Poem - The Kiln of God
Let the Mother enter your life like a swift river
And let Her wash away
All your human belongings and attachments
And many coats of old varnish
And gradually release
The Godhead imprisoned in the mud.
Have confidence in the Mother.
Her least gesture, Her insignificant glance
Are acts of supreme Benediction.
We must allow Her to build in us Her Temple
By removing brick by brick the old human structure
And replacing them with new bricks
From the Kiln of God
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Niranjan Guha Roy
Where was Man?
Where was Man
When God brought out the Suns from the womb of Nothingness,
Launched the illumined galaxies in the timeless currents of space
And laid out the flight-path of the cosmic destiny?
The inward call
Our aspiration for the Divine, in the beginning and for a long time afterwards is coated with inferior elements. To have a pure and simple aspiration for the Divine, to know Him, to be possessed by Him, to belong to Him and to nothing else is an extremely rare spiritual phenomenon. Read more
A magnificent plan
Led by the Organist the soul broke into the wide rapture
Of a daring harmony in a moment of inner liberation.
Walls fell apart, boundaries were rescinded.
The Red Barren Hills
When the rains come, the red barren hills
In no time become emerald green,
Covered with grass, weeds, plants, flowers and trees.
The Mocking Bird
Man is infatuated with his creative power, superb vision,
His inventive genius, his deep insight of how things should be.
He is all the while engaged in correcting God’s mistakes.
Critical and convinced of His incompetence,
He has dismissed Him as a stupid counselor,
A bad ill-trained Manager, unworthy of any trust or faith.
If there is a God, He is simply powerless, gone senile with age.
He has no control over his creation, the runaway satellite.
Men are busy in labs, factories, universities, in religion and politics,
On land, sea and air to make up for His inefficiency,
Repair His innumerable false moves, bad judgement.
God is an opium for the illiterate, a drug for the poor.
No right thinking man must pronounce His name,
This age-old superstition still kept alive in crumbling temples,
Out-dated convents and monasteries, holy places,
Will die a natural death in this luminous era
Of man’s conquest of land, sea and the outer space.
Even if there is a God, why should He be concerned at all
With this tiny dot, a flying short-lived spark, a speck of dust
In the measureless immensity of the Space around us.
The universe is like a self-winding watch, just moves on.
We must make the earth safe for our children and their children.
The problem of death is a murky question for the present,
We will prolong life with a pig’s heart, kidneys from the monkeys.
Someone is quietly chuckling : man is just Nature’s aborted attempt.
A new species, God-possessed children, a new race is growing.
They may be even some members of your family, a little queer,
Psychologically unbalanced, misfits, irreparable fools
Suffocating, imprisoned in a dark cell
Yearning for the auspicious sign of the final deliverance,
The miracle shattering the walls around their souls,
And who dote on an invisible Friend illuminating their days,
On a new light, on a new world of divine harmony
Destroying all falsehood and fostering the divinity in men.
Niranjan Guha Roy 1997
Look at the Mystery all around
Look at the mystery all around
Look at the barren frozen fields
With the first rays of the spring sun,
All becomes green, yellow, red, blue and gold,
Song, dance and laughter, air vibrant with perfume.
Look at the stars filled sky at night,
Twinkling, billions of them, far, far away
Yet all made of the same substance : God’s own.
As the sun, moon, earth, air, water, fire and soil and stone
A truckload of garbage contains all our hopes and dreams.
As after a good shower desert blossoms into a garden
So too a bucket full of earth holds within itself, in seeds
Unborn godheads, all our ancestors, our replicas.
Where is death anywhere, even when you and I disappear
In these billions years, we will wake up somewhere beyond
From the all-containing womb of matter after a long rest
To play the eternal comedy again as if for the first time.
Everything that has gone, all that is, all the new to come
All the inconceivable wonders lie dormant in the stars somewhere.
Who knows in a distant galaxy, boys and girls are singing,
Palm trees swaying in the wind, seagulls, dolphins playing in the sea.
No one dies ever, there is only a change of decor and the plot divine.
Souls, souls, billions and billions of souls sleeping all around us
Waiting for the call of the Divine, the magic Flute.
N.Guha Roy
All is verily the Brahman, the Mother, the Eternal
Without the Mother life is a harsh monotony of an endless journey. Even the richest Temple where the light of the Mother is absent is like the dead shell of a brilliant giant oyster.
When the Mother is present in the consciousness with Her smile, the most frightful hell melts away like a bad dream to reveal an unimaginable Wonder, a mystic ineffable Splendor.
Behind the shabby costumes and repulsive look of a stranger hides our Friend, the most marvelous inimitable supreme Actor.
As long as man remains a man, merely a thinker closed to light, there is little sign of his redemption in sight but for the Grace. In an impulse, he could exterminate his own kind in a flash.
The same blood flows in the veins of all men everywhere on earth, his organs are not stamped with any religion or creed. The devilish violence, lust, greed, hate and intolerance, the mad stampede for money and power, the ego-drive for pleasure are symptoms of his chronic illness, tragic cause of his fallen state.
Yet deep in the occult heart of man dwells a Divinity, a high god who is preparing through the ages, the miraculous hour of revelation.
The Supreme Mother is pressing down on the thick obstinate wall of petrified ignorance separating man from his all-knowing Soul. One by one, little by little, the desperate centers of resistance, the towering castles of violence are crumbling under Her pressure.
In some corner, somewhere, a new heart, a luminous divine bud
Fed with the Mother’s radiant love is blossoming into a flower.
The Mother is the heaven, the deathless abode of the supernal delight.
All the maladies vanish magically
when the mind is struck by Her lightings
And flooded with Her Power and sweetness.
The most desolate cruel desert becomes a blissful Paradise.
Om Douce Mère.
Om Sacchidananda swarupini, vijayini, janani.
Niranjan Guha Roy 1993
paintings The Mother in meditation
La Mère absorbed in deep meditation
Niranjan Guha Roy
Prayer of the devoted violins
We all need utmost goodwill and gentle thoughts and prayers
to go through the difficult and tragic life on earth.
Let our life be a compassionate choir of devoted violins vast,
wide, deep, soft and swift and embrace the whole creation
O Mother Divine, flow in dense rain showers
Of ecstatic vibrating violin music in our body and soul.
O Mother Divine, come down on the wings of praying violins
And heal our groaning bones, aching nerves and flesh.
Liberate the psyche in a coma locked in a secret chamber.
O Mother Divine, transmute our animal bodies into majestic temples
To house the Eternal Lord and His Mate.
O devoted violins play a sublime symphony of gratitude
In honour of our Guide,Teacher of supreme harmony and beauty,
Our gentle and sweet Douce Mère.
The Mother and Sri Aurobindo come to fetch the soul of the violinist
( last painting of Niranjan Guha Roy - 2004)