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In the temple Thou art amidst plenty of adornments, decorations and
multicoloured beautiful garments, my Lord! Out Thou standest at the temple
door amidst all deprivations, in the ugly, tattered, scanty loin-cloth.
In the temple Thou art amidst all magnificence, dazzling gold and
jewellery. Out at the corridor Thy hand is outstretched for a copper coin
from the passers by.
In the temple Thou art served in sumptuous delicacies, Thy devotees
thronging round Thy idol, offering flowers at Thy feet and singing in Thy
praise, bathing Thee in the sacred water of the Ganga. A bony frame of
starvation and misery, out Thou standest at the temple door. Spurning and
scorning Thee at the sight of Thy begging bowl and stretched palm, the long
line of devotees pass out the temple door.
In the temple devotees sing Thy hymns and damsels dance in glee.
Out at the temple door abuses are hurled at Thee, poverty and starvation
stalk round Thee.
In the temple Thy form fascinates the mind but does not reveal to
all alike. Out at the door it transcends the innermost recesses of the
heart, touched the very depths of the conscience and snakes the soul.
My Lord, incomprehensible is Thy duality. Yet I am allured to bow
to Thee and worship Thee at the temple door where Thou standest – a figure
of poverty and deprivation, misery and starvation, scorn and degradation –
with Thy begging bowl and outstretched palm. |
