Where is the New Life?

Little Q has a little question for the little world.

He thinks not too highly of himself,
Yet knows he is not too low;
And though he is unsure whether it makes him mad or vain,
But Great dreams in the world he would like to sow.

So Little Q takes his little question
To the wise men of the century,
Who know most things, or think they do,
Who have most answers, or say they do.

And with a piercing cry that rends all veils,
He dares to ask the apostles of the last Incarnates:

“Half a century has passed
Since that Ray was last seen upon the earth.
All the books have been consumed,
And every page explained.
What once we struggled to grasp,
We now proclaim from the rooftops;
And even in our sleep we can recount
How new Sri Aurobindo's Yoga is.

The three stages of transformation
Are now a quiz question.
All definitions have been learnt by heart,
And keywords are flagged at the drop of a hat.

A thousand centres we open in Their names,
A thousand workshops disseminate Their teachings,
A thousand charities are offered in Their service,
A thousand interviews tell how we were graced
By embarking upon this path,
And a thousand delightful retreats
Restore Health, Peace and Balance.

But where, where on earth is the New Life?
THAT which was promised— THAT which we were supposed to embody?
On the bank of which forgotten river have we left the Dream
Which we don’t hesitate to sell to the world?”

A strange silence filled the space,
And certain forces stirred in discomfort;
But they quickly convinced themselves
That their reign was invincible,
And a thousand little Qs
Could not touch it to bend or skew.

But these were kindly men,
Whose task it was to guide.
So the wise men called a council
To tackle this strange little Q,
Who had run a little ahead for comfort
But could be brought back to the milieu.

And so with all the love in the world,
They explained to him
What it means to selflessly serve the Divine.
They—whose whole lives had been spent
Helping seekers on the way—
Were, step by step, brick by brick,
Laying the foundations of the new world.

But until it comes,
With words and talks– one must learn to be content.

Little Q was not the kind
To be rude or brash,
So he humbly bowed before them
And agreed with them with all his heart.

But one little question
He could not help asking,
For what is little Q without his question?

“Monsieurs, you have brought peace to my heart,
Which, I admit, had begun to despair.

But having observed your community
For quite some time,
One curious phenomenon haunts my mind.

The moment one learns how to read
And is gifted with a certain speech;
The moment a little flash of experience,
Or a touch of Power is within reach—

The first thing that stirs in the mind
Is the urge to call a crowd
To teach and preach?

Why does no one think of climbing the heights
Instead of starting a trekking class
At the base camp, respected Monsieurs?”

Some kindly faces lost their smiles,
For wise men know well how to discern
A query from an attack.

“And what do you know about our peak?”

Little Q recoiled in reverence–

“Is it to a Supramental Being that I speak?”

“Attention, Little Q!
We do the Divine's holy work
As His chosen instruments.
We claim nothing for ourselves.

Do you not see the thousands
To whom we bring the light of knowledge?

“Thirty thousand pages of the Avatars’ words
Was insufficient to bring us the Light
And a single session with you
Now Awakens the world’s sight?”

The wise men squirmed a little,
But, maintaining their composure, replied:

“Men sometimes need intermediaries.
And it is only the seeds of God’s Will
That we help to bloom.”

Little Q was evidently the only Devil in the room:

“But, dear Sirs,
It’s words words and only words
So diluted to keep the masses’ interest
That one sometimes cannot even recognise
The Sri Aurobindo and the Mother
Whom you claim to represent.”

The wisemen now laughed.

“That is what you think, little Q.
Have you seen the testimonies we receive?
We change people's lives and bring them close to the Divine.”

Little Q silently bit his lip.

“Was he the only one
Who felt things were out of focus?
Was it really possible
That humanity had rejected a fairy tale
In favour of a circus?”

“A circus? You dismiss this lifelong Sadhana of ours!
We too are on the path of making the New Race.
You are not the only one receiving this Grace”

Little Q, now a little emboldened, replied:

“Sir, I have not been gifted
With miraculous powers or dazzling visions,
But I know how to recognise
When the old species is simply aggrandising itself
And when Superman is fluttering tentatively into being.

The knowledge you bring to the world
Is mind inflating itself to its zenith;
It is not mind transcending itself.”

“That is enough, Little Q.
One would do well to learn
A little humility.”

“The first birds must have been
Very immodest reptiles, Sir.”

“So you think you are a superior species?
What peak have you achieved to question our integrity?”

“No dear Sirs! No– it is not at the heights that I stay
I am so much in the falsehood
That I can see it from a mile away.”

“Oh little Q. You sound vaguely similar to that mad fanatic
Who had once tried to stir some trouble
In our lovely little paradise.”

And some wisemen whispered amongst themselves–

“Now! Now! why take his name
And recall that shame
He who we have even forgotten to hate.”

And little Q flinched a bit
For some blows were hard to take
Yet he stood his ground
And dared to say–

“Monsieurs, perhaps this story took its fatal turn
The day we exiled That flaming Sun.”

“Fatal turn?
Do not spread your pessimism here, Little Q.

Look around you
And behold this vibrant community:
All growing together,
Learning together,
And spreading the Word—
All together!

If this is not the Divine Work,
What is?”

And Little Q felt a little unsure.

For so enticing is the illusion
Of sailing forward
While still splashing at the shore,
That Little Q himself
Might have succumbed to the game,
Had it not betrayed his flame.

But then suddenly he heard grey voices
Sniggering beneath the surface
The wisemen remained oblivious
While he could hear them say–

“O foolish men!
What was once in danger of becoming a religion
Has now become a farce—
And you do not even notice!”

“Strange species– this one!” Another voice joined in
“They stand before the Highest and say–
O Truth–I don't know who you are.
I don't know what you want.
I will look for you, I will find you, and I will make a lecture out of you!

And a mocking laughter rang aloud–

“Even if the Gods gave them deathless life
They would rush to make a manual of immortality!
But what is it to us my friends
As long as we remain the undisputed royalty!”

And these voices gathered themselves into a choir,
Who sang their refrain, dancing in the mire–

Though filled with rue, there was not much to do
For gilded falsehood is a sticky glue.
But what is Little Q without his question?
And so he asked again:

“Sires,
All this is great, no doubt—
But is this our highest possibility?
If YES, then here I end.
But if NO,
Then how do you sleep content?”

And the wisemen shot back–

“What would you have us do?
Escaping the world is not in view
All Life is Yoga, remember little Q?”

“Yes—
Provided you CONQUER Life.
What POWER do you have
Over this life that continues to flow
In its dark muddy stream,
Along banks that certainly
Seem bright and green?”

“Oh?
And what Power do you have, Little Q?”

“None.
But I claim no competence
And have not made an empire of impotence.
So I ask again O wisemen,
Glowing in white and gold
Where, where is that New Life
Not resembling the old?”

“Be patient, my dear little Q
And grow some yogic attitude
That glory will one day come
Till then, come join this fun.”

“The new world is deemed
Not yet fit not to be
That even naked eyes can see.

The tyrants of the body cannot be fought
When unchallenged remains those of our Thought.

For how shall the New Life we find
When we hesitate to even touch
The kingdom of this Mind.

But who planted this seed
This implacable need
That throbs in my skin
And finds nowhere its kin?
I know not why
But I am led to cry
Even now it can BE– if only we WILL.

And though I have no intention
Of disturbing your schemes
A song must in any case sing
To find its place in the flow of things.”

With some genuine empathy in their voices,
They finally replied:

“Oh, poor little Q,
May you find peace and light.
But we must say—
You are far, far away
From becoming calm and wise.”

And Little Q went down on his knees.

“Respected Sires,
Prefer I to be little Q;
For I can always grow up.
Wise men, though,
May forever remain shut.”

Seeing the wise men now growing weary
Little Q decided to end with a story–

Once upon a time, in a blessed clime
A golden stream came down to us
And ran across a forest, green and lush.
It sought to sound a triumphant bugle,
To break the Laws of the mighty jungle.

A few peacocks came crowding in
And filled their beaks with all they could win.
They revelled in delight
And took to flight,
To spread the golden light.

With only a drop, they reached the crows,
But it was enough for the community to grow.
They dazzled the gaping crows,
Who fell at their feet;
And to become a peacock was
Their aspiration’s highest reach
For fulfilled were all their needs
And meaning suddenly filled their deeds,
Thus, no one thought of visiting the Stream.

The crows fed the peacock with glowing tributes,
Which made them spread still wider their plumes.
And blissfully there played out
This little happy dream,
Till the day the tiger swallowed them both,
For the Law of the jungle was still Supreme.
And forgotten lay that Golden Stream.

And long after Little Q and the wisemen are gone—
For pass we surely will—
This golden stream, sparkling and still,
Will seek out other shores
Knock at other doors
For the New Life will one day dawn
With or without us.
But shall we be the only species
That forever misses its bus?

Little Q had no more questions– big or small

And he regretted asking even these before all

For all do their appointed task– high or deep

So with tiny steps measure a climb so steep

And He had said, there is no cause to weep–