapt in one, adept in other as Bhushundi!
Only in such submersion, does all delusion flee,
For, well do we all know, Uma Bhavani,
Many drapes of delusion does He don, our Hari!

In the Nilagiri risings of the four golden peaks
There dwells, Kak Bhushundi, immortal crow,
Aeon after aeon, immersed in Hari Bhakti!
On one peak stands a banyan, peepul on another
A Plaksa fig tree the next, mango on the fourth.
Witness and compass of Kak’s daily devotion.
He meditates on the Lord under the peepul,

Chants His name below the arc of the Plaksa,
Worships Him in the shade of the mango,
And narrates His tales under the Banyan.
Waves of birds flock each dawn to him,
As did I, along with noble, enlightened swans,
For Kak Bhushundi, in the trance of total devotion,
Tells without pause, the myriad tales of his Lord,
Incarnation of Hari, eternal incomparable Rama!

Now I’ll tell you about Garuda, whom you know,
This king of the birds, how he called on the crow!
Garuda, the mount of Vishnu, of Hari himself,
Even he was ripped by doubt, rent by delusion,
And had to hear Kak tell the story of his Hari,
The Blessed Lord of Illusion, Bhagavan Mayapati!

Raghupati, playing at fighting a battle in Lanka,
Allowed Himself to be prone, hand and foot bound
By the slew of snakes flung at Him by Meghnath,
That mighty warrior son of the mightier Ravana.
Then Narada, heavenly sage, to Lanka sent Garuda,
To cut the serpentine bonds and free Rama, Lord Hari!
Garuda, king of the feathered creation, he did his duty,
Freed the Lord, bound on ground by venomous ropes.
But he returned, his soul sad, in grievous dejection!
Garuda agonized, My Lord, now incarnate on earth,
How did He get flung down, get so easily coil-bound?
Hari, the Rama, just the repetition of whose name
Frees one from the tangled bonds of life and death,
How was He helpless, so shorn of His own divinity?

O Uma Bhavani, then did Garuda come to me,
Unsure of himself, knowing dimmed and dark,
Perplexed and in pain, fallen prey to confusion.
Changing and unreal, Maya makes puppets of all,
Formidable is this Rama’s power of cosmic illusion,
A challenge to decipher the nature of His reality.
Even Garuda, so close to Hari, was by Maya misled,
Then, can mere mortals attain immunity from fantasy?
Yes, yes, only when each instant is with devotion filled,
When every breath, in out, is of love the most intense,
Else despite sacrament, sacrifice, ritual or austerity,
Rama Raghunatha stays distant, is not drawn near!

With a host of sages, asked Uma, why did Garuda,
Go to hear a crow tell the story of Ramachandra?
Shiva Mahesha replied, Bhushundi, great devotee,
Says just Raghupati’s name is radiant as the sun,

Dispels all the darkness, ignorance and illusion,
For Rama is Truth and Bliss, He’s Cognizance!
Garuda, I said, seek solace in Kak’s company.
At this, even that wise, ancient bird of wide span,
He looked down, then at me, in some perplexity.
A crow, my Lord, he said humbly, forgive me!
Immersed in your meditation, Shiva Ishwara,
Perhaps, perhaps you did not hear me clear.

Kak Bhushundi’s life, it is steeped in wisdom,
Is freed from the taints of worldly attraction,
So go, O King of the Birds, I said, go there,
Where the story of the Lord is told ceaselessly!
The Adi Ramayana, the Rama Charita Manasa,
Manasa, the Lake brimming with Hari’s eternity!
Even as you hear it, your doubts will all dissolve,
Intense again will be your love for the Lord!
Then did Garuda fly to the abode of Bhushundi.

At the very sight of the peaks, his heart grew light,
As he drank the water of the lake, his agony faded.
Then delighted, he betook himself to the banyan,
The flocks of birds were there, all gathered to hear
The crow’s narration of Rama’s divine incarnation!
Kak seeing Garuda, saluted him with great respect,
Tell me, King of Birds, what would you bid me do?
Garuda said, you are the cast and core of sanctity,
At the sight of your hermitage, all qualms vanish,
Now, I yearn to hear you tell the sacred Rama story,
That enchants at its hearing, still keeps one longing!

At this pious request, Bhushundi, diffused with joy,
Sang of the Lord’s descent, his epic deeds on earth,
The mystical Manasa, sacred lake of Rama’s exploits!
The birds said, Ayodhya Rama is bliss incarnate,
And Kak Bhushundi brings the Lord within our reach
By his rapturous recounting of the Rama Charita!

Garuda, he bowed low before the crow and said,
When I saw His ways were those of a frail human,
I was in deep distress, but that was a blessing,
For it led me to you, Sir, to a divine opportunity
To hear your sacred narrative of Rama Sri Hari!
By His grace, freed of angst am I, blessed am I!
For no chant or vision can match your devotion!
Such was Garuda’s pilgrimage to Kak Bhushundi,
In those mystic, enraptured purples of Nilagiri,
North of Mount Sumeru, which the sun circles,

To again learn true Bhakti for his own Lord Hari!

And so it was, that Garuda went and he learnt,
Property, progeny, position, retinue of illusions,
Not the moon, starry hosts or mountains afire,
But only His sun can make dark despair disappear.
True devotion, free of bigotry, leads to Lord Hari,
Who wants no mind-control, penance or penitence.
For the Rama of the Raghus is found only in Bhakti.
Even in an age of chains, free are we to stride space,
Through constancy to Rama, in adoration of Sri Hari!
No longer circled by serpents of desire or vanity,
Our world brimming over with Rama’s compassion,
Against whom do you need harbour fear or animosity?

Grant me these blessings, Lord Rama, in Your mercy,
May I never yield to Maya, test of distracting potency,
May my love for Your lotus feet be intense, my Lord,
In every moment, in every breath and birth of mine!

Then, ended Shiva Mahayogi,
In this, did all birds find bliss!

III. THE SEED OF DHARMA

The Lord Buddha said,
In every tongue will I expound Dharma,
In the speech of angels and serpents,
In the tongues of humans and birds
So that every being may drench,
In the outpouring of the Dharma.
Thence, The Buddha, he entered
And breathed in the realms of all life.

In the seclusion of the mystic Himalayas,
Where summits shine in bright radiance,
And glaciers wear lion-manes of turquoise,
In the wooded mountain of Unique Jewels
Under a sandal tree, in a perfect trance,
Sat still, for ages, the noble Lord Avalokita.
Sat he, becoming a Cuckoo, King of Birds,
Sat he, absorbed in the total presence.

Then, one day, just as the sun rose,
The Parrot made bold to speak to him,
Salutations, Great Bird, please awaken!

Do emerge from your deep trance!
At last, Lord Avalokita did open his eyes.
Then, insisted the Parrot, Eat, great sage!
Since you too are a bird, I brought seeds,
The quintessence of all food and life.
And, thereafter, O Most Wise One, tell me,
Do tell what merits such contemplation?

The Cuckoo looked deep at the Parrot and spoke,
Samsara, this ocean, is vast and restless,
Yields not one drop that is of substance.
Koo! Koo! Kooooo!
Parents and children, friends and enemies
Robes and rags, strongholds and huts,
Hoarded spoils, even rocks get consumed.
Only impermanence and illusion,
As the truths of Samsara, do abide.
This I learnt, in solitude and silence,
In fragrance afloat under this sandal.

Hearing this, the Parrot called out
To all the feathered creatures.
They came, birds of every kind,
Indian birds led by the Peacock,
Birds of Tibet behind the Vulture,
The water birds followed the Goose,
Domestic birds, the red-breasted Cock.
They settled in rows, saluted the Cuckoo,
Give us the good Dharma, they said,
Free us from this cage of suffering;
Give us the good Dharma, they said,
Dispel the ignorance in us.
Great and noble bird, the Parrot said,
We are all deluded by Samsara,
Give us the good Dharma, the Saddharma!
That we may ponder on it, know it!

Thrice, the Great Bird shook his wings,
Koo! Koo! Koooo!
That’s a mighty entreaty, so I will speak.
Listen, said the Cuckoo, there are just three,
Three treasures to attain the sole refuge,
In this life, as also in all life hereafter.
First, said he, Reflect, in earnest reflect,
On life’s impermanence and on death! Koo!
Second, Commit kindly acts, never an evil one, Koo!
Third, Allow within only thoughts good and benign.
Koooo!

Rose the Peacock, framed by a fan of splendour
Kog Go! Kog go! Yours is the loss! Yours is the loss!
Without Dharma, yours is the loss of the Buddha!
If you do not give, yours is the loss of possession!
If you disbelieve, yours is the loss of all blessing!

Then, the Master Parrot, skilled in speech, said
Dwell in samsara, you lose, for you lose yourself!

Said the Brahminy Duck, of velvet plumes,
Os Gtor! Os Gtor! Do without! Do Without!
In the world of Samsara, do without bliss!
With no compassion, do without blessings!
With no Dharma, do without deliverance!

The Great Cuckoo spoke to the winged assembly,
Again after a week, then after a year.

The red-beaked thrush, it rose and said,
Bcud loh! Bcud lon! Profit from! Profit from!
Profit from your possessions, give them all away!
Profit from pure doctrine, choose a lowly place!
Profit from discontent, withdraw from samsara!
Profit from Buddha, awaken to absolute essence!

The Master Parrot, skilled in speech, said
Profit from the holy Dharma, find yourself!

Thus spoke many birds, but some stayed silent,
For still unsure were they, in doubt, in angst,
If samsara is unreal, they wondered perplexed,
At this instant, are we real, is this assembly real?
Is then this teaching itself unreal, our listening unreal?

The Great Cuckoo nodded, and said,
You wonder right, you intuit right!
All assembled here, this assembly itself is a dream
All birth is dream-birth, all death a dream-death,
It’s all a drift, even the drift itself a dream-drift.
So are all the Buddhas but dream-Buddhas,
Koo! Koo! Koooo!
Transient is everything, just a gust of air,
The echo of a bird-call across a valley,
This blue-green tapestry of a cloud,
Meditate on this mist which is illusion,
And, thereby, thirst to grasp the truth.

Only perfect truth is not unreal,
Knowing oneself by oneself!
Salvation through Absolute Thought.
Bestows the highest wisdom, the Dharma!
And the absolute mind of Dharma,
Holds only compassion and enlightenment,
Compassion for all beings,
And enlightenment that seeks to impart, in turn,
Compassion and enlightenment to all!
So that each living being gains both,
As that twin wave of Dharma rides ahead!

Hence, added the Cuckoo, the Great Bird,
Seek the infinite, abiding life-essence,
For only in compassion, in law of karma,
In the knowledge of the Good Dharma,
Is there truth, is there permanence,
As real as the impermanence of Samsara!
This, then, is the seed of knowing,
Quintessence of action and life,
Act ever for others, if you desire peace,
It is an easy song of harmony, sing it!,
Complex is samsara! Simple is Dharma!
Koo! Koo! Koooo!

The Master Parrot saluted the Great Bird,
Lord Avalokita, Lord of the permanent realm!
Profound and true is your lesson,
And, when a bird such as you teaches it,
Then the lesson flies deep, it flies light,
For such a lesson lives to wing, wing far!

All the birds sang, wishing others abounding joy.
Danced, wishing others abounding Dharma.
Then, they slept under the tree of fragrance.
When, at dawn, the sun rose over Jambudvipa,
That we call the land of insight, land of India,
The birds, they all circled thrice the tree,
Where they had received the Good Dharma,
Then, on wings of light, flew to their dwellings.
There to impart, in turn, the Good Dharma.

And, instantly, the Cuckoo, the Great Bird,
Entered once again into a perfect trance.

IV. THE INNER RESOLVE

The birds set forth in thousands unease-suppressed,
Inspired by Hoopoe, persuaded, curiosity-piqued,
Wings feathered space, will turned into waves.
Every blue and the sun-fed, red-ochre
Witnessed spans of sails in awe and wonder
Across skies and horizons, began journey to a King,
Mysterious that King, who caused such longing!
The birds flew over mountain peaks and passes,
They flew, they flew, led by promise of Hoopoe,
Who urged them to fly, to rise and to soar.

Then, in valleys, they would alight to pause.
But valleys do dilute the resolve of many!
The faint said No Further, the tired folded wings.
But many are valleys to cross for one to rise high,
Seven on the journey to Kaf, the King’s pavilion,
The valleys of Quest, Love and Understanding
Of Detachment, Unity, Amazement and Death.

The Valley Of Quest

The Valley of Quest says, Become Empty,
Make space for winds to blow through you,
Give up needs, even of love, of respect,
Jettison all, own nothing, journey on alone,
Till dogma, doctrine, belief, unbelief all vanish.
Questing out will not reveal the one passage,
Quest for it, that which is so near, so within,
To know that there is one door never shut
Where burns the pure lamp of the one Majesty!

The Valley Of Love

After long, distant flight was the next valley,
The Valley of Love, said Hoopoe, is flaming fire,
Flee not, become the eager fuel of this pyre,
Plunge burning, unbridled, to your blazing end,
Love feeds on flames, not the smoke of reason,
Reason and love, each considers other a folly,
But reason, not love, is blind to inner sight,
Approach that one door, others lead nowhere,
If truly you burn, your embers will hear, “Enter”

The Valley Of Understanding

Birds, yet of endurance, began their flight again,

Winging once more for long years, till, said Hoopoe,
Let us pause, here is the Valley of Understanding!
Of extent beyond reckoning, no end, no beginning.
Granting jewels of insight to every explorer,
With slender butterfly perfection or hurricane force.
Discard the petrified mind, in atoms see the whole,
Our paths differ; each takes a preferred route,
One in a mosque, before a deity, or just inward,
But when the sun rises and lights up the land,
The seeker is a pilgrim welcome everywhere!
Perception is full when you truly watch you,
Look with your longing, till your self recedes,
Look till all you can see is an immortal Friend!
Seas of gnosis, Truth’s mysteries are infinite,
Even at God’s throne, implore, Is there more?
Can I still submit to the Way and know more?

The Valley Of Detachment

Here, in the fourth, the Valley of Detachment,
All desire expires, lust for meaning disappears,
New and old, all existence but a moment’s mirage,
Worlds as sand grains, stars spilling are leaves falling,
Planets fade as sparks, dust, not paradise, is Heaven’s arc!
All that is not given is lost, that not given up imprisons us.
At the Throne, all that is, will be and has been, exists not.
Devastated is totality of sense, space and substance,
Hence, ponder on the drop from which all is formed.
This valley is limitless, halt if you wish to petrify,
Advance, but all you’ll hear is Further! Go yet further!
In this valley, learn acceptance and thankfulness,
Discard the thinking self, be one to clasp and grasp!
Passive in the aura of Truth, active in comprehending it!

The Valley Of Unity

It’s a mysterious valley of one, everything else naught,
Every number is one or repetitions of that single one.
Many or few on its road, all become one element here.
The scorpion asleep within will awaken as hundred dragons,
If you connect to temporary glory, you do to disappointment,
Happiness is the core within you, not the ornament on you.
If you see many here or only a few, they are but one,
No matter how many appear, unit and number are gone,
There is neither Ka’aba nor Pagoda, see nothing not Him!
We are in Him, by Him, with Him, sun of single essence!
Where shall I prostrate? I, but a melted ray of that sun.
I know not if Thou art I or I am Thou, duality un-found.

After Truth’s melody, I crave not eternity, only Unity.
Just as an old woman gave a sheikh a piece of gold,
Which he refused, saying, I accept things only from God.
And, she asked him, “Where did you learn to see double?”

The Valley Of Amazement

I am the flame that’s frozen, ice that’s torched,
After my experience of Unity, where is the whole?
I’m in love, it is with Him! But I don't know Him!
Am I drunk or sober, will I stray thus forever?
Soul shredded, heart weeping, love-filled but empty.
I’m bewildered, unsure even of doubt, no road left!
The face of perfection in the sun, was it a fantasy?
Now I’m mute even as I speak, blind even as I see!
Hundred hills lesser than an instant of this uncertainty!
The Hoopoe said, Take heart! Your grief will rain mercy.
Even your bewilderment has its purpose in this Valley,
Important and unimportant, here, do not exist,
Nothing is trivial, but is witness of divine wisdom,
An ant holds His grace, nothing is superior to nothing,
A man was crying out, he had lost his key,
The Sufi said, I have neither the door nor the key!
Search for both, for all, perfume of the big and small,
Remain amazed, then you’re ready for the next valley!

The Valley Of Death

Here all that’s lost is found again, that’s the deep mystery
You rediscover anew, become one, both here and not here,
Not being separate is beauty, for you exist, you exist not.
One moth circled the candle flame, another embraced it,
Flame-wrapped, burning red, of the candle it then knew
That a thousand shadows can disappear in a ray of light!
Deny dignity, seek obscurity, find death then immortality.
If you yearn to truly arrive, fearless, put aside the self,
What use is your I when you’ll disappear with not a trace?
Annihilate yourself, outsoar all desire of this mortal cavern,
If you’re are a pilgrim of no identity, then unfailing alchemy
Takes you to empty, to eternity, frees you to be as God!
Your prayer heard since you burnt reason, gave in to folly!
The ocean of beautiful pearls will then seek you, the drop,
Be the drop swallowed by the ocean and know its secret,
The drop becomes infinite, sees the hidden truth all seek,
In the ardent wooing of the fire by the light-bright moth!

The Destination Is The ‘I’

At last, swirl after surge after wave, curtains parted,
After a journey arduous, despairing and triumphant,
A journey that bestowed luminous humility and clarity,
The thirty birds, in single quest, reached the King!
Finally, finally they reached the abode of the Sovereign!
But there, no great King was, but they themselves.
They saw each other, and each of them was Simorgh,
Simorgh, the King, was each of them, all of them!
Shedding all, small enough to see own greatness,
They knew the King now as inner truth and witness,
The journey itself was salvation, it was the destination!

Were you there, Simorgh, were you who we were?
At our journey’s start as you are at its end?
There, with us, as we traversed the seven valleys?
Were you us, perhaps, even before we started,
Were you us, wondering where to look for a King?
The nameless one, possessed of greatest meaning?

I am the thirty birds that have come here
I would be forty if that many had reached.
Also am I the thousands that will set forth,
As the thousands remaining in own environs,
Each soul-bird consumed by hundred sorrows.

A bird is bound tight by two, me and the sky,
O bird! Be free! Be chained only to the I!
I am closer to you than your very veins
But you have travelled so far from you,
When all your roads get lost, you’ll find me,
It’s a journey only as long as you make it,
But each will cover the distance, eventually,
To find me that is you, inside of you that is me!

                                                                                      V. FINALE — A WINGED SYMPHONY

A bird is a being of winged learning,
A lithe accent of the heights of earth,
The water, the land and tree heights,
The heights of forest, peak and sky.
It is the soul-bird in our heart flights,
All singing in our silence an eternal trilogy
Of Devotion, Compassion and Oneness!

You drench in this mystic fount of life,
When flocks of immortal birds each day,
Soar together to sing their symphony,
An infinite concert of the radiant truth.
They awaken us at many dawns of the day,
Many voices, one harmony, Fly to the I,
The ‘I’ of Tawheed, of Dharma, of Bhakti!

This is the telling of the King and His clay
By the Crow, the Cuckoo and the Hoopoe.
Lost in the King, from vain debate be free!
Lost in the King, from your own self be free!
We will all tell this telling again and yet again,
As will you, who now can also tell the telling.
And all, till we tell the telling, we’ll keep silent.

******

Give God complete command over your life. Surrender to Him without any self-justification or defensiveness. He knows our every thought, and is only waiting for us to offer ourselves fully to Him for His transforming touch to change us.”

Swami Kriyananda

Love seeks no cause beyond itself and no fruit; it is its own fruit, its own enjoyment. I love because I love; I love in order that I may love.

Saint Bernard

Even as a solid rock is unshaken by the wind, so are the wise unshaken by praise or blame.

– Gautama Buddha.

A Brahmin (Priest), whose profession was singing the glories of the Lord, was reciting Srimad Bhagavatam in the house of a Big Landlord.

A thief broke into the house where the recital was going on and hid himself in the deep corner. Perforce, he had to listen to Srimad Bhagavatam (Beautiful stories & Miracles of Lord Krishna).

The singer was now describing the ornaments worn by little Krishna. He described the various ornaments Mother Yasodha decorated on little Krishna before sending Him out with the cows.

The thief was excited and thought that he should meet that lad and rob all the ornaments at one stroke instead of struggling everyday with petty stealing. He waited till the entire chapter of Srimad was recited and left the place.

The thief wanted to know where this boy was. He, therefore, followed the Brahmin and waylaid him. The Brahmin was frightened and feared that he would lose even the small amount he had received as dakshina and told the thief, “I do not have anything with me”.

The thief replied that he was not keen to have any of his possessions but wanted some information about that lad he claimed to have the best ornaments and who used to go out for grazing the cows. He beseeched him to take him to that place where the lad was grazing those cows.

The Brahmin was in a fix now. He said, “In the town of Brindavana, on the banks of Yamuna river, in a green meadow, two boys come every morning. One is dark like the clouds with a flute, and the other fair, clad in white silk. The dark one will have all the ornaments I had described.”

The thief believed the Brahmin and set out for Brindavana immediately. He located the beautiful place, climbed up a tree and waited for the boys to arrive.

The sun rose. Faint melody of the flute wafted along the morning breeze. The enchanting music could then be heard closer and the thief spotted two boys coming.

He got down from the tree and went near them. The moment he saw the most beautiful appearance of the little Krishna, he forgot himself, folded his hands and shed tears of joy. The tears were from his heart and it was chilling.

He wondered which wretched mother had sent these radiant boys, chiseled to perfection, loaded with ornaments to the riverbank.
He could not take his eyes off from the divinity.

The transformation started.
He approached the boys shouting, “Stop,” and held Krishna’s hand.
The moment he touched Lord Krishna, all his previous karmas were wiped out like a ball of cotton getting burnt in fire and with all humility he inquired lovingly, “Who are you?”

Krishna looked at him, innocently and said, “I am frightened by your looks. Please leave my hands”.
The thief, now full of remorse, said to Krishna, “It is my evil mind which is reflected in my face.
If you are frightened, I shall go away.
Please don’t say, I must leave you”.

The Natkhat (Divinely naughty) Krishna reminded the thief the purpose of his coming there and mocked him, “Here, take these ornaments”.
Confused, the thief replied, “Will not your mother scold you if you gift away all your ornaments to me?”

Krishna with a smile said, “Do not worry about that. I have plenty of them. I am a bigger thief than you.

But there is a difference between you and me – however much I steal, the owners do not complain. I am lovingly called “Chitta Chora”.

Though you are not aware of it, you have a previous ornament in your possession, the “Chitta (Heart)”. I shall steal it now and take the same with Me”. So saying both the boys vanished.

To his surprise, the thief found a bag full of ornaments on his shoulder.
He brought it to the Brahmin’s house and told him what had all happened.

The Brahmin was now frightened and took the thief inside and opened the bag.

To his utter amazement he saw all the ornaments described by him as being worn by Krishna in the Bhagavatam, in the thief’s bag.

Shedding tears of joy, the Brahmin asked the thief to take him to the place where he saw the dark boy. The thief obliged and both of them waited in the same place where the thief accosted the boy the previous day.

Suddenly the thief exclaimed, “Look, here they come!”

However, the Brahmin could not see any one.

Stricken with disappointment, he said, “Lord, when You decided to give darshan to a thief, why not me?

Lord Krishna, out of abundant compassion, replied,

“You are reading Srimad Bhagavatam just as another story, whereas the thief actually believed what you told him about me.

I manifest only for those who have full faith in me

Jai Shri Krishna

One story from the book. To read more, buy the book

Once upon a time, a famous Sufi shaykh lived in old Baghdad. The shaykh was renowned for his charity and goodness. Aside from what he really needed, he gave away everything he received each day to the poor. So, his reputation among the common folk was outstanding.
Almost everyone loved him. Almost.
There was only one problem. Since he didn’t own any-
thing, he borrowed everything that he gave away each
day. So the shaykh was constantly in debt to many people.
Usually some generous person came to his aid whenever
he really needed it, but nonetheless he was always only
one step ahead of his creditors.
The shaykh was getting on in years, and just as things
are today, people became less and less willing to loan him
anything for fear that he might not be able to pay them
back. Nonetheless, the shaykh’s good reputation ensured
that there were always people who would loan him what
he needed. If nothing else, rich merchants were afraid to
let it be known that they were too stingy to give to a gen-
erous holy man. It might diminish their customer base.

Now it happened that the shaykh fell ill. And, day by
day, he seemed to be failing. The shaykh asked his murids
(students) to bring his bed into a small meeting hall in the
khanaqah, the Sufi gathering place where he and a few stu-
dents lived. The shaykh told them that he wanted to meet
his maker there.
Unlike many such edifices in the ancient Sufi world,
this khanaqah was a very modest, mud-brick affair. The
students’ rooms surrounded a central, domed mosque
and meeting hall, like a heart with two wings enclosing it.
His students gathered around the shaykh’s bed,
many of them with long faces, hoping for a final bless-
ing from the great man. The shaykh was smiling benef-
icently and breathing peacefully. Gradually, word
got out of the shaykh’s imminent passing, and many
other people from the neighborhood began to gather.
Among them were the shaykh’s many creditors. Instead
of a final blessing, the creditors had another object in
mind: repayment. They hoped that before the shaykh
died, he would manifest some miracle and pay them
what he owed.
One of them whispered into the ear of another.
“How much does he owe you?”
”One thousand gold dinars. You?”

→
“Only 500 silver dirhams, thank God! But it’s still
enough for me.”
The atmosphere in the room was very mixed, to say the
least: sadness, hope, expectation, anxiety, and a growing
undercurrent of whispering and grumbling.
“If he owed that much to you, why did he also borrow
from me?”
“Couldn’t he have paid me back with what he bor-
rowed from Ahmed? He can afford to lose 600.”
“It’s incredible! He owes all of us!”
In fact, the room was now overfull, and only the small
circle of students around his bed protected the shaykh
from the increasingly agitated and growing crowd of
creditors who edged nearer and nearer.
The shaykh’s breath became more and more refined,
until only those nearest him could tell whether he was
breathing at all. He motioned for one of his students to
come closer.
“What are all these others doing here?” he whispered
loudly.
“Master, Allah forgive me, but many of them say that
you owe them money.”
“Money? Oh, yes, yes . . . probably I do. It’s all in Allah’s
hands.”

“What does your master say?” asked one of the credi-
tors in a voice everyone could hear.
“The master says,” relayed the student, “that your
money is all in Allah’s hands.”
A loud moan went up from the creditors.
“In Allah’s hands? You know what that means!”
“I’m done for!” cried one.
“You? I’ll be bankrupt!”
Others also proclaimed their incipient destitution,
with increasingly cataclysmic predictions about what
would happen to their businesses, their families, the
whole community they supported! And so on. They began
to fight among themselves about who would be more
destitute.
“What are they all talking about?” the shaykh whis-
pered to his nearest student. “This is a house of prayer. It
has become increasingly noisy in here.”
“Forgive me, Allah, they say that they will be bankrupt.”
“No,” said the shaykh, “how can it be? I don’t believe it.
Ya Alim! Allah knows the truth.”
The students also became increasingly agitated. Not
only was this very embarrassing, but it might distract the
shaykh from giving them a final blessing. Or, looking at
things from an earthlier viewpoint, it might diminish the reputation of the khanaqah as well as their ability to
gather donations for it in the future. The students also
began to talk anxiously among themselves.
Just then, a very loud, high voice out in the street cut
through all the hubbub.
“Halvah! Nice sweet halvah! Who wants to buy some?
Best halvah in Baghdad!”
Because the voice startled everyone, they all stopped
talking for just an instant, but then at once went back to
their angst-ridden conversations.
The shaykh motioned to his closest student.
“Ask the boy to come in, let’s have some halvah,” he
rasped.
The student went out into the street and brought the
small boy in, who was carrying a large silver plate cov-
ered with many pieces of halvah.
“Boy, how much for your whole plate of halvah?” asked
the shaykh.
“This is my last plate of halvah for the day, and it’s the
best halvah in Baghdad. There isn’t any even close to this
quality in the whole world!” The boy had clearly been
well trained. “So, one silver dirham.”
“One silver dirham!” exclaimed the shaykh softly,
raising one eyebrow in disbelief. “Is the halvah made of silver? No, boy, we’re just poor Sufis here. And I’m dying.
I’ll give you half a silver dirham.”
The boy paused, but only for effect, since he knew that
the plate was worth only a half of that, and he would need
to bring his master back even less.
“All right. But only this once. Because you’re dying.
And because you’re holy people. Or so they say.”
“Share it all around,” the shaykh told the boy, whisper-
ing hoarsely as loudly as he could so that everyone heard.
“These are all my brothers and friends here. Let them
enjoy the sweetness, just as I am about to enjoy the sweet-
ness of heaven . . . inshallah (Allah willing)!”
The boy went around the room, offering halvah to
everyone, and by some chance (or indeed miracle), there
was enough for all. For some blessed moments, conversa-
tion stopped, with only the sound of chewing and smack-
ing of lips breaking the silence. Someone burped.
After a discreet pause, the boy approached the shaykh
for payment, holding his hand out.
“Money? You want money? Boy, as I told you, we’re
only poor Sufis here. I agreed to a price, but I didn’t say I
would pay you.”
The boy became furious. “You Sufi dogs! You would steal from a poor boy? What
kind of people are you? I will be short when I return to
the shop. Don’t you know that my master will beat me?
In fact, he’ll probably kill me! In fact, he’ll kill my whole
family! In fact . . .”
The boy went on in this vein, becoming louder and
louder, increasingly and genuinely hysterical, his voice
echoing through the mosque.
The creditors also went into an uproar.
“First he cheats us, now he cheats this poor boy!”
“Call the judge!”
“I’ll never offer a friendly loan, not to mention a char-
itable donation, to a Sufi again!”
The students turned bright red and turned to one
another, whispering frantically, unsure what to do.
“That’s it. The reputation of our whole order is ruined!”
“We’re done for!”
“Doesn’t anyone have a half a dirham?”
They began to search through their robes.
While all of this was going on, a messenger in richly
braided and brightly colored livery entered the room.
“Hey!” he yelled. “Which of you is the shaykh?” As mes-
sengers were trained to have loud voices in those days, everyone stopped for an instant, now aware that some-
one important had likely sent the messenger.
“He is,” said one of the creditors, pointing to the shaykh
on his bed.
As it happened, the messenger was also carrying a sil-
ver tray, this one covered with a silk cloth. He approached
the shaykh.
“Someone hired me ten minutes ago to send you this,
express delivery. For some reason, it had to be on a silver
tray. I don’t know who it was, but we work for an expen-
sive service, you know. Had to be someone rich.”
The shaykh, who had been resting with his eyes
closed during the melee, opened one eye and asked his
nearest student to remove the cloth and see what was
there.
Under the cloth were two packets also wrapped in silk,
one very large, the other very small. When the student
untied the larger packet, it was full of gold dinars, more
than he had ever seen. There was doubtless enough to
pay off all the shaykh’s creditors, plus enough to support
the khanaqah for some time.
When he untied the small packet he found it contained half a silver dirham. The shaykh instructed his students to repay all the
creditors, keep the rest, and give the half dirham to
the boy.
Everyone was astonished. The boy grabbed the money
and ran off with it before anything else crazy happened.
These Sufis!
The creditors wiped their brows and breathed a huge
sigh of relief. Then they began to protest to the shaykh
that, of course, they knew that he was a righteous man
and would make good on his debts, and to please pray for
them when he got to the other side—in other words, they
began to talk total nonsense.
The students were also relieved. Life would go on
without them needing to face disaster, like getting jobs
outside the khanaqah.
“Master,” asked one murid, “how did this happen?
How could anyone know about the halvah? And why did
he (or she) wait so long to bail us out?”
“Allah knows!” said the shaykh. “But I’ll tell you this:
all these creditors don’t really need the money. They are
all rich men many times over. Their distress was all an
act. Also, all of you are perfectly capable of making your
own way when I’m gone. You may only need to be a littleThe shaykh instructed his students to repay all the
creditors, keep the rest, and give the half dirham to
the boy.
Everyone was astonished. The boy grabbed the money
and ran off with it before anything else crazy happened.
These Sufis!
The creditors wiped their brows and breathed a huge
sigh of relief. Then they began to protest to the shaykh
that, of course, they knew that he was a righteous man
and would make good on his debts, and to please pray for
them when he got to the other side—in other words, they
began to talk total nonsense.
The students were also relieved. Life would go on
without them needing to face disaster, like getting jobs
outside the khanaqah.
“Master,” asked one murid, “how did this happen?
How could anyone know about the halvah? And why did
he (or she) wait so long to bail us out?”
“Allah knows!” said the shaykh. “But I’ll tell you this:
all these creditors don’t really need the money. They are
all rich men many times over. Their distress was all an
act. Also, all of you are perfectly capable of making your
own way when I’m gone. You may only need to be a little. more . . . ingenious. It was only the boy who had real
need. You could hear it in his voice.
“When a real cry from the depths of the heart goes
out, then Allah always answers. Try to find more genuine
need in yourself. Then you will be on the inner path.”