Gorakhnath asks Kabir:
“Tell me, O Kabir, when did your vocation begin? Where did your love have its rise?”
Rabindranath Tagore’s translations of Kabir’s poetry adds a transcendental layer to the language of the mystic. Purushottam Agrawal’s contemplation of the poet saint pulls it gently back down to earth and roots it in his context. The modernisation of Kabir, his new-ageification, is also a deracination of him, Agrawal reminds us, pointing to the depth of his knowledge, his philosophy, his study, his knowing. Kabir is no accidental mystic, born out of a bolt of revelation or an innocent belief, he reminds us, but self-crafted and canny in his weaving his way through the multiple strands of ideology such that he decodes a pattern and philosophy all his own, one that earns the praise of those who would be ordinarily opposed to him, and stands the test of time.
A beautiful exposition that brings together what the western or non-denominational lens has seen as contradictory strands. Especially to the unrooted, sans tongue, sans ear, sans anchor, like me, if you only knew the poet saint through a few couplets you had to learn by heart for an exam, this is an essential read. Kabir’s beauty is that he is incredibly rooted, and yet, so expansively free.
The music is by Pandit Chhannulal Mishra singing Kabir; Kaise sajan ghar jaibey ho Rama.
Books 1.4: Kabir kab se bhaye vairagi