Two Monks

In the valley of the North, I happened to meet
A monk as same as the ones who cheat.
His orange robes were baddened, though.
With trinkets, he was laden, though.
His slimy face beamed at me,
His eyes searched for what I seek.
Nonchalantly, I paid him a smile,
Warding the clouds all that while:
‘Miniscule I am,’ so I thought,
‘Would that mean that he is not?’

Untying boots, I bowed to feet.
Undoing the bow, he capped the feat.
Omniscient and yet, as if,
‘Whither?’ he asked, by that cliff.
‘Whither,’ said I. ‘I can quench the thirst
Of senses, five, the only I can boast.’
His beaming face kept beaming.
His sparkling eyes kept sparkling.
Only there was in them, now,
A caution not to spill the ‘known’.

‘And where is it, O Distinguished,
That a perennial thirst is extinguished?’
So he asked, that morning,
And then he paused, to let me sing:
‘Where it is, I don’t know.
Neither do I need to know
So long as I can engage
In dulcet voices of this vale.
Douse this ache? I intend not.
For, if it lulls, life is naught.’

The beaming face kept beaming.
The sparkling eyes kept sparkling.
The caution, only, stood like hill.

‘Breeding ache, like you do,
Like a snake, you approve?
The human mind is not any worth
Of the thing you call: ‘trust’.
It deceives you to do all things
That often defy Nature’s wills.
His, there is, instruction
On what should and shan’t be done.
That, if you exercise,
Will lead you to the light.’

That cool-summer in that vale,
A Roller flew towards The Quail.
And yet as if nothing happened
The Sun, nor was the wind saddened.
‘How, sure, O Great One,
That His is the instruction?
How to, in the first place,
Believe He is existent.’
Beaming, sparkling all was ‘ing.
The caution, only, never left him.

‘Men had trysts with The Almighty
On occasions, many, through the time.
All that they have known from Him,
They have passed as The Hymn.
For that Hymn, if you await,
To give you its esse,
All knowing, O Young Man,
You would, then, be and stand.’
The warded clouds were returned back.
But the Sun had, in end, upper hand.

‘Hymn asks to curtail mind?
Suppress sense? Kill reason?
Why then is it that you profess
To follow all that it so asks?
The Hymn is of no consequence
Except to all those who Love.
From it, we are so distant,
That Love is just an emotion.
What is Hymn to us, then,
But knowledge: an expedient?’

‘It is Power, O My Kid!’
So saying, he cut me in.

‘Power is but for those who kill,
Those who harm, those who win.
For reaching the so-called Him
It would do me no one thing.’

‘Knowing will, O My Kid,
Lead you to that awaited bliss.’

‘Had there been any knowledge of Him,
It would’ve filled my textbook, the first thing.
Knowledge is but collected trash,
Which, at bliss, would turn to ash.’

The beaming face kept beaming.
The sparkling eyes kept sparkling.
The caution, though needless now,
Was now only a domino.
Blessing me, he went his way,
Cursing me, all along.
Collecting me, drinking that vale,
I went walking in the other way.

On my way, under turquoise sky,
Amidst beds of unknown flowers,
On the trail that would wry,
I happened to see another monk.
As we approached to that bend,
He looked at me with a beaming face.
‘Here is another,’ so thinking,
I paid him a very humble smile.

Then, he just moved past me,
As if I have just vanished,
Taking, of me, no more note
Than he took of beds of flowers.
Sense struck me, as always,
At that bend, while I stood,
That I, again, by delusion,
Got bound by condition.

I wondered if I ever would
Be free from all this mould.
He would have, for me, made
Things simple if only… if only…


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