On land, in the air, and under the sea,
the ubiquitous digital eyes looking, looking, and looking
at the vast surging sea of humanity
along the confluence of the Ganga, Jamuna, and the mythical Saraswati.
It’s where the world comes to search for a place
not in the sun but in the teeming warmth of the heart’s domain
where there’re no razor-ribboned fences and walls of partition,
but the creed of love, faith, and oneness in a resounding declaration.
It’s boisterous gathering — moving, moving, and moving —
the world has never seen.
The colours, the scented walkways, flowers, flags and festoons,
balloons, blaring conch shells, loud drums, and chanting,
the matted locks, flowing saffron robes, the effulgence in the sadhus’ eyes,
ash-smeared mystics wielding swords,
yogis sleeping on beds of nails and fire, the discourses on the Atma,
the smiles, the sacred greetings, and humanity overflowing
like the Ganga in the monsoon season.
Many come for the washing away of karma,
for throwing a rock into the wheel of samsara.
But for many too, every dip in the Sangam —
an immersion in the sea of stillness,
a rare, rare acquaintance with the Divinity within.
We hear of the churning of the primeval ocean,
when the gods and demons labour in fury for the elixir of immortality.
And what was that fierce fight when the effulgent pitcher emerged,
but the ceaseless strife
between light and darkness
in the human mind and heart
that one dip in that sea of boundless bliss can put to timeless rest.
Sincerely,
Cecil Ramkirath
