How Saint Kabir got wed

tore sang jaaungi

Once upon a time, there lived a man called Kabir who weaved cloth for a living. You probably had to study his poetry in your Hindi books. Forget all you ever read. Imagine yourself to be here, in Kabir's house, now, in the fifteenth century.

Kabir lives with his mother, and mostly spends his time weaving cloth and singing his own songs to the beat of the loom.

Seeing his detachment from the worldly and attraction for the spiritual, Kabir's mother takes him to a neighbouring village on the pretext of getting some cotton and gets him married to a young girl. Kabir is neither overjoyed nor unhappy.

On the wedding night, when everyone else is asleep and they are alone, his bride suddenly bursts into tears.

'What? Missing your family? Want to go back?' he asks her.

'No. Never,' she replies.

'Ok. That's fine. Then why are you crying?'

'I am missing someone.'

'Hmm.'

Kabir walks to and fro in the small room, as his bride sits in a corner and weeps.

'You love him?' he asks her.

'Yes,' she admits.

'And he?'

'He also loves me.'

'Then why did you marry me?'

'My family forced me to. He is from a different caste.'

'Caste is all crap. We are all the same. Get up, wipe your tears. I will take you to him. We will reach early morning.'

The young girl can't believe her good luck. She thanks him profusely and they sneak off into the night.

It has just rained, the sky is clear. The moon is full. A bride and her groom are walking back to her village to meet her lover. But the groom is a poet, and before the song, he warms up with a doha,

'Laali mere laal ki, Jit dekhun tith laal. Laali dekhan main gai, to main bhi ho gayi laal.'

(As I sought the beloved, I began to see Him everywhere. I was so enraptured that I lost myself in Him.)

The terrain gets rocky and slushy. After a while, the young girl begins to tire. Her mood drops and she starts crying again.

'What?'

'Slow down! I cant walk as fast as you,' she cribs.

'Why not? We are going to meet your lover. You should be walking faster than me.'

'Look at my clothes! Look at all this jewelry! Try walking two steps dressed like this.'

'All right, I get your point. Ok, sit on my back. We can't afford to slow down.'

So she climbs on his back and he carries her like a child. She is overwhelmed and can't stop crying. To soothe her, Kabir starts humming below his breath.

As he has intended, her curiosity is aroused.

'Can't hear you. Sing aloud, please,' she requests the master.

'Naiiharavaaaa humakaa na bhaaveyy, humakaa na bhaaveyy,

Naiharavaa... aaaaa'

Kabirs voice resounds in the dark night, lighting it up with melody.

Naiharwa humka na bhave

Sai ki nagari param ati sundar

Jaha koi jaaye na aave

Chand suraj jahaa pavan na paani

Ko sandes pahuchave

Darad yaha Sai ko sunave

Bin Satguru aapno nahi koi

Jo yaha raah bataave

Kahat Kabeera sunoh bhai sadho

Sapane na Preetam aave

Tapan yaha jiya ki bujhaave

Naiharwa

(Most of you must have heard this song, sung by Kumar Gandharva, Shabnam)

1. (translated to English by Linda Heiss)

I don't like my native place.

The lord has a city of absolute beauty

where no one comes or goes,

where there's moon or sun,

no water or wind.

Who will carry this message?

Who will tell the lord of my pain?

I can't see the path ahead,

and going back would be a shame.

Oh beloved, how can I reach

the in-laws' house?

Separation burns fiercely.

The juice of sensuality

keeps me dancing.

Without a true guru

there's no one we can claim,

no one to show the way.

Kabir says, listen friends, seekers,

even in a dream my love won't come

to put out these flames.

The innocent girl's entire turbulence flows out.

For a little while after the song, there is silence. A deep, beautiful silence, a vast space where something happens. Something that can change a person's life. Kabir starts wondering if she has fallen asleep, when, all of a sudden, she starts crying again.

'Now what? You hungry?'

'No.'

'Then?'

She is a fifteenth century village girl. But she finds her voice.

'Tore sang jaaungi.' I shall go with you.

He is a fifteenth century weaver. Who's just got wed.

'Pakkaa?' Sure?

'Sau takaa pakkaa.' Hundred per cent sure.

Saint Kabir's wedding night

Some things don't change, not over a few centuries. The flip-flop nature of the mind and the stilling, magnetic influence of art.Makes sense? Yes, but so what, right? There are innumerable ways of saying something. I shall say the same thing now through a story. Tell me how you like it.

Tore Sang Jaaungi

Once upon a time, there lived a man called Kabir who weaved cloth for a living. You probably had to study his poetry in your Hindi books. Forget all you ever read. Imagine yourself to be here, in Kabir's house, now, in the fifteenth century.

Kabir lives with his mother, and mostly spends his time weaving cloth and singing his own songs to the beat of the loom.

Seeing his detachment from the worldly and attraction for the spiritual, Kabir's mother takes him to a neighbouring village on the pretext of getting some cotton and gets him married to a young girl. Kabir is neither overjoyed nor unhappy.

On the wedding night, when everyone else is asleep and they are alone, his bride suddenly bursts into tears.

'What? Missing your family? Want to go back?' he asks her.

'No. Never,' she replies.

'Ok. That's fine. Then why are you crying?'

'I am missing someone.'

'Hmm.'

Kabir walks to and fro in the small room, as his bride sits in a corner and weeps.

'You love him?' he asks her.

'Yes,' she admits.

'And he?'

'He also loves me.'

'Then why did you marry me?'

'My family forced me to. He is from a different caste.'

'Caste is all crap. We are all the same. Get up, wipe your tears. I will take you to him. We will reach early morning.'

The young girl can't believe her good luck. She thanks him profusely and they sneak off into the night.

It has just rained, the sky is clear. The moon is full. A bride and her groom are walking back to her village to meet her lover. But the groom is a poet, and before the song, he warms up with a doha,

'Laali mere laal ki, Jit dekhun tith laal. Laali dekhan main gai, to main bhi ho gayi laal.'

(As I sought the beloved, I began to see Him everywhere. I was so enraptured that I lost myself in Him.)

The terrain gets rocky and slushy. After a while, the young girl begins to tire. Her mood drops and she starts crying again.

'What?'

'Slow down! I cant walk as fast as you,' she cribs.

'Why not? We are going to meet your lover. You should be walking faster than me.'

'Look at my clothes! Look at all this jewelry! Try walking two steps dressed like this.'

'All right, I get your point. Ok, sit on my back. We can't afford to slow down.'

So she climbs on his back and he carries her like a child. She is overwhelmed and can't stop crying. To soothe her, Kabir starts humming below his breath.

As he has intended, her curiosity is aroused.

'Can't hear you. Sing aloud, please,' she requests the master.

'Naiiharavaaaa humakaa na bhaaveyy, humakaa na bhaaveyy,

Naiharavaa... aaaaa'

Kabirs voice resounds in the dark night, lighting it up with melody.

Naiharwa humka na bhave

Sai ki nagari param ati sundar

Jaha koi jaaye na aave

Chand suraj jahaa pavan na paani

Ko sandes pahuchave

Darad yaha Sai ko sunave

Bin Satguru aapno nahi koi

Jo yaha raah bataave

Kahat Kabeera sunoh bhai sadho

Sapane na Preetam aave

Tapan yaha jiya ki bujhaave

Naiharwa

(translated to English by Linda Heiss)

I don't like my native place.

The lord has a city of absolute beauty

where no one comes or goes,

where there's moon or sun,

no water or wind.

Who will carry this message?

Who will tell the lord of my pain?

I can't see the path ahead,

and going back would be a shame.

Oh beloved, how can I reach

the in-laws' house?

Separation burns fiercely.

The juice of sensuality

keeps me dancing.

Without a true guru

there's no one we can claim,

no one to show the way.

Kabir says, listen friends, seekers,

even in a dream my love won't come

to put out these flames.

and sung aloud by Kailash Kher:

The innocent girl's entire turbulence flows out.

For a little while after the song, there is silence. A deep, beautiful silence, a vast space where something happens. Something that can change a person's life. Kabir starts wondering if she has fallen asleep, when, all of a sudden, she starts crying again.

'Now what? You hungry?'

'No.'

'Then?'

She is a fifteenth century village girl. But she finds her voice.

'Tore sang jaaungi.' I shall go with you.

He is a fifteenth century weaver. Who's just got wed.

'Pakkaa?' Sure?

'Sau takaa pakkaa.' Hundred per cent sure.

Spiritually and Politically in-correct, but who cares?

Last week, me and hubby did something we haven't been doing for a long time. For four continuous nights, we saw four documentary films on the saint Kabir. Hubby is to do an interview with the film maker, Shabnam Virmani. Shabnam is into Kabir like an iron bucket into a well. She has made these four films on Kabir, more about them here.


For anyone even remotely interested in spirituality, oral tradition, devotional singing, qawalis, the real kabir bhakts, these films are a feast. They are coming on NDTV, in the documentary section. Do watch them. Here is the schedule.

Had-Anhad (Bounded-Boundless)

PART 1

Jan 14 & 15 (Wed & Thurs) - (Half hour slots) 9:30 to 10 pm
Repeat on Jan 18 (Sunday) - (One hour slot) 1 to 2 pm

PART 2

Jan 21 - 22 (Wed & Thurs) - (Half hour slots) 9:30 to 10 pm
Repeat on Jan 25 - (Sunday) - (One hour slot) 1 to 2 pm

Kabira Khada Bazaar Mein (In the Market stands Kabir)

PART 1

Jan 28 - 29 (Wed & Thurs) - (Half hour slots) 9:30 to 10 pm
Repeat on Feb 1 (Sunday) - (One hour slot) 1 to 2 pm

PART 2

Feb 4 - 5 (Wed & Thurs) - (Half hour slots) 9:30 to 10 pm
Repeat on Feb 8 (Sunday) - (One hour slot) 1 to 2 pm

But what I was saying was, yes. Hubby and I. Not only did we see these films together, we even spoke about them.

'Kabir is spiritually and politically correct, isn't he?' asks Hubs.

'Yes, I suppose he fits into the elite, the secular framework.' I reply.

'Then why do you keep watching this hindu-hindu, saffron robed gale mein mala jhamela?

I smile. Finally, hubby has made an intelligent observation and asked me a question!

'Because, darling, he talks to my heart. And my heart does not have a filter. Neither does it need a secular approval, nor a scientific basis, it does not even consult my mind. It is a smart heart. It is protected from myths and superstitions about dangers of the color saffron. It has given itself the freedom to mingle with them all.'

On that note, here is a you-tube video of a very funny and insightful talk by Swami Nithyananda.

And, I would like to go on record that hubby sits with me for meditation every day, albeit a little reluctantly. I am willing to go to jail for forcing him into something he is confused about.

mere dushman, mere bhai

This post is a response to the 'I hate Pakistan' movement I have been noticing on a lot of blogs recently.

What is a myth? To me, a myth is a popular belief, an understanding that covers our ignorance. And where there is fear, hate is an appropriate cover, isnt it?

I have never been to Pakistan, though I admit that I would like to visit. I have seen a tv serial, 'Dhoop Kinare', which was about a young doctor falling in love with an Amitabh- look alike elder doctor. We watched this serial in the good old days, eight cassettes in two days, each cassette three hours long!

I do not know if Pakistanis hate Indians. In the serial, they didn't even acknowledge us, but the doctor was so handsome that I don't blame them.

Yes, I also saw a film last year, Khuda Ke liye. A brilliant narrative, this film talked about tolerance, humanity, and freedom. It also went into the psyche of a young mind trapped by fanatisism.

And, I saw a documentary film made by a friend, Shabnam Virmani, where she portrayed different Kabir bhakts in India and Pakistan. I remember one dialogue from her film. When she reaches Karachi, and sits in the car that is taking her to the house of the singer, his chela says to her, 'There is no boundary for artists. The boundary between India and Pakistan is for the babu log (government fellows). Between artists there is no boundary.'

And the way this devotee sings and talks Kabir, the depth of his understanding of the fifteenth century poet, is surpassed only by the 'haq', the ownership he feels towards his master. I cant remember his name, but he is another Nusrat in the making.

I still don't know if Pakistanis hate Indians, but I do know of one Pakistani who loves saint Kabir. The name of this film is Had-Anhad. It is a profound search for Kabir, how different people have absorbed him.

And, one more dialogue, if I may, from a Shah-Rukh Khan film, 'Veer Zara', where the Pakistani heroine, Preity answers the hero in a song, when he goes on and on about mera des butiful. 'tere Des ko maine dekha, tere des ko maine jaana. Jane kyon lagta, mujhe jaana pehchana. Aisa hi des hai mera, jaisa des hai tera.' ( I have seen your country, and you know what, it's just like mine.)

I got this article from here. Before you think I am in love with this blogger, I must mention here that I do not endorse a Shah-Rukh bashing post she has done.

So let us examine the basis of our beliefs. It takes a lot of strength to admit to the one thing we do know: that we do not really really know. We just presume, and we pass judgment. We are afraid, and we build walls. And when we build walls, we might feel secure, but we lose the horizon.

Ten myths about Pakistan

By Mohammed Hanif

Living in Pakistan and reading about it in the Indian press can sometimes be quite a disorienting experience: one wonders what place on earth they’re talking about? I wouldn’t be surprised if an Indian reader going through Pakistani papers has asked the same question in recent days. Here are some common assumptions about Pakistan and its citizens that I have come across in the Indian media.

Pakistan controls the jihadis:

Or Pakistan’s government controls the jihadis. Or Pakistan Army controls the jihadis. Or ISI controls the jihadis. Or some rogue elements from the ISI control the Jihadis. Nobody knows the whole truth but increasingly it’s the tail that wags the dog. We must remember that the ISI-Jihadi alliance was a marriage of convenience, which has broken down irrevocably. Pakistan army has lost more soldiers at the hands of these jihadis than it ever did fighting India.

Musharraf was in control, Zardari is not:

Let’s not forget that General Musharraf seized power after he was fired from his job as the army chief by an elected prime minister. Musharraf first appeased jihadis, then bombed them, and then appeased them again. The country he left behind has become a very dangerous place, above all for its own citizens.

There is a latent hankering in sections of the Indian middle class for a strongman. Give Manmohan Singh a military uniform, put all the armed forces under his direct command, make his word the law of the land, and he too will go around thumping his chest saying that it’s his destiny to save India from Indians. Zardari will never have the kind of control that Musharraf had. But Pakistanis do not want another Musharraf.

Pakistan, which Pakistan?

For a small country, Pakistan is very diverse, not only ethnically but politically as well. General Musharraf’s government bombed Pashtuns in the north for being Islamists and close to the Taliban and at the same time it bombed Balochs in the South for NOT being Islamists and for subscribing to some kind of retro-socialist, anti Taliban ethos. You have probably heard the joke about other countries having armies but Pakistan’s army having a country. Nobody in Pakistan finds it funny.

Pakistan and its loose nukes:

Pakistan’s nuclear programme is under a sophisticated command and control system, no more under threat than India or Israel’s nuclear assets are threatened by Hindu or Jewish extremists. For a long time Pakistan’s security establishment’s other strategic asset was jihadi organisations, which in the last couple of years have become its biggest liability.

Pakistan is a failed state:

If it is, then Pakistanis have not noticed. Or they have lived in it for such a long time that they have become used to its dysfunctional aspects. Trains are late but they turn up, there are more VJs, DJs, theatre festivals, melas, and fashion models than a failed state can accommodate. To borrow a phrase from President Zardari, there are lots of non-state actors like Abdul Sattar Edhi who provide emergency health services, orphanages and shelters for sick animals.

It is a deeply religious country:

Every half-decent election in this country has proved otherwise. Religious parties have never won more than a fraction of popular vote. Last year Pakistan witnessed the largest civil rights movements in the history of this region. It was spontaneous, secular and entirely peaceful. But since people weren’t raising anti-India or anti-America slogans, nobody outside Pakistan took much notice.

All Pakistanis hate India:

Three out of four provinces in Pakistan — Sindh, Baluchistan, NWFP — have never had any popular anti-India sentiment ever. Punjabis who did impose India as enemy-in-chief on Pakistan are now more interested in selling potatoes to India than destroying it. There is a new breed of al-Qaida inspired jihadis who hate a woman walking on the streets of Karachi as much as they hate a woman driving a car on the streets of Delhi. In fact there is not much that they do not hate: they hate America, Denmark, China CDs, barbers, DVDs , television, even football. Imran Khan recently said that these jihadis will never attack a cricket match but nobody takes him seriously.

Training camps:

There are militant sanctuaries in the tribal areas of Pakistan but definitely not in Muzaffarabad or Muridke, two favourite targets for Indian journalists, probably because those are the cities they have ever been allowed to visit. After all how much training do you need if you are going to shoot at random civilians or blow yourself up in a crowded bazaar? So if anyone thinks a few missiles targeted at Muzaffarabad will teach anyone a lesson, they should switch off their TV and try to locate it on the map.

RAW would never do what ISI does:

Both the agencies have had a brilliant record of creating mayhem in the neighbouring countries. Both have a dismal record when it comes to protecting their own people. There is a simple reason that ISI is a bigger, more notorious brand name: It was CIA’s franchise during the jihad against the Soviets. And now it’s busy doing jihad against those very jihadis.

Pakistan is poor, India is rich:

Pakistanis visiting India till the mid-eighties came back very smug. They told us about India’s slums, and that there was nothing to buy except handicrafts and saris. Then Pakistanis could say with justifiable pride that nobody slept hungry in their country. But now, not only do people sleep hungry in both the countries, they also commit suicide because they see nothing but a lifetime of hunger ahead. A debt-ridden farmer contemplating suicide in Maharashtra and a mother who abandons her children in Karachi because she can’t feed them: this is what we have achieved in our mutual desire to teach each other a lesson.



Image courtesy Nicholson cartoons