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We wept, we prayed, we stood vigil,
Pressed our heads against the grilled hospital gate,
Hoping some movement inside
Would signal positive tidings.
We called in the police
Lest something untoward happened
As fools discussed the money at stake
And your corporeal body lay inside
Breathing its last
Supported by ventilators
And intravenous stimulators.
Baba, I had laughed at you
When you visited my village
In my young days.
I dubbed your acts
Magical pranks.
I was then atheistic
And morbidly rationalistic,
Not knowing what
Being either really did mean.
I could but only do
What every other rascal did.
I grew up enough,
Perhaps wise enough,
To admit that the world
Couldn’t exist at all
In the first place
Sans some intelligence
Which knew it
And homed in it
Like itself
No matter what name
We called it by.
I could then resonate
With what you said.
Yet doubts remained
But I could at least
Remain neutral and avoid
Being foolishly judgmental
Like the erstwhile young scoundrel.
Now you have flown away,
All things born have to fade away.
The play of the last so many days
Has come to an end
Giving our ignorance a field day
Of speculation why
A saint was embodied
Suffered mortal tragedies.
Disease, doctors, gadgets,
And what not,
A whole world of medicine,
Every-hour bulletins,
A frail failing body amidst
In the throes of entropy
That our blind eyes
Had for years
Sought for darshan
Not knowing what lay behind.
We wept and wailed,
Prayed for a miracle in vain
Refusing to open our eyes
To the truth of our being
That you are,
For we always relished
Being mundane,
Fastidiously inane,
Accustomed to embodied gods
That strode our roads
Rubbing shoulders with us,
No matter how much
You and others strived.
Now, Alas! There is talk
Of a resurrection, reincarnation,
Your promised return
To the darkness of our ignorance
To enact another play
For us to foolishly devour
With eyes that are blind
To the light that lights the stage.
Groping in daylight is our incurable wont
Our backs eternally turned to the sun.
Om Shantih, Shantih, Shantih
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