Who taught you the art of living,—absorbed

In silence which comes from the timeless Tree

Through whose branches blow tranquil winds? Above

The mist of thought, in wideness of the sky,

White peaks of calm remote Monastery

Rise in sereneness when is heard no more

The voice of the creature, the brook’s known song,

Nor the din of the seasons. You remain

Unperturbed despite a thousand trifles

Of the daily life, despite afflictions

In nature of the words, or their meanings,

Or sentiments that gush from ambition,

Despite this world grieving in death. Your work

In the market is a butcher’s, and each

Piece of meat you sell is the best, each act

A wonderful non-act. Whatsoever moves,

Moves in the great Nothing; time’s paces too.

So did your children, one by one. Heartless

You might have been towards those little souls;

Wounding stones of the village streets hurtful

Were, and out of sight you saw them vanish

To become stars in darkness of the night.

People ask you often if Bodhidharma

Came from the East; but you answer them not,

Except pointing at your knife. But these days

You have stopped doing even that, as if

Echoing back from Nirvana you heard

The sound of an occult clap revealing

The great indefatigable mystery

Of the void. Possibly, the Never-born

Had his first birth in it; could be your knife

Also sprang up from its womb. Luminous

In strength, its swift cutting edge is the calm

Of dissolution’s good. Gaytsho Tshering,

My prized childhood friend, quite a long distance

Bodhidharma has now covered to reach you.

RY Deshpande

27 June 2004