You say She has four hands, but I say she has none.
You say She has three eyes, but I say she has none.
You say She drinks from the skull-cup, I say she does not.
You say She dances on burning pyres, I say she does not.
You say She is a ‘mother’, I say she is but a cheap nāyikā.
The pious have adorned her manifold; lo, you are transfixed,
And her long drawn eyes have aroused your heart’s fervour!
You have clasped hands before the mother of the universe.
You see what this nāyikā shows you, blind to the things unseen.
You hear what is heard about the nāyikā, deaf to all else unheard.
Go sing songs of homecoming for her who forsook home,
Go ply her with your food, and oils, and herbs, and flowers:
Offer unto her what you may think she does not already have,
And thereafter, hand her a wish-list of all that you want in turn.
Light your fires, stack your kindling sticks, and get the blaze high;
Recite exactly what your manual books say, never ever deviating,
For the path has been laid down, so you may become a good boy.
Now in the waters, her heavenly crown turns to fancy paper,
And her glorious skin becomes just mixtures of paint and oil,
The mother now is a clod of matted hay, and mud, and paint:
O, how the pious weep and cry, for the mother has gone away,
The mother is not here anymore, the infants wail and bemoan.
The pious see her in part, for they looked through eyes and ears,
But the lovers now break into smiles, for now they see her in full.
O you wretched fool, get a grip on your mind already!
This good-for-nothing nāyikā laughs and leads astray.
She shows herself as all that she never is, and never was.
And by all your piety, you keep running around in circles.
The lovers feel her in their body’s shivers and life’s gasps;
The lovers know the masks she dons, they know all her lies.
The pious look for her at the abandoned haunts of lovers;
And the lovers find her where the pious do not think to look.
If I said— darkness is the mother of light;
If I said— ignorance is the mother of wisdom;
If I said— dharma arises from adharma,
And that dispassion is born of the sensual;
If I said— dissolution is the mother of creation,
Could you tell me then, you pious fool—
Who are you, and who is your mother?
You look into darkness, and say: I cannot see.
You look into ignorance, and ask: how can I know?
You look into squalor, and you ask for splendor.
You look into adharma, and you ask for dharma.
You look into the sensual, and ask for dispassion.
You look into the world, and ask for deliverance.
I say to you, fool—you’re kind of missing the point!
What light will reveal the darkness?
What wisdom exposes the ignorance?
What splendor makes peace with squalor?
And what creation is unafraid of dissolution?
That light eludes fools who keep looking for mothers,
Unlike the lovers who know the yoni of their beloved.
For the mumukṣu—
Śrāvaṇa Śukla Ekādaśī,
The 18th of August in 2021 CE.