I FELL IN LOVE WITH KABIR almost as soon as I met him. He was sharp, funny, vivid and astonishing. What you didn’t want to hear, he would say—over and over, in your face. But you liked it because, really, you did want to hear it.

He would say: “Death is coming, any second. When it does, you’ll turn into rotten meat.” I didn’t want to hear that. But really, I did.

He would say: “You have a serious addiction to lying—to yourself and others. This habitual lying creates complicated entanglements that are called karma. No one but you can untangle this karma.” I didn’t want to hear that, and yet I did.

He would say: “The things you run to for comfort, security or escape will never provide any of those things.” Again, part of me definitely didn’t want to hear this. But a deeper part hungered to hear it and face it.

Kabir was an oral poet who probably didn’t know how to read or write. Popular belief gives him a 120-year lifespan, from 1398 to 1518; some scholars suggest a death date of 1448. He is everywhere associated with the signature line, “Kahai kabir suno” (Kabir says, Listen!). The oral tradition of transmitting Kabir’s verses has continued uninterrupted for more than 500 years. Even today, all over North India, singers in many styles and traditions sing Kabir, learn from each other as well as from books or recordings, keep their own handwritten collections of texts, change things accidentally or on purpose, and give Kabir local flavors in language, imagery, music and theme. We will never know for sure what actually came out of Kabir’s mouth and what has been added or altered in the half-millennium or so since he sang out verses in his hometown of Varanasi.

I’ve been studying and translating Kabir since 1976, but in 2002 something new happened in the way I approached his poetry. I started to focus on oral traditions rather than printed texts, spending extended periods of time in India with singers. For one thing, this started to make me very happy in a way I had never expected. For another, it transformed my way of understanding Kabir.

The two most commonly heard forms of Kabir’s utterances are bhajans (devotional songs) and dohas (couplets), the latter with a pithy proverbial quality, one or more of them often sung prior to a bhajan to set the mood and theme.

Following are translations of some songs and couplets that came to me through the oral tradition. I received them mainly from the voices of two singers, to whom I am forever indebted: Prahlad Singh Tipanya, a renowned folk singer of Malwa; and Kumar Gandharva, one of the greatest Indian musicians of the twentieth century, who passed away in 1992 before I could hear him in person but whose family welcomed me into their home, shared their knowledge, and allowed me to listen to precious recordings of Kumarji’s Kabir bhajans that are not yet available in published form.

The words here are printed on a page, so they will appear to you as poetry. But they are really songs. Perhaps you might want to sing them.

—Linda Hess

(Repeated refrains are in italics.)

The Brilliant Palace (Rang Mahal Men)

In the brilliant palace,

the wondrous city,

come on my swan,

my brother, see

the visible mantle

on the formless king.

Oh my brother!

There’s no god in that temple.

What’s the point

of beating the gong?

Oh my brother!

There’s no road

to the limitless.

Why show a sign

to one who can’t even see

the guru?

Oh my brother!

Fill your cup,

pour out the nectar.

How can you hide

from your own brother?

Oh my brother!

Kabir shouts—

Find the sign

in the sign!

In This Body

Who can know this? The one who knows!

Without a teacher, the world is blind.

In this body forests and hamlets, right here mountains and trees

In this body gardens and groves, right here the one who waters them

In this body gold and silver, right here the market spread out

In this body diamonds and pearls, right here the one who tests them

In this body seven oceans, right here rivers and streams

In this body moon and sun, right here a million stars

In this body lightning flashing, right here brilliance bursting

In this body the unstruck sound roaring, streams of nectar pouring

In this body the three worlds, right here the one who made them

Kabir says, listen seekers: right here my own teacher.

Who can know this? The one who knows!

Without a teacher, the world is blind.

Stay Alert

Stay alert. A thief is entering the city.

Stay awake. Death is entering your body.

He aims no arrow or pistol,

fires no rifle.

He ignores the rest of the city,

but wants to grab you.

He doesn’t break down the fort’s gate

or attack the castle.

He’s invisible. No one sees him coming or going.

He’s strolling around

inside you.

The darling kids you clothed and fed

will tie you to a bamboo bed

and toss you out.

They’re scared of ghosts.

Kabir says, this is an alien country,

no one belongs to you. Fool,

you came to this world with fists clenched,

you leave with hands open.

The Heart Is Overjoyed. What to Say?

The heart is overjoyed. What to say?

You can put something small

on the scale.

When it overflows the tray,

what to weigh?

You found a diamond,

tied it in a cloth.

Why keep opening it

to count your riches?

The swan has found

Lake Mansarovar.

Why paddle around

in ponds and ditches?

Kabir says,

listen seekers:

here’s God

in the pupil of your eye!

The heart is overjoyed. What to say?

Nowhere, Go There (Begam Ki Gam)

Nowhere, go there,

swan, go there,

nowhere.

Return, stay there,

nowhere.

You’ll have no fear

of birth and death.

That one has no sect, no twelve branches,

no ground to stand on.

You can’t say its name out loud

or silently, so whose name

are you trying to remember,

swan?

Without land, the waterwheel turns,

without cloud, without water,

without a vessel nectar pours,

so drink that nectar,

swan.

Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva, those gods

all come and go. That syllable

isn’t long, it isn’t

short, that’s the word

you should repeat,

swan.

What’s gone will not come back,

so live this moment now.

Kabir says, listen seekers,

build your house

in that country,

swan.

Nowhere, go there,

swan, go there,

nowhere.

Return, stay there,

nowhere.

You’ll have no fear

of birth and death.

∞

From the Spring 2011 issue of Inquiring Mind (Vol. 27, No. 2)

© 2011 Linda Hess