Sections taken from the Secret of self (Asrare khudi)
A Tale of Decline of Moral Culture
Hast thou heard that in the time of old
The sheep dwelling in a certain pasture
So increased and multiplied
That they feared no enemy?
At last, from the malice of Fate,
Their breasts were smitten by a shaft of calamity.
The tigers sprang forth from the jungle
And rushed upon the sheepfold.
Conquest and dominion are signs of strength,
Victory is the manifestation of strength.
Those fierce tigers beat the drum of sovereignty,
They deprived the sheep of freedom.
For as much as tigers must have their prey,
That meadow was crimsoned with the blood of the sheep.
One of the sheep which was clever and acute,
Old in years, cunning as a weather‐beaten wolf,
Being grieved at the fate of his fellows
And sorely vexed by the violence of the tigers,
Made complaint of the course of Destiny
And sought by craft to restore the fortunes of his race.
The weak, in order to preserve themselves,
Seek device from skilled intelligence.
In slavery, for the sake of repelling harm,
The power of scheming becomes quickened.
And when the madness of revenge gains hold,
The mind of the slave meditates rebellion.
“Ours is a hard knot,ʹʹ said this sheep to himself,
“The ocean of our griefs hath no shore,
By force we sheep cannot escape from the tiger:
Our legs are silver, his paws are steel.
ʹTis not possible, however much one exhorts and counsels.
To create in a sheep the disposition of a wolf.
But to make the furious tiger a sheep – that is possible:
To make him unmindful of his nature – that is possible.”
He became as a prophet inspired,
And began to preach to the blood‐thirsty tigers.
He cried out, “O ye insolent liars,
Who wot not of a day of ill luck that shall continue for ever!
I am possessed of spiritual power,
I am an apostle sent by God for the tigers.
I come as a light for the eye that is dark,
I come to establish laws and give commandments.
Repent of your blameworthy deeds!
O plotters of evil, bethink yourselves of good!
Whoso is violent and strong is miserable:
Lifeʹs solidity depends on self‐denial.
The spirit of the righteous is fed by fodder:
The vegetarian is pleasing unto God.
The sharpness of your teeth brings disgrace upon you
And makes the eye of your perception blind.
Paradise is for the weak alone,
Strength is but a means to perdition.
It is wicked to seek greatness and glory,
Penury is sweeter than princedom.
Lightning does not threaten the cornseed:
If the seed become a stack, it is unwise.
If you are sensible, you will be a mote of sand, not a Sahara,
So that you may enjoy the sunbeams.
O thou that delightest in the slaughter of sheep,
Slay thy self, and thou wilt have honour!
Life is rendered unstable
By violence, oppression, revenge, and exercise of power.
Though trodden underfoot, the grass grows up time after time
And washes the sleep of death from its eye again and again.
Forget thy self, if thou art wise!
If thou dost not forget thy self, thou art mad.
Close thine eyes, close thine ears, close thy lips,
That thy thought may reach the lofty sky!
This pasturage of the world is naught, naught:
O fool, do not torment thy phantom!
The tiger‐tribe was exhausted by hard struggles,
They had set their hearts on enjoyment of luxury.
This soporific advice pleased them,
In their stupidity they swallowed the charm of the sheep.
He that used to make sheep his prey
Now embraced a sheepʹs religion.
The tigers took kindly to a diet of fodder:
At length their tigerish nature was broken.
The fodder blunted their teeth
And put out the awful flashings of their eyes.
By degrees courage ebbed from their breasts,
The sheen departed from mirror.
That frenzy of uttermost exertion remained not,
That craving after action dwelt in their hearts no more.
They lost the power of ruling and the
resolution to be independent,
They lost reputation, prestige, and fortune.
Their paws that were as iron became strengthless;
Their souls died and their bodies became tombs.
Bodily strength diminished while spiritual fear increased;
Spiritual fear robbed them of courage.
Lack of courage produced a hundred diseases—
Poverty, pusillanimity, low mindedness.
The wakeful tiger was lulled to slumber by
the sheepʹs charm
He called his decline Moral Culture.
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Story of Bu Ali
I will tell thee a story of Bu Ali,
Whose name is renowned in India,
Him who sang of the ancient rose‐garden
And discoursed to us about the lovely rose:
The air of his fluttering skirt
Made a Paradise of this fire‐born country.
His young disciple went one day to the bazaar –
The wine of Bu Aliʹs discourse had turned his head.
The governor of the city was coming along on horseback,
His servant and staff‐bearer rode beside him.
The forerunner shouted, “O senseless one,
Do not get in the way of the governorʹs escort!”
But the dervish walked on with drooping head,
Sunk in the sea of his own thoughts.
The staff‐bearer, drunken with pride,
Broke his staff on the head of the dervish.
Who stepped painfully out of the governorʹs way.
Sad and sorry, with a heavy heart.
He came to Bu Ali and complained
And released the tears from his eyes.
Like lightning that falls on mountains,
The Shaykh poured forth a fiery torrent of speech.
He let loose from his soul a strange fire,
He gave an order to his secretary:
“Take thy pen and write a letter
From a dervish to a sultan!
Say, ʹThy governor has broken my servantʹs head;
He has cast burning coals on his own life.
Arrest this wicked governor,
Or else I will bestow thy kingdom on another.
The letter of the saint who had access to God
Caused the monarch to tremble in every limb.
His body was filled with aches,
He grew as pale as the evening sun.
He sought out a handcuff for the governor
And entreated Bu Ali to pardon this offence.
Khusrau, the sweet‐voiced eloquent poet,
Whose harmonies flow from the mind
And whose genius hath the soft brilliance of moonlight,
Was chosen to be the king’s ambassador.
When he entered Bu Ali’s presence and played his lute,
His song melted the fakir’s soul like glass.
One strain of Poesy bought the grace
Of a kingdom that was firm as a mountain.
Do not wound the heart of dervishes,
Do not throw thyself into burning fire!
Story of a young man of Merv who came to the saint Ali Hajwiri (god have mercy on him) and complained that he was oppressed by his enemies
The saint of Hajwir was venerated by the peoples,
And Pir‐i‐Sanjar visited his tomb as a pilgrim.
With ease he broke down the mountain barriers
And sowed the seed of Islam in India.
The age of Omar was restored by his godliness,
The fame of the Truth was exalted by his words,
He was a guardian of the honour of the Koran.
The house of Falsehood fell in ruins at his gaze.
The dust of the Punjab was brought to life by his breath,
Our dawn was made splendid by his sun.
He was a lover, and withal, a courier of Love:
The secrets of Love shone forth from his brow.
I will tell a story of his perfection
And enclose a whole rose‐bed in a single bud.
A young man, cypress‐tall,
Came from the town of Merv to Lahore.
He went to see the venerable saint,
That the sun might dispel his darkness.
“I am hammed in,” he said, “by foes;
I am as a glass in the midst of stones.
Do thou teach me, O sire of heavenly rank,
How to lead my life amongst enemies!”
The wise Director, in whose nature
Love had allied beauty with majesty,
Answered: “Thou art unread in Lifeʹs lore,
Careless of its end and its beginning.
Be without fear of others!
Thou art a sleeping force: awake!
When the stone thought itself to be glass,
It became glass and got into the way of breaking.
If the traveller thinks himself weak,
He delivers his soul unto the brigand.
How long wilt thou regard thyself as water and clay?
Create from thy clay a flaming Sinai!
Why be angry with mighty men?
Why complain of enemies?
I will declare the truth: thine enemy is thy friend;
His existence crowns thee with glory.
Whosoever knows the states of the self
Considers a powerful enemy to be a blessing from God.
To the seed of Man the enemy is as a rain‐cloud:
He awakens its potentialities.
If thy spirit be strong, the stones in thy way are as water:
What wrecks the torrent of the ups and downs of the road?
The sword of resolution is whetted by the stones in the way
And put to proof by traversing stage after stage.
What is the use of eating and sleeping like a beast?
What is the use of being, unless thou have strength in thyself?
When thou makʹst thyself strong with self,
Thou wilt destroy the world at thy pleasure.
If thou wouldst pass away, become free of self;
If thou wouldst live, become full of self!
What is death? To become oblivious to self.
Why imagine that it is the parting of soul and body?
Abide in self, like Joseph!
Advance from captivity to empire!
Think of self and be a man of action!
Be a man of God, bear mysteries within!”
I will explain the matter by means of stories,
I will open the bud by the power of my breath.
“ʹTis better that a loverʹs secret
Should be told by the lips of others.”
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Story of the bird that was faint with thirst
A bird was faint with thirst,
The breath in his body was heaving like waves of smoke.
He saw a diamond in the garden:
Thirst created a vision of water.
Deceived by the sun bright stone
The foolish bird fancied that it was water.
He got no moisture from the gem:
He pecked it with his beak, but it did not wet his palate.
“O thrall of vain desire,” said the diamond,
Thou hast sharpened thy greedy beak on me;
But I am not a dew drop, I give no drink,
I do not live for the sake of others.
Wouldst thou hurt me? Thou art mad!
A life that reveals the self is strange to thee.
My water will shiver the beaks of birds
And break the jewel of man’s life.”
The bird won not his heartʹs wish from the diamond
And turned away from the sparkling stone.
Disappointment swelled in his breast,
The song in his throat became a wail.
Upon a rose‐twig a drop of dew
Gleamed like the tear in a nightingaleʹs eye:
All its glitter was owing to the sun,
It was trembling in fear of the sun—
A restless sky born star
That had stopped for a moment, from desire to be seen;
Oft deceived by bud and flower,
It had gained nothing from Life.
There it hung, ready to drop,
Like a tear on the eyelashes of a lover who hath lost his heart.
The sorely distressed bird hopped under the rose‐bush,
The dewdrop trickled into his mouth.
O thou that wouldst deliver thy soul from enemies.
I ask thee – “Art thou a drop of water or a gem?”
When the bird melted in the fire of thirst,
It appropriated the life of another.
The drop was not solid and gem‐like;
The diamond had a being, the drop had none.
Never for an instant neglect self‐preservation:
Be a diamond, not a dewdrop!
Be massive in nature, like mountains,
And bear on thy crest a hundred clouds laden with floods of rain!
Save thyself by affirmation of self,
Compress thy quick silver into silver ore!
Produce a melody from the string of self,
Make manifest the secrets of self!
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Story of the diamond and the coal
Now I will open one more gate of Truth,
I will tell thee another tale.
The coal in the mine said to the diamond,
O thou entrusted with splendours eve lasting,
We are comrades, and our being is one;
The source of our existence is the same,
Yet while I die here in the anguish of worthlessness,
Thou art set on the crowns of emperors.
My stuff is so vile that I am valued less than earth,
Whereas the mirrorʹs heart is rent by thy beauty.
My darkness illumines the chafing dish,
Then my substance is incinerated at last.
Every one puts the sole of his foot on my head
And covers my stock of existence with ashes.
My fate must needs be deplored;
Dost thou know what is the gist of my being?
It is a condensed wavelet of smoke,
Endowed with a single spark;
Both in feature and nature thou art star‐like,
Splendours rise from every side of thee.
Now thou becomeʹst the light of a monarchʹs eye,
Now thou adornest the haft of a dagger.”
“O sagacious friend!” said the diamond,
“Dark earth, when hardened, becomes in dignity as a bezel.
Having been at strife with its environment,
It is ripened by the struggle and grows hard like a stone.
ʹTis this ripeness that has endowed my form with light
And filled my bosom with radiance.
Because thy being is immature, thou hast become abased;
Because thy body is soft, thou art burnt.
Be void of fear, grief, and anxiety;
Be hard as a stone, be a diamond!
Whosoever strives hard and grips tight,
The two worlds are illumined by him.
A little earth is the origin of the Black Stone
Which puts forth its head in the Ka‘bah:
Its rank is higher than Sinai,
It is kissed by the swarthy and the fair.
In solidity consists the glory of Life;
Weakness is worthlessness and immaturity.”
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Story of the Shaykh and the Brahmin, followed by a conversation between Ganges and Himalaya to the effect that the continuation of social life depends on firm attachment to the characteristic traditions of the community
At Benares lived a venerable Brahmin,
Whose head was deep in the ocean of Being and Not‐being.
He had a large knowledge of philosophy
But was well‐disposed to the seekers after God.
His mind was eager to explore new problems,
His intellect moved on a level with the Pleiades;
His nest was as high as that of the Anka;
Sun and moon were cast, like rue, on the flame of his thought.
For a long time he laboured and sweated,
But philosophy brought no wine to his cup
Although he set many a snare in the gardens of learning,
His snares never caught a glimpse of the Ideal bird;
And notwithstanding that the nails of his
thought were dabbled with blood,
The knot of Being and Not‐being remained untied.
The sighs on his lips bore witness to his despair,
His countenance told tales of his distraction.
One day he visited an excellent Shaykh,
A man who bad in his breast a heart of gold.
The Brahmin laid the seal of silence on his lips
And lent his ear to the Sageʹs discourse.
Then said the Shaykh: “O wanderer in the lofty sky!
Pledge thyself to be true, for a little, to the earth;
Thou hast lost thy way in wildernesses of speculation,
Thy fearless thought hath passed beyond Heaven.
Be reconciled with earth, O sky‐traveller!
Do not wander in quest of the essence of the stars!
I do not bid thee abandon thine idols.
Art thou an unbeliever? Then be worthy of the badge of unbelief!
O inheritor of ancient culture,
Turn not thy back on the path thy fathers trod;
If a peopleʹs life is derived from unity,
Unbelief too is source of unity.
Thou that art not even a perfect infidel,
Art unfit to worship at the shrine of the spirit.
We both are far astray from the road of devotion:
Thou art far from Azar, and I from Abraham.
Our Majnun hath not fallen into melancholy for his Laylaʹs sake:
He hath not become perfect in the madness of love.
When the lamp of self expires,
What is the use of heaven surveying imagination?”
Once on a time, laying hold of the skirt of the mountain,
Ganges said to Himalaya:
“O thou mantled in snow since the morn of creation,
Thou whose form is girdled with streams,
God made thee a partner in the secrets of heaven,
But deprived thy foot of graceful gait.
He took away from thee the power to walk:
What avails this sublimity and stateliness?
Life springs from perpetual movement:
Motion constitutes the waveʹs whole existence,”
When the mountain heard this taunt from the river,
He puffed angrily like a sea of fire,
And answered: “Thy wide waters are my looking‐glass;
Within my bosom are a hundred rivers like thee.
This graceful gait of thine is an instrument of death:
Whoso goeth from self is meet to die.
Thou hast no knowledge of thine own case,
Thou exultest in thy misfortune: thou art a fool!
O born of the womb of the revolving sky,
A fallen‐in bank is better than thou!
Thou hast made thine existence an offering to the ocean,
Thou hast thrown the rich purse of thy life to the highway man.
Be self‐contained like the rose in the garden,
Do not go to the florist in order to spread thy perfume!
To live is to grow in thyself
And gather roses from thine own flower‐bed.
Ages have gone by and my foot is fast in earth:
Dost thou fancy that I am far from my goal?
My being grew and reached the sky,
The Pleiades sank to rest under my skirts;
Thy being vanishes in the ocean,
But on my crest the stars bow their heads.
Mine eye sees the mysteries of heaven,
Mine ear is familiar with angels’ wings.
Since I glowed with the heat of unceasing toil,
I amassed rubies, diamonds, and other gems.
I am stone within, and in the stone is fire:
Water cannot pass over my fire!”
Art thou a drop of water? Do not break at. thine own feet,
But endeavour to surge and wrestle with the sea.
Desire the water of a jewel, become a jewel!
Be an ear‐drop, adorn a beauty!
Oh, expand thyself! Move swiftly!
Be a cloud that shoots lightning and sheds a flood of rain!
Let the ocean sue for thy storms as a beggar,
Let it complain of the straitness of its skirts
Let it deem itself less than a wave
And glide along at thy feet!
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