I think so much, I can’t write,
It’s because this “I” isn’t right.
Replacing “I” with “This self”,
For the fact, this ego, cannot help.
This Self is Great, people said.
Those were it’s beauty and head.
Its Body grew strong handsome, and
Mind collected ransom from people stunned.
One day, s/he smiled and refused its emotion,
Questions emerged as if tide in an ocean.
Who is this self, what is its existence?
Why can’t reality be known by sense?
A figure emerged out of its meditation,
Serene and Calm, naked and shaven.
With unblemished body and curious mind,
Without fear of being trampled, was blind.
Blind to Pleasure, Hatred and Desire,
Enlightening fire, putting pain to the pyre.
This self believed in it, and stumbled,
Contemplation broke and it fumbled.
That was not here, not there, anywhere,
It was inside the heart, safe and pure,
Glittering with aura in body but obscure.
Illustration by Sanjana Acharya.
Article 19 