The Storm

The storm of knowledge has come;
Its blast has swept away
My thatched roof of delusion.
My hut, built by Maya,
Can no longer hold its own:
The two posts of duality
Have come crashing to the ground,
The rafters of attachment
Have been torn apart,
The eaves of avarice Have collapsed,
And the pitcher of evil tendencies
Is shattered into fragments.
_{Kabir, The Weaver of God’s Name}

In this poem Kabir likens knowledge to the strong winds that some-times swoop down on the Indian countryside in summer, destroying faulty structures. Like the wind, he says, true knowledge sweeps away the delusion that maya has built around us. And then the saints come and they rebuild the roof and create a shelter that is reliable and secure.

With concentration and technique
The Saints have rebuilt the roof,
A roof strong and stable,
Free from leaks and drips.
When falsehood and duplicity
Fled from my body’s house,
I realized the Lord
In all his glory.

When delusion is forced to give way to knowledge, then comes a downpour of the Lord’s grace. Kabir continues:

Rain came in torrents
After the storm,
Torrents of divine love
That drenched this slave,
Heart and soul.
Then, O Kabir, emerged the sun,
The glorious sun of the Realization,
And darkness faded away.

One evening at the Dera, in the spring of 1980, an incident occurred that relates strongly to the above poem. A sudden strong wind came up and we were forced to close all windows. Still, the fine soft sand of Dera managed to penetrate into every nook and cranny, leaving a layer of grit on all surfaces. Then came the rain, and the next morning the earth, trees, lawns and flowers were like wet laundry waiting to be hung up to dry.

We set off for the morning satsang. Some days of initiation were in progress after the April bhandara, so the crowds were quite large. People were pouring in and finding a seat on the mats spread over the vast area under the shade of the colourful shamiyanas. Suddenly there was a rustle and a stirring, and a general exclamation issued from the mouths of the masses, as happens when the Master appears unexpectedly. We were momentarily confused, until we realized that all heads were facing away from the dais. Finally, the word got through to us that the Himalayas, those mightiest of mountains, were in full view! Most of the time, they are not visible from the Dera at all. The storm of the past night had cleared the impurities in the air over the entire vast Punjab plain and enabled us to witness this rare and truly magnificent sight.

That day we were like children going on a picnic. After satsang most of us walked to the river so that we could appreciate the full grandeur and beauty of the mountains and breathe in the fresh clean air. It was an occasion of joy and inspiration, and a strong awareness of Master’s boundless love – an opportunity to realize that the Master is not limited to his physical form but is present in every atom of his creation.

But were the Himalayas really responsible for the festive mood that swept through the entire colony that day? They were the catalyst, yes, but, after all, those mountains are merely very large heaps of earth and rock – as much part of the illusion as are our frail human bodies, subject to change and decay. The inspirational force was, then and always will be, love: the Master’s love or Shabd.

If the vision of the snow-capped Himalayas or the Victoria Falls or even a butterfly or a flower can fill us with peace and joy and all the qualities that love brings, then how much more so may our minds become vessels of joy through meditation and focusing the attention at the eye centre. And, unlike the fleeting moments of pleasure followed by the inevitable pain, which is the best this creation provides, the gradual elevation of the soul of the disciple towards the inner Master creates a slow but sure progress to permanent bliss and ecstasy.