20130207 – The Great Darshan – Part 4


The Mighty Beloved

By Francis Brabazon

The Great Darshan, Poona, 1969

Part -2

The only solution I found was to accept the position: “You alone are and I am not, but we are both here.” And having arrived at this acceptance Baba now taught me a poetical form capable of expressing all the shades of the impossible relationships of lover and Beloved. Such a form has not existed in English up until now, because the lover- Beloved dilemma was not part of the British-American consciousness. And of course, beloved Baba being the author of this new form was (or seemed to be) delighted with my exercises in it.

And here is a delicious piece of humour in connection with this. There was a period when Baba had me read a new poem to him three times every morning. Do you know why three times? Baba was memorizing them. Why memorizing them? So that he could quote them next time he comes back in seven hundred years! That is really God-Man humour isn’t it? Then there were his extraordinary orders or commissions. His last was for thirty ghazals—ghazal is the name of the new poetical form he taught me. It happened this way. One morning after the usual morning business was finished; Baba said he wanted me to write thirty ghazals. Could I do that? I replied promptly and brightly, “No Baba.” This reply seemed to rather astonish him. He turned to the other mandali and said, “Well, what do you think of that? I ask this fellow to write thirty ghazals and he says, ‘No, Baba’.”  Then Baba turned questioningly back to me. I said, or rather groaned, “I don’t know whether I can write one ghazal—and you ask for thirty. I don’t think there are any more in my head.” Then he says sympathetically and persuasively, “Try and I will help you.” So it was back to the stone-quarry again to cut and build thirty more little poem-houses, each one a bit different; for the Beloved likes variety.

But still I did not know what a mighty Beloved our Beloved is. This knowledge has come to me only recently—since Baba laid aside his body.

Now, the Beloved would not be the Beloved if he didn’t have a thousand whims and moods, if he didn’t play his eternal game of divine pretence; if he was not all ears to the lover’s praise and stone-deaf to his complaints; if he was not All-knowledge and All-ignorance at the same time. He would not be the Beloved if he did not decorate the walls of his wine shop with pretty pictures such as “All the religions being drawn together as beads on one string” and “seven hundred years of peace;” and then invite the lover to cross deserts of heart-dryness and oceans of tears to receive the wine of his kiss; but when the lover at last staggers in at the door, the Beloved spends the whole time showing him the pictures and expecting his interest and admiration.

What a Beloved our Beloved is! What a Beloved we have chosen to serve! What is it to the thirst-crazed lover if a lot of glass beads are strung on one string? Will that make them turn into diamonds? What if there is seven hundred years of peace? Will not war again follow?


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