Gosvāmī Tulsīdās

The Yamunā comes down past Rajapur wide and brown, and in Śrāvaṇa it comes down fast. The town sits on the left bank in Banda country, low houses of mud and wood, a few temples, steps going down to the water and under it. Twenty miles to the south the last spur of the Vindhyas stands up out of flat land, and that hill is Citrakūṭ, where Rām and Sītā and Lakhan lived when they were driven out of Ayodhyā, and where Bharat came to find them. The people of Rajapur could see it from their fields. A boy growing up there would have been told what it was before he could walk.

In the bright half of Śrāvaṇa, on the seventh day, in the Saṃvat year 1589, a son was born in the house of Ātmārām Dube, a Kanaujiyā brahmin of the Parāśara gotra, and his wife Hulsī.

The month was the month of rain. The river was in flood and the fields were under water and the road out of the town was mud to the knee.

The Yamunā is one of the holy rivers, and at Rajapur it was also the water, the road and the boundary. The book that keeps the story of the birth calls it the Kālindī, which is another of its names, and the people of the town would have used whichever name came to hand.

It comes down out of the hills a long way north and west of Rajapur and it is going to Prayāg, where it goes under the Gaṅgā and is not seen again. Between those two places it does what a large river does in flat country. It moves, a little, every year. It leaves sand on one bank and takes earth off the other. It has old channels lying beside it, full in the rains and dry the rest of the year, with grass growing in them and cattle standing in the grass.

At Rajapur there were steps. That is what a ghat is, and it is the one piece of stone a town like that would build: cut blocks set into the bank, going down from the level of the lanes to the level of the water, so that a woman with a pot on her hip can reach the river without going down a mud slope. The steps are where the town met the river, and they were busy from before daylight. Water for the house had to be fetched and carried, twice or three times a day, by women and girls, and it was fetched from there. Washing was done there, beaten on the stones. Cattle were taken down to drink at a place a little away from where the pots were filled. Men bathed at first light and said what they said while standing in the water. The dead were burnt on the bank, downstream, at a place everybody knew and nobody built on.

Boats crossed. There would have been two or three, flat things poled and rowed, and a man who took people over for a price and took grain and cattle over for a larger one. The far bank was another district and another set of villages, and going across was an ordinary thing to do and a thing you had to arrange.

Behind the town were the fields. Banda country is black soil in places and light soil in others, and it grows wheat and gram and barley in the cold weather and millet and pulses in the wet, and it is worked with two bullocks and a wooden plough. The country is flat and open, without much tree cover, so that a man standing on the bank could see a long way in three directions and could see weather coming for an hour before it arrived.

The town itself was small. Low houses of mud and wood, as has been said, set along lanes that were dust for nine months and something else for three. A few temples with stone in them. A well or two, apart from the river. A potter's yard at the edge with his wheel under a thatch and his pots drying in rows. An oil press turned by a bullock walking in a circle. A weaver. A smith. Cattle everywhere, and the smell of them, and the dung cakes stacked and drying on every wall, because dung was fuel and every household needed it and nothing was wasted.

A few hundred houses is a thousand or twelve hundred people, which is small enough that everyone knows every other adult by sight and by household, and by what happened to that household two generations ago. Once a week there was a market, and the market is where the outside came in: a man with cloth, a man with salt, a man with iron, someone buying grain to take away, and the news of four or five villages being exchanged over it in the course of the morning.

Nobody came to Rajapur on his way somewhere. It was not on any of the roads that armies used or that merchants used. People arrived because they had business in it, or because they were going to Citrakūṭ and Rajapur was near, or because they were walking and it was where the day ended.

Then there is Śrāvaṇa, which is the month he was born in, and Śrāvaṇa in a town like that is a particular thing.

The rains begin in Āṣāḍha. By Śrāvaṇa they are established. It rains for three days and stops for two and rains again. The river comes up over the lowest steps and then over the next ones, and the water in it is the colour of the fields it has been walking through. The old channels fill. Roads soften and then stop being roads. Roofs leak and are patched from inside with a cloth and a pot. The air does not dry anything: cloth stays damp, grain has to be watched, and the mud walls of a house take up water at the bottom and have to be mended every year. Insects come. Frogs are loud all night. Snakes come up out of the ground and into the dry places, which are the houses. Fever follows the rains as reliably as the harvest follows them.

And there is no field work. The sowing is done and the reaping is months away. So Śrāvaṇa is the month in which a farming town has time, and it spends the time on its calendar. On the fifth of the bright half milk is poured out for snakes. The Mondays of the month belong to Śiva and the young men carry water. Women keep their fasts. There is nothing much to do in the evenings but sit under whatever roof is holding and talk, and a town that sits and talks for a month is a town that remembers what it was told. What Rajapur was told that Śrāvaṇa it went on repeating for a hundred years, which is the only reason any of this comes to be written down at all.

Because the country is flat, the hill is visible, and because the hill is visible, it has to be explained to children.

It is the last of the Vindhyas. The range comes across the middle of the country from the west and it stops there, and the final piece of it stands up by itself out of the plain, about three miles round, wooded, with rock showing. Two small rivers come off it and run together at its foot, and one of them is the Mandākinī. The whole of it can be walked round in a morning.

From the fields north of Rajapur, in the clear air of the cold weather, it is a low blue shape sitting on the edge of the land twenty miles away. In the hot weather the dust takes it. In Śrāvaṇa you can go weeks without seeing it at all, and then the cloud lifts off the top of it in the afternoon and there it is, black with wet, and somebody points.

This is what is there.

Rām was the eldest son of the king of Ayodhyā and he was to have had the kingdom. His father had given a promise long before, in a different matter, and when the promise was called in, what it cost was Rām. He was sent out for fourteen years, to live in the forest with nothing, and the younger brother got the throne. Sītā would not stay behind and went with him. Lakhan would not stay behind either. The three of them walked south out of Ayodhyā, crossed the Gaṅgā, came down through the forest, and stopped at that hill, and built a hut of leaves and branches on it, and lived there.

Then the king died, and Bharat, who had been given the kingdom and had not asked for it and did not want it, came south with the whole of Ayodhyā behind him to find his brother and bring him home. He came up the same road. He found the hut. What the two of them said to each other on that hill, and what Bharat took back with him to Ayodhyā instead of his brother, belongs to the fourth day of this book. He wrote it forty-two years after that Śrāvaṇa, and it is one of the passages people carry in their mouths.

The hill is Citrakūṭ. Nobody in Banda district had to be told where the forest of the exile was, or where the hut had stood, or where Bharat had waited. It was over there. Pilgrims came past on the road going to it, and the two big days were Rāmnavamī in Caitra and the Dīwālī days in Kārtik, and families from towns along the Yamunā went down for one or the other when they could.

So the Rām story reached a child in Rajapur before it reached him as scripture. It reached him as the history of the next district. The places in it were places with directions attached: that way, a day and a half's walk, past the villages on the Paisunī, and you are standing where it happened. A boy who could not yet read knew that much, because the hill was on the skyline and somebody had told him, and the somebody would have been whoever was carrying him on her hip at the time.

The year was Saṃvat 1589, which is 1532 in the reckoning most of the world now uses, and in Rajapur it was neither. In Rajapur it was the bright half of Śrāvaṇa, seventh day, and that is how the birth was remembered and handed on: not by a year but by a month, a half and a tithi, which is the way a town keeps time when it has no need of a longer measure.

Two years before, at Āgra, Bābur had died. He had come down over the mountains from the north with a small army and very good guns and had taken the country round Delhi from the men who held it, and he had held it himself for four years, and then he was dead and his son had it.

The son did not keep it. Within a few years he had lost it to a soldier out of the east and had gone out of the country altogether, and the soldier ruled and then died, and the soldier's people ruled and then fell out among themselves, and then the son came back and took it again, and died almost at once, and his own son, a boy, was put on it. All of that happened while Tulsīdās was growing up. He was in his twenties before the throne at Delhi settled.

Nobody in Rajapur was consulted about any of it.

This is the thing about the sixteenth century in a town like that. The wars went along the great roads, and the great roads ran along the Gaṅgā and up the Doāb, and Banda country is on the wrong side of the Yamunā and behind a line of hills. What reached it was not history but the consequences of history, arriving as ordinary trouble: a demand for grain in a year when there was no grain to spare, a different man collecting it, a rumour that soldiers had been seen on the Kālpī road, a price. Then the demand was met or not met, and the season turned, and the sowing had to be done anyway.

So a town like that is not in the century so much as under it.

What was moving in the country, and what would matter far more to this particular child than any of the fighting, was something the chronicles do not record because it did not happen at a court. The language people actually spoke was beginning to be used for things that had previously belonged to Sanskrit. Men were putting the gods into the speech of their own districts and singing it where anyone could hear. The learned held that this was improper, and said so. The argument had been running for some time before he was born and it was still running when he took it up, and he would take it up in the form of a direct question about whether a book about Rām could be written in the way people talked.

None of that was visible from a courtyard in Rajapur in the rains of 1532. What was visible was rain, and a river coming up over its steps, and a house with a newborn in it.

Ātmārām Dube was the rājguru of Rajapur and its headman.

Both of those are worth unpacking, because between them they say what kind of house the child was born into and what kind of standing it had.

Dube is a worn-down title rather than a family name. It means a man of two Vedas, one who has learned two of them, and by the sixteenth century it had long since stopped being a claim and become a surname carried by a whole set of brahmin families in that country. Kanaujiyā says where the clan came from: Kanauj, on the Gaṅgā, upstream and to the north, which had been a capital once and had scattered its brahmins down the rivers in every direction. The Parāśara gotra names the ṛṣi the line claims descent from, and a man gave his gotra when he gave his name at a marriage or a rite, because it settled who he could and could not marry and where he stood.

A rājguru is the man a ruler or a landholder or a town keeps for the calendar. That is the practical content of it. He had the almanac and he could read it. He could tell you the tithi and the nakṣatra and the hour, which meant he could tell you when to sow, when to marry, when to travel, when to start building, when to bury a foundation stone, when a boy could take the thread. He cast horoscopes when children were born and read them out. He named the children. He did the rites at a wedding and the rites at a death and the rites in between, and he did them in Sanskrit, which nobody in the courtyard understood and everybody knew was required.

A brahmin in a small town lived on that, and what it came to in practice was not a salary. He was given grain at harvest by the households he served. He was given cloth and a coin and a vessel at a wedding. He was fed on the days of a funeral and given something afterwards. If the house was old and lucky it had a field or two of its own, worked by somebody else, and the rent of that came in. None of it was large and all of it depended on the town continuing to come to him. A brahmin whose readings stopped being believed did not get dismissed. He simply found that people went to the other man.

Being headman was a separate thing and it sat on top. It meant his was the word that settled whose bullock had been in whose field, and his was the name given when a demand came from outside for grain or for men, and his was the house where the town's business was discussed. He was not rich. He was the man in the middle.

So picture the house. A courtyard with a wall round it and a door on to the lane. Two or three rooms opening off the courtyard, mud-walled, with a tiled or thatched roof and one small opening high up for smoke. The cooking place in a corner of the courtyard, a grinding stone set into the floor near it, water pots on a stand. A store of grain in a mud bin, kept up off the ground. Brass vessels, counted. A wooden chest. Two or three string cots that were carried out at night and stacked by day. And on a shelf, up out of the damp, the books: an almanac, the tables for casting a horoscope, a manual of the auspicious hours, and whatever of the great texts the house had managed to keep, wrapped in cloth and tied.

That is a house with letters in it. A boy born in it would be shown the letters at five, taught to make the shapes on a board with chalk or on the ground with a stick, set to learn by heart before he understood any of it, given the thread when the house judged him ready, and put to Sanskrit if he had a head for it. That was the ordinary sequence and there was nothing remarkable about it. It was simply what happened to the sons of such houses.

Casting a horoscope in such a house was work and not an atmosphere, and it went like this. When a child was born somebody noted the hour, by the water clock if the house had one and by the stars and the cocks if it did not, and the hour had to be right, because everything else came off it. Then the tables were opened. The positions of the planets for that day were worked out of them, which is arithmetic, and it takes a while and it is easy to get wrong. Then a square was drawn, on a board or on a swept patch of the courtyard floor, and divided into the twelve houses, and the planets were written into the houses they fell in. And then the chart was read, against the rules in the manual, and the reading was said out loud to the people standing there.

So this was not a mood in a dark room. It was a man his neighbours trusted, sitting in his own courtyard within a day or two of a birth, doing sums he had done a hundred times, and then reading out the answer in front of the family.

There is one more thing to notice about the father's trade, and then this can be left alone.

His living was the calendar and the horoscope. His standing in the town rested on the town believing that the positions of the stars at a given hour told you something true about what was coming. He was the man who would have said so, at other people's births, for years.

And then a horoscope was cast in his own courtyard, for his own son, and it said what it said.

There is a nakṣatra called Mūla, and there is a point where Jyeṣṭhā ends and Mūla has not quite begun, and a child born in that gap is born under Abhuktamūla. The books are not gentle about it. A child of Abhuktamūla destroys his father. Nirantak was born under it, who was Rāvaṇ's son, and he was put out for it, and he lived, and it was his descendants who were killed in the war with Rām. The remedy the books give is that the father must not look at the child's face for eight years.

Somebody in that house on that night knew the books, and cast the horoscope, and read it out. Jupiter stood in Cancer. Mars was in the seventh house and Saturn in the eighth.

The child did not cry. He said Rām.

He was born with a full set of teeth, thirty-two of them, and he was the size of a child of five years old, and his mother had carried him twelve months.

None of that is explained anywhere. It is simply what is remembered of the night, and it was remembered alongside the horoscope, which means the people who remembered it had both things in their hands at once: a child who said the name before he said anything else, and a reading that said he would be the death of his father.

They called him Rāmbolā. It is not a name so much as a description. It means the one who said Rām.

The remedy is one line in a manual and it takes ten words to say. Its consequences take eight years and they fall on a house, not on a book.

Start with what the manual is. The hours of a day are not all the same, on this way of reckoning, and a handbook of the auspicious hours is the working tool of the man who advises a town. It lists what may be begun when. It lists the conjunctions that are good for a journey and the ones that are bad for a marriage. And it lists the gaps, the joins between one asterism and the next, which are the dangerous places, and the worst of those joins is the one where Jyeṣṭhā runs out and Mūla has not taken hold. A child arriving in that seam is Abhuktamūla, and the handbook of that century puts the case with no softening at all: the father either puts the child away, or does not look on its face for eight years.

The precedents are the two names already given. One of the two was put out as an infant and did not die of it, grew up somewhere else, and his line came to an end a long time afterwards in the war against Rām. That is the sort of thing the books carry as a warning, and the warning is not that the child will suffer. The warning is that the child will not be got rid of and that it will come back.

Now take the eight years into the house that was described a moment ago.

One courtyard. Two or three rooms opening off it. The cooking is done in the courtyard, so the women are in it from before light. Water is carried in and set down in it. Grain is cleaned in it. The cots are put out in it at night in the hot weather and everybody sleeps there together. There is no separate part of such a house. There is nowhere in it a man can be where a child on somebody's hip is not four steps away.

So the instruction is not an instruction to be careful. Worked out into days it means this. The father gets up and goes out before the child is brought out of the room. When he comes back the child is taken away. If he is sitting in the courtyard and the child begins to cry inside, nobody brings it to him. At every rite, every feast, every gathering of relatives, every festival at which the whole household is in one place, somebody has to be given the job of keeping one person out of one man's line of sight. For eight years. Through something over two thousand nine hundred days of it.

And the person who would have to do it, hour by hour, is the mother.

Everybody in the house would learn the rule within a week, and the servants would learn it first, because the carrying is done by servants. And after the servants the neighbours, because a courtyard has a wall and not a roof, and a lane has ears. And after the neighbours the town, because the rājguru's own son had been born under the worst star in his own almanac, and there is no keeping that quiet in a place of a few hundred houses in the month when nobody has any field work to do.

One consequence of that arrangement is the reason he had the name he had.

A child of such a house gets his name at a rite, on a fixed day, from his father, who says it into his ear. That is what the naming is: a man tells his son what he is called. It is one of the things a father does, and in a brahmin household it is done in order and by the book, and the father who does it is looking at the child while he does it.

Whatever was or was not done in that courtyard on that day, the name the boy actually had was not of that kind. Rāmbolā is not a name anybody would choose off a list. It is a remark. It is what a houseful of people said to each other about something that had happened in front of them in the night, and it stuck to the child because it was the only interesting thing anybody could say about him and because it was true. He said Rām, so he was the Rām-sayer.

So he went into the world with a nickname instead of a name, given by a town instead of by a father, and he carried it for seven years and it was the only thing he owned.

There is one more piece of it, and it comes first in time. Before any of the eight years could begin, the village pañcas met about the child and gave a ruling, and the ruling was to wait three days. If he was still alive after three days, then the rites could be done for him, the customary ones and the Vedic ones, in the proper order.

That is the first decision the town ever took about him. Not what to name him. Not who would teach him. Whether to see if he would die first.

He did not die. On the third day, or after it, the rites were done, and the house settled down to the arrangement: a father who was not going to look at him until 1597 by the reckoning they used, and a mother between them, every day, beginning that week.

Hulsī did not live long after that, and she knew she was not going to.

What she thought about in the time she had is not written down, but what she did is, and it tells you what she thought about. She understood that when she was gone the child would not be kept. A boy under Abhuktamūla, in a house where the father had been told not to look at his face, with the mother dead: there would be nobody in that house to stand between him and the door.

So she did not wait to be dead. She sent him out while she could still arrange it.

She gave him to a servant woman of the house, at night, in secret, and she sent her own ornaments with him. That is the detail that settles what kind of act it was. A woman who simply gives away an unlucky child does not send the gold after it. She was not disposing of him. She was providing for him, with the only property she had and the only night she had left.

She died at Brahma-muhūrta, in the last dark before it gets light.

The father, afterwards, said what people say. He said he did not know what was to be done with a child like that. He said his son had been born under the worst star there was. He did not go after him.

So the boy's mother gave him away in order to save him, and his father let him go in order to be rid of him, and both of those things were true at once, and he was a few days old.

He wrote about it, sixty and seventy years later, in the Vinaya Patrikā, where he says plainly that his mother and his father let him go. He does not enlarge on it. He mentions it the way a man mentions a thing he has stopped arguing with.

The Vinaya Patrikā is the book of an old man and it is not a book of songs about Rām's childhood or Sītā's wedding. It is a petition, which is what the title says. A vinaya patrikā is the written application a man submits when he has no standing to walk in and speak: he writes it out, he gets it carried in, and he waits. That is the form he chose to work in at the end of his life. He addresses himself to Rām's officers and to Rām's court and finally to Rām, and he sets out his case, and his case is that he has nothing to offer and is applying anyway.

A petition has a shape, and he keeps to it. You do not walk up to the ruler. You address the people around him first, the ones with the standing to carry a paper in, and you get them on your side, and only then do you address the seat itself. So the book works its way inward, through the household of Rām, and among the officers addressed is Hanumān. He does not apologise for the procedure and he does not explain it. It is how a man without standing got a paper looked at in the sixteenth century, and he follows it exactly.

And a petition has a section in which the applicant states his qualifications.

That is the section this day of his life belongs to. Because what he puts in it is that he has none. Not modesty, which is a decoration, and not the ritual self-deprecation that a court poet performs before asking for money. He files, as his statement of standing, the facts: that he was let go at birth, that he was made without merit, and that he was made badly. That is his entire case, and he submits it, and the submitting is the whole point.

In one of those padas he states his own history in half a line and then asks a question about it.

जननी-जनक तज्यो जनमि, करम बिनु बिधिहु सृज्यो अवडेरे।

मोहुँ सो कोउ-कोउ कहत रामहि को, सो प्रसंग केहि केरे॥

My mother and my father brought me into the world and let me go, and the maker made me without merit, and made me crooked. And still, one man here and one there calls me Rām's. On what account do they say it?

Notice where the question falls.

He does not ask why they let him go. He does not ask what he had done. He does not say that it was unjust, and he does not say that it was just, and he does not turn it into a lesson. The letting go is stated in five words as a settled matter of record, in the same breath as the other thing he takes to be a settled matter of record, which is that he was put together wrong and with nothing to his credit.

The question is about the other clause. Some people, he says, a few, here and there, call him Rām's man. And what he wants to know is on what basis. Where did they get that. What in this account could possibly support it.

He was well past seventy when he wrote that, and he had by then written the book that his country would go on learning by heart, and he knew perfectly well what he had done. He asks the question anyway, and he asks it as a man who has been handed the facts of his own beginning and has never found a way to make them come out differently.

That is the plainest thing anybody says about the first week of his life, and he is the one who says it, seventy years after the week in question.

Go back to the night, because it should stand in front of the reader whole and not summarised.

It was the eleventh of the bright half, and he had been born on the seventh. The moon was most of the way to full and there was cloud over it, because it was Śrāvaṇa. If it was not raining at that hour it had rained earlier and would rain again, and everything in the house was damp to the touch.

The light in a room of that kind at night is a cotton wick in a shallow clay dish of oil, set in a niche in the wall. It is enough to see a face by if the face is close. It is not enough to read by and it is not enough to see the corners. The smoke off it goes up the wall and leaves a mark, and every wall in the house has that mark.

She was lying on a cot in one of the rooms and she was not going to get up from it again, and she knew that, which is the whole hinge of the night. A woman who thinks she may recover makes different arrangements. A woman who knows she has hours does the one thing that cannot be done afterwards.

There would have been people in the room. A woman dying in a joint household does not die alone: the women of the house are in there, and the door to the courtyard is open, and somebody is sitting by the head of the cot. When it comes near, the household sends for the man who reads at a death, and he comes and sits and reads, and what is read is the name of god, out loud, so that it is the last thing in the room.

In this house the man who read at deaths was her husband.

What she had to work with was this. She had a husband who had been instructed not to look at the child's face for eight years and had accepted the instruction. She had a father-in-law's house full of people who had all heard the horoscope read out. She had a four-day-old boy. And she had her ornaments.

Stop on the ornaments for a moment, because a woman of that century in a house of that kind owned almost nothing, and what she owned was that. Her ornaments came to her at her marriage and they were hers: not the household's, not her husband's, not her mother-in-law's. She wore them because wearing them was where they were kept. A nose ring, ear rings, bangles on both wrists, an anklet or two, a chain, and whatever else the two families had managed at the wedding. It was metal and it had weight and it could be turned into grain or into a field or into five years of a child's keep. It was the only capital a woman had and it was the only thing she could dispose of without asking anyone.

She called for the servant woman she trusted. Not the nearest one and not a stranger: the one she had, in the way that a woman in a house of that size has one woman who knows everything.

What she said, as the book keeps it, is that her life was a bird that wanted to fly. Then she gave the instruction. Take the child now, tonight, and go to your husband's people, and bring him up there. Do not wait. Because if you wait until I am dead, they will put him out.

That is the whole of her reasoning and there is nothing in it about luck or stars or fate. It is a flat prediction about what a particular household will do in a particular week, made by the person in the best position to know, and what that household did afterwards proved it exactly right.

Then the ornaments came off. That would have taken a little while, because bangles do not come off a thin wrist quickly and there is a way of doing it. They were tied into the corner of a cloth and knotted, the way money is still carried in that country. The child was wrapped. And the servant woman went out through the courtyard and out of the door on to the lane, at night, in the rains, with somebody else's son and somebody else's gold.

Nobody stopped her. It is likely that nobody in the house except the two of them knew anything had happened until morning.

Some hours later, in the last part of the night, Hulsī died.

Say what that hour is, because the books name it and the tradition goes on naming it and it is not a figure of speech. Brahma-muhūrta is the stretch of about an hour and a half before sunrise. It is the last watch of the night, and it is the hour that a household which keeps to the practice gets up in, and it is the hour set aside for recitation, because the air does not move in it, the birds have not begun, nobody is calling for anything, and there is no work yet. Of all the hours in the day it is the one everything in the books calls auspicious.

She went in that hour, on the ekādaśī.

And when it was properly light there was a fire on the Yamunā bank, at the place downstream that everybody knew, with the family of the rājguru of Rajapur standing round it in the wet.

By then the servant woman had been walking all night.

The place she was going to is called Haripur, and it was where her husband's father and mother lived. How far it was is not written down anywhere. What is written down is when she arrived: five ghaṛīs of the day had gone up, and a ghaṛī is a little under half an hour, so she came to the door about two hours after sunrise.

Work back from that. She left in the dark, some time in the second half of a Śrāvaṇa night, and she walked through the end of the night and through first light and on into the morning. It was not a long journey by the standards of people who walked everywhere. It was a long journey for a woman carrying a four-day-old child.

The country she was walking through was under water. Not flooded, most of it, but standing wet: fields with sheets of water lying in them between the ridges, the ridges themselves soft, the track between them worn down below the level of the fields so that it was the lowest thing in the landscape and therefore the wettest. The road out of the town was mud to the knee. That is not a figure of speech about the difficulty of travel. It is what the road was.

There would have been a village every two or three miles, because that is how that country is laid out. Each one a cluster of mud houses with a tank beside it and a grove of mangoes or nīm, dogs that came out at whatever went past, and at the end of the night a first smell of smoke as the fires were lit for the day's first cooking. She would have passed people on the track once it was light: men going out to look at their fields, women with pots, a boy with buffaloes. Nobody would have thought a woman walking with a baby was worth a second look. That was the point of doing it that way.

What she was carrying, however, would have been worth a great deal of looking at. A knot of gold in the corner of a cloth, on a road, at night, in the hands of a woman who worked for a living. If she had been stopped by anyone at all and asked to explain, there is no explanation she could have given that would have sounded better than the truth, and the truth was that a dying woman in a brahmin's house had handed her a child and her jewellery and told her to disappear with both before morning.

And at the far end of it, the arrangement she was walking into was not one she controlled.

Be clear about this, because it is easy to read the story as though she were taking the child home. She was not. She had a place in the rājguru's house because she worked in it, and she had a place in her mother-in-law's house because she had married into it, and in neither of them was she the person who decided who slept under the roof. The house at Haripur was her husband's mother's house. Everything in it, including the question of whether a brahmin's castaway could be fed out of its grain, was that old woman's to settle.

So the walk had this shape. Behind her, a town where the child would certainly not be kept. In front of her, a house where he might not be. And in between, a night of black mud in the dark, with the thing she was carrying getting no lighter.

Meanwhile, in Rajapur, the rites were done and the ten days were kept and the household came out the other side of them, and at some point after that somebody finally told the rājguru what had become of his son. What he said has already been said here and does not need saying twice. The book that keeps it adds one comment of its own at that point, and the comment is about the ripening of deeds done in an earlier birth, which is fierce, and which does not go away without being eaten through to the end. Then it goes straight on with the story. That is as close as anyone in the whole tradition comes to explaining any of this, and it is a long way from an explanation.

What happened inside that house is the only stretch of his childhood in which nothing happens, and a stretch in which nothing happens has to be described or it will not be believed.

The house was not the rājguru's house. It was a house of the kind that most people in that country lived in: one room, or two, with a verandah under the overhang of the roof, mud walls plastered smooth and washed over, a floor of beaten earth, and a roof of thatch or of tiles laid on a wooden frame. A courtyard in front with a low wall round it, which is where the life of the house happened. A cooking place in one corner, three stones or a mud hearth, the cooking done crouching. A grinding stone let into the floor. Water pots on a wooden stand. A wooden chest with a lid, holding cloth. A few brass vessels, which were the household's savings and were counted. Two or three string cots. Dung cakes drying in rows along the outside of the wall. A corner or a lean-to for the cattle, which in that house meant a heifer.

The work of a woman in that house began before light and it did not have a break in it. Water first, from the well or the tank, carried on the hip, two or three trips. Then the floor of the courtyard swept and the floor of the room smeared over with cow dung and water, which sets hard and keeps down dust and insects, and which has to be done again and again. Then the grinding, which is an hour on the stone and is done sitting, and which is why the women of a village sang while they did it, because there was no other way to get through it. Then the fire, and the cooking. Then whatever work she owed outside the house, in a field or in somebody else's kitchen. Then back, and the evening cooking, and the water again, and the cattle, and the putting out of the cots.

There is no hour in that day that belongs to her. And into that day a child arrives.

A child in such a house is not looked after in the way the word suggests. It is carried, on the hip, while the work is done, by whoever is nearest, which is the mother if she is in the house and an older girl if she is not and the grandmother if there is one. It is put down on a cloth in the shade of the wall. It is fed when it cries. When it can walk it is in the courtyard, and then in the lane, and then at the edge of the field, and the whole village has half an eye on it, and that is the arrangement and it works. Children in such villages did not get attention. They got presence, which is a different thing and is not worse.

And a child in a village has a year, and the year is the same every time round and he learns it the way he learns his own hands. The cold weather, when the dew is on everything at daybreak and the family sleeps inside and there is a fire in the courtyard in the early dark and the old men sit at it. The wheat coming up green and then going the colour of a lion. The threshing floor in Caitra, which is the best place in a village to be small, because there are bullocks walking round and round on the cut grain and there is straw to fall into and everybody is in a good temper. Then the hot weather, when the earth cracks and the tank goes down to mud and the buffaloes stand in what is left of it, and nobody works between noon and four, and the village sleeps in the shade with its doors open, and the cots are carried out at night and the children lie on them and look up. Then the waiting, and the smell that comes before the rain does, and the first day of it, and every child in the lane standing out in it getting wet on purpose. Then three months of rain, the frogs, the roof dripping into a pot, being kept indoors, being bored, being told things.

Then it comes round again.

He had five of those. Nothing whatever is recorded of them, and that is the point: there was nothing to record, because for five years he was a boy in a village with somebody who would have noticed if he had not come in. He was fed. He slept under a roof. There was a woman in the house whose business he was.

There is another side to those five years and it should be put down beside the first one, because both are true.

He was a brahmin's son, and nothing in that house could do anything with the fact. Nobody there could show him the letters, because nobody there had them. There was no shelf with books tied in cloth on it. There was no almanac. There was nobody to set him to learn a verse by heart in the evening, and nobody who could have told him what the verse meant if he had learned it. He was five and a half when he left that house and he could not read, and a boy of the house he was born in would have had the board in front of him for six months by then, and the whole of that house standing behind it.

So the years were safe and they were not his inheritance, and there is no version of his life in which he got both. The house that would have taught him was the house that had been told not to look at him.

All of that, every one of those five years, hung on one conversation, and the conversation had to be got through at the door before any of it could begin.

The old woman sat by the fire. That is not a figure of speech either: a mother-in-law in a house of that kind had a place, usually the one near the hearth where the smoke was worst and the warmth was best, and from it she ran the house. She decided what was cooked and how much of it. She decided what was bought at the weekly market and what was not. She decided which daughter-in-law did which work, and whether a girl could go to her mother's village, and how long she could stay. She did not do this because she was hard. She did it because that was the office, and she had held it since her own mother-in-law died, having served her turn underneath it for twenty years first.

Nothing came into such a house and stayed unless she said so.

And the thing being brought in was a brahmin's child, born under a star the whole district had heard about by now, without a father who would own him, with a knot of gold tied into a cloth as his entire portion, arriving before breakfast in the arms of her son's wife.

That was the door, and it was two hours after sunrise, and everything that has just been described had to get past it first.

The servant woman's name was Cuniyā.

She had a mother-in-law, and the mother-in-law had a say in who came into the house, and what Cuniyā did was go and take hold of her feet. That is how the thing is remembered: not that she was given the child and kept it, but that she had to ask, on the floor, holding an old woman's feet, for permission to keep a baby that had been thrown out of a brahmin's house with a star on it.

She got the permission.

There was a heifer in the house, and its milk is what he was raised on. Five years and five months went by. He learned to walk in Cuniyā's house and to talk in it, and whatever he was called by the neighbours, in that house he was Rāmbolā, because that was the only name anyone had given him.

Then Cuniyā was bitten by a snake, and died.

He was five years and five months old, and he had now been left twice, and the second time by the person who had gone on her knees to keep him.

He was five years and five months old and there was nobody, and what he did about that is the next part of this. What it involved should be set out first, because asking at doors is a craft and a child of five has to learn it from nothing.

The town was Rajapur. That is where the sādhu came looking for him at the end of it, so that is where he was, and Rajapur is a few hundred houses along a handful of lanes, which means a finite number of doors, and he would have known every one of them by the end of the first month.

You go when the food is cooked and before it has been eaten. In that country that means the late part of the morning and again at dusk, and the timing is not approximate. Arrive too early and there is nothing on the fire yet and you are told to come back. Arrive too late and the family has eaten and what was left has gone to the cattle. So a day has two hours in it that matter, and the rest of the day is the business of getting through the time between them.

You stand at the door. You do not go in. You say the words that are said, which are not a request for charity in the modern sense but a formula, and in that country the formula asks for alms in the name of the deity of the house, and the household understands that giving is one of the things a household is for. You hold out your hands, or a leaf, or a piece of cloth. What comes is a handful of whatever was cooked, or two rotīs, or a little uncooked grain if the food is not ready, or nothing.

If it is nothing you do not argue and you do not stand there. A boy who stands too long at one door becomes a boy who is remembered as a nuisance, and a boy who is remembered as a nuisance has one fewer door in a town that does not have very many.

And the doors are all different, and that is the education.

The grain dealer's house gives measured grain, every time, without a word, because to him it is bookkeeping. The oil-presser gives cooked food, because he has food and no cash. The weaver has neither and gives anyway. There is a house that gives generously on festival days and nothing on the other three hundred. There is a house where the man says no and the woman says yes when he is out. There is a house with a dog. There is a house where what you are given is the scraped burnt part off the bottom of the pot, which nobody in the family wants, and which is food. There is the temple, where what has been offered has to be given away and where a child therefore does best, and where a child discovers within a week that so do fifteen other people.

And then there are the brahmin houses, which is where it gets complicated, because his own clan had a name for not taking alms. It was held among Kanaujiyās that begging was beneath the clan. So the brahmin doors of Rajapur were the doors of people who thought that what he was doing was a disgrace, and one of those doors was the door of the house he had been born in.

His father was the rājguru of that town and its headman. That fact does not need pressing. The child asking for cooked food at the houses of Rajapur, in the late morning, for two years, was the son of the man whose word settled the town's disputes and whose almanac told the town when to marry.

And the town watched. That is what the old account actually keeps about those two years: not that he was hungry, which anyone could work out, but that the people of the place looked on and could not get over it. They knew whose child he was. Everybody knew. It had been talked about in that district since the night the horoscope was read out, and now here the thing was, in the lane, at that door and then the next one.

Nobody took him in. Not one house in Rajapur, in two years.

That is not written down anywhere as an accusation. It is what is left standing after you subtract everything the account does say. A town can find a thing unbearable and go on watching it for two years. Every house in it had a reason, and the reasons were the horoscope, and the father's word, and the certainty that somebody else would see to it.

He wrote one line about all this in old age, in the very next line of the pada already quoted here, and it is not a story and it is not about his feelings. It is about food.

फिर्यौ ललात बिनु नाम उदर लगि, दुखउ दुखित मोहि हेरे।

नाम-प्रसाद लहत रसाल-फल अब हौं बबुर बहेरे॥

Before the name I went about hungry for the sake of my belly, and sorrow itself was sorry when it looked at me. By the grace of the name I take mangoes now off the babūl and the baheṛā.

The babūl is a thorn tree and gives nothing anybody would eat. The baheṛā's fruit is bitter and is used as medicine. Neither of them produces a mango. That is the whole of the figure, and the point of it is that the trees did not change.

So: the town, and the trade, and a boy of five years and five months.

What happened next took two years, and it is the part of his life that he never afterwards made into a story.

He begged. He went from door to door in the town and asked, and some days somebody gave him something and some days nobody did. He was five, then six, then seven. He had no house to go back to at night. He had no relative who would own him. He had, as far as anyone can tell, nothing at all except the name.

Two years is a long time at that age. It is long enough to become the kind of person who expects nothing, and it is long enough to learn a town: which houses open and which do not, where the water is, where you can sleep in the rain.

In those two years a woman used to come and feed him.

She came in the ordinary way, looking like a woman of the village, and she gave him food, and she went away again. This went on. Then one day he took hold of her feet, and she was not there.

He told it later. He said it was Jagadambā, the mother of the world, and that she had been coming in that shape and feeding him. He does not say how he knew. He says he found out when he tried to hold on to her, which is the same way he found out about everything else in his life: by taking hold of something and refusing to let go, and being shown what it was he had been holding.

He was seven years old, in the street, and he had been fed for two years by somebody he could not keep.

Then a sādhu came to Rajapur and asked for him by name.

His name was Narahari, Narahari-ānanda, a Śaiva ascetic, and he came because he had been told to come, and he had the Mānas-Rāmacaritra with him. He found the boy and said Rāmbolā to him, which means he already knew what the child was called, although nobody in Rajapur had given the child anything else.

He gave him a second name, and that one stuck. He gave him a tulsī leaf, and he called him Tulsīdās, the servant of the tulsī, which is the plant that grows in the courtyard of every house where Rām's name is said, and which has to be watered every day or it dies.

So the boy who had been fed by a woman who was not there, and raised by a woman who had to beg for him, and given away by a mother who was dying, was picked up off the road at seven years old by a stranger who knew his name, and given a new one that meant he belonged to something.

He went with him. There was nothing in Rajapur to keep him.

It is worth knowing what had just walked into that lane, because a sādhu is not a priest and was not a figure out of a book. There were a great many of them and they were a normal part of the traffic of the country.

A man who had left householding walked. Some belonged to orders with a lineage and a rule and a place they went back to in the rains, and some belonged to nothing and had simply gone. What they carried was a staff, a water pot, a cloth, a blanket in the cold weather, and sometimes a book tied up in cloth. Ash on the body, or not. Hair cut off, or never cut. They went along the pilgrim roads between the places that mattered, and those roads ran past towns like Rajapur whether the towns were anything or not, and a town fed them, because feeding them was the arrangement and had been for a very long time. A household that turned a sādhu away had done something it would be talked about for.

They were also the only people who came through a small town who were not selling something. They brought news from four districts away. They brought songs. They sat under a tree at the edge of the town for three days and people went out to them in the evenings, and then they went on. A boy begging in the lanes for two years would have seen a dozen of them go through, and would have known exactly how they were treated, which was better than he was.

The one who came was Narahari-ānanda and he was a Śaiva ascetic, and what he had with him was the Mānas-Rāmacaritra, which is to say the story of Rām. He came because he had been sent. That is what the account says and it does not elaborate, and this book is not going to improve on it.

Think about what it looked like from the lane.

A man walks in off the road, which happens. He does not go to the temple and he does not go to the rājguru's house and he does not sit under the tree at the edge of the town. He asks for a particular child. He has the child's name, which nobody outside Rajapur had any reason to know, because the name was not a name, it was something the town had started calling the boy on account of what he had done the night he was born. And then he finds the child and uses the name.

The town had been watching that boy for two years. It now watched this. There is no possibility that a thing like that was not talked about in Rajapur for the next fifty years, and the proof that it was talked about is that the story survives at all: somebody remembered it, and told it, and it was still being told a hundred years later when a man sat down and put the whole of this into verse.

And think about it from the other side, which is lower down.

He had been handed on three times. His mother had given him away in the dark. The woman who took him had been bitten by a snake and had died of it. The town he was born in had watched him work its doors for two years and had kept its distance. He had no reason whatsoever, out of anything that had happened to him so far, to expect that a fourth person taking hold of him would be any different.

He went. That is the first decision of his that anybody wrote down, and he made it at seven years old, in the street, with nothing at all to go on.

The tulsī is a small shrub with a woody stem and small pointed leaves, and if you crush a leaf between your fingers the smell stays on them for an hour. It grows to about the height of a child's shoulder and then it starts to go over. It is not handsome. It is not grown for shade, because it gives none, and it is not grown for food, and nobody has ever put one in a courtyard to look at.

You do not buy one. A neighbour who has one gives you a seedling out of hers, and that is how the plants in a lane are all related, and how a new household gets started.

It is grown in the middle of the courtyard, or against the inner wall, in a pot or in a square of built-up earth. In the houses that can manage it the square is raised into a little plastered platform with a hollow in one side for a lamp. It is where the household's day begins: the woman of the house waters it in the morning before she does anything else, and in the evening the lamp goes into the hollow at dusk, and the courtyard has one point of light in it. Its leaves go into the food offered before the household eats. Its leaves go into the water put into the mouth of a man who is dying. It is not a decoration and it is not exactly a plant either. It is the member of the household that cannot walk.

And it has one requirement, and everything about it follows from that requirement.

It has to be watered. Not weekly and not when convenient. Daily. In the hot weather a pot of earth the size of a courtyard tulsī pot dries out in a day, and a tulsī that is missed for four or five days in Jyeṣṭha is not a sick plant, it is a stack of grey sticks, and the household has to go and get another one and start again. The neem at the gate will stand two months of neglect. The tulsī will not stand a week. There is no plant in the courtyard that is easier to kill by simply having other things on your mind.

So that is the name.

He was called after the plant that dies if nobody attends to it, and the second half of the name is dās, which means servant, and which he never dropped and never softened. Not the servant of Rām, in the name. The servant of the tulsī.

He used it for the rest of his life and he signed it into the closing line of his verses, thousands of times, in book after book, over more than fifty years. The pada this day has quoted from twice signs off the same way: Tulsī's one support is the name, one knot with as many turns round it as you like. Every time he wrote that name he wrote the name of something that has to be watered.

Then the two of them walked out of Rajapur.

The direction was north and east: over the river or along it, up out of Banda country, across the Doāb, and away towards Awadh, which is the country of the story the man was carrying in his bundle. It is a long walk and they were not in a hurry. Behind them was the Yamunā, and the ghat, and the burning place on the bank where his mother had been burnt seven years earlier while the woman carrying him was still on the road, and the lane with the doors in it, and the house with the almanac on the shelf.

He did not come back for a long time, and when he did he came back a grown man with a book in his hands, and what he did at Rajapur then is a matter for the fourth day of this.

He was ninety-one when he died, and he spent the eighty-four years after that morning putting Rām's story into the language that people in towns like Rajapur actually spoke, so that a man with no Sanskrit and no teacher and no standing could have it.

It is worth saying once, and then not saying again, that he had been such a person. He was not a scholar who decided out of charity to write for the unlettered. He was a child who had begged at their doors. When the pandits of Banaras told him, thirty-five years later, that scripture had no business being written in a village tongue, they were talking to somebody who had learned the village tongue before he had a house to sleep in.

He never wrote a word of self-pity about it. What he wrote was that Rām's name is a lamp you set in the doorway, because a lamp in the doorway is the only place a lamp lights both rooms at once.

Tomorrow: Ayodhyā, and the thread, and Sūkarkhet, and the fifteen years at Banaras, and a woman at a window saying the one sentence that would break his life open and let the light in.

They went north and east, and they came to Ayodhyā.

The Sarayū comes down off the Himālayan foothills and runs east through Awadh, and it is not a great river. It is broad enough and shallow in places and it carries sand, and in the dry months there are bars in the middle of it where cranes stand. The town sits above it on the right bank. Ghats go down to the water, and there are temples along the top of the bank, and behind them lanes too narrow for two carts, and behind those the fields begin. A man walking in from the south would have seen nothing to make him stop.

What the town is, is the place where Rām was born.

That is the whole of its business and it has no other. Kosala was a kingdom once and Ayodhyā was its capital, and the kings of it were Raghu and then Raghu's line, and the last of them that anybody remembers is Dasarath, who had three queens and four sons and gave away the wrong promise. His eldest son was Rām. The palace is gone. The kingdom is gone. What is left is a small town on a middle sized river, full of ascetics and priests and people who feed them, and every lane in it is named for something that happened to one family a very long time ago.

The boy was seven years old.

He had walked there with a Śaiva ascetic who had picked him up off a road in Banda country and given him a name. Everything he knew about Rām he knew from that man's mouth, told on the way, in stages, at whatever hour they stopped. He had never seen a city. He had never had a teacher who stayed. He had a name that meant he belonged to somebody and no house he could have been sent home to.

And he was standing in Ayodhyā.

Stop on that a moment, because of what he did later. The book he spent his old age on begins in this town and ends in it. It opens with a king of Ayodhyā who wants a son, and it closes with that son on the throne of Ayodhyā with the rains coming and the people quiet, and everything between those two points is a going out and a coming back. Fourteen years in the forest, a war across the water, and then the road home. The whole shape of the thing is the shape of leaving Ayodhyā and returning to it.

And it should be said what kind of country he had walked through to get there, because it is easy to read a life like this as though it happened in a picture with nothing else in it. The road he came in on was busy. The century he was walking through was a loud one. Armies had been going up and down that plain for a generation and would go up and down it for another, and the men who held the country held it in a different language from the men who owned the learning in it, and both of those were different again from the language the carters on the road were shouting in. Persian was the language of power and of every paper that mattered. Sanskrit was the language of scripture and of the men who kept it. And then there was what people said to each other, which had no official standing anywhere and varied from district to district and was not written down except by a few poets nobody in authority had heard of.

A boy walking up that road at nine heard all three.

He came into the town for the first time on foot, at nine, with nothing, in somebody else's company.

He would come back to it as a grown man and begin writing.

Nobody told him that at the time. At nine he was a boy who had been brought a long way by a man he had known for a few weeks, and what was in front of him was not a book but a ceremony.

In the bright half of Māgha, on the fifth day, on the bank of the Sarayū, brahmins lit a fire for him.

Māgha is the cold month. The mornings on that river in Māgha come up white with mist off the water and the sand is cold to stand on and the men bathing go in fast and come out faster. They would have started before light. A fire was laid and fed and the offerings went into it and the words went over it, and then the thing itself was done, which was that a cord was put over his left shoulder and under his right arm.

The rite is called upanayana. The word means a leading-toward, and what the boy is led toward is a teacher. It is the ceremony that makes a brahmin boy into a student, and it is also the ceremony that makes him twice-born, because the tradition counts it as a second birth: the first from the mother, the second from the fire and the teacher and the verse. Until it is done he is a child of his house. After it is done he belongs to the learning.

The cord is three strands of cotton twisted together and knotted. It is not an ornament and it is not meant to be seen. It sits under the clothes and it is there for the rest of a man's life, replaced when it frays, and the only people who ever touch it are the man himself, at the daily rites, and the barber.

There is a proper order to the rite. The head is shaved. The boy is bathed. He is given a girdle of grass, and a staff cut to his height, and the cord. And then, at the end, comes the part that everything else has been building toward: the teacher puts a cloth over the two of them, or leans in close, and speaks a verse into the boy's ear.

The verse is the Gāyatrī. It is the oldest thing he will ever be given. It asks for the light of the sun to be set in the mind, and it is twenty-four syllables long, and it is not written on anything he is allowed to look at. It is put into his ear by a mouth. That is the point of the whole ceremony and that is why there is a cloth: the verse passes from one person to one person, spoken, at close range, and it has been going from mouth to ear that way for longer than anybody can count. A man who has had it is a man who was told it by somebody who was told it.

The boy said it before they told him.

He stood there in the cold on the sand with the fire going down and the cord new on his shoulder, and he said the Gāyatrī through, correctly, in the right metre, with nobody having taught him a syllable of it.

The brahmins on the riverbank stopped. It is recorded that they were astonished, which is the least surprising sentence in the whole account. They had been performing that rite all their working lives and its entire mechanism is that the verse is given. There is no provision for a boy who already has it.

Nothing in any source explains it. What is recorded is that it happened, and that the men standing there noticed, and that the ceremony went on afterwards to its end.

His guru then did five more of the saṃskāras for him, the rites a boy's father does, one after another, and gave him the mantra of Rām.

There is a thing here that the sources pass over and it should be said once. A thread ceremony needs a father. The father is who lights the fire, who holds the boy, who pays for it, whose gotra the boy is announced by, and whose house the boy is a member of. This boy's father had said he did not know what was to be done with such a child. So the man who did all of it was a Śaiva ascetic with no property, who had known him a few weeks, standing on a public riverbank in a town neither of them was from.

Afterwards the boy told him everything. He sat down with his guru and went through it from the beginning: the night he was born, what was said about the star, the woman who took him away, the heifer's milk, the snake, the two years at the doors, the woman who fed him and was not there when he took hold of her feet.

The guru wept.

That is in the account, in one line, and then the account moves on, and it is the only place in the whole of the early life where anybody is recorded as crying about any of it. The boy himself never did, not in anything he wrote. Somebody had to, and it was a man who had known him a few weeks.

There is a mound in Ayodhyā with Hanumān on it. It is the high ground in the town, a rise with a wall round the top and steps up to it, and Hanumān sits inside, and the whole place is called Hanumāngaṛhī, the fort of Hanumān. People go up there first, before they go anywhere else in the town, because he is the one who keeps the gate. You ask him before you ask Rām.

They stayed there ten months.

Ten months is a specific number and it has survived, which means somebody counted it. It is not long. It is long enough for a winter and a hot season and the beginning of the rains, and long enough for a boy to stop being new anywhere.

What a student did with a day is not mysterious. He got up in the last dark. He went down to the river and bathed in it, in Māgha too, because the rule does not make allowances for the month. He did the morning rite, which is water and the Gāyatrī and the sun. Then he sat in front of his teacher and recited, and was corrected, and recited again. In the middle of the day he went out and asked for food.

That last one deserves a sentence of its own. A brahmacārī, a boy under the thread and under a teacher, is required to beg. He takes a bowl and goes to houses and says the formula and holds it out, and what he is given he brings back and it is shared. The reason for the rule is that a student is supposed to own nothing and to be fed by the town he is learning in, and it is meant to keep him from getting above himself.

He had done two years of that already, at five and six and seven years old, in Rajapur, without a bowl and without a formula and without anybody to bring it back to.

Now it was the rule. Now it was a discipline undertaken on purpose by a boy with a thread and a teacher and a place to sleep, and the same act that had been the shape of his destitution was the shape of his training. Nothing in the tradition remarks on this. He never remarked on it either.

And there were the other rules, which are many and small and which is what makes them a training rather than a curriculum. A brahmacārī sleeps on the ground. He does not use oil on his hair or anything on his skin. He does not eat honey or meat. He does not sleep in the daytime. He does not look at a performance or listen to music for pleasure. He tends the fire and he fetches the wood and the water for it himself. He speaks to his teacher standing, and he does not speak first. None of these is difficult on its own and all of them together are the point: for the length of the training, a boy's day has no space in it that he arranges himself.

A nine-year-old who had spent two years deciding for himself where to sleep was put into that, and by every indication he took to it.

In the evening there was recitation again, and the lamp, and the fire tended, and sleep on the floor.

Ten months of that, on a mound in Ayodhyā, with Hanumān at the top of the steps.

Notice where he was put to start. Not in a school, not in a city, not under a pandit with a reputation. On a hill with Hanumān on it, in the town Rām was born in, doing the ordinary things. Long afterwards, when he wanted something impossible and got it, the one he got it from was Hanumān, and he wrote more about Hanumān than any poet before him had. The first ten months of his education were spent living on Hanumān's hill.

And there, on that hill, they put him to Pāṇini.

Sanskrit is not learned the way a child learns the language of his house. By the sixteenth century nobody spoke it at home. It was the language of the texts and of men who had been trained in it, and the way into it was through its grammar, and its grammar was one book.

The book is the Aṣṭādhyāyī, the eight chapters, and a man called Pāṇini made it a very long time before any of this, and nothing like it exists anywhere else. It is not a description of Sanskrit. It is a device for producing Sanskrit. It has something under four thousand rules in it, and the rules are not sentences. They are sūtras, which means threads, and they are cut down to the absolute bone. Words are dropped if a previous rule already supplied them. Whole categories are compressed into a single letter. The shortest of them is one syllable long and it does real work. The longest would not fill a line.

The first of the four thousand is vṛddhir ādaic. It is two words. It tells you which vowels are meant when the book later uses a certain technical name, and without it none of the rest of the book functions.

That is what they gave a nine-year-old.

And they did not explain it. This is the part that is hard to credit from outside, and it is how the thing was done everywhere in India and is still done in places. The boy learns the sūtras by heart first. All of them, in order, with the accents, chanted, at speed, to a rhythm, with a man beating time or correcting him, morning and evening, for as long as it takes. He does not know what they mean. He is not supposed to know yet. Meaning is a later subject and it has its own commentaries and its own years.

So the sound of a boy's education was the sound of four thousand aphorisms he did not understand going into him one at a time.

And it was not only the Aṣṭādhyāyī. There is a list of the verb roots that goes with it, some two thousand of them, and a list of the word-groups, and both of those are learned the same way. There are the fourteen little sound-lists at the front of the book, the ones that begin a i u ṇ, which are the alphabet arranged not for the alphabet's sake but so that the rules can grab handfuls of it at a time. Those come first of all, and they are pure noise to a beginner, and every one of them must be exact, because a wrong letter in the wrong list breaks rules four thousand deep.

Years of it. Not months.

What it produces, if it works, is a mind that has the whole machine inside it and can run it without looking anything up. A man trained that way does not consult a grammar. He is a grammar. When he hears a form he knows what made it, the way a carpenter knows from the surface what tool went over it, and when he wants a form he builds it.

The boy who had not been taught the Gāyatrī and said it anyway was now set to learn by heart the driest text in the language, out of a discipline that had no interest in whether he was gifted. And the point is not that it was cruel. The point is that it worked, and that everything he did afterwards rested on it. There is not a line of the Rāmcaritmānas that is not the work of a man who was put through Pāṇini as a child.

Then they left Ayodhyā and went to Sūkarkhet, and stayed five years.

The name is worth taking apart, because it tells you what the place was for. Sūkara is a boar. Kṣetra is a field, and in this kind of name it means a holy ground, a stretch of country with something in it. Sūkarkhet is the boar's ground. The village beside it was Sūkara-grāma, boar-town, and ordinary mouths wore that down over centuries the way ordinary mouths do. Sūkara-grāma became Sūar-gāṅw. Sūar-gāṅw became Suarāṅw. Suarāṅw became Soron, which is what it is called now, and if you did not know the older forms you would never guess there was a boar in it.

The boar is Viṣṇu. When the earth went down under the water, he came as a boar, went down after it, and brought it up on his tusk. That is the Varāha, the third of the ten, and it is the least decorative of them: a heavy, dark, tusked animal doing the kind of work you do with your head down.

The great gathering of the place was the Varāha's festival. That is what Sūkarkhet was known for and what brought people to it, and they came for it in numbers. So a boy living there for five years lived in a small town that was crowded once a year and quiet the rest of the time, and the thing everybody came for was a story about the world being pulled out of deep water by something that went down after it.

A festival of that kind in a small town has to be seen once to know what he grew up in the middle of. For most of the year Sūkarkhet was a place where nothing happened: a temple, a tank, some priests, a market on a fixed day, fields. Then the festival came and the roads filled. People walked in from three days out and slept in the open with their bullocks. The lanes became impassable. Whole families arrived having saved for it, and there were men selling things they could not sell any other week of the year, and there were sādhus of every description who had come the way sādhus come, and there were people with illnesses hoping, and people fulfilling something they had promised years before.

And in the middle of it, for a day, the crowd would stand and be told the story of the boar.

Then it would empty out again over a week, and the town would go back to being a town, and there would be rubbish in the lanes for a month and everybody would talk about it until the next year.

Five years there. The account says they lived in austerity and in recitation, and those are the two words for it, and they cover a great deal: the same fasts, the same hours, the same bathing before light, the same learning by heart. He was ten and eleven and twelve and thirteen and fourteen, and he spent it in a small town named for a boar, doing the same things every day.

And in those five years he was told the story of Rām.

Here the guessing stops, because here he tells it himself.

Almost everything about his childhood comes from other people. The birth, the star, the ornaments sent away in the dark, the heifer, the snake, the doors, the woman in the street: all of that is what was remembered and written down by others, later. This one is his. It is in the first book of the Rāmcaritmānas, near the beginning, and it is the only scene from his own boyhood that he ever set down in a book.

He is explaining where he got the story he is about to tell. He works back through the chain of people who have told it before him, the great tellers and the great hearers, and then he says:

मैं पुनि निज गुर सन सुनी कथा सो सूकरखेत ।<br>

समुझी नहिं तसि बालपन तब अति रहेउँ अचेत ॥

And I heard that story from my own guru, at Sūkarkhet. I did not understand it, being a child then, and altogether without sense.

Then, in the next breath, he says why not. The teller of Rām's hidden story and the hearer of it, he says, are both of them treasuries of knowledge, and he was a dull creature, caught in the dirt of the age, and a fool. How was he to take it in?

Look at what the scene actually is. A room, or a verandah, or a shaded place outside. An old ascetic sitting. A boy of nine or ten sitting in front of him with his legs crossed. The old man tells him the story of Rām, from the beginning, the whole thing, the kingdom and the promise and the exile and the forest and the water and the war and the return. And the boy does not follow it.

Not some of it. He says he did not understand it, and that he was without sense, and he is not being modest in the way poets are conventionally modest, because he gives the reason and the reason is that he was a child and the thing was deep.

So the old man told it again.

तदपि कही गुर बारहिं बारा । समुझि परी कछु मति अनुसारा ॥<br>

भाषाबद्ध करबि मैं सोई । मोरें मन प्रबोध जेहिं होई ॥

Even so my guru told it over and over, and something came clear, as much as my wit allowed. That is what I shall bind into bhāṣā, so that my own mind may wake.

Over and over. That is the phrase and it will not be improved on. Again, and again, and again, at whatever hour they did it, for five years, in a town named for a boar, to a boy who had not got it the first time and said so.

And something came clear. Not all of it. Something, and only as much as his wit allowed, which is exactly how much of it a boy can hold, and he is careful to say so in a poem he wrote as an old man when he could have said anything he liked about himself.

Now put the four lines together and see what he has done. He has said where he heard the story. He has said he did not understand it. He has said his teacher repeated it until he understood a little. And then, in the same sentence, without a pause, he has said that the little he understood is what he is going to put into bhāṣā, the language people speak, so that his own mind may wake.

That is the whole seed of the Rāmcaritmānas, and it is in four lines at the front of the Rāmcaritmānas, and he put it there on purpose.

Everybody who ever explained the poem afterwards explained it as a gift to the unlettered, and it was one. But that is not what he says. He says he is writing it so that his own mind may wake, and he says it directly after telling you that he sat in front of a teacher as a boy and could not follow a word. The book is a man going over the story again and again in the only language he could go over it in, which is the one he actually thought in, for the same reason his teacher went over it again and again: because that is how it gets in.

A child sitting in front of an old man, hearing a story he cannot follow. Hearing it again. Hearing it again. Until it is in him, and it is in him for the next eighty years, and out of it comes the book that half of northern India would learn by heart.

And there is one more thing in it, which is the method.

The old man's method was repetition, and it was not a failure of teaching. It is how that tradition has always moved anything that matters from one person into another. You do not explain a thing once to somebody who cannot hold it. You say it again. You say it in the same words in the same order, and the person hearing it goes on not understanding it, and then understands a little of it, and then a little more, and what changes between the fourth time and the fortieth is not the story. It is the person.

He built his whole book for that.

The Rāmcaritmānas is not written to be read once and put down. It is written to be said out loud, in company, in sittings, at the same time of year, for as many years as a person has, and it has been used that way from the beginning. A man who takes it up in his thirties and keeps at it will have gone through it forty or fifty times before he dies, in the same words in the same order, and at eighty he is not getting new information out of it. He is getting what the boy at Sūkarkhet got: a little more each time, as much as his wit allows, out of a story he first heard without following it.

So the method the poem uses on its readers is the method his teacher used on him. He was on the receiving end of it for five years, from the age of eight, and he knew precisely what it does, and he wrote a book designed to do it.

He says so himself, and nobody else says it, and it is the soundest single thing anybody knows about his childhood.

Out of Sūkarkhet they went to Kāśī.

The Ganges comes up out of the plain from the south, and then it swings and runs north for a stretch of four miles, and the city is built along that stretch on the high left bank. That is the whole reason it is where it is. A river in that country that runs north for a few miles is not doing what rivers do, and the people who settled there settled on the bank the water had turned toward.

The bank is steep and the city sits on top of it, and between the houses and the water there is nothing but stone. Stone all the way along, for miles: flights of steps a hundred feet wide going down into the river, and landings, and platforms, and towers, and the plinths of temples, and above them the houses stacked up against each other with no space between, six and seven storeys, so that from the water it looks like one continuous wall with steps at the bottom of it. Behind that wall there are no streets. There are lanes a man's shoulders wide, going up and turning and going up, in the dark at midday, with bulls standing in them.

The city is Śiva's. That is not a manner of speaking. It is his, it is said to have been his before anything else was anywhere, and it is said to stand on his trident and not on the earth at all, so that when the rest of the world goes under at the end this ground will be standing. People come there to die. That is one of the things the city is for: a man who dies in Kāśī is done with being born, and the burning goes on at the ghats without stopping, night and day, and has for as long as anybody can say.

And there is the other thing the city is for, which is learning.

Kāśī was where you went if you wanted to be taught. It had been that for centuries and it was still that. Every school of every argument had men there. A teacher who mattered had a house, and in the house there were boys, and in the morning they sat on the floor in rows and recited, and in the evening they came back and did it again. A man could spend a life in that city and never leave a square mile of it and be at the centre of everything.

Pañcagaṅgā Ghāṭ is about halfway along the bend, and it is one of the big ones. The name means five Ganges: the river that is visible and four others that are said to come in there unseen. The steps are wide and go down a long way, and there are shrines set into the wall of them, and small platforms at the water's edge under umbrellas where a man can sit.

Come to it at four in the morning, which is when it is at its best and always has been. It is dark. The river is the only thing making any noise, and it is the flat slapping noise of a great deal of water going past a stone wall. There are lamps on the landings, a few, and the light does not reach the water. Men come down the steps in ones and twos with cloths over their shoulders, and they leave the cloths on the stone and walk in, and the river in the cold months takes the breath out of them. They stand in it up to the chest, facing across to where the sun will come up, and they put water up and let it fall, three times, and they say something. You cannot hear what any of them are saying. What you hear is many men at once, each saying a different thing, none of them loudly, and the sound of it is not words.

Then a bell somewhere up the steps. Then another one, further along. Then the light starts, and the far bank comes out of it, which is sand and nothing else, and the boats start moving, and you can see that there are hundreds of people on the steps and there have been for an hour.

One more thing about the city, and it is about the men in it rather than the stone.

Banaras was run, in every way that was not military, by pandits. Not the rajas, who came and went, and not the men with the revenue, who also came and went. The men whose opinion a Hindu in northern India actually wanted about anything that mattered lived in that city, in houses, with pupils, and they were the ones who settled what was correct. They ruled on marriages and inheritances and on whether a thing was permitted. They arbitrated between two temples. They pronounced on the calendar. A letter from the pandits of Kāśī could end a dispute four hundred miles away, and they knew it, and it did not make them modest.

They were also, almost all of them, men from families that had been doing it for generations. That is the ordinary way it worked: a boy learned from his father and his father's brother, in his own house, in a lane where every other house did the same, and the reputation he stepped into had been built before he was born. Learning ran in families like a trade, and it was defended like one.

Into that city came a boy with no family at all. No father who would own him, no uncles, no house, no lane, no name behind his name, and nothing whatsoever except that he had been brought there by an ascetic and had the sound of some grammar in his mouth.

That is the city, and those are the men who ran it, and he was going to be there for fifteen years.

There was a man at Pañcagaṅgā Ghāṭ called Śeṣ Sanātan.

What is said about him is that he had gone the whole way through nigamāgama. That is a pair of words used as one, and it means the two bodies of scripture together: nigama is the Veda and what belongs to it, and āgama is the other stream, the tantras, the texts of the rites and the temples and the mantras. To be through both was rare. Most men were through one and knew of the other. He was known to the ascetics and the accomplished men of that city as a storehouse of austerity, and the accounts say there was a light about him, and leave it there.

He saw the boy.

Then he did something teachers of that standing did not do, which was to ask. He went to the ascetic and asked him for the boy. Give him to me as my own pupil, he said. And then he said what he would do with him, and the list has been kept, and it is the whole of what a man of that century could be given:

The four Vedas.

The six darśanas.

Itihāsa, purāṇa, and kāvya.

I will make him a great scholar, he said.

Take that list slowly, because a reader who goes past it quickly has gone past fifteen years of a man's life.

The four Vedas are the Ṛg, the Yajur, the Sāma and the Atharva, and they are not read. They are held in the mouth. A man who has one of them has it complete, with the accents, and the accents matter because they change the meaning and because the tradition treats a mis-accented syllable as a wound. The training for that is the same training as Pāṇini and it is longer.

The six darśanas are the six ways of arguing about what is the case, and no two of them agree. Nyāya is the one about how you know anything and what counts as proving it. Vaiśeṣika is the one about what things are made of. Sāṃkhya counts up the constituents of the world and says there are exactly this many. Yoga is the practice that goes with Sāṃkhya's account. Mīmāṃsā is about what the words of the Veda oblige a man to do, and it is ferociously technical. Vedānta says that behind all of it there is one thing only. A student does not learn one of these and reject the others. He learns all six, and he learns each one well enough to state its case at full strength, and then he learns the objections the other five make to it, and then the answers to the objections. That is the training. It takes years and it produces a particular kind of mind, which can hold a position it does not hold and argue it properly.

Itihāsa is the two great narratives, the Mahābhārata and the Rāmāyaṇa, and the Rāmāyaṇa here means Vālmīki's, in Sanskrit, the one every pandit in Banaras could quote.

Purāṇa is the eighteen, which are the stories of the gods and the genealogies and the accounts of the world's ages, and they are enormous.

Kāvya is poetry, and by poetry is meant the whole science of it: the poets themselves, Kālidāsa and the rest, and the metres, and the figures, and the theory of what a poem does to the person reading it. A man trained in kāvya can tell you the name of what a line is doing and why it works.

That was the offer. The ascetic agreed to it, there on the bank of the Ganges.

He stayed some days and satisfied himself that the boy was well placed, and then he went away to Citrakūṭ.

The account does not make a scene of the parting and neither will this. The man who had come across the country to find him, and named him, and stood in for his father at the fire, and told him the story of Rām over and over for five years, handed him to a better teacher and left, because that is what a guru of that tradition does when he has found the right house for a pupil. It was the correct thing. It was also the fourth time in that boy's life that the person looking after him had gone.

He was thirteen or fourteen. He knew nobody in the city. He was left on the steps of a ghat in Kāśī with a man whose reputation was austerity.

Fifteen years. Put a finger on that number and keep it there, because it is the longest single stretch of his life that can be accounted for, and nothing else before the writing comes near it.

He went into that house a boy who had been taught the sound of some grammar. He came out of it one of the best Sanskritists in the city that had the most of them.

The work was as follows.

Morning first, and morning began before there was any light. Down the lanes in the dark, down the steps, into the river. Up again, wet, the morning rite on the stone. Then to the teacher, and the day's pāṭha, which is the lesson and also the act of reciting it: the teacher says the line, the student says it back, the teacher says it again, the student says it back, and this goes on until the line is not in the student's memory but in his mouth. Then yesterday's lines. Then the lines from the day before yesterday. Then the whole of what has been done in the last month. Nothing is ever finished with. Everything is carried forward and said again, and a student two years in is spending most of his morning on things he has known for two years.

That is why it holds. A man taught that way cannot forget, in the way a man who has read a book can forget it.

And Sanskrit taught that way is not a language you have studied. It is a language that has been corrected out of you, syllable by syllable, out loud, in front of somebody, every day, for years. The mistakes are caught the moment they are made. You are never allowed to be approximately right.

Then the meaning. The commentaries, which are texts about texts, and then the commentaries on the commentaries. A single sentence of Mīmāṃsā can take a week and the week is not wasted. Then the objections. Then the manuals of argument, which are as precise as anything ever written about reasoning: what a proof is, what a fallacy is, what it is legitimate to do to an opponent's position and what is merely a trick.

And then the disputation.

That is the part the city was famous for. Learning in Banaras was not private. A man's standing was his learning and his learning was tested in public, in the open, on the ghats and in the courtyards, in front of an audience that knew the material. Two men would take up a question and argue it out, taking turns, in Sanskrit, with the audience following and the audience's opinion mattering, and it went on until one of them could not answer and said so. That was the whole mechanism. There was no appeal and no compromise and no agreeing to differ. You were beaten in front of everybody, or you were not.

A man had to be able to think on his feet in a dead language, at speed, with two hundred people listening.

Fifteen years of that. He was fifteen and then twenty and then twenty-five and then nearly thirty, on the same steps, in the same city, with the same teacher. The Ganges went past the bottom of the ghat the whole time and the burning went on downstream and the boats went over and came back, and he learned the four Vedas and the six darśanas and the two epics and the eighteen purāṇas and the poets, and whatever else was put in front of him.

Nobody records a single thing he said in those fifteen years. There is no anecdote, no prize, no famous victory in disputation, no letter, no verse. The whole of it is two numbers and a list of subjects.

But you can see the result from the other end, because the result is his work, and his work gives him away on every page. The man who wrote the Rāmcaritmānas knew Vālmīki's Sanskrit line by line. He knew the purāṇas well enough to move between their versions of a story without a seam showing. He could set out a position in Vedānta correctly and then set out the objection to it correctly, in verse, in a village dialect, and have both of them right. He built a poem out of seven books that holds its shape across twelve thousand lines, and a man does not learn to do that from hearing stories. He handled metres that Sanskrit poetics has names for, and he handled them like a man who knew the names.

None of that came from Rajapur or from a mound in Ayodhyā or from a town named after a boar. It came from fifteen years on the steps at Pañcagaṅgā Ghāṭ.

And there is a thing that has to have been going on in his head the whole time, which nobody records, and which anybody can see must have been.

Part of what he was taught in those fifteen years was the Rāmāyaṇa. Vālmīki's, in Sanskrit, the real one as far as that city was concerned, twenty-four thousand verses of it, the poem every pandit could quote and did. So for fifteen years he sat on the floor and was taken through the story of Rām, line by line, with the commentaries, in the language of the learned, by a master of scripture, in the greatest school in India.

And he already had that story.

He had got it years before, in a small town, from an old man with no reputation, in whatever the two of them talked to each other in, which was not Sanskrit. He had got it wrong the first several times. He had got it by having it said again, and again, until it stopped being something told to him and started being something he had.

So there were two of them in him, the same story twice, and they did not arrive by the same road and they did not feel the same. One of them he had earned, with enormous labour, in a language he had been drilled in from the age of nine. The other one had been put into him by a man who loved him, in the words people use.

Nobody ever asked him which one he trusted. He answered it anyway, forty years later, by which one he wrote in.

Now the thing this day has been walking toward.

At the end of those fifteen years there was a man in Banaras in his late twenties who could do anything the tradition could do. He had come up out of nothing. He had no family and no property and no patron, and what he had instead was the one thing that could not be taken from him in that century, which was that he was a first-rate Sanskritist in a city full of them.

Think about what that was worth.

It was a livelihood, to begin with. A man of that training never went hungry. He could teach, and men would pay to have their sons taught by him. He could be kept by a temple. He could be attached to a court, because there was not a raja in northern India who did not want a pandit in the house, and the good ones were fought over.

It was standing, which was worth more. In a brahmin city a man's place was fixed by what he knew and how well he could hold it in argument, and a man who could hold it against anybody sat where he liked. He would be consulted. His opinion would settle things. Other men's sons would be sent to him.

And it was the poetry, which was worth most of all. Sanskrit was still being written. It had a thousand years of poets behind it and a living readership of the only people who counted as readers, and a man with kāvya in him and something to say could write in it and be read by the men whose reading was the tradition itself. He could stand in the line that runs back through the poets to Vālmīki. He could be, as they say of the good ones, immortal, which in practice means copied by hand in one city after another for four hundred years by men who knew exactly what they were copying.

He could have had all of it. He was trained for it, he was good enough for it, and it was in front of him.

He wrote in Awadhi.

He wrote in the speech of the villages of Awadh, the language people in Ayodhyā actually said things in, the language his teacher had told him the story of Rām in when he was nine and could not follow it. He wrote his great book in it and his small books in it and the songs in it. And when he wanted to, he showed what else he had: the Rāmcaritmānas opens with invocations in Sanskrit, correct and formal, put at the head of the poem where nobody could miss them, and then the poem itself starts and it is not in Sanskrit and it is never in Sanskrit again for twelve thousand lines.

Those opening verses are the proof that the choice was a choice. A man who cannot write Sanskrit does not begin in Sanskrit. He is saying, before he says anything else, that he is not doing this because he has to.

And it cost him, and he knew it would.

The pandits of Banaras did not forgive it, and they did not hide it, and some of them never read a line of him on principle. The charge was not that he was a bad poet. The charge was that scripture in a village tongue was scripture lowered: that the story of Rām had a dignity which the language of carters and cowherds could not carry, and that a man who had been given the whole of the tradition and then turned round and put it into the speech of people who could not read had betrayed something. They were not fools and they were not only being snobs. They had a real argument and they had held it for a long time and it was the argument of the class he belonged to and had been educated into.

He answered them in the poem, and the answer is for another day, because it is one of the great pieces of writing in the language and it deserves the room. What can be said here is the shape of it. He does not claim that his book is as good as Sanskrit. He grants them the whole of their case about his telling and then answers it with the thing told, and with a cow, and with a piece of sandalwood, and the answer has outlived the objection by four hundred years.

But the cost is the point today, and the cost is this. He gave up being read by the men whose reading conferred permanence, in order to be recited by people who could not read at all. He gave up a place in a line of poets he could name, in order to be said out loud in courtyards by women grinding flour. He traded the certainty of being preserved for the possibility of being loved.

He was the best educated man in any room he was ever in afterwards, and he spent his life writing for the room he had grown up in, where nobody was educated at all.

It has to be said once that the trade was not a sacrifice he made on behalf of the ignorant from a comfortable distance, because he had been one of them. The two years at the doors came before the fifteen years on the steps. He had the village language first and the Sanskrit second, and when he had to choose he chose the one he had had first.

The fifteen years came to an end, and here the accounts stop telling you anything.

There is no scene of his leaving Śeṣ Sanātan's house. Nobody says whether the old man was alive at the end of it or what was said between them, and nobody says what Tulsīdās then did with himself, which is the obvious question, because a man of thirty with that training has to be somewhere and has to be eating. Whether he taught, or recited for a living, or was kept by a temple, or went home, is not recorded by anybody.

What is recorded is that he was reciting the story of Rām in public, because that is how the next thing happens. Somebody heard him do it.

So the picture at the point where the story picks him up again is this. A man of nearly thirty. Unmarried. No family living that anybody mentions. Trained to the top of his tradition and apparently not using it for anything that made a name, because if he had made a name in those years somebody would have written it down and nobody did. Reciting the Rām story to whoever was there to hear it, well enough that strangers remembered it afterwards.

And then a brahmin came to the door.

A brahmin came and asked for him.

He was of the Bharadvāj gotra, which is one of the old lines, and he had a daughter, and what he wanted was to give her to Tulsīdās. He had heard him recite the story of Rām and had not forgotten it.

And he had had a dream.

The way it is given is plain. It was late at night and the man was asleep and Jagadambā woke him in the dream and told him the name, and told him the place as well, exactly, so that he would know where to go. That is all. She named the man and she named the address.

She had fed the same boy in the street for two years, in the shape of a village woman, and been gone when he took hold of her feet. Now she woke a stranger in the middle of the night and sent him to the door.

Nothing is explained. The man got up in the morning and went.

Tulsīdās said no.

He said it plainly and without softening it. I do not want a marriage, he said. Take your feet elsewhere.

Nobody wrote down why, and it should not be filled in. He was nearly thirty and unmarried, which for a brahmin of his training was late but not unheard of, and he had spent his whole life in the houses of ascetics and in the company of men who had no houses. He had never lived in a family. He had no experience of one to go on. The only households he had been inside were other people's.

Then the brahmin sat down at the door and stopped eating.

That is dharṇā, and it needs explaining because the English for it does not exist. A man who wants something from you and cannot compel it comes and sits at your door, and he does not eat and he does not drink and he does not leave, and he goes on not eating and not drinking. He does not threaten you. He does not raise his voice. He simply stays there, getting worse, in public, where everybody in the lane can see him and see whose door it is. And if he dies there, it is yours.

It is the most patient form of force there is and it is entirely one-sided, because the only person taking any risk is the man on the ground.

So there was a brahmin of the Bharadvāj gotra sitting outside, all that day, not eating, with a daughter at home and a dream he could not argue with.

On the second day Tulsīdās agreed.

And the moment he agreed, the brahmin took food and water.

Read that sequence again, because it is the most human line in the whole business. The man was not fasting as a discipline. He had no interest in fasting. He was fasting because it was the only instrument he had, and the second it worked he stopped, and ate, and presumably went home to tell his wife.

In the bright half of Jyeṣṭha, on the thirteenth day, they were married.

Jyeṣṭha is the worst month in that country. It comes after the hot weather has already been going on for two months and before the rains break, and the ground holds the heat all night and lets it go at about four in the morning and gets it back by nine. Everything that can be done at night is done at night in Jyeṣṭha. The weddings are done at night.

So it was near midnight when they walked the circuits.

That is the binding part of it and everything else is preparation. A fire is lit and the two of them go round it, and there is a knot, and there are words, and after the circuits are walked the thing is done and cannot be undone. On the third day there was the rite at the marriage booth, and on the fifth the goods were given, and then the bride was sent away from her father's house with her husband, which is the part of a wedding nobody has ever made pleasant.

And it is worth saying, since nobody else does, that there was somebody else at that wedding whose life was being decided.

She had not been asked either. Her father had had a dream and had gone off and found a man and had sat in the dust outside his door without eating until he agreed, and she had been told about it afterwards, the way girls were told. She was being married out of the village she had lived in since she was born, to a man she had not seen, chosen for a reason she had to take on trust from her father's sleep. On the fifth day she would be put in a cart and taken away from her mother and from every woman she knew, and after that she would live in a house she had never been inside with people who were not hers.

That was ordinary. It happened to nearly every woman in that country in that century and most of them survived it and made something of it. But it was happening to her, in Jyeṣṭha, at night, and the fact that it was ordinary does not make it small.

And then, at some point in all of it, the edge of the veil was drawn back.

That is how it is put. The cloth over her face moved aside and he saw her.

He had refused this marriage and been sat out of it by a man on his doorstep. He had agreed to it on the second day the way you agree to a thing you cannot honourably refuse. He had walked round a fire at midnight in the hot month with a woman he had not seen.

And then the veil moved, and he loved her, and that was the end of any doubt about it.

The accounts are unanimous and they are all short. He gave her his heart and his life. He would not let her go anywhere and would not go anywhere himself. He had not a moment's ease without her.

Not one of them says anything else, and it is better to be honest about the reason. The accounts are not interested in the marriage. They are interested in how it ended, and they are hurrying toward it. So they give the love in a sentence and move on.

But the sentence is there, in every one of them, and none of them had to put it in.

Her name was Ratnāvalī. Her father was Dīnabandhu Pāṭhak. They had a son, and his name was Tārak, and he died as a child.

That is the whole of it. Those are all the facts there are about the family this man had, and they fit in three sentences, and everything else that can be said about those years is a statement about what is missing.

Nobody wrote down where they lived. Nobody wrote down what the house was like, or whether it was his or hers or lent, or who else was in it, or what he did for a living in those years, which is a real question for a man of his training with a wife to keep. Nobody wrote down how long the marriage lasted, beyond that it was some years. Nobody wrote down a single thing she said in the whole of it, or a single thing he said to her.

Nobody wrote down anything at all about the child except his name and that he went before they did.

That last absence should be allowed to sit for a moment. A son was born to them and given a name and lived long enough to be a person in that house, and then he died, as a great many children in that century died, and of the whole of his short life the only thing anybody kept is the two syllables of his name. Whatever it did to the two of them is not recorded. It is not even alluded to. The next thing anybody wanted to tell you about these two people is what happened at a river at night.

So what is left is a shape rather than a picture.

A man of nearly thirty who had never belonged to a household was suddenly in one. He had been raised by a servant woman, fed by a stranger in the street, taught by an ascetic, and schooled for fifteen years in a discipline whose whole purpose is to detach a young man from ordinary life and attach him to a text. Everybody who had ever looked after him had left. And now there was a wife in the house and a child, and both of them stayed, and for some years the arrangement held.

There is no reason to make that either happier or sadder than it was. Marriages arranged that way often worked, and by every word that survives this one did. He loved her from the moment he saw her face and went on loving her, which is more than a great many men in a great many centuries have managed, and she seems to have been easy enough with him to laugh at him in the middle of the night. Somewhere in those undocumented years the two of them worked out how to live in a house together, and buried a child, and went on.

He could not bear her to be out of the room.

That is the one detail that was kept, and it is kept in that form, as though it were charming. It is charming. It is also the behaviour of a man who has lost every single person who ever kept him, and it is the reason the rest of this day happens the way it does.

She went to her father's.

Her mother was unwell, and she wanted to see her, and she wanted to see the married women of the village she had grown up in, which is the other half of it and is not a lesser reason. A woman married out of a village goes back to it when she can. The women there had known her all her life and would know her children and would talk to her in a way nobody in her husband's house could.

Her brother came for her, and she went with him, quietly, and she did not ask her husband's leave.

There is no way to write that line without the reader reaching for a judgement, so let it be said flatly and then left alone. She did not ask. He had been refusing to let her out of his sight, and she wanted to see her mother, and her brother was there, and she went. The accounts do not say she was angry. They do not say she was wrong. They say she went quietly with her brother, which is a woman leaving in the ordinary way, without a quarrel and without a scene, in the middle of a day when her husband was not in the house.

He came home in the evening.

Picture it exactly, because the whole rest of his life turns on this hour. It is evening. He comes in off the lane at the end of the day and the house is quiet in the wrong way. He calls. Nothing. He goes through the rooms. Nothing is disturbed, nothing is missing except the one thing, and there is no note because nobody in that house wrote notes to each other.

The maidservant told him where she had gone.

She would have told him kindly and briefly, the way servants tell people things like that, and she would have expected it to be received as information. His wife had gone to her father's with her brother to see her mother. She would be back.

He did not receive it as information.

He went straight out of the house.

It was night by then, and her father's village was on the other side of the river.

He got across it. How he got across it is given as somehow, by one means or another, which is the way people write when they know a man swam and do not want to make a performance of it. There was no boat at that hour. A river at night in that country is black, and it is cold at the surface and colder underneath, and it is moving, and a man in it cannot see the bank he is going to. He went in at one side and came out at the other.

Then he walked to the house, wet, in the dark, with his clothes stuck to him.

And when he got there the whole village was asleep and the door was shut.

Everything about that moment is worth holding still for. He had crossed a river in the dark to get to a house where every single person, including her, was asleep. Nobody was waiting for him. Nobody was expecting him. Nothing was wrong in that house. His wife was upstairs in the room she had slept in as a girl, next to her mother, having had an ordinary journey and an ordinary evening and gone to bed.

He was the only thing wrong, and he was standing in the lane dripping.

He did not knock, because knocking would have woken her father's household and there is no version of that which ends well for anybody.

He went up the wall.

Her window was above him and he climbed to it, in the dark, in wet clothes, on a house he did not live in, with a village asleep on both sides of him. There is no account of how. There is only the fact that he did it and that the fact was remembered, and anybody who has ever looked at the outside of a village house of that kind in that country can see well enough that it could be done and how badly you would want to.

And then he was at the window, and she woke up.

She woke up the way anybody wakes to a noise at a window in the middle of the night, which is all at once. And then she knew his voice, and she was not frightened, and the first thing she did was laugh.

That is in the account and it is the only glimpse anybody has of what she was like when she was not saying the thing she is remembered for. Her husband was at her window in the middle of the night, soaking, having swum a river, and she laughed at him. Then she spoke, and what was remembered of her speech is that it was clear and full of instruction, which is a way of warning you that what is coming is not small talk.

How did you come, she said, blind with love like that, with no thought of the dark night?

And then she said the thing.

हाड़-मांस को देह मम, ता पर जितनी प्रीति ।

तिसु आधो जो रामप्रति, अवशि मिटिहि भवभीति ॥

This body of mine is bone and meat. Of all the love you have for it, turn half towards Rām, and the fear of being born again will be wiped out for certain.

He did not argue with it.

The words went in like an arrow. That is the image the tradition kept and it is the right one, because an arrow is not a thing you consider. It arrives, and it is already in, and the arriving and the going in are one event.

He turned round and went. He did not wait. He did not stay the night and leave in the morning like a sensible man, and he did not go in and sit down, and he did not ask her what she meant. He turned on the instant and did not linger a moment, and as he went, what his guru had told him came up in his mind.

Five years of it, over and over, in a town named for a boar, to a boy who had not understood a word.

She meant it.

That is the first thing and it is the thing most often taken away from her. She was not scolding him and she was not being clever and she was not saying a hard thing in order to be admired for saying it. She was woken in the middle of the night by a man who had crossed a river for the sake of her body, and she told him what her body was, and then she did a sum with the love he had for it, and the sum came out the way she said it came out. She was a woman who said a true thing to her husband and she was right.

She is not in this story to move him along. It should be said, once, that the whole tradition afterwards has treated her as the beginning of something else, and that this is not fair to her, and that there is no way of telling the story that entirely avoids it, because what happened next is a fact and it happened next. But she was not a means. She was a person with a mother who was unwell and a village she had grown up in and a child she had buried, and she had a mind, and on that night she used it.

Nor was she leaving him. Notice what she did not say. She did not say go away. She did not say she was ashamed of him, or that he should not have come, or that she did not want him. She did not ask for anything for herself at all. She took the one thing he had in excess, which was his love for her, and she told him where to put half of it, and by her arithmetic half was more than enough.

She was not asking him to love her less. She was telling him the amount was wrong for the object.

And she had the standing to say it. She had been married to him for some years. She knew what he was: the best trained man for miles, who knew the four Vedas and the six ways of arguing and every poet in the language, who had sat in front of an old ascetic as a child and been told the story of Rām over and over until it went in. She had presumably heard him recite it. Her father had heard him recite it, and had wanted him for that reason, and had gone without food on his doorstep to get him. She knew exactly what was in her husband and what he was doing with it, which was crossing rivers at night.

Nobody had told him that before. Fifteen years of teachers had made him formidable and nobody in fifteen years had told him he had his affections in the wrong proportion. It took a wife at a window in the middle of the night to say the one sentence the whole of Kāśī had not said to him.

One more thing about the sentence, and it is the thing that makes it work: it is not religious language. She does not quote anything. She does not cite a text and she does not use the vocabulary of the schools, and she was talking to a man who had fifteen years of the schools in him and could have taken any text she quoted apart in front of her. What she used instead was her own body, which was the one piece of evidence in the case that he could neither dispute nor out-argue, and a piece of arithmetic a child could follow.

That is why it worked, and it should be said clearly, because it is the same move he spent the rest of his life making. The whole argument of his life was that the highest thing there is can be said in the plainest words there are, and that saying it plainly takes nothing away from it. Nobody taught him that on the steps at Pañcagaṅgā Ghāṭ. He had it demonstrated on him, at a window, at night, by his wife, in one sentence with no learning in it at all.

What the sources give of her is small and it should be said plainly what it is. A name, a father's name, a son's name. A mother who was unwell. A brother who came for her. One night, one laugh, one question, one sentence. That is all. They do not say what she did afterwards. They do not say how long she lived, or where, or whether she knew what became of him, or what she thought about it if she did. They do not say whether she was glad or sorry, and it is not obvious which she would have been.

They do not say whether he ever went back, and nobody should pretend otherwise.

What is certain is that she was the last person to whom he belonged in the ordinary way, and that she is the last person in his life about whom there is a domestic fact of any kind. Everything before her is a series of people who kept him and then went: his mother, Cuniyā, the woman in the street, his guru. She is the only one who stayed and then stopped him. And she did not go anywhere. He did.

Her name was Ratnāvalī, and she said one sentence, and it is the hinge of the entire life.

Tomorrow: the road out, and Kāśī, and a ghost at the water, and what he did when he finally got hold of a pair of feet that did not disappear.

There was a window above a lane in a sleeping village, and a woman inside it who had just said what she thought, and a man on the wall below it with river water still in his clothes.

What she said belongs to yesterday and does not need saying twice. What belongs to today is what he did with it.

He did not argue. That is the first thing, and the rest of this day comes out of it. No reply of his was remembered, and the shape of the story says there was none, because a man who had a reply would have made it and the night would have gone on the way nights go on, with the two of them talking at a window until one of them was tired. He did not tell her she was wrong. He did not tell her she was right. He did not ask her what she meant by it and he did not ask her to come home with him in the morning.

He came down off the wall.

It was as if day broke.

The oldest account of his life that anybody sat down and wrote does not begin with his birth or his parents or his teachers. It begins at that window.

He did not wait for the light. It was still night when he left the village, and the fields were between him and the water, and he had to find the bank again in the dark. He had come across once already that night, and coming across the second time was the harder of the two, because the first crossing was made by a man who wanted something at the other end of it. He got over. On the far bank the light would have been starting, that flat grey on the Yamunā before there is any colour in it, and the first smoke going up from the villages, and the parrots beginning.

He did not go back to the house he had been keeping.

That is the fact to sit with for a moment. Everything he owned was in that house. His books were in it: a working brahmin's books, paper and palm leaf tied up in cloth, the grammar he had been through sūtra by sūtra as a boy, the six darśanas, the purāṇas, the volumes of kāvya, fifteen years of somebody else's patience copied out in his own hand. His clothes were in it. His cooking vessels were in it, and a householder's vessels are not a small thing, because they are the instruments of a life that has rules about who may touch what. His fire was in it. His name was on the door.

He walked east instead.

Nobody wrote down what he thought about on that road, and it would be an invention to supply it, so here is what can be said. It is about a hundred and forty miles from that stretch of the Yamunā to Banaras, and a man walking with nothing to carry and no reason to hurry does it in nine or ten days. He went through the country he had grown up looking at. For the first two days the hill would have been away on his right, the long low back of it standing up out of the fields, and then it would have dropped behind him. He crossed the Yamunā country into the Gaṅgā country. He came down to Prayāg where the rivers meet, and then followed the Ganges up, and the Ganges brought him in the end to the place where he had spent fifteen years learning what the books say about God.

He arrived in Banaras a man with no household, and he stayed.

It is tempting to tell this part as though a switch had been thrown: the scholar becomes the saint, the householder becomes the sādhu, and the sentence at the door did it. That is not how it reads. What reads is slower and harder and more ordinary. He had understood something about where his love had been going, and once a man has understood a thing like that he cannot arrange not to know it again. He could have gone home. The house was there and the wife was at her father's and every neighbour in the district would have helped him fetch her back and nobody would have thought a word about it. He would have had to live in that house knowing what he knew. That was the thing he could not do.

So he did the other thing, which was to put down everything he had and walk away from it in the middle of his life.

He was not a boy leaving home. He was a brahmin in his thirties with a Sanskrit education, a wife he was in love with, a place in a town, and every reason on earth to stay where he was.

To understand what he did it is necessary to know what a household was, and the word is a poor translation of it, because the English word describes a building and the thing he left was an office.

A twice-born man's life came in four parts, and he was in the second of them. The first is the student, who lives at his teacher's, eats what he is given, owns nothing and learns. The second is the householder, and the householder is the one who carries everybody else. He marries. He keeps a fire. He feeds the student and the sādhu and the guest and the ancestor. The third is the man who has handed the house to his sons and gone to live at the edge of the forest, and the fourth is the man who has let go of the whole arrangement and taken to the road, and the books expect a man to reach them in that order and at the proper time of life. Everything those other three do, they do on what the householder produces. The books are not sentimental about him and they are not apologetic either: he is the hinge the whole arrangement turns on, and a man who runs out on the job is not admired for it.

The fire is the part that is hardest to translate and the part that matters most. A householder of his kind kept a fire, and the fire was not for warmth or for cooking. It was the place where the offerings went in: the morning and the evening, the new moon and the full moon, the ancestors on their day, the guest when a guest came. A fire like that has to be fed every day of a man's life and it is lit from his father's and it is meant to be carried to his son's. It is the one possession that cannot be given away, sold, divided or stored. It can only be kept or put out.

The thread across his shoulder was the sign of a man who had a fire. He had been given it at Ayodhyā as a boy and he had worn it every day since. What exactly he did with it is not written down anywhere, and different orders of men who leave the world do different things: some cut the thread and burn it and are done, and some in the Rām traditions keep it on and wear it to the end, with a mālā of tulsī wood at the neck and a tilak on the forehead. Nobody recorded which he did. What is not in doubt is what the thread now signified, because a thread is a statement about a fire, and there was no longer any fire for it to be a statement about.

Then the property. He had a house. Whether it was his own or his family's is not said, but a brahmin of standing with a wife in it had furniture, grain, brass, land somewhere or the use of land, and the income of his learning. That income is worth describing because it is what a Sanskrit education was actually for. A man who had studied the four Vedas, the six systems, itihāsa, purāṇa and kāvya under a named master at Banaras was a man other people needed. He was called to recite. He was called to perform. He was called to sit at the feeding of brahmins, and he was fed first, and he was given dakṣiṇā when he left. He was consulted about days and hours. He taught, and his students' families kept him. None of that requires a salary and all of it requires standing, and standing is what he was putting down.

And the standing was not an abstraction. It was a seat. At a feast there is an order in which men sit and a place where each one is put, and his place was near the top of it. His name was on the list of men to be called when a reading was wanted. When he walked through his quarter, people who knew what he had studied got up.

A sādhu has none of that. A sādhu going through the same quarter a year later is a man at the edge of a crowd with a bowl.

He also put down his name. Not the name Rāmbolā and not the name Tulsīdās, which were his and stayed his. The name he put down was the other kind, the one a town keeps for a man: so-and-so's son, such-and-such a gotra, the pupil of that master, the husband of that wife, the man in the house by the so-and-so. A town is a machine for remembering that kind of name, and it does not forgive a man for removing himself from the record. The talk in that district afterwards is not written down either, but nobody who has lived in a small town will need it written down. A man had left his wife and gone off. That is what it looked like from the road, and that is what it was, and being also something else does not make it not that.

She is the last of it, and the honest thing is to say plainly how little is known. What became of her after that night is not recorded anywhere. Not a year of it, not another word she said, not where she died. She had said the truest sentence anybody says in the whole of this life and the record closes over her at once. What is certain is that she now had to go on living in that talk, in her father's village or in the house they had kept, with a husband who was somewhere on the Ganges and was not coming.

Two people came out of that night. The book can follow one of them.

Late in his life, when he had been thinking about this for fifty years, he put the arithmetic of it into two lines:

Rām's name is the figure, and all the practices are the noughts.

Lose the figure and nothing at all is left in your hand; keep the figure and

they are worth ten times over.

A row of noughts is nothing. Put the one in front of it and every nought in the row starts working. What he had found out on the far bank of the Yamunā was that he had been keeping a very long row of noughts.

A man who walks out of a household in that country does not become nothing. He joins something, and the somethings were numerous, organised, old, and not at all vague.

The men who served Rām in the north went by the name bairāgī, which comes from vairāgya and means a man in whom the colour has gone out of the world. They were a real institution with real property. They had maths and they had mahants and they had lands and lawsuits and successions and account books. They had marks you could read across a courtyard: two upright lines of white clay up the forehead with a line of red between them, put on fresh every morning, and a mālā of tulsī wood at the neck, and cloth that was either white or the colour of ochre earth. They had an initiation, and the initiation had a shape: you were given to a guru, you were given a mantra in the ear, and you were given a name, and the name of a man in those orders very often ended in dās, which means servant, and is not a modest flourish but a job description.

He was already called Tulsīdās. He had been given the guru and the name at seven years old, on a road, by a Śaiva ascetic who had come to Rajapur and asked for him by name. So the one transaction most men come to that life in order to make, he had made as a beggar child with nothing, before he could read, and he arrived at the life of a wandering servant of Rām with the whole of it already done and only the living of it outstanding.

The orders of the Rām men in the north traced themselves back, then as now, to a teacher who had lived in Banaras on those same ghats. What that line is remembered for is not a doctrine. It is a door. What is remembered of him is that he took in men the rest of the city would not have eaten beside, and that among those who came out of that line were a weaver and a man who worked leather, and that what was given to them was the same thing that was given to everybody, which was the name of Rām, on the ground that the name does not ask whose mouth it is in. Whether every link in that chain is history is the kind of question this book is not for. What matters for this day is what a brahmin of Banaras was walking into when he took up that life, because the door swings both ways.

Here is what it meant in practice, at the level of a plate of food.

A brahmin householder of his kind controlled his eating absolutely. That is not an exaggeration and it is not a slander; it is the rule, written down, and he had studied the books it is written down in. Who cooked it, who carried it, whose shadow fell on it, which vessel it was in, whether the vessel was metal or clay and whether it could be cleaned or had to be broken, who sat in the same row, how far away, and in what order everybody was served. A learned man's whole standing was tied up in the exactness of it. That is the most concrete form caste takes and it is where it does its work.

A man going out with a bowl has none of that. He goes to ten doors in a lane and he does not choose the ten. Somebody's wife comes out and puts a bread in the bowl and he does not ask her whose wife she is. He eats it mixed with what the other nine gave. He sleeps on a dharmśālā platform between a pedlar and a family with a cart. He sits in a circle round a fire on a river bank at night with men whose fathers would not have been let into his courtyard, and they pass the story round, and somebody sings, and somebody says something about Rām that a professional would call incorrect, and it is not incorrect in any way that matters, and he knows it.

Nobody put a date on the day he understood that. But a man does not spend fifty years eating out of a bowl that strangers fill and come out of it still believing that the fitness of a mouth for the name of Rām is a question of whose son you are. The argument he was going to make, in the teeth of the whole learned establishment of the city he lived in, is that scripture belongs in the language of people who cannot read. That argument did not come to him in a library. It came to him on this road, out of this bowl, from these people.

He is called a wandering sādhu in every account of these years, and the phrase has gone soft with use. It is worth taking the softness out of it.

Start with the eating, because that is what most of the day went on. A sādhu of his kind did not cook and did not keep grain. He went out once a day with a bowl and asked, and the rule of the asking is called mādhukarī, which means the bee's way, and the bee's way is to take a little from each flower and not to empty any of them. So it was not one door but five or six or ten. A handful of flour here, a bread there, a little salt, some dāl if the house had dāl. You do not ask twice at the same house and you do not go back to a house that gave yesterday. You take what is put in the bowl and you do not look at it and you do not ask for anything else. Then you eat it, once, and that is the day's food.

Some days the bowl fills in half an hour. In a town at a festival it fills before you have finished the first lane. On a bad day, in a poor village in a bad season, in a place where forty other sādhus have already been through that week, you walk until the afternoon and you have a little parched grain, and you eat that, and tomorrow you do it again. Nobody in the villages of Bundelkhand and the Doāb was rich. A house that gives a passing sādhu a bread has one bread fewer for itself, and they gave anyway, all of them, for centuries, which is a fact about those villages that deserves saying out loud.

Then the weather. The Gangetic plain has three seasons and every one of them is trying to kill a man who sleeps outside.

The hot weather starts in Caitra and by Jyeṣṭha the ground is too hot to stand on barefoot after nine in the morning. The wind that comes across from the west in those months is the lū, and it does not cool anything; it takes the water out of you while it blows. Men die of it in the open every year. So you walk before the sun is properly up and you find a wall or a tree by ten and you lie down in the shade of it until four, and the water you drink is whatever is in the last well you passed, and the wells in Jyeṣṭha are a long way down.

Then the rains break in Āṣāḍha and the whole country changes shape. Every nālā becomes a river. The rivers become impossible: the Yamunā, the Ganges, the Sarayū, the Ken, the Betwā, all of them up and running brown and none of them fordable, and the ferries at the crossings are small boats worked by men who will not put out in the worst of it. The roads go to mud, and mud on the Doāb in Bhādon is mud to the knee. Fever comes with the water. This is why the orders have cāturmās, the four months of the rains in which a wandering man stops wandering and stays where he is: not a devotional refinement but the only sane arrangement, and out of it came a great deal of the reading and arguing and reciting that those four months are actually spent on.

Then Kārtik, and the air dries, and for two months it is the best walking country in the world. Then Pauṣ and Māgha, and the cold comes down off the north, and the nights on the open plain go to a few degrees above nothing with a wet fog lying on the fields at dawn, and a man with one blanket is cold from midnight until the sun is up. Men die of that too.

Then the distances, which have to be given in the only unit that counted, which is days. From Banaras to Prayāg is seventy-five miles, five days. Prayāg to Citrakūṭ is sixty miles, four days, and the last of them uphill into broken country. Banaras to Ayodhyā is a hundred and twenty miles, eight or nine days. Ayodhyā west to Soron is three hundred miles, three weeks. Banaras to Brindāban is four hundred and fifty miles, and that is a month of walking and more, one man on his feet from the Ganges to the Yamunā with a bowl and a blanket and a staff, doing it again at the other end to come back.

He did those journeys. He did some of them many times. He was in his thirties when he started and he did not stop until he was very old.

What he carried can be listed and it is short: a water pot, a blanket, a cloth bag, a staff, a mālā. Possibly a book. That is the inventory of the rest of his life.

Where he slept was one of three places. Best was a dharmśālā, which is a shed or a walled yard with a platform and a well, built and kept up by somebody's charity for exactly this purpose, and you slept on the platform with everybody else who was on the road that night: pilgrims, pedlars, a family with a cart, and the other sādhus. Next best was a math or a temple courtyard where the men of your own order would take you in and feed you and argue with you. Otherwise, a tree. The tree is not a figure of speech. There are particular trees along the pilgrim roads of the north that have been sādhus' bedrooms for six hundred years, with a mud platform built round the trunk by somebody who saw the need, and a village half a mile off that sends out food.

The roads were not safe. The stretches that ran through forest and ravine, which in Bundelkhand and along the Vindhyan scarp is most of them, had dacoits on them, and the ravines of the Yamunā and the Chambal have never in recorded history been free of armed men. Sādhus were robbed like everybody else and were sometimes killed, although a wandering man with a bowl was a poor target and generally let through, and there were parts of the country where large bands of armed ascetics were the ones doing the frightening. There was disease all the way. Cholera came up the river valleys every hot season and killed a town in a week and moved on; smallpox took the children; the fevers of the rains took anybody. A man on the road caught what the road had. There were no physicians for him and nobody to nurse him and if he went down in a strange place he went down among strangers.

And there was company, and this is the part that gets left out. The roads of sixteenth-century north India were thick with men like him. The great bathing fairs pulled them in by the tens of thousands, Prayāg in Māgha with the whole sand flat between the rivers covered in camps, and at a fair like that every order in India is standing within a quarter of a mile of every other one. The rest of the year they met at the dharmśālās and the maths and the ferry ghats, and what they did when they met was talk. A recitation would start in the evening. Somebody would raise a question and it would go until late. There were rivalries, and some of them were violent, and the Vaiṣṇava and the Śaiva orders were not always polite about each other, and within the Vaiṣṇavas the men who served Rām and the men who served Kṛṣṇa could keep an argument going for a week.

The arguments are worth hearing, because they are the arguments of his century and he spent it in the middle of them. Is the lord with form or without? If without, what is a man doing at a temple; if with, which form, and who says so? Is the name enough on its own, or does the name need the rites round it? Can a man be saved while he still has a wife and a shop, or does he have to come out? If the lord does everything and the man does nothing, what is the man for? And the one that was loudest in those years, and that he was going to be asked to his face in the middle of the Kṛṣṇa country: Rām or Kṛṣṇa, and which of the two is the whole and which the part.

Those questions were not being debated in Sanskrit on those river banks. They were being debated in Braj and in Awadhi and in Bhojpurī by men who had walked in from four directions, in songs and couplets that could be carried away in one hearing, and a great deal of the finest poetry in any Indian language was made in exactly that setting in exactly that century. There was a whole literature being composed in the open air by men with no houses, and it was in bhāṣā, the speech, and it worked.

He was a Sanskritist of the first rank sitting in that circle with a bowl. He could have taken any of them apart. What he did instead, over a great many years, was listen to how it was done.

This is what satsaṅg actually was before it became a soft word. It was a hundred homeless men around a fire on a river bank with nothing to lose by saying what they thought.

He was in that company for years. He was the best-read man in most of those circles and he had left more than most of them had ever had, and none of it bought him the one thing he had gone out for.

He had walked into that city once before, as a boy, behind an ascetic, with nothing at all and no name behind his name.

He walked into it the second time with the name and nothing else.

Everything in it was where he had left it. The steps went down into the river for three miles the way they had always gone down, and the lanes went up behind them in the dark at midday, and the bulls stood in the lanes, and at four in the morning there were hundreds of men in the water saying things nobody could hear. The pandits' houses were in the same lanes and mostly the same families were in the houses. Boys sat on the floor in rows in the morning and recited, exactly as he had sat. Somewhere along that bend was the ghat where a master had asked for him by name and promised him the four Vedas and the six systems and got through all of it in fifteen years.

The city had not moved. He had.

Where he put himself was the other end of it. At the southern end of the bend a small stream called the Asī comes down and gives itself to the Ganges, and the ghat there is a quieter thing than the great ones: fewer steps, less stone, fewer people, and the river wide and open in front of it. From there you look across at the far bank, which is sand and nothing, and the sun comes up out of that emptiness and hits the whole face of the city at once while it is still dark on the water. He was to spend the rest of his life within a short walk of that stretch of the bank.

Now consider how the return looked to the men who had known him.

A brahmin of that training with no household is not a neutral object in a city like that. He was somebody they could all place: the pupil of a named man, examined, capable, a person whose opinion had weight in the ordinary way. He now had no house, no fire, no wife and no income, and he was doing his religion in the open air. That is the part that would have been noticed first. A learned householder of his kind does his worship indoors, in the prescribed manner, in private, at the proper hours, and the public street is not where it happens. A man with no house has no indoors. So it was done on a ghat or in a courtyard or under a tree, where anybody going past could stop and look at him, and anybody who remembered who he used to be could stop and look at that too.

Some of them will have thought well of it. A city that produces the finest scholarship on earth also produces men who have privately concluded that the scholarship is not the point, and there were such men there. Others will have thought what a lane always thinks about a man who has left his wife. Nothing of what was said either way was written down, and it is better not to invent it.

What is recorded is what he did, and it comes to four short phrases, and they are worth taking one at a time.

He settled there. This was not a base for wandering. He lived in that city, and he went on living in it until he died in it, and every word he ever wrote came out of it.

He served, and he served openly. The account uses a word for making a thing public. Whatever he was doing, he was not doing it where nobody could see.

He bound himself to a hard rule. The word used is the word for a wager, for a thing staked: not a resolution but a commitment with no way back out of it. Nobody wrote down its terms.

And the last of the four is the one everything else on this day hangs from. His eyes were thirsty.

He wanted to see. Not to understand, which he had already done as thoroughly as it can be done by reading; not to be made certain, because he had never been uncertain. He had spent fifteen years on what the books say God is, and he had come out of it able to establish any proposition about it against any man in the city, and none of that is seeing. The word for seeing is darśan, and it does not mean a vision and it does not mean an experience. It means being in front of somebody with your eyes open. He wanted Rām in front of him.

He was a man past his youth who had given away his house in order to want one thing, and he went on wanting it, in that city, for years, and nothing happened.

The shape of the rest of his life comes down to one sentence, and one sentence is what the accounts give it: the greater part of it was spent at Banaras, with years spent in visits to Soron, Ayodhyā, Citrakūṭ, Prayāg and Brindāban.

Five places. They are not a tour. Four of them are where his own life had happened and the fifth is where somebody else's God lived, and he went to all of them over and over for fifty years.

Soron, which is Sūkarkhet, is a long way west, up in the high Doāb, the strip of country between the Ganges and the Yamunā. The name is a worn-down thing: Sūkara-grāma, boar-town, which went through Sūar-gāṅw and Suarāṅw and came out as Soron. Boar-town because of the Varāha, the boar the lord took the shape of to bring the earth up out of the water, and the great gathering there is still the Varāha's festival. It is flat country, sugarcane and wheat, a tank, a few temples, a small place then and a small place now. It is where he had sat as a small boy while a teacher told him the Rām story over and over, and he had not understood it, and the teacher had told it again, and he had learned it by the sound of it before he had any idea what it meant. That is the earliest thing he ever said about himself, and it is one of only two things about his own childhood he ever put into writing. He went back to that place, four hundred miles each way from Banaras, again and again, as an old man.

Ayodhyā is on the Sarayū, a hundred and twenty miles north-west of Banaras through the Avadh country, and the Avadh country is the richest farmland in the north: mango groves, mud villages, tanks with buffalo standing in them, cane and rice and wheat, and hardly a stone in it anywhere. Ayodhyā itself in his century was not a great city. It was a small crowded pilgrim town on a bank above a river, mounds where older things had been, temples of no great size, ghats, and the hill of Hanumān above the town where a boy had spent ten months learning the grammar. It is the town Rām was born in and was king in, and it was the town he himself had been given the thread in. Everything that the whole of north India knows about that place, it knows because of what he was going to do there.

Prayāg, which is Allahabad, is where the Yamunā comes in from the west and meets the Ganges, and the meeting is visible from the bank because the two waters are different colours and do not mix for some distance. There is a third river there as well, the Sarasvatī, which is not visible at all. Between the rivers is a great flat bed of sand, and in the month of Māgha every year that sand carries a city that goes up in a week and comes down in a week, and in his day it carried tens of thousands of camps and every order of ascetics in India inside a mile of each other. He passed through Prayāg on nearly every journey he ever made, because it is on the road from Banaras to everywhere he went.

Brindāban, on the Yamunā four hundred and fifty miles away to the west, is the other country altogether. It is Kṛṣṇa's. It is groves and sand and the river bending, the place where the boy pastured the cows and played the flute and stole butter, and in that century it was the liveliest religious place in India, with new temples going up and new poetry being written and men arriving from every direction to sing about a cowherd. A man whose whole life was Rām walked a month across the plain to stand in the middle of that, and he did it more than once.

Notice what the list is. Soron is where he first heard the story. Ayodhyā is where Rām was born and where he himself was made a brahmin. Prayāg is the crossing. Brindāban is the other love, gone to and looked at honestly. And the fifth one is the hill.

Add up what the list costs. Banaras to Soron and back is eight hundred miles of walking. Banaras to Brindāban and back is nine hundred, and the two of them are within a few days of each other at the far end, which is presumably why a man would put himself through it at all. Banaras to Ayodhyā and back is two hundred and fifty, and Banaras to Citrakūṭ and back is two hundred and seventy, and those two he did over and over. Nobody counted the journeys and nobody wrote down a single one of them. What is recorded is only that years of his life went on them, and every mile of it was on foot, barefoot or nearly, on unmade roads, in that climate, on one meal a day begged at the doors of villages that had little enough to spare.

That is the physical fact underneath every soft sentence ever written about his wandering. He was on his feet for half a century. The poem that most of northern India can recite was made by a man who spent his working life walking between five places and stopping in the middle to write.

There is something else in the list. Every one of those places is a place where he had been given something by somebody who had no reason to give it. Soron is where a teacher told a child the story over and over although the child was too young for it. Ayodhyā is where the thread was put on a boy with no family. And the hill is where he had been looking since he was old enough to look at anything.

Somewhere in those years he put the whole of the pilgrimage business into two lines that have a small joke buried in them, since he is describing the two hardest and most prestigious things a devout man of his time could do, and he is describing them in order to say they are not necessary:

To live at Kāśī by the rule and lay the body down there, or to lay it down at

Prayāg by force of will:

whatever fruit those bring, Tulsī, comes easily to anyone who loves Rām's name.

He lived at Kāśī by the rule for fifty years. He is not sneering at it. He is saying he found out that the walking was not the thing, and he is in a position to know, having walked.

Citrakūṭ is the last spur of the Vindhyas, standing up out of flat land at the bottom of Banda district, close to the town of Karwi, about sixty miles from Prayāg and about twenty from the town he was born in.

It is not a mountain. It is a long low wooded hill of dark rock, and what makes it extraordinary is that there is nothing else. The Doāb and Bundelkhand north of it are flat to the horizon in every direction, fields and villages and dust, and then this thing comes up out of the ground. You can see it for a day's walk in three directions. The rock is the old rock, worn round rather than broken, and the whole hill is covered in scrub forest and low trees, and there are langurs in it and peafowl in it, and not so long ago there were tigers in it.

At the foot of it runs a river called the Paisunī, and the Sanskrit name of the Paisunī is Payoṣṇī, which means warm as milk. It comes off the higher ground behind the hill and goes over falls before it gets down to the level country, and then it runs north and gives itself to the Yamunā. Warm as milk is not a poetic flourish; it is a description of what it feels like to stand in, because it is a small river off warm rock in a hot country and it is not cold even in the mornings.

A smaller stream joins it near a village called Sītāpur, and the smaller stream is the Mandākinī. Sītāpur has a row of handsome temples with their steps going down into the water, and it is the place where people stay when they come.

The hill itself is about three miles round. A narrow path has been paved all the way round it so that people can do the circuit on foot, keeping the hill on their right, walking the whole ring and coming back to where they started. In his century the path was not paved and the ring was walked all the same.

There are two days in the year when the place fills up. Rāmnavamī, the ninth of the bright half of Caitra, which is the day Rām was born and which falls at the turn of the hot weather. And Dīwālī, in Kārtik, when the lamps go along the water at Sītāpur and round the temples and up the paths of the hill, thousands of them, and the hill in the dark has a line of light round its middle.

What the place is, is this. When Rām was sent out of Ayodhyā for fourteen years he came here, and Sītā came, and Lakhan came, and they built a hut on this hill and lived on it. That is the one stretch of the whole story where nothing is happening: no war, no abduction, no demons, nothing to be won or lost. Three people living in a wood, in exile, and content. It is the place where Bharat came out from Ayodhyā with the army and the whole city behind him to beg his brother to come home and be king, and Rām would not, and the two of them sat on this hill and talked, and Bharat went back with a pair of sandals and ruled in his brother's name for fourteen years without ever once sitting on the seat. Everybody who comes to Citrakūṭ has that in their heads. The hill is not famous for a victory. It is famous for a family being together in the woods and for a conversation between two brothers that ended with neither of them getting what he wanted and both of them doing the right thing.

He had grown up looking at it. On a clear day from the fields of the town he was born in, that hill is the thing on the southern horizon. He had been told what it was before he could walk.

Now he came back to it as a man with nothing.

He came back many times. The accounts say years were spent there, which for a man whose home was Banaras means the journey made and the journey made again: five days to Prayāg, four more up into the broken country, then however long he stayed, then the whole thing in reverse. He did that walk in the hot weather and he did it in the cold. He must have walked the three-mile ring round the hill hundreds of times.

Nothing in the record says he came for the scenery, and nothing says he came for the festivals. He came because it is the one place in India where Rām lived like a man, in a hut, with his wife and his brother, doing nothing in particular; and the thing this man wanted was to see him.

It is important to say what happened on those visits for a long time, and what happened was nothing. He went up into the wood and he came down again. He bathed in the Paisunī in the morning with the water lying warm over the stones. He sat where the trees come down to the Mandākinī and said the name. He went round the hill, three miles, keeping it on his right, and then again, and then again. He ate what somebody at Sītāpur put in his bowl. He listened to the story being told by whoever was telling it. It got dark quickly in the evening the way it does there, and in the morning there was mist on the small river until the sun came over the ridge.

Then he walked the nine days back to Banaras, and the year went by, and he came again.

He washed in the river in the mornings, the way anybody does.

There is a particular arrangement about the water. A man performing his ablutions uses water and the water that is left over in the pot is not thrown anywhere careless; you pour it out at the root of something. He poured his out at the foot of a ber tree by the path. A ber is a small hard thorny tree that grows where nothing else will bother, and it makes a sour fruit, and there is one at the edge of every field in that country.

Somebody was living in the tree and drinking the water.

It was a being of the kind that does not have a body and is not at rest, and the condition of such a being is thirst, a thirst that is never finished, and any water at all is a mercy to it, including the water a man has already washed with. It had been taking his for a long time. It was grateful, and one day it spoke to him.

It told him at once that it could not give him what he wanted. It could not show him Rām. What it could do was tell him something it knew, and it told him this.

Wherever the Rām story is being told aloud, Hanumān is there. Not sometimes. There is nowhere in the world that story is being recited that he is not at, standing at the back with his hands joined at his forehead, listening, with the water running out of his eyes. A recitation of the Rāmāyaṇa has a hold on his ears that nothing else has. And he does not come as himself. He comes in poor clothing, dirty, the least likely person in the gathering, a man nobody looks at twice. And there are two things about him that never vary: he is the first to arrive, before anyone else is there, and he is the last to leave, after everyone else has gone.

That is what the being in the ber tree said, and then the account moves on.

It is worth noticing who this is. Of all the people in this life, the first one to put him on the road to what he wanted is a creature in a thorn tree with an unending thirst, which is about as low as anything in that whole scheme of things goes. It was not a teacher and it was not a sant and it was not one of the pandits of Kāśī. It was something in a condition nobody would choose, which had been living on what he threw away, and which had noticed, and which said thank you in the only currency it had, which was one true piece of information.

There is no apparatus around it. Nobody in the telling is astonished that a ghost spoke, and nobody explains how it knew, and nobody asks why a creature in that condition would spend its one conversation being useful to somebody else. It said its piece because he had been pouring his washing water on its tree for years without knowing anything was there.

He now had a method. It is worth being exact about how poor a method it is. He had not been told a name or a face or a mark. He had been told that at every public recitation of the Rām story there is one man in bad clothes who is there before the start and still there at the end, and that this man is Hanumān. To use it he would have to go to recitations, and stay for all of them, and arrive before the reciter did, and watch the door.

So that is what he did.

A public telling of the Rām story in that century worked like this.

Somebody with a reputation for it sat on a low seat with the book in front of him on a wooden stand, wrapped in cloth until the moment of opening. There were flowers on the stand and a lamp beside it. The people sat on the ground in front, the men on one side and the women on the other, and at the edges there were more people standing, and at the very edges there were the ones who had wandered in. It went on for hours and it went on for days, a portion each evening, and at a festival it went on from dawn. The reciter read a passage and then took it apart and explained it and told the stories off the side of it, and sometimes he sang, and when he sang the people who knew the tune sang with him. At the end of each sitting there was an ārtī and the lamp went round and everybody stood.

The book, in those years, was in Sanskrit.

That is worth putting down quietly and leaving alone for now. In a crowd of two hundred people on the bank of the Mandākinī at Citrakūṭ, listening to the Rām story being read out, perhaps six could follow the words being read. The rest were following the man's explanation of them, and taking on trust that he had got it right, and loving the story anyway, which they knew from their mothers and from the songs and from the shape of it in their bones.

So he began going to them.

He would have been welcome at any of them. A man of his training could have been given the seat. What he did instead was come early and sit somewhere he could see the whole gathering and watch it.

The method the being in the tree had given him required exactly two things and they are both tedious. Get there before it starts, before the reciter, before the lamp is lit, before anybody has laid out the cloth, and see who is already there. Then stay to the very end, past the ārtī, past the last of the people getting up and putting on their shoes and calling their children, and see who is still there.

He did that over and over. Nothing in the account says how long, and it does not say that at each one he found the wrong man, but it is the only thing it could have said if it had been asked, because he went on going.

Picture the practical business of it, because the practical business is where the years went. A recitation is announced at a village four miles off. He walks out there in the afternoon and finds the place, which will be a temple courtyard or a platform under a pīpal or somebody's threshing floor swept for the purpose, and he sits down at the edge of it before anything has been set up. The man who is going to recite is not there yet. The people who carry the stand and the cloth are not there yet. Boys come and go. A dog lies down in the middle of the space. Somebody starts sweeping it again. An old man arrives and sits, which is a result worth noting, and then it turns out he is the reciter's father-in-law and lives next door. The crowd comes in over the next hour. The lamp is lit. It goes on until late. Then it ends, and the standing about afterwards takes another half-hour, and the last people leave in ones and twos with a lamp, and he is still sitting there, and the only other person still sitting there is a boy asleep.

Then he walks back four miles in the dark, and a fortnight later he hears of another one.

It is not a glamorous method. It is the method of a man who has been given one usable fact and has decided to work it until it yields, which is the same temperament that had got him through Pāṇini as a boy and fifteen years of nigamāgama at Pañcagaṅgā, applied now to standing in the dark at the edge of a threshing floor counting who is left.

What he was looking for at each of those gatherings was a man in bad clothes. In a crowd at a festival on the road, that describes half the people there. Pilgrims who had walked two hundred miles were dirty and their clothes were finished. Sādhus were dirty on principle. The poor of the district were in what they had. The one thing he had been given to go on was worthless as a description and was only worth anything as a test of arrival and departure, and to run the test he had to be first there himself and last to leave himself, and be sure he had missed nobody in between.

Then, at one of them, he had somebody.

There had been a man at the back before the cloth was off the book. The same man was at the back when the lamp had been taken away and the reciter had gone home and the people had gone up the path to Sītāpur and there was nobody left on the bank but the dogs.

He got up and went after him.

The path off the river at that place goes up through low scrub into the trees on the flank of the hill, and once you are in the trees the path is a foot wide and there are thorns on both sides of it and you cannot see thirty yards ahead.

He followed. He did not call out and he did not ask. He walked behind him up into the wood, and the wood closed over the path, and when he was certain, he ran.

He caught him and he went down and got hold of his feet and held on.

The reply was a rebuke. Whatever exact words were used, the sense of them is recorded and the sense is: let go of me. Not a benediction. Not a welcome. A stranger in poor clothes on a forest path, with a man he had never spoken to on the ground with both arms round his ankles, telling him to get off.

He would not get off. What he said is preserved, and it is the answer of a man who had thought about this for years and only needed one sentence for it. He said he was not letting go. He said he knew what he had hold of. He said: you are the taste in the middle of the service of Rām, and I have known it, and I am not being shaken loose.

Hanumān showed himself in the form the Rāmāyaṇa sings, and put a hand on his head.

That is how the account gives it, in that order and at that speed, and there is no sentence anywhere in it telling the reader how to feel about it. There is no light, no sound, no trembling of the earth, no crowd running up. There is a man on a path in the scrub above the Mandākinī with his arms round the feet of somebody who has just stopped being a man in poor clothes.

Who he was holding needs a word.

Hanumān is the one who does the work in the Rām story. He is the son of the wind. He crossed the sea to Laṅkā alone to find out whether Sītā was alive, and found her, and gave her the ring, and let himself be taken and tied and burned rather than leave without proof. He carried the mountain of herbs. He carried Lakhan. When the war was over and everybody was being rewarded he asked for nothing, and the one thing he is said to have wanted was to be where the story is being told. He is not a god who is worshipped instead of Rām. He is a servant, and the whole of his standing comes from the completeness of the service, and that is why the men and women of north India take their difficulties to him rather than higher up: because he is the one who was sent, and came back, and never once asked for anything for himself.

The man on the ground had spent his life reading about that.

And notice how he had it. Not with an argument and not with a text. He had it by taking hold of a pair of feet and not letting go, which is the second time in this life that this exact thing has happened. He did it at seven years old, in a street, to a village woman who had been feeding him for two years, and she was not there when he did. It is the only method he seems ever to have had, and it is not a method that can be taught: you put your hands round something and decline to be reasonable about it.

This time the feet stayed where they were.

Then Hanumān told him to ask for what he wanted.

Consider for a moment the size of what was on offer, because the account does not pause to consider it and a reader should be allowed to.

He could have asked for anything. He was a middle-aged brahmin with no house, no wife, no fire, no property and no standing, on a forest path, with the servant of Rām in front of him saying name it. He could have asked for his household back. He could have asked for Tārak, the son who had not lived. He could have asked to be the greatest poet in the language, which is what he became anyway and did not ask for. He could have asked for the power to work wonders, which he was later credited with and never claimed. He could have asked to be let out of being born again, which is the thing the books he had spent fifteen years on treat as the only serious object of a human life, and which his wife, in the one sentence of hers that survives, had told him was within reach.

He asked to see Rām with his own eyes.

That was all of it. Not to understand him, not to be near him, not to be saved by him. To be in front of him and look at him. The account gives the asking in the language of the eyes: the matchless royal beauty, which his eyes wanted every day of his life.

He had not asked for anything he could keep. He had asked for a look.

Hanumān named a place, and named a day.

Nobody wrote down which day it was or where on the hill. There was a sign given and an appointment made and that is the whole of what the record holds, and it is enough, because what the appointment did to him is the thing that got remembered. From that hour he was no use for anything else. He waited. The account says the longing took hold of him on the very day and did not let go, and that when the time came round he was thinking of one thing only, which was when he would see that beauty.

He had been wanting this for years in the abstract, the way a man wants a thing he has no reason to expect. Now it had a date on it.

The day came.

He was where he had been told to be, and he had been there a long time before he needed to be, because that is the kind of man he had become about this. It was the hill and the wood and the river at the bottom of it, and the ordinary noise of a wooded hill in the middle of a hot day, which is mostly insects and the peafowl somewhere below.

Two riders came along the path.

They were on horseback, and they were dressed in green, in the cloth men wear for hunting so that the deer will not pick them out of the trees, and they were young, and they were after a deer, and they went past him and on up the path and out of sight.

He saw them. He did not give them a glance.

Afterwards Hanumān came, and asked him whether he had seen his lord.

That is the account. The two riders were Rām and Lakhan.

A man who had spent fifteen years at Banaras learning what God is, who had put down his thread and his fire and his house and his wife and his name in order to want one thing, who had sat through recitation after recitation from before the lamp was lit until after it was carried away, who had asked for a single look and nothing else, and who had stood in that place since morning waiting for it: he looked straight at him and saw two hunters going by.

He said he had not looked properly. He asked to be told again.

That is what he said, and it is the most exact thing anybody in this story ever says. He did not say he had seen nothing. He had seen two men in green on horses and he could presumably have described the horses. He said he had not looked, and he asked to be shown again, and there is no argument in it and no excuse and no wondering aloud how such a thing could have happened to him.

The next part is told at Citrakūṭ in a particular way, and this is how it is told there.

There was a man on the path with leprosy. His hands were going and his face was going and he sat where the pilgrims came by, and the pilgrims came by. This man came by too. He had his eyes somewhere else, on the top of the path or on the hill or on the thing he was waiting for, and he stepped round and went on, the way anybody does a hundred times a year.

It was Hanumān.

The one he had been looking at without seeing was in front of him in a form he would not look at.

What was said about it afterwards is not preserved and does not need to be. He had been given the sign once already, in the ber tree, and the sign had been poor clothing, and he had used it as a method for finding somebody in a crowd and had never once taken it as a statement about where his lord keeps himself. He had gone looking, at every recitation between the Ganges and the Yamunā, for a man nobody looked at twice. And when one was put in front of him on an open path in daylight he walked round him.

The word the tradition uses for the way things are supposed to be done, for the proper order, the fitting conduct, the form of the thing, is maryādā, and no man who ever lived was more careful of it than this one. Rām is called the lord of maryādā and the poem this man was going to write is the great book of it. And maryādā had been part of the trouble. He had spent fifteen years among men who knew exactly what a god looks like, what he wears, how he is approached, in what order, by whom, with what syllables. Then two boys rode past in hunting cloth, and a leper sat in the dust, and the trained eye went straight over both of them.

He was promised a proper showing.

The Mandākinī is the small one. It comes down off the high ground and runs along under the hill and gives itself to the Paisunī near the temples at Sītāpur, and for most of the year you can walk across it. There are ghats on it and there are trees over it and there is a good deal of shallow water lying between sandbanks, and in the early morning there is mist on it until the sun gets over the hill.

He was given it there, on the bank of that river, and this is what he was shown.

Rām was seated. Sītā was with him. Bharat stood behind holding the umbrella over them, and on either side Lakhan and Śatrughna stood waving the whisks, the way the attendants of a king stand at a court.

That is the whole description, and every element of it is a household element. It is the family. It is the four brothers and the wife, in the only arrangement they were ever in for any length of time, which is not the war and not the exile but the court at Ayodhyā, with the eldest on the seat and the other three doing the small offices of it: one holding the shade, two moving the air. Bharat, who had ruled fourteen years in his brother's name with a pair of sandals on the seat and had never sat on it, is standing behind him with an umbrella. Śatrughna, the one the story says almost nothing about, is waving a whisk.

He had asked to see, and he had been shown a family at home.

There is a dohā of his, and it may have been made a long time after this or not long after it at all, because he did not date anything he wrote and he was not keeping a record of himself. It gives the picture the way a man gives directions to his own house:

Rām, and Jānakī on his left side, and Lakhan on the right:

hold that picture and every good is in it, Tulsī. It is your wishing tree.

Hold that picture. He is telling somebody where to put their attention, and the instruction is not to think about anything, it is to look at three people standing in a particular arrangement, and he says that everything anybody needs is inside it. A surtaru is the tree in heaven that gives whatever is asked of it. He is saying: this is the tree, and it is not in heaven, and it is a picture of a man and his wife and his brother.

And notice where it was given. Not at Banaras, where the learning was. Not at Ayodhyā, where the court had actually stood. On the bank of a small tributary under a wooded hill in Banda district, in the wood where the exile had been, at the one place in the whole geography of the story where nobody is a king. He was shown the court, in the forest.

He had one more thing he had asked for, and he had got it, and there is no record of what he said or did on the bank of the Mandākinī when he got it. It is one of the places where the tellers of this life simply stop. There is no dialogue and no weeping and no falling down, and whoever first told the story had the sense to leave the man alone.

Count up what this day contains.

A man leaves a house at the end of a night, for a reason nobody outside the room would accept. He walks for ten days. He puts down a fire that had been burning in his family since before anybody could remember, and a seat at the top of a feast, and every rupee of an income, and the use of his own name. He goes on the road at an age when men are settling down, and he stays on it for fifty years, and the road is a bowl and a blanket and the lū in Jyeṣṭha and mud in Bhādon and cholera in whatever town he happens to be in when it comes up the valley.

He is given more than has been given to almost anybody. A being in a tree tells him something true. He finds the servant of Rām by watching doors, and holds his feet, and is not shaken off. He is offered anything at all and asks for a look. He is given a day and a place.

And on the day, at the place, he does not see.

That is the day. It is called the turning not because he was rewarded at the end of it but because of what he found out in the middle of it, which is that wanting a thing with your whole life for years and years does not give you the eyes for it. He had the best training available on earth in what God is. It had taught him a great deal, and among the things it had taught him was a set of expectations about what would be worth looking at, and those expectations were sitting in front of his eyes like a hand.

Two young men on horses in hunting green. A man with leprosy in the dust at the side of a path. He had asked to see Rām, and Rām went by him on a horse and he did not know him; and then he stepped round a man sitting in the dust who was the one who had promised to show him. Both times he was looking for something else.

He never wrote a word of complaint about it and he never wrote a word of excuse. What he did about it is the whole of the rest of this book.

Because think about what he now knew that the pandits of Banaras did not. He knew that a man could have the entire scripture in his head and not recognise his lord on an open road in daylight. He knew that the failure was not a failure of piety or of effort or of learning, because he had all three in quantities nobody could question. It was a failure of recognition, and recognition is not something a man can be argued into. It has to be put into him early and often and in words he does not have to translate, until the shape of it is as familiar as the shape of his own door, and then when it goes past him on a path he knows it.

That is a thing you can give people. Not the darśan: nobody can give that. But the knowing what to look for, the story so thoroughly in the ear that a farmer's wife in Avadh could hear the whole of it in a language she thought in and carry it around for forty years and have it ready.

And it has to be the whole story, not the doctrine taken out of it, because it was not a doctrine that went past him on the path. It was two young men on horses. The only training that would have saved him is the kind a child gets from being told the story until the people in it are as familiar as the people in his lane: what Rām does when he is tired, how he speaks to a boatman, what he says to his brother when neither of them is going to get what he wants. A man who has that does not need to work out who is coming towards him. He recognises him the way you recognise a voice through a wall.

Which is to say that the failure on the hill is the exact reason the Mānas is the kind of book it is. It is not a summary of the Rām story and it is not an argument about it. It is the whole thing at full length, slowly, with every domestic detail left in, in a metre that carries and a speech that nobody has to have explained to them, so that the picture goes into people early and stays. He was not writing to convince anybody of anything. He was making a picture accurate enough and familiar enough that when it came past on a road, in green, on a horse, the person watching would know.

He had heard the Rām story as a small boy at Soron from a teacher who told it and told it again until a child who understood nothing had it by heart. He had sat at the back of recitations in Sanskrit in front of two hundred people who could not follow a line of it. He had watched his lord go by on a horse.

He was about to go to Ayodhyā.

Tomorrow: the ninth day of Caitra at Ayodhyā, and the first line of the poem, and the learned men of Banaras explaining to him that the speech of the lanes is not fit for scripture.

At Banaras the Ganges turns and goes north for four miles, and the city stands along the outside of that turn on a wall of stone. From the water it looks like one building. It is not. It is a bank of steps with temples and palaces set into it at every height, some of them leaning, some of them with their lower courses already under the river, and above them the roofs go back and up and out of sight.

The far bank is sand. There is nothing on it. So the sun comes up over open ground, and the first light falls on the whole face of the city at once, and for a few minutes the stone is the colour of wet clay.

That is the hour men go down. They go down in hundreds. They stand in the river to the waist and turn east and lift the water in both hands and let it fall, and say what they have been taught to say while they do it. Some of them have been doing it every morning for fifty years. The sound of a crowd bathing is not a loud sound. It is a great many small sounds, water and breath and cloth, and over it the bells from the temples on the steps, which do not keep time with each other and never have.

Behind the steps the city is lanes. They are narrow enough that two men carrying loads cannot pass without one of them turning sideways, and they are roofed over in places by the upper storeys, so that you walk out of daylight into a kind of dusk and out again. There are bulls standing in them. There is no arrangement by which the bulls can be made to move. There are shops a yard wide selling brass, and flowers, and curd, and firewood by weight, and the smell changes every ten paces: sandal, dung, jasmine, drains, frying, wet stone.

And there are the burning grounds. There are two, and the larger one is halfway along the city's river front, in the middle of everything, not off at the edge where it would be easier. The fires there are not put out. A man carrying wood on his head climbs the steps past a man selling flowers and another man saying the Gāyatrī with his eyes shut, and nobody thinks the arrangement strange, because the city has never pretended that washing and worship and burning belong in different places.

People came there to die. They still do. A man with money would be brought a hundred miles to die in Banaras, and a man without money would walk while he still could.

Tulsīdās came back to it in his forties.

He had lived in it before. He had come to it as a young man out of Sūkarkhet and gone to a house at Pañcagaṅgā Ghāṭ, and for fifteen years he had done nothing else but learn: the four Vedas, the six darśanas, itihāsa, purāṇa, kāvya. Fifteen years is not a course of study. It is a formation. It is long enough for the shape of a man's mind to be set by the language he did it in, and the language he did it in was Sanskrit.

Then there had been the marriage, and the night at the window, and the sentence his wife said to him, and the leaving, and the years of walking. He had been to Soron and to Ayodhyā and to Prayāg where the rivers come together and to Brindāban, and he had been at Citrakūṭ, and at Citrakūṭ something had happened to him which he spent the rest of his life writing about and never once described plainly.

Now he came back up the steps into the lanes with nothing, in the way that the place was used to. Men came back to Banaras all the time. It was full of men who had come back.

What was different about this one was what he had decided to do.

Every trade has a city, and for the trade of Sanskrit learning the city was this one.

That needs saying exactly, because it is the whole of what follows. Banaras was not merely a place where learned men happened to live. It was the place where learning was settled. If a question of ritual arose in a town in Bihar, or a dispute about a text in Rajputana, or a doubt about what a line of the śāstras required of a man in a particular case, the question travelled to Banaras and an answer came back from Banaras, and the answer was accepted because of where it came from. Kings paid for the houses those men lived in. Their opinions moved property and marriages and the conduct of festivals. Northern India kept its learning here, and the learning was kept in one language.

You can see how such a system works, and you can see what it does to the men inside it. A pandit of that kind is a man of one book. Not an ignorant man: often a man with an enormous memory, holding a text and its commentaries entire, able to produce any part of it on demand. But one book. Whatever stands in the book he has given his life to is simply the truth, and he will not weaken it or cloud it by setting another authority beside it. The idea of putting two accounts of a thing side by side and asking which is better founded is not an idea he refuses. It is an idea he has never had occasion to have.

There were men in that city who could read Vālmīki's Sanskrit, which is the Rāmāyaṇa, the ancient one, the one the whole tradition of the story comes down from. And there were men in that city who could not, who had the story only in the speech they were born to.

The first sort despised the second sort. It was not personal. It was the ordinary condition of the thing.

Tulsīdās had been trained by the first sort, for fifteen years, in their own house, in their own language, to their own satisfaction. He had not been smuggled in. He had been given everything they had. There is no record anywhere of a quarrel at Pañcagaṅgā Ghāṭ, no story of a disgrace, no hint that his teacher was disappointed in him. He came out of that house equipped.

And he came back to the city intending to take the story of Rām and put it into Awadhi.

He knew what he was doing. That is the point to hold on to through everything that follows. He was not a village singer who had never been told the rules. He was a man who had spent a third of his life inside the rules and could have spent the rest of it prospering by them, and who understood, better than his critics did, precisely what it would mean if the story stopped needing them.

It is usually said that he wrote in the vernacular, as though there were only two languages in the world, the high one and the low one. There were not. He wrote in three, and he knew the difference between them the way a mason knows the difference between three stones.

Sanskrit was the first. It was not anybody's mother tongue. It was learned, and it was learned only by those who were permitted to learn it, and it held the Vedas and the darśanas and the śāstras and the epics and everything that could be called authority. A statement in Sanskrit was a statement with standing. A statement in anything else was talk.

Awadhi was the second. It is the speech of Avadh, the country east and south of the Sarayū, the country Ayodhyā stands in. It is a farmer's language and a mother's language, thick with words for weather and cattle and grief, and it was the language of the ground he had walked as a boy. The Rāmcaritmānas is in Awadhi, from end to end, twelve thousand lines of it.

Braj was the third. It is the speech of the country round Mathurā and Brindāban, where Kṛṣṇa was a boy, and by his lifetime it had become the language singers sang in across the whole north. It is softer in the mouth than Awadhi and it turns more easily. When he wrote his petitions, the Vinaya Patrikā, which is a man's own voice asking, and the Kavitāvalī, he wrote them largely in Braj, because that is the tongue that was shaped for singing what a man wants and cannot get.

So there were three, and he used all three, and he used them for different work. Nobody made him do this. A man who wanted to be respectable would have written one thing in Sanskrit. A man who wanted to be popular would have written everything in one dialect and never gone near Sanskrit again. He did neither.

And here is the thing that ought to be looked at squarely, because it is the whole argument in one gesture.

He opened his Awadhi epic with Sanskrit.

Seven ślokas stand at the head of the first book, before a word of the story. They bow to the goddess of speech and to the elephant-headed one who is the maker of letters and meanings and metres. They bow to Bhavānī and Śaṅkar, who are faith and trust, and without whom the accomplished cannot see what is standing inside them. They bow to the guru. They bow to Vālmīki, the lord of poets, and to Hanumān, the lord of monkeys, the two of them walking together in the same wood. They bow to Sītā. And they bow to the one whose feet are the one boat for those who want to cross.

Then the seventh śloka says what the book is going to be. It says that the story of Raghunāth, agreed in the purāṇas and the Vedas and told in the Rāmāyaṇa and picked up here and there elsewhere as well, is what Tulsī is now setting out, at length and as beautifully as he can, in a bhāṣā composition, for the happiness of his own inside.

Bhāṣā is the ordinary word for the speech people speak. He puts that word in a Sanskrit line, in correct metre, addressed to the people who will object to the thing the word names. And he says his reason for doing it is that it will make him happy in himself. Not that the age requires it. Not that the ignorant must be served. That he wants to.

A man does not accidentally write a perfect Sanskrit śloka announcing that he is about to stop writing Sanskrit. The learning is on the first page so that nobody can say the book was written by a man who had no choice.

The objection came at him for the rest of his life, and it came in every form a thing can come in: in the street, at the water, in front of an audience, and behind his back. We have his answers because he wrote them into the book. Put the answers back into the mouths they were spoken to and the scene stands up by itself.

Start in a lane, because that is where most of it happened.

Two men are coming down from the Viśvanāth quarter in the middle of the morning, one of them older, both of them fresh from the river with the wet still in their hair, the older one carrying a cloth bundle of palm leaves under his arm because he has been asked a question and is going to answer it out of the text. They know who Tulsīdās is. Everybody in that quarter knows who he is. He studied here. He can be greeted.

So they greet him, and they ask him what he is working on, in the friendly insulting way men use with somebody they have decided to be sorry for.

He tells them. He is putting the Rām-kathā into Awadhi.

And then there is the pause, and then it starts, and it is worth setting down what was actually said, because the usual summary of it is that the pandits were snobs about his grammar, and that is not what it was about at all.

They asked him first whether he thought the story was his.

The story, they said, is not a story. It is not a thing a man may hold in his hands and turn round and dress up as he likes. It came down. It came down in a particular language, through a particular line of men, each of whom received it from the mouth of one who had it and gave it to the mouth of one who was fit to have it. The Sanskrit is not a coat on the story. The Sanskrit is how the story is true. Change the words and you have not translated it, you have let go of it.

Then they asked him about maryādā, which is the word for the limit inside which a thing keeps its dignity, the line you do not cross, the propriety of a form. Awadhi, they said, has no maryādā. It cannot have. It is the speech men use to sell grain in and abuse their servants in and complain about their bowels in. Its words are worn down at the edges. It cannot hold a case ending. Half of it is corrupt Sanskrit and the other half is nobody knows what. Put the highest thing there is into that, and the thing does not rise. The speech drags it down.

Then the older one asked the question that was really the question.

Who, he said, is going to correct it?

Because that is the difficulty. If a man in a village a hundred miles from here hears your verses at a festival and learns forty of them and goes home and says them to his family, and he has one line wrong, and the wrong line teaches his children something that is not so, who will tell him? There is no text he can be referred to. There is no man in his village who can be sent for. Between that man and the truth there has always been somebody who knows, and you propose to take that somebody out. You are not giving them the story. You are giving them whatever they end up remembering of it, with nobody left to say otherwise.

It is not a stupid objection. It is the objection of men who have spent their lives keeping a text exact, and who know from long experience what happens to anything that gets loose.

What they did not say, and what they knew, is the other half of it. Take the somebody out and you have taken out a great deal besides. You have taken out the fee, and the seat at the festival, and the summons from the raja, and the whole standing of a house that has been consulted for six generations. A man who can hear scripture in his own speech from a singer at a fair does not need to walk to a brahmin's door with a gift in his hand.

They were not liars. Men very seldom argue for their interests in the words of their interests. They argue in the words of the truth, and they are usually sincere, and both things are going on at once.

Tulsīdās did not win that conversation in the lane. Nobody ever won it. He went on down the lane.

He read aloud. It is worth being clear that this was not a private literary project carried on behind a door. The verses were made to be heard, in the metres that carry a crowd, and they were tried out on crowds while they were being made. He sat on the steps with the paper on his knee, or with nothing at all, and said them, and men stopped on the way up from the water and listened, and some of them stayed.

And some of them laughed.

That is the thing people forget about the whole business, because the book is now three centuries old and has been carried in a cloth on ten million heads. At the time it was a man on a step reciting village verses, and educated men standing at the top of the step finding him funny.

He knew what they sounded like. He put them in the book.

खल परिहास होइ हित मोरा । काक कहहिं कलकंठ कठोरा ॥

हंसहि बक दादुर चातकही । हँसहिं मलिन खल बिमल बतकही ॥

कबित रसिक न राम पद नेहू । तिन्ह कहँ सुखद हास रस एहू ॥

भाषा भनिति भोरि मति मोरी । हँसिबे जोग हँसें नहिं खोरी ॥

Being laughed at by the spiteful does me good. Crows call the cuckoo harsh.

The heron laughs at the swan and the frog at the cātak. Dirty minds laugh at

clean talk.

Men with no taste for poetry and no love for Rām's feet: for them this will be

a good joke, and welcome.

The telling is in the common tongue and my wit is a simple one. It is fit to be

laughed at, and there is no blame in laughing.

Look at what he does there, because he does it four times in four lines and he never does it any other way afterwards.

He does not deny the charge. He agrees with it. The telling is in the common tongue. His wit is simple. The thing is laughable and the laughers are welcome to their laugh and he does not hold it against them. He gives away the whole of the ground his critics were standing on, and then he takes one step to the side and stands somewhere they cannot follow him.

Because the crow does call the cuckoo harsh. Anybody who has sat on a ghat in the hot weather knows the two sounds. The crow is all over the city, hundreds of them on the temple roofs and the boats and the drying cloth, and the noise they make is the noise of the city. The cuckoo, the koel, sings three notes in the heat and goes up at the end and stops, and men put down what they are holding to hear it. There are thousands of crows and one koel and the crows are certainly of the opinion that the koel is doing it wrong.

He is not calling his critics crows in order to insult them. He is saying something about who gets to judge. The heron stands in shallow water all day and stabs at fish. The swan is a swan. The frog sits in the ditch and the cātak is the bird that is supposed to drink only rain, in the air, as it falls, and to take nothing from any pool on the ground. They are not being ranked for their morals. They are being sorted by what they want. A creature that lives on what it can get out of a puddle has no way of understanding a creature that will wait all year with its mouth open for one particular kind of water.

And the last line is the hardest one, and it is the one the bhāṣā argument turns on. Bhāṣā is the word for common speech, and the pandits used it as the name of the charge. He picks it up and uses it about his own book on its first page, with no apology and no wriggling, and he does not soften it and he does not pretend that it is not what they mean.

You cannot shame a man who has already said the thing about himself, out loud, in metre, in front of the people you were going to say it to.

There is a third setting, and it is the formal one.

A pandit of standing had a courtyard, and in the courtyard there were mats, and on certain days men sat on the mats and things were decided. That is what an assembly was. It was not a debating society. It was a court without a state behind it, and its judgments were obeyed because everybody present had an interest in judgments being obeyed. A man could be finished in such a courtyard in an afternoon.

Picture it in the cold weather, which is when men sit outside in the north. The older men have shawls. There is a copper pot of water in the shade and a boy to carry it round. The host sits with his back to the wall and does not have to raise his voice. Along the sides are the men whose opinion he wants heard, and behind them, standing, the students, who are there to watch how it is done and who will carry the account of it through the lanes by evening.

The charge, stated formally, was this: that he had lowered the dignity of the highest of all subjects by clothing it in the vulgar speech.

It is worth hearing how good that charge is. It does not accuse him of error. It does not say his verses are wrong about Rām. It says something worse and more difficult: that the manner of a thing is part of its meaning, and that a great matter handled in a small way has been damaged whether or not a single statement in it is false. Anyone who has watched something he loved turned into an entertainment knows the force of it.

And his answer to that, when it comes, does not argue about dignity at all. It concedes the whole of the aesthetic point and moves the question to what the words are carrying.

जदपि कबित रस एकउ नाहीं । राम प्रताप प्रगट एहि माहीं ॥

सोइ भरोस मोरें मन आवा । केहिं न सुसंग बड़प्पनु पावा ॥

धूमउ तजइ सहज करुआई । अगरु प्रसंग सुगंध बसाई ॥

भनिति भदेस बस्तु भलि बरनी । राम कथा जग मंगल करनी ॥

Though there is not one drop of poetry's savour in it, Rām's greatness shows

through it.

That is the confidence that comes into my mind. What ever kept good company and

was not made great by it?

Even smoke gives up the bitterness it was born with, and near aloe wood it comes

to smell sweet.

The telling is coarse and the thing told is good. Rām's story does the world

good.

Then the smoke.

Smoke is bitter. Everyone in that courtyard had wept over a cooking fire of damp wood. Aloe wood is the fragrant wood, the wood that is burnt for its scent, and what he says is not that the smoke becomes something else. It is still smoke. It is the same substance with the same nature, and its nature is bitterness, and near that wood the bitterness is given up. He does not claim his verses are good verses. He claims they have been standing next to something.

The whole argument is in the word susaṅg, good company. It is the household word for satsaṅg, the company of the good, the thing every devotee in northern India did on a Thursday evening in somebody's front room. He takes the commonest and least literary idea available to him, the idea that you become like what you sit beside, and he makes it his entire defence of his own book.

He was not a man who lost his temper, and there is no scene anywhere of Tulsīdās shouting at a pandit. But he had a way of leaving a sentence out on the ground for somebody to pick up, and a courtyard full of professional critics would have been quiet for a moment.

Two dohās stand together in that same part of the first book, and between them they are the argument of his life. A dohā is two lines and it is built to be remembered. He used it the way a man drives in a peg.

The first one is about wood.

प्रिय लागिहि अति सबहि मम भनिति राम जस संग ।

दारु बिचारु कि करइ कोउ बंदिअ मलय प्रसंग ॥

My telling will be dear to everyone, for the company it keeps, which is Rām's

praise.

Who stops to consider what wood it is? What has stood near Malaya is worth

bowing to.

Malaya is the mountain in the south where the sandal grows, and sandal came up the whole length of the country to Banaras, because the city ran on it. It is ground to paste for the marks men wear on their foreheads. It is burnt. It is carried in processions and rubbed on images and put into the hands of the dying. A house that dealt in it smelt of it from the street.

And sandal is not the only wood on that mountain. A hillside of sandal has ordinary trees standing in it, and when the cutters come down the ordinary wood comes down with the good, and by the time it has been three months on a boat and in a godown everything in the bundle smells the same. So a man buys a stick of sweet wood in a lane in Banaras and takes it home and burns it, and it does what he wanted, and nobody in the house asks what tree it came off.

That is the figure. He is not claiming to be sandal. He is saying he grew on the hill.

And then the second one, which is the one to say twice.

स्याम सुरभि पय बिसद अति गुनद करहिं सब पान ।

गिरा ग्राम्य सिय राम जस गावहिं सुनहिं सुजान ॥

The cow is black and her milk is white and does a great deal of good, and

everybody drinks it.

The speech is a village speech and the praise is Siyā's and Rām's, and those who

know sing it and listen.

There is a black cow standing in a Banaras lane at this moment. There was one then. She is in the way, and she will not move, and she is fed by whoever passes because of what she is, and in the evening a boy milks her into a brass pot in the open street with her calf tied to a ring in the wall.

Nobody has ever looked into that pot and hesitated.

All of it is there, and it took him two lines. The vessel is dark and what comes out of it is white; the milk is not the colour of the cow; the milk does an enormous amount of good; and everybody drinks it, which is the plainest four words in the passage and the ones he chose to put at the end of the line. Not the learned drink it. Not the twice-born drink it. Everybody. A thing can be poured out of something plain into any hand that is held up, and the pouring does not damage it, and nobody in the history of the world has ever refused milk on the grounds of where it came from.

Then the second line sets his book down beside the cow, in the same breath, with no transition. Girā grāmya: village speech, the speech of the grām, the speech of the place with the one well and the cattle coming home. The pandits used that expression, and they used it as an insult, and it was a good insult because it was accurate. He agrees with the description and puts it in the same line as the milk.

And in the same line, at the other end, he sets siya-rām jas, the praise of Sītā and Rām. That is the highest thing there is to say. It is sitting in the same six feet of verse as the village. Nothing in between. No apology, no bridge, no mediating clause. The two things are simply put next to each other because he thought they belonged next to each other.

The last word of the dohā is sujān, those who know, the discerning. It was the word the learned used about themselves. He ends by saying that the people who know what they are about are the ones singing this and listening to it, which quietly reassigns the title to the audience on the steps.

He was forty-odd years old and he had spent fifteen of them in a Sanskrit house, and what he had concluded at the end of it was that the milk was not the cow.

You could preach on those four lines for a week. He did not. He wrote them, numbered them, and got on with the story, which is what men do when they mean something.

He did not claim to have invented it, and this is where his manners are worth watching, because a man defending himself usually wants to be the first of something. He went out of his way to say he was not.

कलि के कबिन्ह करउँ परनामा । जिन्ह बरने रघुपति गुन ग्रामा ॥

जे प्राकृत कबि परम सयाने । भाषाँ जिन्ह हरि चरित बखाने ॥

भए जे अहहिं जे होइहहिं आगें । प्रनवउँ सबहि कपट सब त्यागें ॥

होहु प्रसन्न देहु बरदानू । साधु समाज भनिति सनमानू ॥

To the poets of this Kali age I make my bow, who have told over the whole mass

of Raghupati's virtues,

and to the Prākṛt poets, who knew very well what they were doing, who set out

Hari's doings in the people's own tongue.

Those who have been, those who are, those who are still to come: I bow to all of

them with nothing held back.

Be pleased with me and give me this one thing: that the company of the good

should think my telling worth something.

The word is the one that matters. Saṃskṛta means put in order, corrected, finished; prākṛta means as it grew. The whole history of the argument sits inside those two words. One language was made right and the other came up like grass, and the men who owned the first one had a name for the second one which was simply the word for unimproved.

He bows to the poets of the unimproved tongue and he says of them that they knew very well what they were doing. He calls them param sayāne, thoroughly shrewd, men who had worked out the sense of the thing. There had been singers before him putting Hari's doings into the speech people had, for centuries, in every part of the country, and he knew it, and he puts himself at the end of a line instead of at the head of one.

Then he bows forward. Those who have been, those who are, those who are still to come. A man bowing to poets who are not born yet is doing something specific: he is saying that what he is doing is not a trick he has found but a thing that will go on being done after him, and that it was already legitimate before he touched it.

And then, instead of a boast, he asks for something. Give me this one thing: that the company of the good should think my telling worth something. That is not the request of a man who is sure. He wanted the sādhu-samāj, the gathering of the good, to accept the book. He did not ask the pandits for anything at all.

He was frightened about it, and he says so twice.

राम सुकीरति भनिति भदेसा । असमंजस अस मोहि अँदेसा ॥

तुम्हरी कृपाँ सुलभ सोउ मोरे । सिअनि सुहावनि टाट पटोरे ॥

Rām's fame is a fine thing and my telling is a coarse one, and it is that

mismatch I am afraid of.

By your kṛpā even that comes easily to me. Good stitching looks well on sackcloth

and on silk.

Asamañjas is the word for two things that do not go together, and aṃdesā is plain fear. What he was afraid of was never the courtyard. It was the mismatch. He had the highest subject in the world and the roughest instrument in the country and he knew the distance between them, and the distance is the thing that kept him awake.

The answer he gives himself is a tailor's answer, and he must have watched it being done, because everybody had. Sackcloth is what sacks are made of and what the poor wear, and paṭore is silk. A good tailor sits cross-legged in a shop the size of a cupboard and makes his line of stitches, and the stitches are good stitches or they are not, and that is a fact about the hand and not about the cloth. Put a clumsy seam in silk and you have spoiled something expensive. Put a true seam in sacking and it is a pleasure to look at, and it will hold.

He is not saying the cloth does not matter. He is saying that the workmanship is not the cloth's, and that kṛpā will supply what he has not got.

And then, at the end of it, he sets down the test, and it is a dohā, and it is the sort of thing a man writes when he has decided to stop arguing.

सरल कबित कीरति बिमल सोइ आदरहिं सुजान ।

सहज बयर बिसराइ रिपु जो सुनि करहिं बखान ॥

Plain poetry and a clean fame: that is what people who know respect.

Poetry an enemy forgets his born enmity in order to hear, and then praises.

That is a test anybody can apply and he cannot cheat. Not: my verses are correct. Not: my authorities are unimpeachable. Say it in front of a man who dislikes you, and watch his face, and if he forgets for the length of a line that he dislikes you, the verse is good.

Three centuries later the poem was in the hands of everybody from a raja's household to a hut with one room, said at weddings and over the sick and in the fields at harvest, and there was exactly one class of men in northern India who still would not have it, and they were the professional Sanskrit pandits, who continued to regard it as a concession that should never have been made.

So the verse was good, and the enmity was not born in an afternoon, and both of those things can be true.

He did not begin it at Banaras. He went to Ayodhyā to begin it, and he chose the day.

Ayodhyā is a small place on the right bank of the Sarayū, in the middle of the Avadh country, which in Caitra is flat country with the wheat standing dry and yellow and ready and dust already in the air by nine in the morning. The town is nothing like Banaras. It has no bank of palaces, no trade, no assembly of learned men to speak of. It has a low sandy river with a slack current and a wide bed, and steps down to it, and a rise of ground with temples on it, and the hill fort where the monkey is worshipped, and lanes that empty into fields. He knew it. He had been given the thread there, in Māgha, in the cold, and he had spent ten months in the monkey's place learning Pāṇini's sūtras by heart.

Rāmnavamī is the ninth of the bright half of Caitra, and it is the day the scriptures give for the birth of Rām, and Ayodhyā is where that happened. So the ninth of Caitra at Ayodhyā is the one day of the year when the town is not a small place. Every road in is full for a week beforehand. Carts stop outside the town because they cannot get in. People walk the last stage barefoot. Families who have saved for it for three years sleep on the ground wrapped in what they travelled in, and the whole river front smells of wood smoke and frying and marigold, and the noise does not stop at night.

He says in the poem what he understood to be happening on that day. He says the holy places do not stay where they are. Every tīrtha in the country comes to Ayodhyā for it, and comes as a guest, and with them come demons and snakes and birds and men and sages and gods, all of them on the same errand, which is to attend on Raghunāth; and the initiated keep the great birthday and sing his fame.

That is the day he chose, in a town packed to its walls, in the middle of the noise.

And the posture he took up is in the poem too, immediately before the date, and it is worth going slowly over because it is a man getting ready.

He puts every doubt away from him. He takes the dust of his teacher's feet and sets it on his head. Then he folds his hands and makes his obeisance to everybody, to the whole assembly, in general, so that no fault should be able to attach itself to the telling: not a bow to the great, a bow to all of them, in case. Then he bows to Śiva. And then he says the year.

He spells it out in Awadhi words rather than figures, the way a man says a thing he wants heard: Saṃvat sixteen hundred and thirty-one. He puts his head on Hari's feet and begins the story. The ninth of the month of honey, which is Caitra, on a Tuesday, and he names the town: at Avadhpurī this carit was brought to light.

Saṃvat 1631 is 1574. He was forty-two.

Set that beside where he had come from and it stops being a date. A boy in a town on the Yamunā had been given away by his mother on the night she was dying, and begged at doors for two years, and sat in a schoolroom at Sūkarkhet hearing this same story from his teacher over and over and not following a word of it, and he says so himself, and says he was dull and clogged and asks how a creature like that could have been expected to follow so deep a thing. He learned it by repetition, the way a child learns something he cannot yet understand, which is by keeping it until it is wanted.

He was now the man who was going to write it down, and he began by admitting in public that he had not understood it the first time.

And then the dohā after the date, which is the one that shows where he was standing. The crowds of the good go down into the pure water of the Sarayū and bathe, he says, and say the name, holding in the heart the beautiful dark body.

That is not a figure. That is a man describing what was in front of him. The river at Ayodhyā on the morning of Rāmnavamī is a mile of people in the water at once. The crows come off the sandbank and off the temple roofs and stand along the edge where the food is being thrown, hundreds of them, walking about among the wet feet and taking what they can and quarrelling about it. Anybody who has been at a river festival in the north has that picture: the water, the shaved heads, the wet cloth, the marigolds going downstream, and the crows.

He liked crows. There is one in the book, and it is not a minor character. The seventh and last part of the poem is a story told by a crow, and told to an eagle, and the crow is the one who turns out to know.

A man who had been laughed at by comparing himself to a cuckoo among crows gave the end of his book to a crow to narrate. He never explains that either.

So: a town too full to walk in, a shallow river with the whole district in it, the bells and the drums going since before light, a festival crowd for his neighbours, the dust of his teacher's feet on his head, and a bow made in every direction in case of offence.

In the middle of that, on a Tuesday morning in the spring of 1574, a man of forty-two sat down to write twelve thousand lines in the language his mother had spoken.

The poem is called Rāmcaritmānas, and the name is a sentence, not a label. Rām carit is Rām's doings. Mānas is a lake, and it is also the mind.

He says in the first book where the name came from, and he does not claim it. Śiva made this Mānas, he says, and kept it in his own mind, and when a good moment came he spoke it to Pārvatī; and Śiva, looking into his own heart and being glad at what he saw there, gave it that beautiful name.

So the book announces on an early page that it is not the author's invention. It is something that was held in one mind and passed to another at the right moment, and the poet is a man who has been allowed to overhear it.

Then he builds the lake, and this is the passage where you can feel him enjoying himself.

Good sense is the ground, he says, and the heart is the deep hollow in it. The Vedas and purāṇas are the sea, and the sants are the rain clouds. The clouds take up water from that sea and carry it inland, and what they rain down is Rām's fame, and the rain is sweet and cool and does good wherever it falls. That water is what the crop of right action needs, and it is the actual life of those who love him. It falls on the ground of the mind. It gathers, and runs, and it runs down a channel, and the channel is the ear. It comes along the road of hearing and it fills the mānas, and there it settles and stands, and it grows older, and as it grows older it becomes sweeter and colder and better.

Every part of that is true of a tank in the north. The rain comes in Āṣāḍha and the tank fills and the water is muddy and warm, and by the cold weather it has settled and cleared, and old water in a deep tank in January is the best water there is.

Then he furnishes it.

The depth of the lake is Raghupati's greatness, which has no bottom. The water is the fame of Rām and Sītā. The waves are the similes, playing on the surface. The caupāīs are the lotus leaves, lying thick and spread out over the whole of it. The devices of the poetry are the shells lying on the bed, the ones that grow pearls. The chands and soraṭhās and dohās are the lotuses themselves, in all their colours. The meaning is the pollen, the feeling is the nectar, the good speech is the scent. Right actions done are the strings of bees that come to it. Knowledge and detachment and clear thinking are the swans. The turns of the verse and the kinds and qualities of it are the fish, and there are a great many sorts. Singing the name and telling over the goodness of the good are the water birds. The assembly of sants is the mango grove standing all round the tank, and faith is the spring weather.

That is a lake anybody in Avadh could walk to. It is the village tank with the steps and the grove and the birds, and he has put the entire poem inside it, item by item, so that a man who cannot read has the architecture of a twelve thousand line epic in his head from one afternoon's listening.

And then the four ghats.

A tank in that country has built stone ghats going down into it, because a tank without a ghat is a place where a buffalo drinks and a woman ruins her feet in the mud. The ghats are where you get in. He says the lake has four fine ones, and names them, and what they are is the four conversations the poem is made of.

The first is Śiva speaking to Pārvatī, which is the frame of the whole book. The second is Yājñavalkya speaking to Bharadvāj at Prayāg, where the rivers meet, which is how the telling reaches men. The third is the crow Kākbhuśuṇḍi speaking to Garuḍ, the eagle who carries God, which is the last book and the strangest. And the fourth is Tulsīdās speaking to the sants.

He made himself the fourth ghat.

Not the lake. Not the water. A set of steps somebody else built the tank for, put there so that people can get down to it without going in over the mud. It is the most accurate description of what he had decided to do that anybody has ever managed, including everybody since, and he wrote it before he had finished the first of the seven books.

There is one more line in that stretch that has to be pointed at and then left alone. He says that by Śambhu's kindness good sense sprouted in his heart, and that this is how Tulsī came to be the poet of the Rāmcaritmānas. The word he uses for the sprouting, the flourishing, the gladness that came up in him, is hulsī.

His mother's name was Hulsī. She had been dead more than forty years and he had no memory of her face.

The line holds her name and his in the same breath, and he does not say a word about it.

The seven books are the steps. He calls them sopān, which is a stair, and the word is the one used of the courses of stone that go down a ghat into a river, the kind you walk down with a brass pot on your hip while the water is falling and rising by a hand's breadth a day. The first book does not end. It comes to the foot of its own flight and the next one goes on down.

Bāl Kāṇḍ is the first and the longest. It is childhood, and it is also everything the reader needs before the story can begin: how the telling came to be told, the quarrel about the language, the long teaching on the name, Śiva and Pārvatī, the birth at Ayodhyā, the boyhood, Janak's court, the bow, the marriage.

Ayodhyā Kāṇḍ is the second, and it is the one that breaks people. It is the two boons, the exile, the leaving of the city, the death of Dasarath, and Bharat coming to Citrakūṭ. There is no battle in it and no demon in it and nothing supernatural happens in it that matters. It is a family.

Araṇya Kāṇḍ is the third, the forest, the sages, the loss of Sītā. Kiṣkindhā is the fourth and the shortest, the monkeys, the alliance. Sundar Kāṇḍ is the fifth, and it is Hanumān's book: the crossing of the sea, the burning of Laṅkā, the ring, the message. It is the one people recite by itself, on Tuesdays, when there is trouble in a house. Laṅkā Kāṇḍ is the sixth, the war. Uttar Kāṇḍ is the seventh, the return and the reign, and then the crow and the eagle, and the long quiet teaching at the end about what the whole thing was for.

Seven steps, and you go down them, and the water gets deeper.

Inside them he worked in four measures, and they do four jobs.

The caupāī is the one that carries the story. It goes in pairs of half-lines with the rhyme falling at the end of each half, four half-lines to a verse, and it moves at the speed of speech. A man can recite caupāīs for an hour without tiring and a listener can follow them at a walk. Almost all the twelve thousand lines are caupāī, and almost all the narrative is in them: this happened, and then he said this, and then they went there.

The dohā stops it. A dohā is two lines and it is heavier, and it is where the running stops and something is set down. It closes a passage, and sums it, and very often turns it: the caupāīs tell you what happened, and the dohā tells you what it was. They are numbered right through each book, which is how the poem is cited and how a man who knows it finds his place. Over three hundred of them in the second book alone. The famous lines are nearly all dohās, because a thing built in two lines to be remembered is remembered.

The soraṭhā is a dohā turned round, with its halves reversed, and it lands differently. The ear notices, even an ear that could not name what it noticed.

And the chand is for splendour. When something has to be sung rather than said, when the bow breaks and the noise fills the worlds, or a marriage procession comes down a street, or the gods look on, the metre changes under you and goes into long sweeping lines with the rhyme coming round more often, and the whole thing lifts. Then it drops back into caupāī and gets on with the story.

He chose all this. Nobody handed him a form. He was a man who knew, from Pāṇini onwards, exactly what metre was and what it could be made to do, and the shape he built is not a folk shape and it is not a Sanskrit shape. It is a machine for keeping twelve thousand lines in a farmer's memory.

Now the other half of it, which nobody thinks about.

Twelve thousand lines is a physical act.

There was no printing. A book was a stack of loose oblong leaves, written on both sides, unbound, kept between two boards and tied in a cloth. The paper was made by hand and burnished with a stone, and it was expensive enough that you did not waste a sheet. The ink was lamp black and gum, and it was made in the house, and it had to be stirred. The pen was a reed, cut to a nib with a knife, and it had to be recut continually, and a scribe's thumb has a callus in a particular place.

Writing is done sitting on the floor with the leaf on a board across the knees, and the left hand holds the leaf steady, and nothing supports the right arm. Anybody who has copied out ten pages in that position knows what it does to the shoulder and the neck. Now do it in the hot weather, when the sweat runs off the wrist onto the paper. Now do it in Bhādon, when the air is so wet that the ink takes an hour to dry and the paper goes limp. Now do it at night, by one lamp of mustard oil with an unshielded flame, which smokes, and which is the only light there is.

Now do it for years.

And the lines were not finished when they came. A verse is worked on. It is said aloud, and changed, and said again, and the whole trouble of caupāī is that the rhyme is easy and the sense is not, so there are always four or five ways to end a half-line and only one of them is true. He is known to have taken a word and cut it down, or shifted a letter, or knocked the head or the tail off it entirely, to make it sit in the metre and take the rhyme. That is a liberty. It puzzles a foreigner and it puzzled nobody who spoke the language, because it is exactly what speech does anyway.

There is no record of how long the whole poem took him and no line in it that says. He began in Caitra of Saṃvat 1631 and he was writing for years, at Ayodhyā and afterwards, and the work went on through hot weathers and rains and cold weathers, in a room or on a step, on loose leaves that could be lost, in a country where a flood or a fire or a thief ends a book for ever, with no second copy anywhere and nothing to fall back on but the inside of his own head.

He was in his forties when he started it. He would live to be ninety-one, and the rest of it went on this.

The story was not his. Everybody in the country knew it before he was born and knew how it went. What was his was the telling, and the telling is where a man's mind shows, because you can see what he slowed down for.

Take the bow at Janak's court, which is the great set piece of the first book.

In the older tellings the two of them do not meet until it is over. The princes come to Mithilā with the sage, the bow is brought out, the kings fail, Rām strings it and breaks it, and Sītā is given to him. The order of events is a contract being performed.

Tulsīdās put a garden in front of it.

The morning before, he has Rām and Lakhan sent out to gather flowers, because there are flowers wanted for the worship of Gaurī, and they go into the king's flower garden at the hour when the dew is still on it. And Sītā comes to the same garden, with her companions, because she has been sent to the shrine of Girijā in it to make her own worship. Neither of them has been told about the other.

So the two of them meet in a garden with nothing arranged, among the parrots and the water channels and the girls laughing at the far end of it, and they look at each other, and neither of them says anything at all.

And here is the line he wrote about it, which is one of the two or three lines in the poem that every household in northern India knows: she brought Rām into her heart by the road of her eyes, and then, being wise, she shut the doors of her eyelids.

Look at what is in it. The eyes are a road, and a road is for bringing things in, and what came in came in that way and is now inside. And then she closes her eyes, and the eyelids are doors, and doors are shut to keep what is inside from going out again. And the word he puts on her for doing it is sayānī, which means clever, sensible, the word you use about a girl who has managed something. She is not overcome. She is prudent. She has got what she wanted into the house and she has shut the door on it.

Nobody had written the Rāmāyaṇa like that before. It is not a heightening of the epic. It is a quietly domestic observation about a girl in a garden, put in the mouth of a poet talking about the mother of the world, and the whole country took it and never gave it back.

Then she goes into the shrine and asks Girijā for what she wants. She does not name him. She has not been told his name. And the image answers her, and what she is given is not a prophecy but a reassurance, and she comes out and goes home and says nothing, and the business of the bow proceeds the next day as though none of this had happened.

Except that now it is not a contract. Now, when the kings are failing one after another and Janak is losing his temper in public and saying that the earth has run out of men, there is a girl in that hall who has already taken somebody into her heart and shut her eyes on him, and she is watching, and she cannot say a word.

That is what the garden was for.

The bow itself he takes at a run. The kings come up and go away again. Janak says the bitter thing. Lakhan's anger goes off like a pot cracking in a fire, because Lakhan's anger is the weather of the whole poem and it is never far off. Rām looks at him and he sits down. And then Rām goes to the bow, and what Tulsīdās says about the lifting of it is the best line in the episode, and it is a line about the audience:

Nobody saw him take it up, or string it, or draw it hard. They all just saw him standing there.

That is how a thing too fast to see is described by a man who has watched a crowd. Not the strength. Not the flexing. Three actions that nobody caught, and a hall full of people staring at a man standing with a bow bent in his hands and no memory of how he got there. And in that same instant he broke it in the middle, and the noise of it filled the worlds.

He is not interested in the muscle. He never is. What he wants is the mother's face in the crowd, and the women up on the roofs, and Sītā with her eyes shut, and the noise.

The second book turns on a woman ruining four lives in one night, and what he did with her is the hardest thing in the poem to look at steadily.

Ayodhyā at the start of that book is a town getting ready for a coronation. The lanes are decorated. Music is going. There is no happier scene in the whole poem: the people standing about in the streets asking each other how many hours until the auspicious moment, and when Rām will sit on the gold seat with Sītā beside him, and what a thing it is to be alive for it.

And then, in the middle of that, the gods.

They cannot bear it. Tulsīdās says it in one line and the line is not kind to them. They do not like the sound of Avadh rejoicing; a thief does not like a moonlit night. They have their own reasons, which are that Rām must go to the forest if the demons are to be killed and their business attended to. So they go to Sarasvatī, the goddess of speech herself, and they get hold of her feet and will not let go, and they ask her, as their mother, to do the thing that will send him out.

And she does not want to.

She stands there, in the poem, pitying herself and ashamed, and she says what she has become: a frosty night to a bed of lotuses. That is what she calls herself. Then the gods tell her that no fault will touch her, that Rām is beyond gladness and grief, that a creature reaps what it has sown anyway, and would she please go to Ayodhyā for the good of the gods. And she goes, thinking as she goes that the gods have small minds, that they live high up and behave low down, and that they cannot stand to watch anybody else prosper. What decides her in the end is a piece of foresight that is also a joke against the poet: she reflects that clever poets, later, will want this to have happened, so that they will have something to write about.

Then she comes into Dasarath's city like an evil hour, and she finds a dull-witted maidservant of Kaikeyī's named Mantharā, and she makes her a basket to carry ill fame in, and she turns her mind, and she goes away.

Everything that follows follows from that. Mantharā sees the decorations and asks what the rejoicing is and is told, and it burns her, and she goes and sits by Kaikeyī and begins.

Now, be clear about what he has not done. He has not excused Kaikeyī. She is called crooked in his own narration, repeatedly, and the poem does not soften what she does or who it is done to. When she demands her two boons out of a man who loves her and is lying at her feet, and takes the kingdom for her own son and fourteen years of forest for somebody else's, the poem gives her nothing.

And he has not made her a monster either. He has put the origin of the ruin somewhere else, above her, in the gods, who wanted an outcome and set the machinery going, and in speech itself, which came unwillingly and knew what it was doing and did it anyway.

What that means for a listener sitting on a mat with his children is something no commentary needs to explain to him. It means that the woman who did the unforgivable thing was got at. It means the ill will came into the house from outside, through a servant, through a tongue, in the evening, when everybody was happy.

And he does not let her off the consequence. At Citrakūṭ, months later, when the whole of Ayodhyā has come out to the hill and the two brothers have met and Sītā is serving her mothers-in-law with the same face for all of them, he shows Kaikeyī standing at the edge of it, watching the three of them being simple with each other, and repenting until she is sick with it. She asks the earth to open, and the earth gives her no gap. She asks the creator for death, and he does not give her death either.

There is no scene of her being forgiven. There is no scene of her being punished. She is left standing there, in the middle of a reconciliation that is going on all round her, with nothing to do and nowhere to put herself, and the poem moves on and leaves her in it.

And then there is the meeting at Citrakūṭ, which is the middle of the whole poem, and which he handled as though he had been there.

Citrakūṭ is the hill twenty miles from Rajapur that he had been able to see from the fields as a child. Rām and Sītā and Lakhan are living on it in a hut, above the little river at its foot. The bark clothes are new. The arrangement is three months old.

Meanwhile, in Ayodhyā, Bharat has come home from his grandfather's to find his father dead, his brothers gone and a throne waiting for him, and he has refused it, and said to his mother's face what he thought of what she had done, and performed the rites for the dead king, and then he has walked out of his own capital to go and fetch his brother back.

He does not go with an escort. He goes with the city. The queens come. The old teacher Vaśiṣṭha comes. The ministers, the brahmins, the townspeople, the carts, the whole population moves out along the road south, and Janak comes up from Mithilā as well when he hears, and the forest fills with a nation camping in it.

At the Ganges the ferryman is waiting, the Niṣād chief, and he sees what is coming: a royal army on the road and the dead king's other son at the head of it. So he does the only sensible thing. He calls his men and tells them to hold every landing place, to take the boats and sink them, and to get themselves ready to die, because the brother has come with a force and they will fight him at the water.

Then he learns how Bharat is travelling. That he is walking. That he is not eating. That he sleeps on the ground. And the ferryman's whole reading of the world turns over inside him in about a minute, and he comes out to meet him with his hands folded, and afterwards he will not leave him.

Bharat walks the rest of it, and the sages and the accomplished men along that road stop what they are doing to watch him go past, and they say a thing about him that is the strangest compliment in the poem: that if Bharat's love had not existed on this earth, there would be nobody to make the unfeeling feel and the feeling go numb.

The poem sets down one dohā about that road before it lets him arrive. Love is the nectar, it says, and separation is the mountain they churned the sea with, and Bharat is the deep sea itself; and Rām churned him with that mountain, for the sake of the good, and what came up out of it is this.

Then he arrives.

It is a thick wood and Lakhan, standing on guard in front of the hut, does not see them coming. Bharat comes through and sees the hermitage, and the moment he steps into it the burning in him goes out, the way it goes out of a man who has been looking for something all his life and has just been handed it. He sees Lakhan standing in front of his brother answering a question he has been asked.

And then he sees his brother, and Tulsīdās gives him exactly what he sees, in the order he sees it. Matted hair on his head. A hermit's cloth tied round his waist and the quiver tied into it. An arrow in his hand and the bow across his shoulder. Sages and holy men sitting on the raised ground. And on it, with Sītā, Rām, turning the arrow over in his fingers, and in the middle of the circle of sages the two of them look like faith and happiness itself sitting down in an assembly of learned men and taking bodies to do it in.

Bharat says two words, which are save me, lord, and falls flat on the ground like a dropped stick.

Lakhan does not turn round. He is facing his brother and Bharat is behind him and he has not seen him, but he hears the voice, and he knows it, and he knows what has just happened on the ground behind his back. And here Tulsīdās stops the whole scene for a moment to look at Lakhan, who is in a difficulty: on one side his own brother is lying in the dirt and on the other side he is on duty, and he can neither go to him nor pretend nothing has happened. He stays where he is, with his weight on the duty. He is a kite up in the air, and somebody on the ground is holding the string and pulling.

So he keeps his post, and bends his head, and says: Bharat is making obeisance.

And Rām comes up off that platform without knowing he is doing it. His cloth goes one way and the quiver another and the bow and the arrows another, and he is across the ground, and he takes hold of his brother and lifts him up by main force and pulls him against his chest.

Then Tulsīdās does something with the poem that he almost never does. He stops.

He says he cannot tell it. He says the manner of that meeting is beyond what any poet can reach with act or mind or speech, and he asks who is supposed to make such love plain, and what a poet's wits are to follow it by. A poet's whole strength, he says, is only letters and meanings, and the dancer dances to whatever the drum is doing. Then he asks the question that ends the argument: can you play a proper rāga on a string made of pond grass?

He was a man who had just been told for twenty pages that his instrument was too coarse for his subject. When he came to the scene he cared most about in the whole book, he agreed.

The gods were watching, and they got frightened, and their hearts thumped, because two brothers holding each other like that is exactly the sort of thing that undoes a divine arrangement. Their own teacher had to explain to them that it was all right. Then they recovered, and threw flowers.

And then the greetings go round, and this is the part to say slowly, because the order is the meaning.

Rām embraces Śatrughna. Then Rām embraces the ferryman. Bharat goes to Lakhan and they hold each other. Lakhan turns to Śatrughna and then takes the ferryman to his chest. Bharat and Śatrughna go to Sītā and put the dust of her feet on their heads and go on making obeisance until she lifts them up and touches their heads with her hand and sits them down.

The boatman from the landing stage, who three days earlier had been preparing to sink his boats and fight them, is embraced twice, by two princes of the house of Raghu, in front of the sages, in his own clothes.

Nobody in that scene remarks on it. That is how you say a thing so that it cannot be argued with.

They stayed some days on the hill, a nation camped in a forest, and the people of Ayodhyā bathed in the river in the mornings and worshipped and then went and stood where they could see him. Everyone got as much of him as they were able to hold. He knew every one of their names and he was careful with all of them, and Tulsīdās says of him, in the middle of all this, that it had been his way since he was a boy: he could tell when somebody loved him, and he never once used it.

What the townspeople wanted was simple and they said it out loud in their prayers every morning, in a sentence anyone who has ever wanted the impossible will recognise. Let Rām be king, and Jānakī queen, and let Bharat be the crown prince, and let all of us die in Ayodhyā while Rām is still on the throne.

Then the assembly sat, in the forest, with the old teacher presiding, and a proposal was put that would have solved everything. Vaśiṣṭha said what a wise man says when he can see that the whole is going to be lost: sensible men give up half to save half. Let the two younger brothers go to the forest, and let Rām and Sītā and Lakhan be turned round and sent home.

Bharat was delighted. He and Śatrughna were so glad they shone with it. Fourteen years in a wood was nothing; he said he would live in the forest all his life and could ask for no better arrangement.

Rām would not have it.

He does not argue it as a point of law, and he does not make a speech about duty. What he says is quiet and it is mostly about other people. The worrying is not ours, he tells his brother: the teacher and the king of Mithilā have all of that on their heads, yours and mine both, and while those men are over us neither of us has anything to be distressed about even in a dream. As for you and me, our whole advantage in this life and the next is in one thing, which is that the two of us carry out what our father said. The father's word being kept is the good of the world and the good of the scriptures, both at once.

Then he tells him to go and govern, and he tells him how, and the dohā he does it in is one of the most quoted lines in the language:

The head man should be like the mouth, which eats and drinks by itself alone, and feeds and keeps every limb of the body, and does it with judgment.

It is a dohā about kingship given by a king in exile to a king who does not want to be one, and it is put in terms of a body eating, so that a man with a plough could hold it. And the poet's own name is inside that line. He does that from time to time, in the dohās that carry the most weight, the way a mason cuts his mark on a stone he is proud of.

Bharat listened to all of it and was not consoled. Instruction is not company. He had been given an argument and what he needed was something to hold.

So Rām gave him his sandals.

He took them off, and gave them, and Bharat took them up and set them on his head, and that was the end of the negotiation.

Bharat walked back to Ayodhyā with them. He did not go into the palace. He had an auspicious hour fixed for it, and he put the sandals on the throne, and left them there, and went out of the city to a place called Nandigrām and built himself a hut of leaves, and lived in it fourteen years on one meal and the ground, with matted hair, in his own kingdom, while the sandals reigned. Every day he went and worshipped them and asked them for their orders and then went and did the work of a government.

That is Tulsīdās's centre. Not the war. Not the bridge across the sea, though that is there, and not the burning of Laṅkā, though children act it out in every village in the north every autumn. When he wanted to show what he meant, he showed two men refusing a throne at each other in a wood for a week, and a pair of wooden sandals on a chair in an empty palace.

And there is one more thing about it, and then it can be left alone. The pandits in the courtyard had said that his language had no maryādā in it, no dignity, no keeping to the line. Maryādā is the whole subject of the book they said it about. It is what Rām is called: the man who kept the limit, at every cost, when nobody would have blamed him for stepping over it. He wrote twelve thousand lines about a man who did not take what was his because his father had said a word, and he wrote it in the speech of people who are held to their word every day of their lives without being praised for it.

He never made that comparison. He did not need to. He had put the two things in the same book and left them there, like the milk and the cow.

Now the thing itself, plainly, because it can be said in one sentence and the sentence should be allowed to stand on its own.

He took the central scripture of his people out of the hands of the men who owned it and put it into the mouths of people who could not read.

Consider what the arrangement had been. A man in a village wanted the story of Rām. There were four or five ways he could get it and every one of them ran through somebody else. A brahmin could be engaged to recite, on a day the brahmin was free, for a payment the brahmin named, in a language the listener did not understand, with an explanation given afterwards in the local speech and as much of it as the reciter felt like giving. Or there was a fair, and a performance, and whatever a man could pick up standing at the back of a crowd. Or there was a temple, and what was said there on the days it was said. In every case the story came through a person, and the person had standing because of it, and the standing was inherited and could not be acquired.

Now consider what happened afterwards.

A man stands at the edge of a threshing floor in Avadh listening to somebody recite, and he comes back the next evening and the next, and at the end of the week he has forty caupāīs by heart. They are his. Nobody can take them off him. He says them while he walks behind the bullocks, and he gets the sense of them because they are in the speech he thinks in, and when his son asks him what the line means he can tell him, without sending for anybody.

A woman turns a grinding stone in the dark before the household wakes, which is two hours of work with both hands and nothing to do with the mind, and she sings the marriage at Janakpur into the noise of the stone, and her daughters learn it off her the way they learn everything else.

An old man who is dying in a room in Banaras is read the second book by a neighbour, and the neighbour is a weaver, and he is reading it, and he can read it because it is written in the language he speaks.

None of these people asked anybody's permission. There was nobody to ask.

The pandits of Banaras were not fools and they were not slow. They understood from the beginning precisely what was happening and what it would mean, which is why they fought it so hard and for so long, and why the fight did not end with his death or with the generation after his. The objection was never really about metre or about corrupt word forms. It was about who holds the thing, and once the thing is in twelve thousand memorisable lines in the common tongue, nobody holds it.

It cost him what it was always going to cost him. The houses he had been trained in were shut to him. He had spent fifteen years earning the right to be taken seriously by a particular kind of man, and he spent the rest of his life not being taken seriously by that kind of man. Three hundred years later the poem was being recited in every province in the north and used for teaching boys their letters, and the professional Sanskrit pandits still held that it was a concession that ought never to have been made, and would not read a line of it.

And it must be said what he did not do, because there is a story that wants to be told here and it is not the true one.

He did not attack them. He named no pandit, anywhere, in any of his books. He founded no sect: there are Vallabhācārīs and Rādhā-Vallabhīs and half a dozen more lines of teachers with followings named after them, and there has never been such a thing as a Tulsī Dāsī, and he took care that there would not be. He did not preach against the Vedas, or against Sanskrit, or against brahmins, being one himself and having been given everything he had by them. He did not demand that the old arrangement be pulled down. He did not say a word about rights.

He wrote a poem in his mother's language and let it go, and then he wrote another one, and that is the whole of his campaign.

The pandits were arguing about jurisdiction. He was not in the argument. He had gone round it, in the only way it can be gone round, which is by making the thing they were guarding available somewhere else, for nothing, to anybody who could hold a tune.

He founded a town.

It is called Rajapur, and it stands on the bank of the Yamunā in Banda country, twenty miles from the hill at Citrakūṭ, with the last spur of the Vindhyas standing up out of flat fields to the south of it and visible from its roofs. He lived there several years.

He laid two customs on it, and the interesting thing about them is not what they were. It is that three centuries later they were still being kept.

The first was about building. No private house in Rajapur might be built of any material but mud and wood, however rich the man who owned it. Not brick. Not dressed stone. Stone was for temples and for nothing else.

Think for a moment about what a rule like that actually does to a place. Everywhere else in India a man who had money put it into his walls, because that is what walls are for. A merchant's house in a town on a river is a statement about the merchant, in stone, in public, permanently, and the whole street can read it. In Rajapur a man who had made a fortune in grain lived in a mud house like the man who brought the grain in, and the only stone in the town belonged to the god. There was no way to be conspicuous. The rule did not forbid wealth. It forbade the display of it, which is the part that other people have to look at.

And it held. It held after he was dead, and after his sons' generation was dead, and it was still holding when the great-great-grandchildren of the men who had agreed to it were living in mud houses on the bank of the Yamunā and could have afforded otherwise.

The second custom was that no barber, no potter and no dancing-girl was to live inside the town. When one was needed, one was sent for from another village, and came, and did the work, and went home again.

Nobody has explained that one. There is no saying attached to it, no story about why, no line in any of his books that accounts for it. All that is recorded is the rule and the fact that it was obeyed: that a man in Rajapur who wanted his head shaved sent to the next village, and waited, and the barber walked in along the road and shaved him and walked out again, and this was the ordinary arrangement of life there for three hundred years.

Men will keep a rule they cannot explain for a very long time, if they know who made it.

And in the temple at Rajapur there was a copy of the Rāmcaritmānas in his own hand.

Not a copy made from his copy. The thing itself, the loose leaves off the board across his knees, in the writing of the man who chose the words, with whatever he had crossed out still crossed out. It was kept there and shown as what it was, and pilgrims came to it.

About the year 1800 somebody stole it.

He was a devotee. That is the detail the story has held on to, and it is the only motive anybody has ever offered. He did not want to sell it. He wanted to have it. So he took it out of the temple and went, and he was seen, and there was a pursuit, and the man ran with the book, and the men who were chasing him were gaining on him, and he came to the river.

And he threw it in.

Nobody knows what he thought he was doing. The Yamunā at Rajapur is wide and brown and in the rains it is fast. A stack of unbound leaves goes into water like that and is gone in a minute.

They got a net.

They went in after it and dragged for it and they brought it up, and they had it back, and what they had was ruined. The water had been into every leaf of it. The outside of the volume was the worst, because the outside of a volume is what the water reaches first, and by the time they had it out on the bank the beginning was illegible and the end was illegible and most of what lay between them had gone as well.

What stayed readable was the middle.

The middle of the stack was Book II. It was the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍ. Of twelve thousand lines in his own hand, the part that survived being stolen and thrown in a river and dragged out in a fishing net was the exile and the leaving of the city and the death of the old king and the meeting of the two brothers at Citrakūṭ, which is twenty miles from where the net went in.

It is still in the temple. It was never taken away and it has never been given up.

And it cannot be seen, and the reason it cannot be seen is the gentlest thing in this whole day. Pilgrims come, and a pilgrim brings an offering, and what you offer a book is a cover for it: a wrapping of cloth, the best you can afford, brocade if you are able. So they brought them. One on top of another, year after year, and nobody was ever going to be the man who took an offering off and threw it away, so nothing was ever taken off.

There are something like fifty of them on it now.

A water-ruined fragment of the second book of his own manuscript lies at the middle of them, and it is not unwrapped, and it is not put on show, and the pilgrims who arrive are told what is inside and go away satisfied. A book that people loved out of sight.

There is one more building of his, and it is at Banaras.

He founded a temple there to Sītā-Rām, the two of them together, which is how he always has them and how he had them in the invocation of his epic and in the dohā about the black cow.

In that temple there was another autograph, and it was not the Mānas. It was the Rām Āgyā, the small book of Rām's command, the one a man opens when he has a question on his mind and wants an answer he did not choose himself.

It was kept there, in his own writing, and looked after, for more than two centuries.

It was lost in the Mutiny.

That is all that is recorded of it: that it was there, and that in 1857 it was not there any more, and nobody knows what became of it or who had it last.

So of the four things he left standing in stone and paper, the town kept his rule, the temple kept his name, and of the two manuscripts one went into a river and came back ruined, and one went into a war and did not come back at all.

The poem is still here. It is here because it was never on paper in the first place, not really. He had written it into the memories of people who could not read a word of it, in twelve thousand lines of caupāī and dohā built to be held in a head and carried about, and that is a place where neither a flood nor a fire nor a fifty-fold wrapping of brocade can get at it.

Tomorrow: Hanumān, and the place in Banaras where trouble is taken to be undone, and forty verses that half a country says by heart.

Ayodhyā stands on the right bank of the Sarayū, and in Māgha the mornings there are cold. The men who go down to the water before it is light come back up the steps with their wet cloths steaming.

On a Māgha morning, on the bright fifth, the brahmins of the town built a fire on that bank and a boy was given the sacred thread. He was seven years old. He had no family standing behind him. The father who had let him go was in another district and had not been told, the mother who had sent him away was years dead, and the woman who had raised him was dead too. What he had instead was the sādhu who had walked into Rajapur and asked for him by name, and that man stood in for the whole of it: the house, the gotra, the line, the lot.

The thread went over the boy's shoulder. He was asked to say the Gāyatrī and he said it, correctly, and he had never been taught it. The pandits on the bank looked at one another. Then the sādhu did the five rites that were his to do, and gave him the mantra of Rām, and the morning was over.

What is worth noticing is what happened next, which is that they did not leave.

There is a mound in the middle of Ayodhyā with steps cut into the side of it and a temple of Hanumān on the top, and the town calls it Hanumāngaṛhī, the little fort of Hanumān. It is not a hill. It is the sort of rise a town makes for itself over a long time, and the steps go up it steeply, and from the top you can see roofs and the line of the river. They stayed there ten months.

Ten months is not a visit. It is a term of schooling. What the boy did in those ten months was learn Pāṇini's sūtras, which are the grammar of Sanskrit set out in the shortest form anybody has ever managed, and the way they are learned is that somebody makes you say them aloud until they are in you and cannot be got out. So he said them aloud, at the top of that mound, for ten months, in front of Hanumān.

That is the first place.

The second is Banaras, and it is most of a lifetime later: a courtyard, or a verandah, or the shade of a tree at the edge of a ghat, wherever a man sits down with a book and people gather to hear it.

He recited the Rāmāyaṇ. That is what he did with his working days for most of his life: he said the story of Rām aloud to whoever came, and the ones who came were not scholars, they were the people of the lanes. Somebody sat on the edge of that gathering in poor clothes and did not speak. He was the first to arrive, before the mat was straight, and he was the last to leave, after the lamps.

How Tulsīdās found out who that was has been told already and will not be told twice. What belongs here is what it left him with, which was this: for the rest of his life, every time he opened the book, he knew who was in the room.

And there is a reason a recitation would have a particular hold on that listener's ears, and it is not a pious reason. He was there. Of everybody who has ever sat down to hear the story of Rām read out, he is the only one who was in it. When the reader reaches the crossing of the sea, he is listening to an account of his own afternoon. When the reader reaches the grove and the ring in the lap, he is hearing somebody else describe the most careful thing he ever did. When the reader reaches the herb and the mountain, he is hearing what it looked like from outside, which he never saw.

A man who knows that does not recite to an empty afternoon. He does not recite to an audience of thirty either. He recites to one particular listener who is certainly there, who has heard the story from people who were in it, who folds his hands and puts them on his head and cries, and who will stay to the end whatever the weather does. Everything Tulsīdās wrote after that was written with that listener in the room, and it changed the register of nothing, because the register had never been anything else.

The third place he built himself.

Banaras runs along the west bank of the Ganges for three miles of stone steps, and at the southern end of it a small stream called the Asī comes down and joins the river. It is not much of a stream. In the rains it runs and in the hot weather it does not, and the ghat at its mouth is called Asī Ghāṭ. Tulsīdās lived at that end of the city, and he used to cross the Asī in the mornings to wash, and the ground west of it, back from the river, was then open: trees, a tank, a road going out towards the Durgā temple, and fields.

He set up an image of Hanumān there and put a wall round it, and he gave the place a name. He called it Sankaṭ Mocan.

It is worth stopping on what that is, because a man founding a temple in Banaras in about the year 1600 was not doing an unusual thing and the city was already thick with them. There were thousands. Every lane had a shrine in a niche and every ghat had a platform with something on it, and the great ones had endowments and hereditary servants and land. Founding a temple was what a rich man did with the end of his money.

He was not rich. What he had was a name in the city and a following, and the founding of a place is not chiefly an act of building anyway. A shrine is stone. A place where people go is something else, and it is made out of people going, and the making of it takes a lifetime and cannot be bought. What a man does when he starts one is put something in a spot, and tell people what it is for, and then be there, and go on being there, and the place accumulates round him: the first ones who came because they knew him, then the ones who came because their mother had, then the ones who have no idea who founded it and would be surprised to hear anybody had.

He chose the ground for it, and the ground he chose was not central. It was out on the south edge, past where the houses stopped, on a road with fields on both sides, near a stream that ran for three months of the year. Anybody could get there and nobody had to be admitted. There was nothing to pay at the gate and nothing to know before you came in.

Sankaṭ is trouble of the kind that has closed round you: the narrow place, the tight spot, the thing you cannot get out of by yourself. Mocan is the undoing of a knot, the letting go of what was held, release. Put them together and you have the one who unfastens the trouble a man is in.

It is not a title anybody invented for the temple afterwards. It is a line out of his own verse. He had written a poem of eight stanzas in which every stanza ends on the same words, that there is nobody in the world who does not know that Hanumān's name is Sankaṭmocan, and the place is called after the refrain. So the temple is named after a poem, and the poem is named after the temple, and which came first is not recorded and does not matter, because they are the same act done twice: a man in a crowded city putting up a sign that says, here, bring it here.

The fourth place is a room, and there is no way of knowing which room.

He was very old. Ninety, or near it. He had written the Mānas and the Kavitāvalī and the Gītāvalī and the Vinaya Patrikā and hundreds of dohās, and Banaras had come round to him, or most of Banaras had, and the lines he had written in the village tongue were being said in lanes where nobody had ever heard a line of Sanskrit. None of that was any use to him, because his arm had gone.

It swelled and it would not come down. The pain in it did not stop at night. He could not lift it, and a man who cannot lift his arm cannot write, and he had spent his life writing. He tried what people try. He took medicines, one after another, and they did nothing. He had charms said over him and spells worked and the small home remedies that neighbours press on a sick man, and they did nothing. He asked the gods, and by his own account the thing got worse rather than better.

What that meant to him is not hard to work out and he does not make a secret of it. He had been at it for fifty years and more. It was not a pastime and it was not even chiefly a devotion: it was his trade and his standing and the only thing he had ever been able to do for anybody. Everything he had given away in his life had gone out of that hand. For a man in that position, losing the use of an arm is not the same thing it would be for anybody else. He loses the thing he is.

So he wrote a poem about it. He wrote forty-four verses in which he tells Hanumān, in the first person, with no dignity kept back at all, that his arm hurts, that he has tried everything, that he is an old man and has served him since he was a child, and that he would like it seen to. It is called the Hanumān Bāhuk, which is to say the arm, and there is nothing else quite like it in the language.

Four places, then: a mound at Ayodhyā with a boy saying grammar aloud on the top of it, a mat in Banaras with somebody in the back row, a wall round an image beside a dry stream, and a room where an old man could not raise his hand. Eighty years between the first and the last. The same god in all four, asked for the same things, in the same voice. He never once changed his tone when he spoke to Hanumān, from the grammar to the funeral, and that is the single most consistent fact about him.

To follow any of what he wrote about Hanumān you have to know what Hanumān did, and everyone in a Banaras lane knew it, because it is the fifth book of the story Tulsīdās spent his life telling, and he told that book better than he told any other.

Rām and his brother are in the forest in the south, and Sītā has been taken. Nobody knows where. The one thing wanting is not courage and not an army: it is information. Somebody has to find out where she is, and the sea is in the way.

The monkeys come to the shore and look at it. They are an army and they are useless. The distance is a hundred leagues of water, and one by one they say what they can manage, and the numbers are all short, and the oldest of them says that once he could have done it and now he cannot. There is a sentence hanging over them as well, because the king who sent them said they need not come back without news, and they know he meant it. So they sit down on the sand in front of the sea and wait to die of it.

Then an old bear says what everybody in that company has forgotten, which is what the son of the wind is, and Hanumān stands up.

He had needed reminding. The story is that when he was a child he had been so far beyond control that his own strength was taken out of his memory, and he had gone about since then not knowing the size of himself, which is why nobody thought of him first, including him. He does not object to having been passed over. He is told what he is and he accepts it in one line and goes to the headland.

He goes up onto the headland and pushes off from it, and the hill sinks where his feet were, and the trees on it come away with him for the first part of the way.

On the crossing, things come at him, and what he does about each of them is worth watching, because it is the same man each time and he is never the same twice. A mountain rises out of the water in the middle of the sea and offers him a rest and a meal, and he touches it with one hand in thanks and does not stop, because he is carrying something and a man carrying something does not stop. A serpent's mother opens her mouth across the whole of his road and will not let anybody pass who has not been through it, so he asks her politely to open wider, and goes in, and comes out the other side, and neither of them has to fight. A creature who catches things by their shadow takes his shadow off the water and hauls him down, and that one he kills, because she would not have let go.

He comes over the wall of Laṅkā at night the size of a cat.

Then he does the part that nobody remembers to praise, which is that he searches.

It is worth dwelling on, because it is the least heroic and the most useful thing in the book. He goes through a city of enemies at night, house by house, courtyard by courtyard, garden by garden. He looks into rooms where people are sleeping. He looks at women who are not her. He does not find her, and he keeps looking, and there comes a point in the telling where he has been through the whole city and has not found her and sits down and considers going home and refuses to, and goes back and starts again on the parts he had left. Nobody is watching. There is nothing to be gained by it. It is a night of walking about in the dark being careful, which is what most work of any value consists of, and he does it to the end.

He finds her under a tree in a grove of aśoka trees, thin, in one cloth, on the ground, with a demoness beside her telling her to give in and be sensible. He gets up into the tree over her head and waits, and the guards doze, and then he does the most delicate thing in the whole book. He does not speak first. He drops Rām's ring into her lap, so that she will know, before she has to see a monkey in a tree above her in a city of demons, that whatever is about to happen is on her side.

She picks the ring up and looks at it and cannot believe it is there.

He offers to carry her out. He could. He offers it in so many words, and she will not come, because she will not be carried out of a demon's house on the back of somebody else while her husband is alive, and he does not argue with her for one line. He takes a message instead. He lets them catch him, because a captured spy gets taken to the throne room and gets to look at the enemy, and when they set his tail alight he uses the fire on the city and comes home.

He goes back over the water and comes down among the others, and they crowd round him, and what he brings out is the jewel she took out of her hair and gave him so that her husband would know it had really happened. He hands it over. And then he says nothing about the rest of it. He had been the only one who could go, and had gone, and had found her, and had been caught and set on fire and had got out. What he says, standing on that shore with the whole army round him, is that the work was Rām's.

That is the shape of the whole thing. Afterwards there is the bridge and the war, and in the war the two occasions everybody says over: the brother struck down at night by Rāvaṇ's son and the breath gone out of him, and the herb that will bring him back growing on a mountain in the Himālaya, a night's flight off, and no time. Hanumān goes. He cannot tell one herb from another when he gets there, so he takes the mountain, the whole mountain, and carries it back in one hand and puts it down in front of the physician, who picks what he needs off it. A man who cannot read the label brings the shelf.

Later both brothers are taken alive underground by a demon called Ahirāvaṇ, who means to have them killed in front of his goddess, and it is Hanumān who goes down into the earth after them, and finds the lamp that is the demon's life, and puts it out, and brings them up.

There is one more thing to say about him and it is the oldest. When he was a child he was hungry and he saw the sun and he went up to eat it, and the three worlds went dark, and the gods came and asked him to let go, and he let go. It is the only occasion on the list where the trouble he removed was one he had caused himself, and it stands first in the poem the temple is named after, ahead of the sea and the grove and the mountain. Tulsīdās put the childish one at the head of the list.

Put the list in a row. He swallowed the sun and gave it back. He crossed a sea. He found a woman nobody could find. He carried a mountain because he could not tell one plant from another. He went under the ground for two men who were not able to help themselves. Not one of those is the act of a lord. Every one of them is an errand, and he did every one of them for somebody else, and he never asked for anything at the end of any of them.

Go to Sankaṭ Mocan now, four hundred years on, and this is what it is.

It is a walled compound off a road, with trees in it, and the trees are old and big and full of monkeys, and the monkeys are not decorative. They sit on the wall and on the roofs of the shrines and they take what is not held tightly. Nobody minds. A man will hand up a piece of his own offering.

Under the trees there is a shrine, and in the shrine there is the image, and the image is orange. It is orange because it is given sindūr and oil, and has been given sindūr and oil every day for four hundred years, so that the features have gone soft under the layers the way a step goes soft under feet. Round the neck there are marigolds. The floor is wet. There is a bell at the entrance and people strike it as they come in, and the sound is going all day.

What people bring is laḍḍū, in leaf plates or in paper, and the laḍḍū goes to the image and comes back to the person, and some of it goes to the monkeys. What people bring besides laḍḍū is their trouble. That is what the place is for. Nobody comes to Sankaṭ Mocan to think about the nature of things. They come because a court case is going badly, or a son has not written for two years, or the tests came back, or the marriage is not happening, or the fever will not break, or the money is owed on Thursday. They stand in the queue with the sweets and they say what is wrong.

Tuesday is the day. Tuesday belongs to Hanumān, and on Tuesdays the queue is out of the gate and down the road, and on Saturdays there is another one. On those days the compound is a noise: the bell, the recitation going in one corner, somebody reading aloud from a booklet, a family arguing about where to leave the shoes, the monkeys overhead.

Nobody asks anybody at that gate who they are. There is no test at the door and never has been, and the queue on a Tuesday has in it the barrister and the man who pulls the barrister's cart, and they are standing in the same line holding the same sweets, and the one at the front is whoever got there first.

And every so often, all day, somebody in that crowd says forty verses out loud from memory, without a book, walking, while they wait.

Which is the thing to hold on to, because that is what he made. He did not make a shrine only. Anybody with money could put up a shrine. He made a place where people come with their trouble, and then he put into their mouths the words to bring it in with, and the words were short enough to learn in an afternoon.

You can tell who was standing in front of him from what the verses ask for.

They do not ask for knowledge of the self. They do not ask for release from the round of birth and death, or not mostly, and where they do it is at the very end, as a last line, almost politely. What they ask for is: get this off me.

Take away the fever. Keep the ghost out of the house. Get him out of prison. Let the thing I have to do tomorrow, which is beyond me, turn out to be within me. Make the pain stop. Guard me, because I am afraid of a particular person and I have no protection anywhere else. Give me sense, because I am stupid and I know it.

That is what the poor of a big city need from a god and it is what they have always needed, and the reason it is worth saying plainly is that a great deal of religion in any century is embarrassed by it. The learned tradition of Banaras in his day had answers of enormous subtlety for a man who wanted to know the relation of the self to the absolute, and nothing at all to say, in a language he could understand, to a weaver with a sick child.

It is worth being fair about this. The learning of that city was not a fraud and the men who held it were not fools. What they had was the best thinking anybody in the world had done about the deepest questions there are, kept in good order for two thousand years, in a language built to hold it precisely. The trouble was the door. To get at it you had to have been born to the right kind of family, and then taught the language for twelve years by somebody who agreed to teach you, and the number of people in Banaras who met both conditions could have been seated in one courtyard. Everybody else in that city had the festivals, the bathing days, the images in the lanes, and what their grandmothers had told them, and no access at all to a single sentence of it.

Tulsīdās had been the sick child. He had begged at doors in Rajapur for two years before he was eight. He knew exactly what a person in that condition wants, and it is not subtlety. It is somebody strong who is on your side and who will come.

So he wrote two poems and later a third, all of them short, all of them in the speech people used, all of them addressed to the same god, and all of them about getting the weight lifted off. And he made them so that they could be carried: no manuscript needed, no pandit needed, no initiation needed, nothing needed except a mouth and the road between your house and your work.

There is no account of the afternoon he wrote the first of them. Nobody wrote down the date or the room or who was there, and this is one of the ordinary injustices of how such things are remembered: the poem that more people will say tomorrow morning than any other in the language has no birthday, and a manuscript nobody can open has a whole history.

What is left is the poem, and a poem tells you a certain amount about the conditions of its making, because a man writing a thing of that kind makes decisions on every line and the decisions are still there.

Here is the first of them. The poem is for Hanumān, and it does not begin with Hanumān.

श्रीगुरु चरन सरोज रज, निज मनु मुकुरु सुधारि ।

बरनउँ रघुबर बिमल जसु, जो दायकु फल चारि ॥

With the dust off my teacher's feet, which are lotuses, I clean the mirror that is my own mind, and then I tell out the clear praise of Raghubar, which is the thing that gives all four of the fruits a man can want.

Two lines, and three people in them before the subject of the poem is reached: the teacher whose feet provide the cleaning powder, the mind that is a tarnished mirror and needs it, and Rām, whose praise is the thing actually being undertaken. A poem in praise of Hanumān that opens by announcing it is going to praise Rām is not making a mistake. It is doing the only thing Hanumān would stand for.

Then the second couplet, and this is where the whole machine starts:

बुद्धिहीन तनु जानिके, सुमिरौं पवन-कुमार ।

बल बुधि बिद्या देहु मोहिं, हरहु कलेस बिकार ॥

Knowing this body of mine to have no wit in it, I call the son of the wind to mind. Give me strength, give me sense, give me learning, and take away my afflictions and the badness in me.

That is the request, and it is worth reading slowly, because everything the poem does afterwards is contained in it. Four things are asked for and one thing is asked to be removed. Strength, because the person saying it has none. Sense, because he knows he is a fool. Learning, because he was never given any. And then the removal, in one word, of kleś, which is every kind of affliction from a boil to a bereavement, and of bikār, which is the fault in a thing, the corruption, whatever in you has gone wrong.

Nobody who has had a comfortable life writes that couplet. Nobody who has never needed any of the four asks for all four in that order.

After that the poem does three things in turn, and it does them so tidily that you can see the hand of a man who had already built a poem of twelve thousand lines and knew about proportion.

For the first eight verses it looks at him. Hail Hanumān, sea of knowledge and of every good quality; hail lord of the monkeys, whose light is in all three worlds. Rām's messenger, holder of measureless strength, Añjanī's son, and also called son of the wind. Great hero, mighty, hard-bodied. He clears away bad thinking and keeps company with good. His body is the colour of gold and he is well turned out; there are rings in his ears and his hair is curled. He has the thunderbolt in one hand and a flag, and a sacred cord of muñja grass over his shoulder. Śiva's son, Kesarī's boy. Learned, accomplished, extremely quick, and always in a hurry to get Rām's work done.

That is a face. It is the face on the wall of every lorry and every tea stall in north India, and it is recognisable four hundred years later because the description is concrete and physical: colour, earrings, hair, what is in the hands, what is over the shoulder. He does not describe an attribute anywhere in those eight verses. He describes a body.

Then for ten verses or so it lists what the body did. He took a small form and showed himself to Sītā; he took a terrible one and burnt Laṅkā. He killed demons and put Rām's business straight.

लाय सजीवन लखन जियाये ।

श्रीरघुबीर हरषि उर लाये ॥

He brought the healing herb and Lakhan lived. Raghubīr in his gladness caught him to his chest.

That is the mountain, compressed into half a line. The whole night flight, the whole Himālaya, the whole business of a creature who could not identify one plant and so carried the hill it was growing on, is not described at all. It is in the one word lāya, he brought it. Then the embrace, which is the part that matters, and the word for it is haraṣi, in gladness, and it is Rām who is glad.

He goes on. A thousand mouths sing your fame, said the lord of Śrī, and he said it with his arms round him. The four sons of the creator, the sages, Nārad, Śāradā, the lord of snakes, Yam, Kuber, the guardians of the quarters: not one of them can say what you are, so how would a poet manage it. You did Sugrīv a good turn and put him in the way of Rām and he got his kingdom back. Bibhīṣan took your advice and the whole world knows he became lord of Laṅkā. The sun is a great many leagues off and you swallowed it as if it were a sweet fruit. You put your master's ring in your mouth and jumped the ocean and there is no wonder in it.

And then, having established all that, the poem turns round, and for the last twenty verses the person saying it comes into it, and from there on he is never out of it again.

दुर्गम काज जगत के जेते ।

सुगम अनुग्रह तुम्हरे तेते ॥

Every piece of the world's business that cannot be got through: by your favour it is got through easily.

That verse is the hinge, and it is the most quoted line in the poem after the first one, and you can see why. It does not say the difficulty goes away. It says the difficulty stays exactly the size it was and becomes passable. Anybody who has had a thing to do that was beyond them and has done it knows what that describes.

From there the poem is a list of what he is asked for, which is a list of what the people in the queue were afraid of.

You are the gatekeeper at Rām's door and nobody gets in without leave. Everyone finds every comfort in your shelter; with you guarding there is nobody to be afraid of. You alone can manage your own force, and the three worlds shake at your shout. Ghosts and evil spirits do not come near when Mahābīr's name is said. Disease is destroyed and every pain taken away when the brave Hanumat is repeated without stopping. Hanumān gets a man out of the tight place if he will turn mind and act and word towards him. Rām is king over everything, an ascetic king, and every piece of his work you did. Whatever else a man wants, if he brings that too, he gets the fruit of it and the fruit does not run out. Your greatness stands in all four ages; your light is famous over the world. You are the guard of the good and the holy men; you cut down the demons; Rām loves you. You give the eight powers and the nine treasures, and Jānakī herself gave you that as a gift. The medicine that is Rām is in your keeping, and you remain Raghupati's servant for ever. Sing your praises and a man reaches Rām and forgets the sorrows of birth after birth.

Look at what is in that list. Prison. Possession. Fever. Fear of a powerful enemy. Debt. A thing that must be done and cannot be. And sitting in the middle of it, one verse about eight powers and nine treasures, because people ask for money, and he did not pretend they did not, and he did not scold them for it either.

Near the end he says the one thing about the poem itself that he ever says:

जो सत बार पाठ कर कोई ।

छूटहि बंदि महा सुख होई ॥

जो यह पढ़ै हनुमान चलीसा ।

होय सिद्धि साखी गौरीसा ॥

Whoever does a hundred readings of it, his bonds come undone and there is great ease. Whoever reads this Hanumān Cālīsā, the thing is accomplished, and Gaurī's lord is the witness of it.

He puts Śiva's name on the guarantee. Not his own. The lord of Gaurī, who is the god of the city he was living in, is called as the witness to the promise, which is what you do when you are making a claim you expect to be doubted and you want the biggest name available standing behind it.

And then the last verse, and here he signs:

तुलसीदास सदा हरि चेरा ।

कीजै नाथ हृदय महँ डेरा ॥

Tulsīdās is Hari's servant always. Lord, pitch your camp inside my heart.

Cerā is a servant, a dependent, the boy in the house. Ḍerā is a camp, a stopping place, the tent a traveller puts up where he means to sleep. He does not ask to be taken anywhere. He asks the traveller to stop at his house.

Then one couplet to close:

पवनतनय संकट हरन, मंगल मूरति रूप ।

राम लखन सीता सहित, हृदय बसहु सुर भूप ॥

Son of the wind, taker away of trouble, whose very shape is made of everything good: come and live in my heart, king of gods, and bring Rām and Lakhan and Sītā with you.

Which is how he ends it: by asking the servant to move in and to bring the family.

Now count what he did.

Forty verses. Each verse is a caupāī of two half lines, and the whole of it, with the two couplets at the front and the one at the back, takes about four minutes to say at a reasonable pace, less if you are hurrying to work. It is in Awadhi, which is the speech of the country round Ayodhyā, the language he had used for the Mānas and had been attacked for using. There is no Sanskrit in it beyond the names, and the names are ones every child already knew.

The verses go in a fixed order and the order is a story, so that verse eleven leads to verse twelve the way one thing leads to another, which is what makes a thing possible to learn. The lines rhyme in pairs, plainly, at the end, the way village song rhymes. Nothing in it is difficult. Nothing in it needs a commentary, and nothing in it has ever had one that was any use.

Look at the actual words. Sāgar, sea. Bal, strength. Hāth, hand. Kes, hair. Mukh, mouth. Nām, name. Rog, illness. Pīrā, pain. Ḍar, fear. Dukh, sorrow. Sukh, comfort. Kāj, work, a word a labourer uses about a day's employment. The one line everybody in the country can quote has the word durgam in it, hard to get through, which is what you say about a road. There is not a term in the whole poem that a carter would have had to have explained to him, and there is not a single place where he reaches for a Sanskrit word to raise the tone, and it would have been the easiest thing in the world for him to do it, because he had fifteen years of Sanskrit and could have written the whole thing in it before lunch.

A woman who cannot read can learn the whole poem in an afternoon by hearing it said four or five times, because that is what the rhyme and the metre are for. Having learned it she owns it. It cannot be taken from her, it does not have to be bought, it does not require a brahmin to be fetched and fed, it does not require a temple to be open, and it can be said out loud while walking to the well, while grinding, while waiting outside a courtroom, while sitting up all night with somebody who is ill. It costs nothing and it takes four minutes and it is entirely hers.

Seventy years earlier a boy had gone from door to door in Rajapur with nothing at all, and some days people gave him something and some days they did not. He had nothing to say. There was nothing he had been given to say.

He did not argue with anybody about the Cālīsā. He had already done his arguing, in the front of the Mānas, where he wrote that crows call the cuckoo harsh, and that the cow is black and her milk is white and does a great deal of good and everybody drinks it. That argument was made once, in public, against people who had names and standing, and it was made about a book of twelve thousand lines.

This time he simply did it, in four minutes, and said nothing about it at all, and handed it to people who were not in the argument and had never heard of it.

It is the most recited poem in the Hindi language. More people say it in any given week than say anything else anybody has written in that language, and a fair number of them do not know who wrote it, or that anybody did. They think of it the way you think of a road. Somebody made the road.

The other poem is shorter still, and it was written out of a particular trouble of his own. What the trouble was is not recorded anywhere. That is a pity and it cannot be helped, and it may be that it was nobody's business at the time either.

It has eight stanzas, and they are nothing like the Cālīsā's verses to look at. The Cālīsā runs in short paired half lines, quick, the metre of village song. These are long rolling lines, four of them to a stanza, each line long enough that you have to breathe in the middle of it, in a metre called mattagayand, which is the sort of measure used for the praise of kings. He put the workman's poem in the workman's metre and the petition in the courtly one.

And every stanza ends with the same line.

बाल समय रबि भक्षि लियो तब तीनहुँ लोक भयो अँधियारो ।

ताहि सों त्रास भयो जग को यह संकट काहु सों जात न टारो ॥

देवन आनि करी बिनती तब छाँड़ि दियो रबि कष्ट निवारो ।

को नहिं जानत है जगमें कपि संकटमोचन नाम तिहारो ॥

When you were a child you ate the sun, and all three worlds went dark. The world was in terror of it, and this sankaṭ was not one that anybody could turn aside. Then the gods came and made their petition, and you let the sun go and put an end to the trouble. Who in the world does not know your name, Kapi: Sankaṭmocan, who takes distress away?

That is the form, and the form is the argument. Each of the eight stanzas takes one occasion when something had closed round somebody and could not be got open, and says what it was, and says that he opened it, and ends with the refrain. It is put together the way a man puts together a case.

Stanza two is Sugrīv, sitting up on his hill because his brother will kill him if he comes down, and a sage's curse standing over the business as well, and nobody able to see a way through it. You came in the shape of a brahmin and fetched the great lord to him, and your servant's grief was over. Who in the world does not know your name, Kapi: Sankaṭmocan, who takes distress away?

Stanza three is the search party. Aṅgad and the rest had been sent to find Sītā and had been told they would not come back alive without news, and they had looked until they were finished, and they were sitting on the sea shore with nothing. You brought the news of Sītā and their lives were saved.

Stanza four is Sītā herself, with Rāvaṇ threatening her and the demonesses set to work on her, and she asking the aśoka tree for fire, which is what a woman asks a tree for when she has decided. At that moment you went and killed the great night walker, and you gave her the lord's ring, and her grief was over.

Stanza five is the arrow in Lakhan's chest at night, and the breath gone out of him, and the physician brought from his house and the house brought with him, and Mount Droṇ pulled up out of the Himālaya.

आनि सजीवन हाथ दई तब लछिमन के तुम प्रान उबारो ।

You brought the herb that gives life and put it into his hand, and so you saved Lakhan's breath.

Stanza six is the night Rāvaṇ fought without honour and dropped the noose of serpents over the heads of the whole army, and Raghunāth with them, and everybody bewildered, and it was a heavy trouble. You brought the lord of birds, and he cut the bonds.

That one is worth a second look, because it is the only occasion in the eight where what he did was not done with his own hands. The noose was made of serpents and no strength was any use against it, so what was needed was not a strong man but somebody who knew whose enemy a serpent is. He went and fetched the bird. It is the same quality that made him useful at the sea and in the grove: he works out what is actually required and then goes and gets it, and he does not mind if the thing required turns out to be somebody else.

Stanza seven is under the ground. Ahirāvaṇ and his brother carried Raghunāth off to the world below and worshipped their goddess properly and sat down together to settle how the killing should be done. You went to help. You destroyed Ahirāvaṇ and his army with him.

And then stanza eight, which is the whole point of the other seven:

काज किये बड़ देवन के तुम बीर महाप्रभु देखि बिचारो ।

कौन सो संकट मोर गरीब को जो तुमसों नहिं जात है टारो ॥

बेगि हरो हनुमान महाप्रभु जो कछु संकट होय हमारो ।

को नहिं जानत है जगमें कपि संकटमोचन नाम तिहारो ॥

You have done great things for the gods, brave one; Mahāprabhu, look at me and consider. What sankaṭ of mine, poor as I am, could there be that you cannot turn aside? Take it away quickly, Hanumān, Mahāprabhu, whatever sankaṭ of mine there is. Who in the world does not know your name, Kapi: Sankaṭmocan, who takes distress away?

Seven precedents and then the application. Every one of the seven was somebody else's emergency: a king in hiding, a search party under sentence, a woman about to burn herself, a brother dead on the field, an army in a net, two men underground. Then the eighth, and the eighth is a man in Banaras with something wrong, and what he says is that the list has established a principle and he would like the principle applied.

Mor garīb ko. Mine, a poor man's. He does not put himself in the list. He puts himself after it, as the small case at the end of the day, and the phrase he uses about his own trouble is the one he would have used about anybody's in the lane outside.

Then a couplet to finish:

लाल देह लाली लसे, अरु धरि लाल लँगूर ।

बज्र देह दानव दलन, जय जय जय कपि सूर ॥

A red body with a red sheen on it, and a red tail carried behind. A body of thunderbolt, a breaker of demons. Hail, hail, hail to the monkey hero.

The red is the sindūr. Four hundred years of it are still going on to that image every morning, and when the couplet is said at the gate the thing described is standing three steps away, orange to the ears, and just as the couplet says.

This is the poem people say over the sick. It is what gets recited at the bedside and in the compound at Sankaṭ Mocan over somebody who has been brought there because nothing else has worked, and it is said eight times or a hundred times or as long as it takes. Eight stanzas is about three minutes.

The two poems together are seven or eight minutes of speech and they cover, between them, nearly everything a frightened person in that city could have needed to say. That is not an accident and it is not a small achievement. It is the work of a man who had spent his life on one enormous book and then understood that the enormous book, for all its greatness, was not going to be in the hands of a woman sitting up all night with a child in fever.

The third poem is not for anybody else.

It was not even kept by itself. It sits at the end of the Kavitāvalī, the book of his verses in the long Braj metres, tacked on after the last of them like a sheet put in at the back, and that is where it still is. The Kavitāvalī's own last pages belong to the year the plague came to Banaras, when the lanes he had walked for half a century were full of the dead and the dying and nobody could keep up with the burning. The arm belongs to that stretch of his life. He was very old, the city was in a bad way, and his arm had swollen and stopped working.

It begins the way you would expect a poem of his to begin, which is with six lines of praise so tightly packed that the words are almost stacked on one another:

सिंधु-तरन, सिय-सोच-हरन, रबि-बाल-बरन तनु।

भुज बिसाल, मूरति कराल, कालहु को काल जनु॥

गहन-दहन-निरदहन-लंक, निःसंक, बंक-भुव।

जातुधान-बलवान-मान-मद-दवन पवनसुव॥

कह तुलसिदास सेवत सुलभ, सेवक हित संतत निकट।

गुन-गनत, नमत, सुमिरत, जपत समन सकल-संकट-विकट॥

Crosser of the sea. Taker away of Sītā's grief. Body the colour of the sun when the sun is young. Broad in the arm, terrible to look at, death, you would say, to death itself. He burnt out Laṅkā, that dense wood, and burnt it out entirely, and was not afraid of it, and his brows were bent. Crusher of the strength and the standing and the swagger of the night walkers, son of the wind. Tulsīdās says: he is easy to serve, and he keeps close by, always, for the good of the one who serves him. Count his qualities over, bow, call him to mind, say his name: every cruel trouble goes out like a fire.

Note the last word of it, because he is going to come back to it: sakal saṅkaṭ bikaṭ, all trouble, however savage.

Then for fourteen stanzas he does something that looks, at first, like a man putting off what he came to say. He goes through the deeds. But look at which deeds he picks, because he does not pick the ones the Cālīsā picks. He picks the ones where Hanumān is a child, or is playing, or is doing something enormous casually.

He starts with the lessons.

भानु सों पढ़न हनुमान गये, भानु मन

अनुमानि सिसु-केलि कियो फेरफार सो।

पाछिले पगनि गम गगन मगन-मन,

क्रम को न भ्रम, कपि बालक बिहार सो॥

Hanumān went to the sun to be taught. The sun, reckoning privately that this was a child's game, made a difficulty of it. So he went up the sky with his feet walking backwards, his whole mind in it, and never once lost his place in the lesson. To a monkey child it was play.

The sun's difficulty, in the way the story is told, was that he could not stop moving and could not teach a pupil who was not facing him, so the pupil would have to keep pace going backwards. The child did that, all the way, and recited his lessons while he did it. The guardians of the quarters watched, and so did Viṣṇu and Śiva and the maker of the world, and it dazzled them, and they could not settle among themselves whether what they were looking at was strength, or the hero's temper, or steadiness, or nerve, or whether the pith of all four of them had taken a body and gone to school.

A man in his nineties who cannot lift his arm, and who is about to ask for help getting it back, opens his petition with a story about a child learning his lessons backwards through the sky. That is not an accident either.

He goes on. He puts Hanumān on the banner of Arjuna's chariot in the other great war, and has him roar there, and the whole Kuru army goes to pieces at the sound, and it is Droṇ and Bhīṣma who say who it is: by my reckoning, says Bhīṣma, in the three times and the three worlds there has never been a strength like that. Then this:

गो-पद पयोधि करि, होलिका ज्यों लाय लंक,

निपट निसंक परपुर गलबल भो।

द्रोन सो पहार लियो ख्याल ही उखारि कर,

कंदुक-ज्यों कपि-खेल बेल कैसो फल भो॥

He made the ocean a cow's hoofprint. He lit Laṅkā the way you light a bonfire at holī. He went through the enemy's city without a particle of fear and turned it upside down. A mountain the size of Droṇ he pulled up out of the earth for the amusement of it, and it sat in his hand like a ball, a monkey's toy, no heavier than a bel fruit.

Hold on to the first three words. The ocean became a cow's hoofprint. It is the oldest way of saying what Hanumān is: the thing that stops everybody else is, for him, the size of the dent a cow's foot leaves in mud. It is in these verses at stanza six and it comes back at the end of the poem, and when it comes back it is not about the ocean.

He keeps on in this way for a good while. He is easy to serve. He is near at hand. Nobody he has set up gets pulled down again. He is the tree that gives you what you ask for, and he is the staff of thin and hopeless men. He can be relied on entirely. Eighty years of knowing somebody, put into the language of a court petition, which is the only formal language an ordinary man of that century had for asking a great person for anything.

And then at the sixteenth stanza the metre changes, and he stops.

सुजान सिरोमनि हौ, हनुमान! सदा जन के मन बास तिहारो।

ढारो बिगारो मैं काको कहा? केहि कारन खीझत हौ तो तिहारो॥

साहिब सेवक नाते तें हातो कियौ सो तहाँ तुलसी को न चारो।

दोष सुनाए तें आगेहूँ को हुसियार हैंहों, मन तौ हिय हारो॥

You are the crown of everyone with any sense, Hanumān, and you live always in the minds of your own people. Whom have I knocked over? What have I spoiled? What is the reason you are out of temper with me, when I am yours? And if you have put me outside the relation of master and servant altogether, then Tulsī has no remedy at all. Tell me the fault and I will be careful about it in future. As it is, my heart has lost heart.

That is a man of ninety asking a question he has clearly been turning over for months. Not why is there pain in the world. Not what does suffering mean. What have I done, and why will you not speak to me, and if I am out then say so, because I have no other arrangement.

तेरे थपे उथपै न महेस, थपै थिर को कपि जे घर घाले।

तेरे निवाजे गरीब निवाज बिराजत बैरिन के उर साले॥

संकट सोच सबै तुलसी लिये नाम फटै मकरी के से जाले।

बूढ़ भये, बलि, मेरिहि बार, कि हारि परे बहुतै नत पाले॥

The man you have set up, not even Maheś unseats; and the one you have pulled down, who is going to settle him again? The ones you have favoured, protector of the poor, sit in state and are a thorn in their enemies' chests. Say your name and every trouble and worry Tulsī has tears like a spider's web. I have grown old. Is it my turn that is to be the exception? Or have you got tired at last, with so many at your door to keep?

Bali, in the second and fourth lines, is the word a person uses when they are putting themselves at somebody's disposal, an old formula of complete deference. He uses it in the same breath as the sentence about having got tired. Reverence and cheek in the same line, and no sense at all that the two are in conflict. This is a very old friendship and it is being conducted in the tone of one.

Four stanzas later he names it. Up to that point the poem could still be about anything. Then:

साहसी समीर के दुलारे रघुबीरजू के,

बाँह-पीर महाबीर बेगि ही निवारिये॥

Bold darling of the wind, Raghubīr's own man: Mahābīr, take the pain out of my arm, and do it quickly.

That is all. There is no softening of it and no apology for the smallness of it, and no turning of it into a figure for something more respectable. His arm hurt. He asked for it to be seen to. He asked for it quickly.

And then, having said it, he cannot stop saying it, and the rest of the poem is a man coming at the same request from twenty different directions in the way that people in continuous pain do.

The first thing he does with it is a piece of invention that nobody else would have thought of. He gives the pain a part in the story.

Hanumān's whole history is a history of dealing with particular creatures. Sinhikā, who caught him by the shadow over the water. The crocodile. Laṅkinī, who stood in the gate of the city and was knocked down with one blow. Pūtanā, the child-killing demoness, who belongs to Kṛṣṇa's childhood and not to this story at all, and gets brought in anyway. So Tulsīdās casts his arm as the sea, and the pain in it as a water beast, and asks Hanumān to catch it by the mouth and tear the mouth open as he did the crocodile's. Two stanzas later he asks why the wretched thing should not be kicked to death the way Laṅkinī was, one blow, at the gate. A stanza later the pain is Pūtanā, and it will die when Mahābīr kills it, the way she died. Then:

बाहुक-सुबाहु नीच, लीचर-मरीच मिलि,

मुँहपीर-केतुजा, कुरोग जातुधान हैं।

The pain in my arm is that low creature Subāhu. The weakness all through me is Mārīca. The pain in my mouth is Suketu's daughter. These foul diseases are night walkers, the whole pack of them.

Subāhu and Mārīca and Suketu's daughter Tāḍakā are the demons of the first book, the ones Rām dealt with as a boy, before Sītā, before the exile, before any of it. Tāḍakā was shot through with one arrow. Subāhu the same. Mārīca ran. They are not great enemies. They are the ones you clear out of the road at the beginning, and he has picked them deliberately, because he is not comparing his illness to Rāvaṇ. He is saying: this is small work, this is the sort of thing you did before breakfast when you were a boy, and it is on me now and I cannot shift it.

The whole conceit turns his sickbed into a place in the story. Pain that is only pain belongs to nobody and can be argued with by nobody. Pain that is Subāhu is inside a story where somebody has jurisdiction. He could not make the pain smaller, so he made it answerable.

That is also where the poem gets its name. The Hanumān Bāhuk means the arm, and the arm of the title is his own, and in the verse above the word bāhuk is the name he gives the thing that is in it. The poem is called after its enemy.

Then the plainest stanza in it:

आपने ही पापतें, त्रिपात तें, कि साप तें,

बढ़ी है बाहु-बेदन कही न सहि जाति है।

औषध अनेक जन्त्र मन्त्र टोटकादि किए,

बादि भए देवता, मनाए अधिकाति है॥

Whether from my own sin, or from the three fevers, or because somebody has cursed me: the ache in my arm has got beyond telling and beyond bearing. Medicines, any number of them. Charms. Spells. The little dodges people try. All of it wasted. I have gone round petitioning the gods, and it gets worse.

Every word of that is a fact about a household then and about a household now. You try the medicine. When the medicine fails you try the charm, and you are not proud of yourself for trying the charm. When the charm fails you go round the temples. When the temples fail you are at the end, and you notice that the thing has got worse while you were doing all that, and somebody has to be told.

आलस, अनख, परिहास की सिखावन है?

एते दिन रही पीर तुलसी के बाहु की॥

Is it idleness? Is it bad temper? Is it a joke? Or is it a lesson, that the pain has stayed so many days in Tulsī's arm?

Four possibilities, offered without any attempt to choose between them, and the fourth one is the pious answer and it is in the same list as the other three. He does not settle on it. He does not settle on anything. He asks.

Then the line that is harder than any of the complaints:

चेरो तेरो तुलसी, "तू मेरो" कह्यो राम दूत,

ढील तेरी, बीर, मोहि पीर तें पिराति है॥

Tulsī is your servant, and you are the one who said to me, you are mine, messenger of Rām. Your slowness, hero, hurts me worse than the pain does.

There is no arguing with that sentence and there is nothing to add to it. The arm was bearable. Being kept waiting by somebody who had said that to him was not.

Elsewhere he is harder. A sparrow dying is a game to children; the servant is taking a beating and you are watching the fun. A poor man's boy who was fed on your scraps is being tied up and struck in front of a master who could stop it. He says, in one line, that a small pain in the arm is a great humiliation, which is a thing everybody knows and nobody says: it is not the size of the affliction, it is being reduced by something so trivial.

And then he asks for the one thing in the whole poem that could only have been asked by somebody who really did know him:

बालक बिकल जानि, पाहि, प्रेम पहिचानि,

तुलसी की बाँह पर लामी लूम फेरिए॥

See that the child is in distress. Stand by him. Recognise the love that is there. And lay your long tail across Tulsī's arm.

That is the most extraordinary line he ever wrote about Hanumān, and there is no way to improve on it by explaining it. A tail is what a monkey has. It is the least dignified part of the god, and the part no image is without, and a man in pain asks for it to be draped over the place that hurts, the way you would put a warm cloth on it, or the way a hand goes onto a child's forehead. He is not asking for a miracle. He is asking to be touched on the sore arm by somebody he has known since he was seven years old.

Two stanzas later he stops pretending it is only the arm.

पाँय-पीर, पेट-पीर, बाहु-पीर, मुँह-पीर,

जरजर सकल सरीर पीर-मई है।

Pain in the feet, pain in the belly, pain in the arm, pain in the mouth: the whole body worn through and made out of pain.

This is what was actually wrong. It was not a sprained shoulder. It was an old man's body going at every joint at once, with a mouth that hurt so that eating was work, and a stomach that hurt, and feet that would not carry him, and somewhere in the middle of it one arm that had swollen and would not answer, and it is that one he keeps naming because it was the one that had taken his work away from him. He says elsewhere that boils were breaking out all over him, and he says, in that same stanza, what he thought the reason was: that he had been an orphan whom nobody could look at without pity, and he had been picked up and made a person of, and then he had got a name in the world, and having got it he had grown pleased with himself and had let his devotion slide. So the salt was coming out through his skin.

Nobody made him write that down.

And having written it down he does not spend the rest of the poem in remorse, because that was not his temperament. He goes back to asking. He asks for the hand on the head: pass your hand over Tulsī's forehead, lord of monkeys, and do not let it be said that anybody who served somebody like you went about in that state. He addresses him as water and himself as the thing that lives in water, and then as mother and infant, and says, do not take your time about it, you are all the support I have. He observes, mildly, that everything from gods to ghosts obeys an order from Rām's messenger and that diseases leave a house when they hear his name called, and then asks him to be angry with the deeds that caused it, and to instruct Tulsī, and to straighten out whatever it is that is doing the damage.

Then, near the end, one stanza that is not a request at all:

जीवों जग जानकी-जीवन को कहाय जन,

मरिबे को बारानसी, बारि सुरसरि को।

तुलसी के दुहूँ हाथ मोदक हैं ऐसे ठाउँ,

जाके जिए मुए सोच करिहैं न लरिको॥

To live: in the world, and called the servant of the one who is Jānakī's life. To die: Banaras, and the water of the great river. Tulsī has a sweet in either hand in a place like that. In a place like that a child would not worry about living or dying, and why should he.

He was ninety. He was in pain everywhere. The plague was in the lanes. And he stops in the middle of a poem of complaint to say that he has a laḍḍū in each hand: this life, with the one name to say in it, and the Ganges to die beside. Then he goes straight back to the arm, because both things were true at once and he never saw any reason to pretend otherwise.

One more thing in the last stanzas is worth noticing, and it is a small thing that goes back to the beginning of his life. When he is at his most desperate he does not address Hanumān alone. In one line near the end he calls on four lords at once, and two of the four are Śiva. Earlier in the poem he has called Hanumān the form of Vāmadev, which is Śiva as well, and the verse of the Cālīsā that promises the thing will come out right puts Gaurī's lord in as the witness, and its sixth verse calls Hanumān Śaṅkar's own son.

The sādhu who walked into Rajapur and picked him up off the road was a Śaiva ascetic, and the town Tulsīdās chose to live and die in is Śiva's town, and he never once treated the two devotions as a choice a man has to make. He said Rām's name for eighty-four years in Śiva's city, in a poem to Śiva's son, with Śiva standing as guarantor of the promise. When he was in too much pain to be careful, that is who came out of his mouth, all of them together, like a man calling for everybody in the house.

Near the end he asks the question he had been circling for forty stanzas, and he asks it with the image he had used at the beginning.

Lord of monkeys, lord of the Raghus, guileless lord, lord of the spirits: this ocean of disease, why should it not be reduced to the print of a cow's hoof?

He made the ocean a cow's hoofprint. It was the sixth stanza. Now it is the thing he wants done to his illness, in the same words, and the poem has been walking towards that sentence the whole time.

And then it ends, and the ending is the reason this poem is not like other people's poems of complaint. He does not get his answer. He does not report a cure. He does not say the pain stopped, or that a hand came in the night, or that he woke up well. What he says is this: there is nothing you cannot do, so explain that much to me, and if you will not, then I shall keep quiet, and take it that I sowed this myself and am reaping it.

That is the last line of the Hanumān Bāhuk. He asked, he was not answered, and he said he would be quiet. Forty-four stanzas, and it stops there, and nobody afterwards went back and added a happy ending to it, which they easily could have done. It was let stand as it was, at the back of another book, with the question still open.

There is a couplet people in that part of the country say, and it is not in any of his books, and it goes: wherever anybody is telling Rām's story, there is the son of the wind, with his hands folded and held to his head, listening, and the water running out of his eyes.

That is the whole of the belief in one sentence and it is worth having it in that form, because of what it does to a gathering. Take it seriously for a moment. If it is true, then nobody who ever reads the story aloud is reading it to the people they can see. And since the way he comes, by the account that had reached Tulsīdās, is in poor and dirty clothes, first to come and last to go, then at any recitation in any lane in Banaras the poorest man sitting at the back might be him, and there is no way of telling, and the only safe course is to treat all of them as though they were.

Tulsīdās spent something like fifty years reciting to gatherings of that kind. What that belief does to a reciter is not recorded anywhere and does not need to be. It is enough to know that he held it, and to notice which end of the mat he was watching.

A recitation in that city, then and now, is a plain business. The book is carried out wrapped in a cloth and set on a low wooden stand, and the cloth is folded back, and the stand is where the reader can see it in the last of the light. There is a lamp. Somebody has swept. People come as they finish work and sit where there is room, on the stones or on a mat if there is one, the men roughly on one side and the women roughly on the other and the arrangement collapsing as the numbers grow. Children are asleep across their mothers by the middle of it. Somebody arrives late and is made room for without a word. A dog comes in and is let alone.

The reader says a caupāī and stops, and says it again, and then says what it means, and the saying of what it means takes ten times as long as the verse and goes off into other stories and comes back. At the close of a passage the gathering says the couplet with him, because they know it, and the ones who cannot read know it best of all, having heard it since they were carried to it asleep. Then the lamp goes round, and people touch the flame and touch their faces, and there is something sweet given out, and it is over, and they go home in the dark talking about it.

That is the machinery by which the story of Rām got into the heads of a hundred million people who never owned a book. It has no moving parts. A man, a stand, a cloth, a lamp, and whoever came. He did it for fifty years, and what the tradition says is that somebody came every time.

Of what Hanumān did for him in particular, across all those years, he wrote almost nothing. He was not a man who collected his own wonders. There is one place where he says plainly that something had happened to him, and it is in the arm poem, and it is about an illness that had come earlier:

घेरि लियो रोगनि, कुजोगनि, कुलोगनि ज्यौं

बासर जलद घन-घटा धुकि धाई है।

बरसत बारि पीर जानिए जवासे जस,

रोष बिनु दोष, धूम-मूल, मलिनाई है॥

करुनानिधान हनुमान महा बलवान,

हेरि हँसि हाँकि फूँकि फौजैं ते उड़ाई है।

खायो हुतो तुलसी कुरोग राढ़ राकसनि,

केसरी किसोर राखे बीर बरियाई है॥

Diseases and bad conjunctions and bad people have closed round me the way a bank of black cloud comes racing up in the middle of the day. It is raining pain, and I stand in it like the jawāsā bush, which is the one plant that withers when it rains. There was no fault in me and no cause for this anger. Smoke at the root of it, and nothing but grime. Hanumān, storehouse of pity, mighty in strength: look at them, laugh at them, shout, and blow their armies away with one breath. A pitiless disease-demon had eaten Tulsī, and Kesarī's boy, the hero, took him back out of it by main force.

Bariyāī, in the last line: by force, high-handedly, the way a strong man takes something off somebody who has no business having it. That is his testimony, and it is the only one of its kind he left. He does not say when. He does not say what the illness was. He says he had been eaten and was taken back out.

Everything else that is told of those years is told about the place rather than about him, and it is told in the present tense, because it has not stopped.

The sick are still brought to Sankaṭ Mocan. A man who cannot walk comes in on somebody's shoulder and is put down on the wet stone in front of the image, and the family sits round him, and somebody who can read reads the eight stanzas aloud, and when the eight are done they start again. People who are out of their minds are brought there and held while it is read over them. This is what that compound has been for since he walled it, and it is why the eight stanzas are eight and not eighty. A thing that takes three minutes can be read forty times in an afternoon by a family taking turns.

On Tuesdays it is a crowd. In Sāvan it is a crowd. When a man has an examination or a court date or a journey he does not want to make, he comes on the Tuesday before it with sweets. When the thing turns out well he comes back with more sweets, and the monkeys in the trees do very well out of the arrangements of the city.

And what is said over all of it, by people standing in the queue with their shoes in their hands, is the forty verses. They say them walking up the road. They say them while they wait. They say them at home in the morning in front of a picture pasted on a wall, and in buses, and in hospital corridors now, and out loud in rooms where somebody has been up all night. They are said by people who have never heard of the Rāmcaritmānas and would not be able to read a line of it.

One word runs through the whole of it and it is the word he built the place on. It is in the Cālīsā twice: Hanumān gets a man out of the tight place if he will turn mind and act and word towards him, and the tight place is cut through and every pain is done away with for whoever calls the strong Hanumat to mind. It is the last word of the six lines that open the arm poem, where every savage trouble goes out. It is the refrain of all eight stanzas of the other poem, eight times over, and it is the name on the gate. Saṅkaṭ. The narrow place. The thing that has closed round you.

He was born under a star that was supposed to have destroyed his father. He was given away at a few days old. The woman who raised him died of snakebite when he was five. He begged at doors until he was seven. He married, and his wife told him the truth, and he left. He was told by the learned men of the greatest city of learning in the country that what he was doing was a vulgarity. And at the end of it he could not lift his arm and his mouth hurt too much to eat.

He knew what the narrow place was. He put up a sign.

There is one more thing in all this and it is the reason the whole day holds together, and it is best put by setting two ordinary facts beside each other and leaving them there.

The first is about Hanumān.

He is not the lord. That is the entire point of him. In the story he does not rule anything, does not own anything, is not worshipped by anybody inside the story, and never once acts on his own account. He is the one who is sent. He crosses the water because somebody has to and nobody else can. He searches the city street by street because the information is needed. He carries the mountain because the herb is needed and he cannot tell which one it is. He goes down under the ground because two men are down there who cannot get themselves out. He stands at a door and lets people in when they have leave. Every one of those is an errand, and an errand is a thing done for somebody else's purpose, and there is no other figure in that literature who is so completely made out of them.

There is one verse in the Cālīsā about what he got for it. Rām praised him greatly, it says, and told him: you are as dear to me as my own brother Bharat. Bharat is the one who ruled Ayodhyā for fourteen years for a man who was not there, and slept on the ground for all of it, and handed the kingdom back the day he came. So the highest thing said to the servant in the whole poem is that he is the equal of the other servant. There is no promotion anywhere in it. What is offered instead is kinship, which is better, and which he is given for the work and not for who his father was.

The Cālīsā, which is a poem in his praise, opens by saying it is going to praise Rām, and closes by asking him to come and live in the poet's heart and to bring Rām and Lakhan and Sītā with him. He is not asked to come alone. He would not be any use alone, and he would not come. In the middle of it there is a verse that asks him to go on being what he is: the medicine that is Rām is in your keeping, and may you remain Raghupati's servant for ever. That is a request made of a god: please go on being a servant.

There is one more thing about him and it would have mattered enormously to the people in that queue, although nobody puts it into words because nobody has to. He is not in the family. He is not a prince, he is not a brahmin, he is not human. He is a monkey, and in the story he is called a monkey by everybody including his friends, and the demons in Laṅkā use it as an insult and he lets them. Whatever he has, he has because of what he did and because of whom he attached himself to, and not one particle of it came to him by birth.

Now think about the man on the wet stone at Sankaṭ Mocan with his brother's weight across his shoulder, and the weaver, and the woman who cannot read, and the ones who had been told all their lives, in a hundred small ways, what they were not entitled to. Of all the gods available in that city, the one this poet put into their hands was the one who had no entitlement either.

The second fact is about the man.

He had been given a name by a stranger on a road when he was seven years old, and the name meant the servant of the tulsī, which is the plant in the courtyard that has to be watered every day or it dies. He used it for eighty-four years. He put it in the last line of nearly everything he wrote, which is what poets in that line of work did, and what he put beside it was never a title. Tulsīdās is Hari's servant always. Your servant Tulsī, says the arm poem, and you said to me, you are mine. A poor man's boy who was fed on your scraps. The child is in distress.

He spent his life carrying something to people who had not been given it. He took the story of Rām, which was in a language that three men in a thousand could read, and he put it into the speech of the country districts, and he was told by people with every right to tell him so that this was not a thing that should be done. He did it anyway, and then he did it again in four minutes so that a woman who could not read at all could carry the whole of it in her mouth for the rest of her life without owning a book.

That is an errand. It is the same errand: go across, find the ones who cannot be reached, and get the thing to them, and do it in such a way that they are not frightened, and do not ask for anything at the end of it.

He never wrote a word to say he had noticed. He chose the servant, out of all of them, and he asked the servant for his arm, and he did not get an answer that anybody wrote down, and he said he would be quiet about it.

The boy said Pāṇini's sūtras on top of a mound at Ayodhyā for ten months when he was seven, a few weeks off the road. The old man in Banaras asked for a tail to be laid across his arm when he was ninety. In between he wrote the greatest book in the language and two poems that have outrun it in every lane of the country, and in all of that time and all of that work he never once changed his tone of voice, and he never once asked to be anything but the person carrying the message.

Tomorrow: the works of the long middle years, the emperor who wanted a miracle to order, the brahmins in conclave over a murderer, the widow on the road to the pyre, and the thieves who came at night and found somebody standing guard.

At the end of his life he was living at the southern edge of Banaras, in a lane behind the ghat that is named after the little Asī river. That bank is where the last day of this reading will stand, and it can wait until then. What matters about the house today is what was going on inside it, which was that an old man with a seized arm was still making books.

He was a man of eighty and more. The exact figure is not the point, and he did not keep count in his books, but the arithmetic of his own life is not difficult: he was born in the bright half of Śrāvaṇa in the Saṃvat year 1589, and he began the Rāmcaritmānas at Ayodhyā in the Saṃvat year 1631, and the Rāmcaritmānas was long finished, and the men who had laughed at it in the lanes were mostly dead, and their sons brought their sons to hear it.

What his day looked like can be put together from the things he wrote in it. He got up before light. He went down to the water. He came back and sat, and people came, and some of them wanted something and some of them only wanted to look at him, and he was too old to be difficult about which was which. In the afternoon he wrote, or dictated, or did not write. In the evening there was the recitation, because there was always the recitation, and the crowd for it was no longer an argument but a fixture, the way the bell at Viśvanāth's temple is a fixture.

There was one thing wrong with his body and it had got worse. His right arm had seized. The pain in it went from the shoulder down into the hand, and the hand would not close on what he put in it, and there had been a stretch when the arm was of no use to him at all. He wrote about that too, and what he wrote about it belongs to yesterday and not to today. What belongs to today is the plain fact of it, which is that the last of his books were made by a man in his late eighties who could not reliably hold a pen, in a small house in a lane above a minor ghat, and that this is where the best of them came from.

A man in that condition has to decide what worship is going to consist of. He had built a temple and installed an image and kept a rule for fifty years, and now the body that used to do all that had one arm out of action and no great stock of mornings left. So he worked out an ārtī that could be done lying down.

अचर-चर-रूप हरि सर्बगत सर्बदा बसत, इति बासना धूप दीजै ।

दीप निज-बोध, गत क्रोध मद मोह तम, प्रौढ़ अभिमान-चितबृति छीजै ॥

Hari's form is everything that moves and everything that does not; he is everywhere

and he lives there always: give that thought for your incense.

Your own knowing is the lamp; anger and pride and delusion, that darkness, are gone;

and the grown habit of thinking of yourself wears thin.

It goes on like that, and it is one of the most practical things he ever composed. Ten wicks, and the ghee they are full of is the good and the bad you have actually done. Letting go is the flame put to them. Bhakti and detachment and vijñān are the row of lamps waved in front of him. Then one of the verses makes the heart a swept house with a couch in it, and the couch is peace, and Rām lies down on it and rests.

बिमल-हृदि-भवन कृत सांति पर्यक सुभ-सयन विश्राम श्रीरामराया ।

क्षमा करुणा प्रमुख तत्र परिचारिका, यत्र हरि तत्र नहिं भेद-माया ॥

A clean heart for his house, peace made into a couch, a good bed for Śrī Rām the king

to rest on.

Pardon and karuṇā and the rest are the waiting women there; and where Hari is, there

is no māyā to divide anything.

He had spent his working life making Rām's story available to people who owned nothing. At the end he made the worship available to a man who could not lift his arm. It is the same operation, done once more, on himself.

Everything in this day happens in that house or within walking distance of it, except the one journey he was compelled to make. The city outside was about to have the worst year in living memory. The books he wrote in these years are not calm books. Two of them are the nakedest things he ever wrote.

The people who came up that lane did not all come for the same thing. Some of them wanted the Mānas read. Some wanted a verse said over a child who would not eat. And some came from a house that had a ceremony in it the following week and wanted words for it, because that is what a poet was for in that country, and he gave them what they asked for and did not appear to think it beneath him.

There is a poem of his which is twenty lines long and is about a barber's wife cutting a child's toenails.

The custom is called nahachū and it runs across the north, from Delhi across to Bihar, and it is done before the ear-piercing, and before the thread, and before a bridegroom sets out. The boy is made to sit at the chauk, the square marked out on the floor in coloured flour. The nāin, the barber's wife, comes with her little knife and reddens his feet with mahāvar and touches the knife to his nails, and she is paid for it, and the women stand round and sing. The metre they sing in is sohar, which is the metre used at a birth and at a wedding and at anything that has gone right, and every line of it ends with the same open syllable, ho, so that a room full of women who do not all know the words can still come in on the end of the line.

He wrote them a sohar for it, and the child at the chauk in it is Rām.

आदि सारदा गनपति गौरि मनाइय हो ।

रामलला कर नहछू गाइ सुनाइय हो ॥

First get Sāradā on your side, and Gaṇapati, and Gaurī, ho.

Then sing the nail-cutting of little Rām, and let it be heard, ho.

Then Dasarath's house, and the drums going in it, and the gods looking down and not able to keep still, and the city looking so well that it cannot be described, and Kausalyā's gladness not fitting inside her. A canopy of green bamboo hung with pearl fringes on all four sides. A pot of Gaṅgā water fetched at once. The young women singing while the child is bathed. The square filled in with big pearls and diamonds. A seat of gold pillars with a throne in the middle and a ruby lamp lit and set beside it. The women arriving dressed for it, and the barber's wife coming in with her hand out, laughing, and the milkmaid with her pot, bringing an omen with her.

It is a village wedding song with the furniture of a palace in it, and the joke of the pearl fringes is that everybody singing it has hung mango leaves. There is nothing in it about doctrine. It is a thing to be sung in a room by people whose own son is sitting on the floor having his nails done, and while they sing it, it is not their son on the floor, or not only.

That is the whole method of his later life in twenty lines. He did not write devotional literature for devout people. He wrote the words for things people were going to do anyway.

The other small one from that side of his working life is a thing of about sixty verses called the Vairāgya Sandīpinī, which means the lamp that is lit for letting go. It is in dohā and caupāī, in three parts, and the parts are the way a sant actually behaves, then what a sant is worth, then peace. It is the only book of his that is straightforwardly about the life he was living, and its first finding about holy men is not what a reader expects.

सरल बरन भाषा सरल, सरल अर्थमय मानि ।

तुलसी सरलै संतजन, ताहि परी, पहिचानि ॥

Plain letters, plain language, and take the meaning to be plain as well.

The sants are plain people, Tulsī, and that is how you know one when you see

him.

A man who had been told for forty years that he wrote in the wrong language has put the whole quarrel into two lines of a book about detachment, and he has done it without mentioning the quarrel. Plain letters. Plain language. Plain sense. And then, as though it followed, which in his mind it did: holy people are plain, and plainness is the test.

He says elsewhere in the same book that the body is a field and mind and word and deed are the farmer, and that there are two seeds and they are sin and merit, and that whoever sows reaps at the end of it. And that the body is a griddle and it is always hot with the three fevers, and it cools only when it reaches the place where peace is. Nobody needed a commentary for that. Everybody in that lane had seen a field and a griddle.

Not everything of his was made to order in a room. Some of it was made walking, and some of it was made sitting on a bank looking at nothing, and the pieces of that kind are the shortest things he wrote.

There is a metre called barvai and it is the smallest room a poet in that language can be asked to work in. Two short lines. The second is shorter than the first. There is no space in it for an argument, or for a comparison carried through, or for the kind of sentence he builds in the Mānas, where a thing is stated and then turned over and then set down. A barvai has room for one look at one thing.

Sixty-nine of them survive under his name, arranged across the seven books of the story in the order the Mānas goes, which is almost certainly not the order he made them in. They do not read like a book. They read like a man noticing things over a long time and saying each one once. A pearl in Sītā's hair that goes green against her and comes back to being a pearl in her hand. Her face, and the question of how you are supposed to say that a face is like the autumn lotus when the lotus shuts at night and this does not. A toy bow made of reed, and a boy asking shyly for it, and a king laughing and handing it over. A hair ornament. A bow lying in its case. A veil, and what is behind it.

The best of them is not about Rām at all. It is about the boatman at the Gaṅgā, who will not let Rām into the boat until he has been allowed to wash his feet, because he is afraid the dust on them will turn his boat into a person and he will lose his living.

सजल कठौता कर गहि कहत निषाद ।

चढ़हु नाव पग धोइ करहु जनि बाद ॥

Holding the wooden bowl of water in his hands, the Niṣād says:

get into the boat when I have washed your feet, and do not argue with me

about it.

That is a whole scene, with two people in it and a piece of wooden kitchen equipment, and one of them is the lord of the three worlds and the other one is telling him to stop arguing. It is two lines long.

He could do that at any length. He had done it at twelve thousand lines. The barvais are the proof that he could also do it at the other end of the scale, and that when he had two lines he did not use them to be solemn in.

There were weddings in that city every winter, and a wedding wants singing, and the singing at one is done by the women of the two houses.

Twice he wrote a whole wedding out, and both times in sohar, which is their metre and the metre of the nail-cutting.

One of them is the marriage of Śiva and Pārvatī. The other is the marriage of Sītā and Rām. They are companion books. The lines run the same way, the language is the same eastern speech, and neither of them is long. He begins the first one by getting the necessary people onto his side, which in his case means his teacher, then the company of the good, then the mountain, then Gaṇapati, and then he puts Sītā and Rām into his heart with the bow and the quiver already on them, which is how he always saw them.

गावऊँ, गौरि-गिरिस-विवाह सुहावन ।

पापनसावन, पावन, मुनि-मन-भावन ॥

I shall sing the fine wedding of Gaurī and the lord of the mountains,

which washes off sin, and is clean, and is what the sages like to think about.

Then, two lines later, he says something he was under no obligation to say. He says he does not know the way poetry is done and is not called a poet. He says his speech has been spoiled by other people's slander and disputing, and that he is going to get it clean again by singing about Śiva and Bhavānī.

Read that twice. The Rāmcaritmānas was behind him and was already being recited in villages he had never visited. And he sits down to write a wedding song and notes, in passing, on his way into it, that quarrelling has left a stain on his language and this is how he means to wash it out.

Then he does something that almost nobody does inside a devotional poem. He writes the date in.

He gives the year by its name, and the month, Phālgun, and the half, the bright one, and the day, the fifth, and the weekday, which was a Thursday, and the star it fell under, which was Aśvinī. That is not how a song is dated. That is how a man dates a deed of sale or a letter. He had spent his life in a city of scholars who dated their manuscripts, and he put the date on his own work in their manner, and the work was a wedding song in the women's metre about the daughter of a mountain.

The other one, the Jānakī Maṅgal, tells Sītā's marriage, and the interesting thing about it is where it does not agree with his own big book.

In the Rāmcaritmānas, before anything else happens, Rām and Sītā see each other in the flower garden, and everything afterwards has that behind it. In the Jānakī Maṅgal there is no garden. The story starts at the bow, and it is the contest and the marriage and nothing before them. In the Mānas, Lakhan loses his temper with the assembled kings and then Rām breaks the bow when his teacher tells him to. In the Jānakī Maṅgal, Lakhan's temper is there but the bow is not broken on the teacher's word: it is broken because Janak has said out loud that he doubts, and the teacher answers the doubt by saying who this is, and then Rām picks the bow up. And Paraśurām, who in the Mānas comes storming in immediately after the bow snaps, comes in this one much later, after the farewells.

A man who was merely versifying his own earlier work would not make those three changes. A man telling the same story a second time, in a different metre, for a different room, would. The Mānas is built so that the whole thing rests on one look exchanged in a garden. The Jānakī Maṅgal is built for a wedding, and at a wedding what the women want is the contest, and the moment the doubt in the hall is answered, and the bride going away from her father's house.

Both of these poems are tight. There is no slack in either of them, no line that is in it to fill the metre out. They are the work of a man who had done this for fifty years and could now put a whole marriage into a couple of hundred lines without hurrying and without leaving anything out that mattered.

People came to him with questions.

Not doctrinal questions. The other sort. Should I go, or wait until after the rains. Will the boy live. Is the marriage a good one. Will he pay me back. Should I take the land at that price. My brother has gone to Prayāg and there has been no word for four months. This is what happens to a man who is thought to be listened to. He becomes the place people bring the future to, and most of the future they bring him is small and frightened and about money or children.

The ordinary answer was an astrologer, and Banaras had no shortage of astrologers, and they wanted paying, and their Sanskrit was not for everybody.

So he made them a book to ask with.

It is called the Rāmājñā Praśna, which means asking Rām's word, and it is put together like a piece of machinery. Seven parts. Each part has seven sets. Each set has seven dohās. That is three hundred and forty-three couplets, and every one of them is a moment out of Rām's story, and every one of them is either a good sign or a bad one because of what happens in the story at that point.

The throne of Awadh standing empty with no king on it, and the country in grief, and the men and women in it unhappy: that couplet is a bad answer. Whoever draws it is being told that the thing he is asking about has a broken house at the middle of it. The entry into Awadh, with great gladness and a whole garland of good omens: that is a good answer, and he says so in the couplet itself, and adds that this is the moment to speak of the tilak on Rām's forehead, and of a good season, and of contentment. Mantharā being mean and Kaikeyī being crooked under the influence of delusion: sickness and trouble, and both of them sent by the gods. The rain gone, and the farmer at his wits' end, and the rice drying in the field: quarrels, and a bad government, and the people in distress.

And the last set of the seven tells you how to work it.

सुदिन साँझ पोथी नेवति, पूजि प्रभात सप्रेम ।

सगुन बिचारब चारुमति, सादर सत्य सनेम ॥

On a good day, in the evening, invite the book. In the morning worship it,

and do it with love.

Then consider the omen with a clear mind, respectfully, truthfully, and

keeping the rule.

Count the sages, count the day, count the element, look at the couplet and think about it. Take the country into account, and the action, and who is doing it, and what was said, and what time of year it is. Call your teacher to mind, and Gaṇapati, and Śiva, and Gaurī, and Sītā, and Rām, and Lakhan, and Hanumān. And the last couplet of the last set, after three hundred and forty-two others, says that trust is a jewel of a wonderful kind and the good omen is the lovely necklace made of it.

There are two ways to look at a man who writes a book of omens. One is that he has come down in the world. The other is the one the book itself supports, which is that people were going to consult omens whatever he thought about it, and they were going to pay somebody for the privilege, and he decided that if they were going to open a book at random and take what they found there as an answer, the thing they found ought to be Rām's story. So the farmer who wants to know about his field gets the rice drying in the field at Ayodhyā. The man whose brother has not written gets Bharat on the road to Citrakūṭ. The answer is a bad one or a good one, and either way he has been put inside the story for a moment, which was the whole object.

Many of the couplets in it turn up in his other books as well. He was not precious about them. A good dohā was a tool and he used it where it was needed.

The recitation on the ghat was not the only way his book got about the city, and the men on the step were not the only people carrying it. Women sang. They sang while they worked and they sang in company, and nothing a woman of that city sang had come out of a caupāī meant for a man reciting to a crowd.

The Gītāvalī is the Rāmcaritmānas again, and it is nothing like it.

It follows the same seven books in the same order, from the birth at Ayodhyā to the return and the coronation. It tells the same story. But it is not made of caupāī and dohā to be recited by one man on a step. It is made of padas, and every pada carries the name of the rāga or the rāginī it is to be sung in at the head of it, and it is in Braj, not Awadhi, because Braj was the language songs were sung in and he knew that as well as anybody.

So the Mānas is the book you read aloud, and this is the book you sing.

The difference that makes is not a difference of decoration. A recitation goes forward. A song stops. A recitation of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍ has to get Rām out of the city and into the forest and Bharat out to Citrakūṭ and back, and it cannot spend four hundred lines in Kausalyā's room. A song can do nothing but that.

Here is the one that shows it. Rām has gone to the forest. His mother is in the house he grew up in.

जननी निरखति बान धनुहियाँ ।

बार-बार उर नैननि लावति प्रभुजू की ललित पनहियाँ ॥

कबहूँ प्रथम ज्यों जाइ जगावति कहि प्रिय बचन सवारे ।

उठहु तात ! बलि मातु बदन पर, अनुज सखा सब द्वारे ॥

His mother stands looking at the little bow and the arrows.

Again and again she puts his small pretty shoes to her heart and to her eyes.

Sometimes she goes to wake him as she used to, early, saying the words she

used to say.

Get up, child. Your mother would be a sacrifice for that face. Your brothers

and your friends are all at the door.

She goes to wake a boy who is not in the room. That is the whole song. The bow is a toy bow, the shoes are the shoes of a child of five, and they are in the house because a house keeps that sort of thing, and she is a queen and there is nothing in her power that can help her.

And then the song turns, and the turn is the reason it is a song and not a scene in a longer poem.

कबहूँ समुझि बन-गवन राम को रहि चकि चित्र लिखी सी ।

तुलसिदास वह समय कहे ते लागति प्रीति सिखी सी ॥

And sometimes it comes to her that Rām has gone to the forest, and she stops

where she is like a figure in a painting.

Tulsīdās says: only to speak of that moment is to begin learning what love is.

He is in the last line of his own song, and he is not there to sign it. He is there because the room that is singing it needs to be told what has just happened to them. They have been crying over a queen and a pair of shoes. He tells them that the crying was the lesson.

There are songs in the Gītāvalī for the child pulling himself upright on his ankle bells, and for his two teeth, and for the way he talks and cannot say it properly; and songs for the women of the city watching from their windows; and a great deal at the end about what the country was like once he was on the throne, which is the part he was least willing to hurry. And at the very end of the whole book, after the coronation, he says he saw a good opening and asked for the gift of bhakti and was given it, which is exactly what a singer says at the end of a long performance when the patron is pleased.

There is a second book of songs, and its subject is Kṛṣṇa.

That takes people by surprise, and it should not. He is the poet of Rām and of nobody else, and he said so to anybody who raised it, and he said it politely and without giving an inch. But he lived in a country full of Kṛṣṇa's songs, in the years when Braj poetry was at its height, and he went to Vṛndāvan, and he could hear. So there is a short book of his in which Kṛṣṇa is a small boy demanding a buttered roti from his mother, and getting it, and announcing that he is going to eat the whole thing himself and not give Baladev any; and the gopīs after he has gone away, and the messenger who comes from him with philosophy and is told what they think of it; and Draupadī, and the cloth that went on coming.

He did not put Rām's name at the bottom of those. He put his own, as he always did, because the signature in the last line is not an assertion of ownership. It is the poet standing up at the end and saying who it was.

The Dohāvalī is not a book he sat down and wrote. It is a book somebody made out of him.

Five hundred and seventy-three dohās, and twenty-three of those are sorathās, which is the same couplet with the halves the other way round. Something like half of them stand somewhere else as well, in the Rāmcaritmānas, or in the Rāmājñā Praśna, or at the head of the Vairāgya Sandīpinī. They were made one at a time across forty or fifty years, and then they were gathered, either by him in his old age or by somebody who loved him and had them all written down.

A dohā is two lines and it has to be finished in them. There is no second chance in it. You cannot set a thing up in the first line and develop it in the third, because there is no third. Everything has to arrive at once, and it is the hardest thing in that language to do well, and it is the form in which the whole of northern India remembers its poets. A man who has written five hundred good ones has done something a long poem cannot do for him.

Most of them are about the name.

रामनाम को अंक है सब साधन हैं सून ।

अंक गये कछु हाथ नहिं अंक रहे दसगून ॥

Rām's name is the figure, and all the practices are the noughts.

Lose the figure and nothing at all is left in your hand; keep the figure and

they are worth ten times over.

That couplet is doing arithmetic on a slate, and everybody who heard it had seen a slate. Write ten noughts in a row and you have written nothing. Put a one in front of them and every one of those noughts is suddenly worth something, and the more of them you have the better. He is not saying the practices are worthless. He is saying exactly what he says: without the figure they come to nothing in your hand, and with it they multiply.

Say that in Sanskrit, to an assembly, with authorities cited, and you have a position in a debate. Say it in two lines of village speech with a nought in it and a market trader will still be turning it over on the road home.

The other thing the dohās do is settle scores, quietly, with what he had been told all his life. There is one about living at Kāśī by the rule. There is another that looks at the name as two letters written on a page and says that one of them has an umbrella over it and the other a jewel on its head, and that both of them sit above every other letter there is. There is one that asks a man point-blank who he is. You keep saying mine, mine, he says: who are you? Say your own name. And if you cannot, then be quiet, and having heard this and understood it, say Rām.

And there is one about the rains, which is the dohā of a man who had watched rice fields all his life.

Raghupati's bhakti is the rainy season, he says, and the good servants are the rice, and the two syllables of Rām's name are Sāvan and Bhādon, the two months it actually rains in. Nothing grows without them and everything grows because of them, and the rice does not have to do anything except be in the field when they come.

The Kavitāvalī is the book people do not expect from him.

It is in Braj. It is not in caupāī or dohā or sohar. It is in kavitt, and ghanākṣarī, and savaiyā, and chappay, which are the metres of the court poets and the professional reciters, the ones built to be declaimed at speed in a hall with the noise coming off the consonants. They have long lines with internal rhyme falling on the beat, and they are made to be performed standing up, loudly, to people who have heard a great many poems and are not easy to impress.

It tells Rām's story in the order of the seven books, like the Gītāvalī, and like the Gītāvalī it is a collection that was afterwards put in that order rather than a thing composed straight through. And it is a harder, faster, more public voice than anything in the Mānas. The battle passages in it go like cavalry. The Laṅkā verses have real violence in them, arms coming off and the ground giving way, because the metre wants violence and he gave it what it wanted.

And then, between the set pieces, he does something the Mānas never does. He talks about himself, by name, in the first person, to people who he knows have been talking about him.

जायो कुल मंगन, बधावनो बजायो सुनि

भयो परिताप पाप जननी जनक को ॥

Born into a family of beggars. And when the drum was beaten for the birth,

what came to his mother and his father was grief, and the sense of having

sinned.

Then the next line has the child whining at door after door from the time he could walk, and what he knew of the four great fruits of a human life was four grains of gram. And then the turn: and that same man is now the good servant of a master who can do anything, and the god who allots people their fortunes and does the reckoning is put out to hear it. Your name, Rām, is either very wise or out of its mind, since it makes a thing lighter than a straw weigh more than a mountain.

Nobody had to tell the audience who the family of beggars was.

And then there is the one that answers the thing that had been said about him for fifty years, and it answers it without arguing.

धूत कहौ, अवधूत कहौ, रजपूत कहौ, जोलहा कहौ कोऊ ।

काहू की बेटी सों बेटा न ब्याहब, काहू की जाति बिगार न सोऊ ॥

तुलसी सरनाम गुलाम है राम को, जाको रुचै सो कहै कछु ओऊ ।

माँगि कै खैबौ, मसीत को सोइबो, लैबे को एक न दैबे को दोऊ ॥

Call me a cheat, call me a naked ascetic, call me a Rajput, let anybody call me a

weaver.

I shall not marry a son to anybody's daughter, so I shall not spoil anybody's caste

doing it.

Tulsī is Rām's slave and known by that name; whoever likes may say something else.

I shall beg and eat, and sleep in a mosque. There is not one thing I want to take and

not two I have to give.

Look at what is happening in the first line. Those are four insults and he is handing them back over the counter one at a time. Dhūt is a rogue. Avadhūt is a man who has thrown off everything, clothes and caste marks together, and in the mouth of a respectable householder it is not a compliment. Rajpūt means you are not the brahmin you say you are. And jolahā, weaver, means Muslim, and that was the worst thing on the list and he put it last on purpose.

Then the second line takes the whole apparatus apart. Caste is not a matter of what anybody thinks of a man inwardly. It is a matter of who marries whom. He is giving nobody in marriage and taking nobody, so there is nothing of anybody's he can spoil, and the entire question is therefore not about him at all. That is not mysticism. That is a man who has thought about how the thing actually works.

And then he gives them his address. Begged food, and a mosque floor to sleep on.

It was said and it went round the city and it has not stopped going round. It is the kind of line that gets a man remembered for one line, and he wrote ten thousand others.

The Kavitāvalī does not end with Rām's story. Its last verses are not about Laṅkā or Ayodhyā or the coronation. They are about Banaras, in the year he wrote them, and they are the hardest thing he ever put down, and this chapter will get to them, because they belong to the year the plague came.

He came into the city on the pilgrim road with nothing, and he was begging, and the way he begged was to say what he had done.

He was a brahmin. He had killed a man. He had gone on pilgrimage afterwards, because that is what was available to a man in his position, and he had walked to the places a man walks to, and now he was in Banaras, and he stood in the lanes and called out. What he called out was Rām's name and then a request for alms for a murderer.

Think about what that costs. He could have begged without saying it. Nobody in that city knew him. He could have held out his hand at the ghat with the others and eaten every day of his life. Instead he went down the lanes announcing it, which meant that every door he came to was shut before he finished the sentence, and that is what he wanted, because a man who believes he is damned will go looking for the proof of it.

Nobody fed him. There is no reason to think anybody was cruel to him. They had a rule about a man like that and the rule was clear and they kept it.

Tulsīdās heard him go past.

What he heard was not the confession. It was the name at the front of the sentence. The man was saying Rām, in the street, with his whole chest, because he had nothing else to say it with.

He went out and brought him in.

Then he did the thing the city could not forgive. There was food in the house that had been offered to the god, which is prasād, and prasād is not ordinary food and is not given to anybody at all, and he put it in front of the murderer and sat with him while he ate it. And afterwards he said, out loud, in front of whoever was in the house, that the man was clean. And then he sang.

It went round Banaras in a day.

The assembly met a few days later in the courtyard of a house near the temple, and they sent for him, and he came.

It is worth being accurate about who those men were, because it is easy to make them into a stage crowd of pompous brahmins and they were not that. They were the learned men of the holiest city in the country and they were the custodians of something. They knew the texts. Several of them could have recited for a day without a book. They had spent their lives on the maintenance of a distinction between what may be eaten with a man and what may not, and that distinction was not snobbery to them: it was the wall that kept the world from collapsing into a heap. A man who had killed was outside it. That was not a sentence they had passed. It was a fact about him, like a broken leg.

And now the most famous religious poet in the city had taken him indoors and fed him the god's own food.

They put two questions and both of them were fair.

The first was doctrinal. By what means had the guilt gone? Not whether it could ever go, which the books allow in principle, but by what means, in this case, with no penance done and no period served and nothing performed that anybody had witnessed. Where had it gone to?

The second was practical and it was the one they actually cared about. He had eaten beside the man. The row of men sitting to eat is the row, and a man is in it or he is not, and if a man who has killed can be put in it by a poet on his own authority, then what is a row.

He gave them an answer that did not help.

He told them to read the book again. He said the books were in their hands and the thing was written in them and they had been reading them for forty years and had not got it into their hearts. He used a word that means unripe. Your doctrine is raw, he said, and a raw thing does not drive out the dark.

There was a silence of a particular kind after that, the kind that happens in a room of men who have been insulted accurately.

Then one of them, an old man who had been helped down onto the mat and who had said nothing so far, said: let us look.

So they looked. They sent for the books and they read out what is in them about the name, and what is in them is what he had said. One of them found the line about the two syllables and read it out, and another one found the passage about those given over to the worst of the sins and read that out, and there it stood, and nobody in the courtyard pretended otherwise. That is the thing about that assembly that gets left out of the telling. They looked it up and they said what they found.

And then, having conceded the point, they came back with the objection that mattered.

Very well, they said. The greatness of the name is as you say, and it is written here, and we have read it. Now tell us this. A man has taken a life. Do you mean to sit there and say he is saved by two syllables?

That is not a stupid question. It is the whole question. Everything he had spent fifty years writing turns on the answer to it being yes.

He said: what would satisfy you?

Now they conferred, and what they came up with has a kind of grim wit in it, because they did not choose a test he could arrange. They did not ask him to recite anything or to swear anything. They said: at the temple there is Viśvanāth's bull. It is stone. Let it eat out of the murderer's hand. Then we will take him into the row.

He agreed.

They went down to the temple, all of them, and half the lane went with them, because word of this sort travels. The bull is where the bull has always been, in front of the shrine, facing in, the stone worn smooth at the shoulder by generations of hands. A plate of prasād was filled and put into the murderer's hands. Not into Tulsīdās's hands. Into his.

And Tulsīdās said one thing before it happened, and it is the only thing he is remembered as saying that afternoon. He said: the power of the name is what you know it to be, and I cannot tell it.

That is worth stopping on. He does not argue. He does not pray aloud for a sign, and he does not tell the bull to eat. He turns to the men who set the test and says that they already know, and that whatever it is they know, he has no words that will add anything to it.

The bull ate the whole plate.

Then there was a noise in that courtyard that went up and out over the roofs, the noise a crowd makes when something has been settled in front of it, and what they were shouting was victory to the name.

The murderer sat in the row and ate with the brahmins of Banaras.

There is no record of what became of him afterwards, which is the way of these things: the story keeps the man who was saved for exactly as long as he is useful to it and then lets him walk off down the road. What the story keeps instead is the plate going into his hands rather than into the poet's, and the stone bull with its head down eating out of them, and the old man on the mat who said let us look.

A brahmin of the city died, and his people carried him down to the river to burn him, and his wife went with them, because she had decided to go into the fire.

That happened. It happened often enough that there was a way of doing it, and the way of doing it was that she went dressed as a bride. Her wedding clothes, if she still had them. Red. The ornaments out of the box. Her hair done by the women of the household while the men waited outside with the bier. Somebody would have put vermilion in the parting of her hair, which is the thing a widow is not supposed to have, and she was wearing it because for the length of that walk she was not a widow yet.

So the procession that came down the lane had the body in front of it and a bride behind it, and the whole street came out to see, and the women leaned out and called blessings on her, and she walked.

Tulsīdās was on the road. He was an old man by then and there is no reason to think he was going anywhere in particular.

She saw him at a distance and she stopped and made her obeisance.

Consider what that is. She had very little of her life left and she knew exactly how much of it. She had made her arrangements and said her goodbyes and taken her decision, and she was walking to the place, and she saw a holy man standing at the side of the road at some distance from her, and she stopped the whole procession to bow to him. Nobody made her. It was not on the way to anything. She did it because she had been brought up to do it and because she was frightened, and people who are frightened take hold of what they were brought up with.

And he blessed her the way you bless a married woman.

He called her suhāgavatī, which means a woman whose husband is alive, and he said what is said, which is a wish that she should keep her husband a long time. He was old, she was in red with vermilion in her hair, and he said the words that go with red and vermilion. There is no indication anywhere that he had looked at the bier or understood what he was looking at.

She had to correct him.

She said her husband was dead, and that he was in front of her on the bier, and that she was on her way to die with him.

Everybody on that road understood at once what had happened, because they all knew what a man like him was and what happens to what a man like him says. The blessing was already spoken. It was out of his mouth and into the air and standing between that household and the fire.

What he said next he said without any fuss at all. He said the word had passed his lips. He said it could not be taken back now, and that the life would be given, and that she was to worship Rām.

Then he turned to her people and put a condition on it.

He would not do it for a family that was going to go home afterwards and carry on exactly as before. If the life came back, then the life belonged to Rām, and they were to take up a religious life and keep it, all of them, and not for a season. He wanted it said in front of him.

They said it. The whole household said it, the way a crowd says a thing it has decided to say, hands up, all together, calling on Sītā and Rām.

And the dead man sat up on the bier and said Sītārām.

The end of it, and it is the part that gets left out because it is the least dramatic, is that they kept their word. The family took up the life they had promised and they did not go back on it, and the man who had been dead lived in the city as a man under a vow, and his wife with him, and the two of them went on saying the name that had been called out over the bier.

She had walked out of her house that morning in her wedding clothes to be burned. She walked back up the lane with her husband, in the same clothes, and the vermilion in her hair was hers to keep.

In the petition he wrote at the end of his life there is a pada about housebreaking.

मैं केहि कहौं बिपति अति भारी । श्रीरघुबीर धीर हितकारी ॥

मम हृदय भवन प्रभु तोरा । तहँ बसे आइ बहु चोरा ॥

अति कठिन करहिं बरजोरा । मानहिं नहिं बिनय निहोरा ॥

तम, मोह, लोभ, अहँकारा । मद, क्रोध, बोध-रिपु मारा ॥

Whom am I to tell about a trouble this heavy? Raghubīr, steady one, my

well-wisher.

My heart is your house, lord, and a great many thieves have come and taken up

residence in it.

They are very hard, and they use force, and they take no notice of entreaty or

of a favour owed.

Darkness, delusion, greed, arrogance, pride, anger, and every one of them a

killer of the understanding.

And further down the same pada, the line that only a man who has actually been robbed would think of.

मैं एक, अमित बटपारा । कोउ सुनै न मोर पुकारा ॥

कह तुलसिदास सुनु रामा । लूटहिं तसकर तव धामा ॥

चिंता यह मोहिं अपारा । अपजस नहिं होइ तुम्हारा ॥

I am one and the highwaymen are past counting, and nobody hears me when I call

out.

Tulsīdās says: listen, Rām. Thieves are looting your house.

And this is the worry I cannot get to the end of, that the bad name will be

yours.

The house he actually lived in had something in it worth taking. Not much, and not his: people who come to a man like that bring things, and the things accumulate. Brass vessels. Cloth. Coin left on the floor by men who had asked for something and got it. He gave most of it away and there was always more by the next week, and it sat there, in a small house in a lane, with an old man in it who slept badly and had one arm that did not work.

So one night men came for it.

They came the way people come for that, late, quietly, having looked at the house in daylight. And when they got to it there was somebody standing outside.

A young man, dark, the colour of a rain cloud, with a quiver tied at his waist and a bow in his hand with an arrow already on the string. Not shouting. Not calling the lane awake. Standing there.

They backed off and went round to the other side. He was on that side. They tried the third side and he was on the third side, and whenever one of them moved in he drew the bow, and every time they broke off and circled he was in front of them again. They went round that house all night and they could not get past him, and not one of them could afterwards say how it was done.

And at some point in that night, going round and round a house they could not get into, they stopped trying to get into it, because there is a limit to how long a man can look at something like that and go on thinking about brass.

At first light they came back and knocked at the front and asked to see him.

He came out. They asked him who the dark-complexioned boy was, the one who had been standing guard all night.

He did not answer them.

He stood in the doorway and he was quiet for a while, and then he began to cry, and he went on crying in front of them, and he did not say one word about it then or afterwards.

Then he went inside and brought out everything in the house and gave it away. The vessels, the cloth, the money, the lot, into the hands of the men who had come to steal it and into the hands of whoever else was in the lane by then. He kept nothing back. By that afternoon there was nothing in that house to guard.

The thieves asked him for the name and he gave it to them, and they took it, and they did not go back to what they had been doing.

The trouble with the brahmin on the bier was that people talked about it.

It went up the way these things go up. The lane told the ward and the ward told the city and somebody told the governor, and what the governor was told was not that there was a holy poet at Asī Ghāṭ. What he was told was that there was a man in Banaras who had brought a dead brahmin back to life. Then it went further up than that, to the court, and the court sent for him. The emperor was Jahāngīr.

Nobody wrote down the year, so the year is not known, and it does not matter very much. He was an old man when it happened.

The officers came with a proper summons and they were civil about it. There was no arrest and no chain. They had been told to fetch him and they asked him, at some length and with a good deal of entreaty, because a man sent to fetch a holy man to a palace is in a delicate position and knows it. And he said he would go.

The city did not want him to go. The rajas of Kāśī and the men who served them came and said it was a trap and offered to fight, in so many words: they would go out and die in the road first. That is a thing worth holding still for. The city that had laughed at his language forty years earlier was now offering to take up arms to stop an imperial officer taking him away, and he had to talk them out of it. He told them there was nothing to be afraid of.

Then he went down the Gaṅgā by boat to Prayāg, and up the Yamunā from there. A man in his eighties, going upstream, for weeks, in a boat, with an arm that hurt.

The reception at the other end was handsome. He was received with honour and given a high seat and spoken to gently, and he was asked for what the court wanted, which was a miracle.

That is the whole of the emperor's interest in him. Not the poem. Not the argument about the language. A report had come in that a man at Banaras could raise the dead, and the most powerful man in the country wanted to see it done, in front of him, the way you would want to see a new kind of gun fired.

He said no.

He did not say he was unworthy or that the time was not right. He said the thing itself was false, that this talk of miracles was nothing, and that there was one thing to be known and it was Rām. Flatly, in a hall full of people who were used to being told what they had asked for.

The emperor said: then let us see what this Rām of yours is.

And he put him in prison.

He was there some time. He does not say how long. What he did there was to take hold of Hanumān and not let go, which is what he had done once before in a wood outside Kāśī fifty years earlier, and he did it this time with two padas, and both of them are in the petition he left behind, and they are the roughest things in it.

ऐसी तोही न बूझिए हनुमान हठीले ।

साहेब कहूँ न राम से, तो से न वसीले ॥

Stubborn Hanumān, this is not what you were taken for.

There is no master anywhere like Rām and no go-between like you.

And then he goes on and it gets worse. He says a frog has swallowed the lion's cub and it happened under Hanumān's own eyes. He says he knows what the trouble is: the Kali age has put a nail through Hanumān's mind as well, and through his virtues with it. He says the sound of that shout once loosened the bonds on the ten-necked one, and asks whether the strength has gone or whether it is pride now. He says his servant's curtain is tearing, and that Hanumān is able, and that he should sew it up. He tells him his own good name counts for more than he does. And the last line says: listen to Tulsīdās's trouble, and the fair name in it is yours to take.

In the second one he stops being angry and starts being precise.

तेरी महिमा ते चलै चिंचिनी-चिया, रे ।

अँधियारो मेरी बार क्यों? त्रिभुवन-उजियारे ॥

By your greatness a tamarind pip gets up and walks.

Light of the three worlds, why is it dark when my turn comes?

That is the sentence of a man in a cell. Not what have I done to deserve this. Why is it dark when my turn comes. He had been on the other side of that for fifty years, writing about a Rām who comes when he is called, and now he had called, and he was on a stone floor, and he had the honesty to put the question in that form and the nerve to put it in writing.

Then the monkeys came.

They came in numbers nobody could count, into the palace and out into the city, over the walls and along the roofs and down into the courtyards. They went for people. They tore at bodies with their nails and their teeth and they tore the clothes off whoever they got hold of, including the women of the emperor's household, and nothing could be kept out of their way and there was nowhere to stand. They got into the fort and began breaking it, stone from stone, the way a fort was broken at Laṅkā once, and they threw the stones. There was no shelter anywhere in the place, and the people in it decided that this was the hour the world ends in.

It went on until the emperor came down himself.

He came to the prison and he took hold of the old man's feet and said that their lives were his to give and he had given them. And Tulsīdās reminded him that he had asked for a miracle, and said he was welcome to as much of it as he wanted. That is the only sharp thing he is recorded as saying to him, and he said it once.

Then he stopped it. He had everyone in the place raise their hands and call on Rām, and they did, the emperor and his household and his officers and whoever else was standing in that courtyard with their clothes in strips, all of them with their hands up calling a name, and the monkeys went.

And then he apologised to Hanumān, in writing, for the way he had spoken to him.

अति आरत, अति स्वारथी, अति दीन दुखारी ।

इनको बिलगु न मानिए, बोलहिं न बिचारी ॥

लोक-रीति देखी सुनी, व्याकुल नर नारी ।

अति बरषे अनबरषे हूँ देहिं दैवहिं गारी ॥

नाकहि आये नाथ सों, साँसति भय भारी ।

कहि आयो, कीबी छमा निज ओर निहारी ॥

Very troubled, very self-seeking, very poor and hurting:

do not take offence at such people. They speak without thinking.

I have seen and heard the way of the world: men and women beside themselves.

Too much rain, or no rain at all, and either way they abuse God for it.

It has come up to my nose, lord: the torment, the heavy fear.

I have come out with it. Pardon it. Look to your own side of the matter.

That is one of the few places in the whole of his work where you can watch him think about his own behaviour. He does not withdraw the two padas. He left them in the book, in order, so that anybody reading it comes to the abuse first and the apology afterwards, exactly as it happened. What he does instead is explain himself, and the explanation is a piece of ordinary human observation: this is what people are like when they are frightened, they shout at whoever sends the rain, do not hold it against them. And then the last line, which is not an apology at all: look to your own side of the matter.

The emperor asked him what he wanted. Land, money, a title; whatever a court has to give.

He said the place had become Rām's. He said a guard had been set on it and it would not be lifted, and that the emperor should leave it.

So the emperor left it. He went out of that fort and built himself another one, and the old place was not lived in afterwards. It was said for a long time after that nobody could stay in it, and that whoever tried did not do well there.

Then the old man got back into a boat and went home down the river to his lane.

In 1623 the plague came to Banaras.

He was in his ninety-first year. That is the number to keep in view while reading what follows, because everything in it was written by a man of that age with a right arm he could not use, in a city that was burying more people than it could burn.

A plague in a city like that is not an event. It is a change in the sound. The lanes go quiet in the daytime and loud at night. The shops stay shut, and then some of them open again because people have to eat, and then they shut for good. There is a queue at the burning ghats and it does not go down, and the wood costs what the man selling it says it costs. People who have somewhere else to go, go. People who have nowhere stay and count their household every morning. And in that particular city there is one more thing, which is that Kāśī is the place people come to when they want to die well, so the roads in are not empty either.

He watched it, and what he did about it was write, and what he wrote is at the end of the Kavitāvalī, where the story of Rām stops and the city begins.

He starts with the landlord. Banaras is Śiva's city, held by him, and the first of those verses goes straight at him and calls him by the names people use when they want something.

गौरीनाथ भोलानाथ भवत भवानीनाथ ।

बिस्वनाथ-पुर फिरी आन कलिकाल की ॥

संकर से नर, गिरिजा सी नारी कासीबासी,

बेद कही, सही ससिसेखर कृपाल की ॥

समुख गनेस तें महेस के पियारे लोग,

बिकल बिलोकियत, नगरी बिहाल की ॥

पुरी-सुरबेलि केलि काटत किरात कलि,

निठुर निहारिए उघारि डीठि भाल की ॥

Gaurī's lord. Bholānāth. You, Bhavānī's lord.

In Viśvanāth's own city the Kali age has gone round and given its orders.

The Veda said that the men of Kāśī are like Śaṅkar and the women of it are

like Girijā,

and the merciful one with the moon in his hair made that good.

From Gaṇeś at the head of them, the people who are dear to Maheś

are to be seen in distress, and the city in ruins.

This city is the creeper that grants wishes and the Kali age is a hunter

cutting it down for sport.

Hard-hearted one, open the eye in your forehead and look at it.

There is no piety in that. He is telling Śiva that his tenants are dying and asking him, with the word for hard-hearted, to open the third eye and look.

Then he sets it out as it stood.

संकर-सहर सर, नरनारि बारिचर,

बिकल सकल महामारी माँजा भई है ॥

उछरत उतरात हहरात मरि जात,

भभरि भगत, जल-थल मीचु मई है ॥

देव न दयालु, महिपाल न कृपालुचित,

बारानसी बाढ़ति अनीति नित नई है ।

पाहि रघुराज, पाहि कपिराज रामदूत,

राम हू की बिगरी तुहीं सुधारि लई है ॥

Śaṅkar's city is the tank and its men and women the creatures in the water,

and every one of them is in distress: the plague has come on it like the poisoned

film.

They leap, they float belly up, they shudder, they die;

they scatter and run, and on the water and on the land there is nothing but death.

The gods are not merciful and the lord of the land has no pity in his mind,

and at Banaras the wrongdoing grows, and every day the wrongdoing is new.

Save us, king of Raghu's line. Save us, king of the monkeys, Rām's own envoy.

It was you who set right what had gone wrong even for Rām.

The word he uses for what the plague has done is the word for what comes up on the surface of a tank when the first rain of Āṣāḍh falls on water that has stood all through the hot weather. The water turns, and a scum forms, and the fish come up and thrash and die in it. Anybody who had walked past a village pond at the turn of the season had seen it. He puts the city in the tank and the people in the water, and then he says the two things nobody in a court poem says: the gods are not being merciful, and the man who governs has no kindness in his mind.

He goes on for a dozen verses. He asks the Mother for something to hold on to, and tells her that her anger is the plague itself and that when she is pleased she is a mother, and to look at the world in its pain. He tells her that the brahmins of the city are begging and the crowd is frightened and the people of Kāśī are her servants. He says it may be the sins of the people, or a curse from some god or other, or nothing but the working of time, and that whichever it is, the city is scorched with all three fevers. He says the gods were begged and joined hands with the plague instead, and that they have taken Bholānāth for a simpleton and had their own way. He says that the castes and the orders of life have gone to pieces and that people have thrown their maryādā away like a bundle at the side of the road. He says men and women are crying out and nobody hears them.

And when he has said all of that he turns, and he addresses the one he had spent his life addressing, and he stops asking about the city and says what he has left.

रामनाम मातु-पितु, स्वामि समरथ हित,

आस रामनाम की, भरोसो रामनाम को ।

प्रेम रामनाम ही सों, नेम रामनाम ही को,

जानौं न मरम पद दाहिनो न बाम को ॥

स्वारथ सकल परमारथ को रामनाम,

रामनाम-हीन तुलसी न काहू काम को ।

राम की सपथ सरबस मेरे रामनाम,

कामधेनु कामतरु मो से छीन छाम को ॥

Rām's name is mother and father, master, the one who can do it, the one who

means me well.

The hope is Rām's name. The trust is Rām's name.

The love is for Rām's name and the rule I keep is Rām's name's,

and I do not know the first thing about the right-hand road or the left.

Rām's name is the whole of my own good and the whole of the highest good.

Take Rām's name away and Tulsī is of no use to anybody.

I swear by Rām, everything I have is Rām's name:

to a man worn as thin as I am it is the cow that gives whatever is asked and

the tree that grants it.

There is a dohā of his from the same years that belongs beside that, and it is about the city he was in and what the city was for.

कासी बिधि बसि तनु तजै हठि तनु तजै प्रयाग ।

तुलसी जो फल सो सुलभ राम-नाम अनुराग ॥

To live at Kāśī by the rule and lay the body down there, or to lay it down at

Prayāg by force of will:

whatever fruit those bring, Tulsī, comes easily to anyone who loves Rām's

name.

He is in Kāśī, dying is going on all round him, and the whole economy of the place rests on the belief that to die inside its boundary is the best thing that can happen to a person. And he says, in two lines, that whatever that gets you is available to anybody anywhere who loves the name. He was not attacking the city. He was ninety and he had watched a great many people arrive there in carts to die, and he wanted it understood that nobody has to get to Kāśī.

The last verses of all turn. Not because the argument is resolved but because something happened outside. In one of them the thorns that had grown up in Kāśī have had their fill of their own doing and gone, and today or tomorrow or the day after, the fools will go too, the way snakes go after they have licked at the Dīwālī lamps. In the next one there is a bird.

It is the kṣemakarī, the kite with the reddish-yellow body and the pale beak, and to see one when you are setting out is a good sign, and he had evidently seen one. He spends four lines on how she looks. The colour of kumkum all over. A face contending with the moon. Her call spilling good fortune, and grief going out of whoever she looks at. And he says she is Gaurī's Gaṅgā gone about in the shape of a bird, and that seen at the hour of setting out she is the loosener of every worry, the kṣemakarī, the one who makes it well.

That is the end of the Kavitāvalī. A plague, an argument with Śiva, a swearing by the name, and a kite going over.

After it in the book stands the poem he had made when his arm stopped working, which was written in the same stretch of months and which is the business of yesterday, not today.

He came through the plague. It killed a very large number of people in that city in that year and he was not one of them, and when it had gone he was still there, in the lane, with the arm and the ninety-one years.

The last book he wrote is called the Vinaya Patrikā, and the title is not poetic. A patrikā is a document. It is the piece of paper a man writes when he wants something from a court and cannot get in.

Anybody who had ever tried to get a matter heard knew how it worked, and he had just been to a court himself and seen it from the inside. A man with a grievance and no standing did not present himself. He wrote it out. Then you find somebody who has the right of entry and you get him to carry it in, and he hands it to somebody nearer the front, and if the thing is well drawn and the men in the chain are willing, it reaches the top, and what you are hoping for at the end of it is a mark on the paper in the ruler's own hand.

He wrote his that way, and he put the whole chain into it.

Two hundred and seventy-nine padas, in Braj, made near the end. It does not begin with Rām. It cannot begin with Rām, because that is not how a petition is delivered. It begins at the door.

गाइये गनपति जगबंदन । संकर-सुवन भवानी-नंदन ॥

सिद्धि-सदन, गज-बदन, बिनायक । कृपा-सिंधु सुंदर सब लायक ॥

मोदक-प्रिय, मुद-मंगल-दाता । बिद्या-बारिधि बुद्धि-बिधाता ॥

माँगत तुलसिदास कर जोरे । बसहिं रामसिय मानस मोरे ॥

Sing Gaṇapati, before whom the world bows, the son of Śaṅkar, the gladness of

Bhavānī.

House of the siddhis, elephant-faced, Vināyak; ocean of kṛpā, beautiful, equal

to everything.

To whom the modak is dear, giver of gladness and of every good; sea of

learning, ordainer of the mind.

Tulsīdās asks it with his hands joined: let Rām and Siyā dwell in this mind of

mine.

Then the sun, who is looked at by everybody and does not have to be introduced to anyone. Then Śiva, and Śiva gets eleven of them, which is more than anybody except Rām and Hanumān, because Śiva is the owner of the city he was writing in and there is no getting anything done there without him. He tells Śiva that he gives without stopping to work out whether the man asking deserves it, and that a very little will melt him, and that he cannot stand the sight of a poor man standing in front of him with his hands joined. He tells him that the whole world calls him generous and asks why he has turned mean in this one case.

Then the Mother. Then Gaṅgā, and the Gaṅgā padas are the place to see how he does praise, which is that he describes.

हरित गंभीर वानीर दुहुँ तीरवर, मध्य धारा विशद, विश्व अभिरामिनी ।

नील-पर्यक-कृत-शयन सर्पेश जनु, सहस सीसावली स्रोत सुर-स्वामिनी ॥

Green and deep, with the cane standing on both her good banks and the clear

stream down the middle of them, the delight of the world:

as though the lord of snakes were lying on a blue couch, and his thousand heads

were the currents, queen of the river of the gods.

He had washed in that river every morning for fifty years. He knew what the cane looks like from the water and what the current does when it splits.

Then Yamunā, and as the Yamunā comes up in flood the champions of the good start driving the Kali age out and holding it cheap. Then Kāśī. Then Citrakūṭ, twice, and one of those two is not addressed to the hill at all. It is addressed to his own mind, and it is the voice a man uses on himself when he has run out of patience.

अब चित चेति चित्रकूटहि चलु ।

कोपित कलि, लोपित मंगल मगु, बिलसत बढ़त मोह-माया-मलु ॥

Now, mind: wake up, and go to Citrakūṭ.

The Kali age is in a rage, the road to anything good has been rubbed out, and

the filth of delusion is spreading and doing well for itself.

Look at the ground, he tells it, Rām's feet have been printed on it. Look at the wood, he walked about in it. Do not be slow, and do not spend this coming minute the way you spent the years behind you.

Then Hanumān, and Hanumān gets twelve, and two of the twelve are the ones he made in the prison and one is the apology. Then Lakhan. Then Bharat and Śatrughna. Then Sītā, whom he addresses as mother and asks to find a moment. And then, only then, a little short of a sixth of the way into the book, having gone up the whole chain in proper order, he arrives.

श्री रामचंद्र कृपालु भजु मन हरण भवभय दारुणं ।

नवकंज-लोचन, कंज-मुख, कर-कंज, पद-कंजारुणं ॥

Praise Śrī Rāmcandra, mind. He is kind, and he takes away the cruel fear of being.

New-lotus eyes, a lotus face, lotus hands, feet like the red lotus.

And from there to the end of the book there are two hundred and thirty-odd padas and they are all addressed to him.

The asking proper, the part where he puts his own case, is a handful of padas at the very end of the book. Everything in front of them, and that is nearly the whole of it, is doing something else, and it is worth asking what.

They are working the court.

A petition does not consist of the request. It consists of everything that has to be true before the request can be looked at: the right man approached in the right order, addressed properly, reminded of who he is and what he is known for, and put in the frame of mind in which a poor man's paper gets picked up rather than put under a stone. He had watched that done in courtyards all his life. He had just been made to do it himself, in a hall, in front of an emperor.

So the long run on Śiva is not an act of piety with a request attached. It is a man warming up the most important officer in his own city. And one of those eleven padas is not addressed to Śiva at all, and it is the funniest thing in the book.

The speaker in it is Vidhi, who is the one who writes on a man's forehead what his life is going to contain, and he has come to Pārvatī to complain about her husband.

बावरो रावरो नाह भवानी ।

दानि बड़ो दिन देत दये बिनु, बेद-बड़ाई भानी ॥

निज घरकी बरबात बिलोकहु, हौ तुम परम सयानी ।

सिवकी दई संपदा देखत, श्री-सारदा सिहानी ॥

जिनके भाल लिखी लिपि मेरी, सुखकी नहीं निसानी ।

तिन रंकनकौ नाक सँवारत, हौं आयो नकबानी ॥

That husband of yours is out of his mind, Bhavānī.

A great giver, giving every day, giving to people who have given him nothing, and

the dignity the Veda allows him is in pieces.

Look at the state of your own household. You are supposed to be the sensible one.

Seeing the fortunes Śiva has handed out, Śrī and Sāradā are eaten up with it.

Men on whose foreheads my own writing has not put down one mark of happiness:

getting heaven ready for those paupers has finished me.

Then he says that their poverty is embarrassed by their poverty and that beggary itself is uncomfortable, and that the office should be handed to somebody else, because he would rather beg than keep it. And the last line of the pada, after all that, says what happened when the speech was finished. Maheś was pleased, quietly, to himself. And the mother of the world smiled.

A man who can put that in the middle of his own petition is not grovelling. He is doing what the best petitioners do, which is to praise the officer by telling a story in which the officer's known weakness is the thing being complained about. Śiva gives to people who have nothing to give back. That is the complaint. That is also, precisely, what Tulsīdās is about to need.

The Hanumān run works the same way and it is blunter, because he had known Hanumān longer.

जाके गति है श्री हनुमान की ।

ताकी पैज पूजि आई यह रेखा कुलिस पषान की ॥

Whoever has Hanumān for his way out:

his wager is met and paid. That line is cut in rock with a thunderbolt.

And then, standing in that same run of introductions, a few pages further on, are the two padas he made on a stone floor in the emperor's prison and the one he wrote afterwards to take the sting out of them. He put them in with the rest. So anybody reading the book straight through is introduced to Gaṇapati, and to the sun, and to Śiva, and to the river, and to the city, and then walks into a cell and hears a man shouting at Hanumān, and then hears him apologise, and then goes on up the chain as though nothing had happened.

Not all of it is praise and not all of it is asking. Some of it is a man of ninety looking at the world and reporting that it cannot be talked about.

He says the world is a picture on an empty wall painted without any paint by a painter who has no body, and that washing will not take the picture off and the wall does not die, and that looking at this body brings grief. He says there is a crocodile living in the water that is made of the sun's rays, and it has no mouth, and it swallows everything that comes down to drink. He says one man calls the world true and another calls it false and a third holds both of them firmly, and whoever gets out from under all three of those mistakes knows what he himself is.

And one of them is about housebreaking, and it is the one the thieves in the lane have already been given in this day, because his heart was Rām's house and there were men living in it who could not be turned out.

Then, at the very end, the document is delivered.

The last padas of the book are that delivery. The paper goes in. A word is said to each of the officers of the court, by name, asking them to remember whose turn it is. And then there is an answer, and the answer is the last thing in the last book he wrote, and it is where this week of reading ends. So those belong to the seventh day and not to this one.

What belongs to this one is everything in front of them. He had argued with the pandits for fifty years. He had argued with Hanumān from a prison floor. He had argued with Śiva about the plague in the streets outside his door. And then he stopped arguing, and wrote out what he was and what he had done and what he wanted, in his own hand while the hand still worked, and set it going up the line.

By the end of the 1610s he had stopped being an argument and become a fixture.

That did not happen by anybody's decision. There was no point at which the learned men of Banaras met and resolved that the poem in the village language was acceptable after all. What happened was slower and more ordinary. The people who had jeered at it in the 1570s grew old and died. Their sons had grown up hearing it recited on the ghat in the evenings, because it was recited on the ghat in the evenings all through their childhoods, and a thing you have heard since you were four years old is not a scandal. And their sons' sons had never known a Banaras without it.

Meanwhile it had left the city, and it had left it in a way nobody could control and nobody had planned.

It went out on the recitation. A man who could read learned some of it and then more of it and then all of it, and he went from village to village in the season when there is no field work, and he sat under a tree or in a courtyard or on the platform beside a shrine, and he read a passage and then explained it, and people brought him food. That was the whole machinery. It needed no printing, no patron, no school and no permission. It needed one man who could read and a crowd who could not.

And when a passage of the Ayodhyā Kāṇḍ was read out, the death of Dasarath, or the leave-takings, there was hardly anybody in the crowd who was not crying. That was still true of those same passages three hundred years later, in villages, with a different man holding the book. It was almost certainly true in his lifetime, in villages he never saw.

Which means this. In the last decade of his life there were people several hundred miles from Banaras who knew long stretches of his book by heart, in the language they used at home, and who had never heard the word Awadhi and had no idea who had written it or that anybody in particular had. It was simply the Rāmāyaṇ. It was what the man with the book read out. If you had told them that the man who made it was alive, in a lane at the south end of Banaras, an old man with a bad arm who could be spoken to, some of them would have walked there.

Some did.

The lane was busy. People came with the things people bring. A child not eating. A case in front of the magistrate. A son who had gone to Bengal for work and not written. A daughter to be married and no money for it. A man who wanted to know whether he ought to go on pilgrimage or stay and look after his mother. Men who had come only to look at him, and had walked a fortnight to do it, and who had nothing to ask and did not know what to do with themselves when they got there. Sādhus who wanted a discussion. Poets who wanted an opinion. And, now and then, one of the learned, coming quietly at a time when the lane was empty, to ask about a reading.

He was not gentle with everybody, and there is no reason to pretend he was. The two padas he sent up to Hanumān out of the prison are not the work of a mild man, and neither is the verse that hands the insults back four at a time. He had a temper and he used it, and he used it mostly on people who were sure of themselves.

There were still pandits in that city who would not read a line of him, and who said so, and who were not being stupid: they had a whole world resting on the proposition that the holy is transmitted in a fixed language by qualified men, and he had spent fifty years demonstrating that it is not. They were right about what was at stake. They were simply on the losing side of it, and the thing that beat them was not an argument. It was that their own servants and their own wives and their own children knew his verses and did not know theirs.

He had built a temple and he had kept a rule for fifty years, but he founded no order and trained no successor and left nothing behind him for anybody to inherit, and the last time there was anything in his house worth having he handed it out of the door to a group of thieves. What he left was a set of books and a habit.

And in the middle of the books there is a couplet, two lines long, that says what he had spent the whole of his life doing.

रामनाम-मनि-दीप धरू जीह-देहरी द्वार ।

तुलसी भीतर बाहिरौ जौ चाहसि उजियार ॥

Set the jewel-lamp that is Rām's name on the doorsill of your tongue,

Tulsī, if what you want is light inside the house and outside it as well.

A lamp put down in the doorway is the one place a lamp lights both rooms at once. He had been told, all his life, that the two rooms were separate: that there was a language for the holy and a language for the street, and that what belonged in one had no business in the other. He put the lamp on the sill.

He was ninety. The arm hurt. The city had buried a great many of its people that year and the smoke off the ghats had not cleared. The petition was written out and it had gone in.

Tomorrow: Śrāvaṇa again, the bright half again, the seventh day again, and the water at Asī.

The Ganges comes across the north of India from west to east, and at Banaras it turns and runs north. For four miles it goes up instead of down, and the city stands along the outside of that bend on a high bank of clay and stone, facing east across the water. The sun therefore comes out of the river in front of the city every morning of the year. The whole waterfront is built to face it.

At the southern end of that curve a small river comes in from the west and joins the Ganges. It is called the Asī. It is not much of a river. In the rains it runs fast and brown and carries rubbish and drowned branches out into the big water, and by the hot weather it is a green ditch with buffalo standing in it. Nobody would look at it twice anywhere else. Here it is one of the two ends of the world, because the old boundary of Kāśī is the Varaṇā in the north and the Asī in the south, and the city's name is made out of the two of them. Everything between is inside. Everything beyond is outside. Where the Asī comes into the Ganges is Asī Ghāṭ, and that is where the city stops.

Most of the stone that a visitor climbs there now was laid a hundred years and more after he died. In his time the bank at the southern end was largely earth and brick, a long slope rather than a stair, with brick landings where somebody had paid for them and trodden clay where nobody had, and trees on it. There was a pīpal standing close to the water, and a liṅga under the pīpal, and the platform round the trunk was where men sat. In the rains the river came up the slope and took the lower landings and then the higher ones, and the pīpal stood in the water with its roots gone and the current combing past it, and the men moved up and sat further back and went on sitting.

The boats at that end of the city are heavy and flat-bottomed and black with pitch, and they lie nose-in to the bank in a row, and their owners sleep in them. They are worked with long oars against a tholepin, standing up, and a boatman going upstream against the current in Śrāvaṇa is working hard enough that you can hear him from the top of the bank. They carry pilgrims, and stone, and timber, and grain in sacks, and sand, and firewood for the burning grounds further north, and in the flood they carry people out of the low lanes behind the ghāṭ. In the cold months they go out at first light with a lantern in the bow and the fog lying on the water so thick that the far bank is not there at all.

The far bank is empty. That is the other thing about Banaras that a stranger notices and cannot account for: a city of this size on one side of a great river, and on the other side, directly opposite, sand. No houses, no temples, no lanes, nothing but a long pale beach and melon fields and cattle and, in the flood, open water to the horizon. It has stayed empty on purpose. So a man sitting at Asī Ghāṭ at dawn is looking east across half a mile of moving water at nothing at all except the place where the sun is going to come up, and then it comes up out of the river, and the whole bank behind him goes the colour of wet brick, and the bells start.

Who is there at that hour is always the same. The first ones down are in the water before it is light, standing waist-deep, facing east, waiting. Women come with brass pots stacked one inside another and fill them and go back up the slope with the pots on their heads and their wet cloths drying as they walk. There are men who bathe fast and go, because they have a shop to open. There are men who bathe slowly and then stand on the step with their eyes shut and their hands joined and their lips moving, and are still doing it an hour later. There are priests under bamboo umbrellas with their boards and their little brass boxes, and one of them is asleep. There are ash-smeared ascetics with nothing at all, sitting where the sun will hit them first. There are cows walking down the slope with a purpose, and dogs, and a monkey on the pīpal, and a boy selling flowers in leaf cups, and an old woman who has been brought down by her son and cannot manage the last step and is lifted.

And there are the people who have come to Kāśī to die. They are in every lane in the city and they are on the ghāṭs at that hour too, brought down by a relative or walking on their own, thin, careful on the wet stone, doing the one thing they came a long way to do. Nobody thinks it strange. The city is arranged around it.

By nine the bank has emptied. By eleven, in the months that are not the rains, it is as hot and as empty there as anywhere in the country. The light comes off the water flat and white and hits the brick and comes back up, and the whole slope glares, and there is nobody on it at all except a boatman asleep under his own boat in the strip of shade along its hull, and the dogs asleep beside him, and a buffalo standing in the Asī with only its nose and its horns out. The pīpal is the only shade worth having and whoever is sitting under it is not going to move for four hours. Sound carries a long way over the water in that heat, so you hear a man shouting at a bullock half a mile off and nothing in between.

The afternoon fills again slowly, and the evening belongs to the town rather than to the pilgrims. People come down to sit. Men wash and beat their clothes on the stone and lay them out. Boys swim, badly and at length, and are shouted at. Wrestlers work in the beaten earth yards behind the bank, and the sound of that carries too. Somebody is grinding something. Somebody is being shaved. A knot of men sits on the top landing with their backs to the water because they have come to talk, and another knot sits facing it because they have not.

Then the light goes. At Banaras the sun sets behind the city, not over the river, so the evening happens on the water rather than in the sky: the far bank goes the colour of a peach and then of ash, and the Ganges holds the last of the light for longer than anything on the bank does, and it looks for twenty minutes like a sheet of metal cooling. Lamps come out. Bells start at the small temples up the slope, not together, so it goes on for half an hour. Leaf cups with an oil wick and a few flowers are set on the water and go off downstream in a loose line, spinning slowly, and some of them go out and some of them do not, and in the flood they are gone in seconds.

At night the bank is not empty. There are men who sleep on it because it is cooler than a room, laid out in a row with their heads on their bundles. The boatmen keep a fire going. Somebody a long way off is singing, and because it is a river you cannot tell how far off. The water makes a sound against the brick all night that you stop hearing after a week and hear again the moment you leave.

That is Asī Ghāṭ. He spent the last years of his life there, and the ghāṭ next along the bank carries his name now.

He wrote a song to the Ganges and it is in the petition, in its proper place: after the sun and Śiva, before the city, because you do not reach the city without crossing the water.

It is one of the most tightly made things he ever wrote. The lines come in rhyming pairs inside the line as well as at the end, so that the whole thing rattles along like a current with something turning over in it, and you cannot get it into English and should not pretend otherwise. What you can get is what he says.

बिमल बिपुल बहसि बारि, सीतल त्रयताप-हारि,<br>

भँवर बर बिभंगतर तरंग-मालिका ।<br>

पुरजन पूजोपहार सोभित, ससि धवलधार,<br>

भंजन भव-भार, भक्ति-कल्पथालिका ॥

Clean and abundant you carry your water, and it is cold, and it takes the three heats away. Your eddies are fine and your waves come one across the other in a garland. The townspeople's offerings float on you and set you off, and your stream is white as the moon. You break the load of being born. You are the wishing-plate that bhakti is served out on.

Every clause in that is something a man sees from the step. The offerings going past on the current. The whiteness of the water at the hour the lamps are lit. The eddies, which at Asī in the flood come round in slow plates the size of a courtyard. He does not go up into the sky for any of it.

And then the last verse, which is the one to keep, because it is the only sentence anywhere that puts him in the place where he lived.

निज तटबासी बिहंग, जल-थल-चर पसु-पतंग,<br>

कीट, जटिल तापस सब सरिस पालिका ।<br>

तुलसी तव तीर तीर सुमिरत रघुबंस-बीर,<br>

बिचरत मति देहि मोह-महिष-कालिका ॥

The birds that live on your banks, the creatures of water and land, the beasts, the flying things, the insects, the ascetics with their hair in ropes: you keep them all alike and you make no difference between them. Tulsī walks up and down along your bank remembering the hero of the Raghu line. Give him a mind, you who are Kālī to the buffalo that is delusion.

Tava tīra tīra bicarata. Along your bank, along your bank, walking. That is the man, and that is the ground, and he put the two together himself so that nobody would have to guess. An old man going up and down a slope of wet brick at the bottom end of Banaras with the name going round in him, in the same list as the insects and the river birds, asking for one thing: a mind. Not a vision. Not a place after death. Mati, which is what you think with.

He wrote about Kāśī once, at length, and what he wrote is not a description. It is very hard to get into English and there is no point pretending otherwise, because half of it is the sound. What can be got into English is the idea, and the idea is that he turns the city into an animal.

The animal is the kāmadhenu, the cow that gives whatever is asked of her. His claim is that in the Kali age, when nothing else works, Kāśī is that cow, and he lays the city out on the cow's body part by part, and every part is a place a man could walk to.

सेइय सहित सनेह देह-भरि कामधेनु कलि कासी ।<br>

समनि-सोक-संताप-पाप-रुज, सकल-सुमंगल-रासी ॥<br>

मरजादा चहूँ ओर चरन बर सेवत सुरपुर-बासी ।<br>

तीरथ सब सुभ अंग, रोम सिवलिंग अमित अबिनासी ॥

Serve her with love as long as you have a body: Kāśī, the wish-cow of the Kali age. She puts down grief and fever and sin and sickness, and she is a heap of every good thing there is. Her boundary on all four sides is her four good feet, and the people of heaven wait on them. Every place of pilgrimage is a limb of her, and the hairs of her hide are Śiva-liṅgas beyond counting that will not come to an end.

Then he goes round her.

गल कंबल बरुना बिभाति जनु लूम लसति सरितासी ॥<br>

दंडपानि भैरव बिषान, मलरुचि खलगन-भयदा-सी ।<br>

लोलदिनेस त्रिलोचन लोचन, करनघंट घंटा सी ॥

The Varaṇā shows as the loose fold of skin at her throat, and the river Asī is her tail, and it swings. Daṇḍapāṇi and Bhairav are her two horns, and men whose taste runs to filth are afraid of them. Lolārk and Trilocan are her eyes, and Karṇaghaṇṭā is the bell hung at her neck.

Lolārk is a tank at Asī Ghāṭ. It is a deep square pit dug well below the level of the lanes, with steps down all four sides to green water at the bottom, and it belongs to the sun. So the southern end of the city, where he lived, is the cow's tail on one side of the lane and one of the cow's eyes on the other. The Varaṇā at the far end, five miles north, is the fold of hide under her jaw. The pañcakrośī road, the five-kos walk that pilgrims make round the outside of everything, is the line her four feet stand on. He is not being ingenious. He is telling a man who is going to walk that road anyway what he is walking round.

And he ends the pada with instructions, and they are the plainest instructions he ever gave anybody.

तुलसी बसि हरपुरी राम जपु, जो भयो चहै सुपासी ॥

Live in Hara's city and say Rām, Tulsī, if what you want is to be comfortable.

That is Śiva's city, and the name he tells you to say in it is Rām's, and he saw nothing to explain in that. The tradition of the place is that at the last hour Mahādev himself bends down to the dying and says a word in the ear, and Tulsī's account of what the word is comes in another pada: at Kāśī, on the bank of the heavenly river, on the ground where dharma stands, what Hara tells the dying is Rām's name, and he says it himself, and he has been saying it age after age, and the Vedas say so too. A man who had spent fifty years being told he had no business writing scripture in a village tongue had worked out where the authority for it was, and he put it at the top of the city and left it there.

He was ninety-one.

He was born in the bright half of Śrāvaṇa in the Saṃvat year 1589, which is 1532, in a house in Rajapur that did not keep him a week. He had been thrown out, fostered, orphaned again, and left in the street; he had begged for two years at a stranger's doors before he was eight; he had been picked up by a sādhu who already knew his name; he had learned Sanskrit for fifteen years at Pañcagaṅgā Ghāṭ, two miles up the same waterfront he was now living at the bottom of; he had been married; he had been told the truth by his wife and had gone away; he had wandered for years; he had begun the book at Ayodhyā at forty-two and finished it and been laughed at for it and outlived the laughing. At Agra there was an emperor called Jahāngīr, and there had been for eighteen years. Nearly everyone who had ever known him in the ordinary way, as a man with a name and a face, was dead.

His body had gone. He had written about that too, without arranging it: pain in his feet, pain in his belly, pain in his arm, pain in his face, the whole of him worn through and made of nothing but pain. The arm was the worst of it. It was the right arm, and it had gone bad at the shoulder and the pain ran the length of it into the fingers, and a man of ninety-one with a right arm like that cannot write. What he did about it was write to Hanumān about it, which is the only kind of complaint he ever made in public, and the poem he wrote is a poem about an arm and it is also a poem about a body that has finished.

The plague had been in Banaras that year. It went through the lanes behind the ghāṭs, in the crowded quarters where the houses touch across the top of the lane and the drains run down the middle, and it did what plague does in a city of pilgrims: it emptied some houses and left the house beside them alone, and the burning grounds worked day and night, and people who could leave left, and the ones who could not stayed and nursed each other. It reached him as well and did not kill him. That is worth saying once and plainly, because it would be easy and wrong to make the disease into the ending of his life. It was not the ending. It was the weather of his last months, one more thing happening in a city where a great deal was always happening, and he wrote about it as he wrote about the arm, which is to say he told Hanumān.

Ninety-one is a hard number to feel. Work it from the other end. There were men bathing beside him at Asī Ghāṭ that summer whose fathers had not been born when he started the Mānas. There were pandits on the ghāṭs in their forties and fifties, settled and much respected, who had grown up in a Banaras where the poem was simply there, the way the river was, and who had no living memory of the fight about it, and would have been surprised to hear that there had been one. The argument that had taken up the middle of his life had gone quiet not because anyone conceded it but because the people who had been making it had died and the poem had not.

He had outlived several reigns and had watched the city change under them: the traffic on the river thickening, the lanes filling with people from further and further away, the stone going up. None of that is in his poetry. Notice that it is not. He wrote for a lifetime about one story and one name, and he did not write about the state, and when the world of power does turn up in his verse it turns up as a figure of speech, as a court with officers in it, which is the only use he ever found for it.

What a day was made of, at that end of the city, is not written down anywhere, and it does not need to be, because the parts of it are all known and they were the same parts for everybody who lived like that.

It began before light. He went down the slope to the water and stood in it and came out, and that is not a detail of piety, it is what a brahmin at Banaras did every morning of his life from the thread ceremony onwards, in the flood and in January when the wind comes off the sand cold enough to hurt. Then the sun came up out of the river and he faced it and said what is said to it. Then the name, on the fingers or on beads, for as long as he wanted, which at that age and in that condition may have been most of the morning.

Then the recitation. Somebody read, or chanted, or sang, and the book was his own. That is the strangest fact about his last years and it must not be smoothed over: the old man sitting on the platform at Asī Ghāṭ in the morning was listening to the Rāmcaritmānas being recited, the way a man listens to scripture, and he had written it. He had written it forty-nine years earlier as a man of forty-two. By 1623 it had got away from him completely. It was not his any more in the sense that a poet owns a poem. It was in other people's mouths and in their children's mouths and it had already started to change in small ways as it went, and he sat and heard it and corrected nobody.

Then people. They came all day and they came for everything. Pilgrims who had walked from Awadh and wanted to look at him once. Men with the book in their hands and a line in it they could not get to the bottom of. Men who wanted a verse composed for a wedding or a death. Pandits, some of whom had spent their working lives despising him and had lived long enough to be old beside him, and some of whom had simply come round, because the poem had won and there is no use standing in the road in front of a thing that has won. Widows. People who were ill and had been told that if they could get to him something might happen. Boys sent by their fathers to touch his feet. He was by then as well known as any man in northern India who held no office of any kind, and the traffic of that would have been constant, and he was ninety-one, and his arm hurt.

And then the writing, when there was any writing left in the arm. What he was writing at the end was not narrative. He had told the story; that was done. What he was writing was padas, songs, each one complete in itself, in Braj rather than in the Awadhi of the great book, and addressed upward. He was not describing anybody's life any more. He was asking.

Stand still for a moment on what had happened to the Rāmcaritmānas while he was getting old, because it is the thing he had wanted and it had come, and a man does not always get to see that.

He had written it to be heard. Not read: heard. The metre is the caupāī, four short lines that a plain man can carry in his head, closed off every few caupāīs by a dohā that lands like a nail going in, and the whole of it moves at the speed of speech. It can be sung without an instrument by somebody walking. It can be sung by two men taking alternate lines while they cut cane. It is almost impossible to say it wrong, because the metre will not let you, and it is very easy to say the next line once you have said the one before, which is why people who cannot read a word of it know thousands of its lines.

That is the point that gets missed. In the villages of Awadh and Braj and Bhojpur and Bundelkhand, and later far beyond them, the book was carried by people who were not literate. A man who has never held a pen knows the Bāl Kāṇḍ because he has heard it every year of his life since he was small, sitting at the back of a courtyard in the dark with his uncles in front of him. He learned it the way he learned the songs sung at weddings, by being in the room. When he is forty he can supply any line you begin. He may believe, quite sincerely, that he does not know the book; he means that he cannot read it, which is a different thing and, for the purposes of the book, not an important one.

The full recitation takes nine days. It is done in a house or a courtyard or a temple or under an awning put up in a field, and the reciter sits with the volume in front of him on a wooden stand wrapped in red cloth, and he reads and sings and stops to explain, and the household feeds everybody, and there is an oil lamp kept burning for the nine days, and on the last day there is a crowd and a distribution of food and the whole thing closes with the ārtī. In one lifetime a man in a small place may sit through fifty of these. Nine days is the length because the seven books are broken into nine stages by custom rather than by the poet, and the stages are known, and the reciter who mismanages his pace and arrives at Rām's coronation on the morning of the eighth day is a poor reciter and hears about it.

Book two is the one that does the damage. When Dasarath dies, and before that when Rām and Sītā and Lakhan take their leave and the city of Ayodhyā comes out into the road to watch them go, there is hardly anybody in the audience who is not in tears, and this has been true of every audience the poem has ever had. Book five is the one that gets said on its own, over and over, by people in trouble, because it is the book where Hanumān crosses the water and finds Sītā and the thing looked impossible and was not. Certain dohās out of the whole have come loose and gone into ordinary speech, and are quoted by people who have no idea they are quoting a poem, and are quoted correctly, in Awadhi, four hundred years after an old man at the south end of Banaras wrote them.

And the book got up off the page and walked about. In Banaras and in hundreds of towns and villages, when Āśvin comes and the nights begin to cool, the story is acted. Not read: acted, out of doors, over many evenings, in a different place each evening, so that the audience walks from Ayodhyā to the forest to Laṅkā over the course of a fortnight and more, and the boys playing Rām and Sītā and Lakhan are local boys with their faces painted and crowns of tinsel, and the crowd follows them down the lane. What is sung while they move is not a play script. It is the book. A group of chanters sits to one side with the volume in front of them and sings the caupāīs in order, and the boys hold their positions while the singing goes on, and the ordinary dialogue is put in between in plain speech by whoever is playing the part. Which is to say that the text of the whole performance, the thing the crowd has come to hear and knows by heart and joins in with, is the poem an old man at Asī Ghāṭ had written in a village tongue against professional advice.

Nobody planned that. It is what happens to a book that people love and cannot put down: it gets into the calendar, and then it gets into the year, and then a town cannot do its autumn without it.

He lived to see this begin. Not the four hundred years, obviously, but the beginning of it: his own lines coming back at him from people who had never met him, in the mouths of men who could not have signed their names, in the metre he had chosen for exactly that reason. He had argued, in the middle of the Bāl Kāṇḍ, with men who said a poem like this had no business existing, and he had answered them in the poem itself, and the answer was that the cow is black and the milk is white.

स्याम सुरभि पय बिसद अति गुनद करहिं सब पान ।<br>

गिरा ग्राम्य सिय राम जस गावहिं सुनहिं सुजान ॥

The cow is black and her milk is white and does a great deal of good, and everybody drinks it. The speech is a village speech and the praise is Siyā's and Rām's, and those who know sing it and listen.

He had been right about the milk, and he lived long enough to watch everybody drink it.

And then, at the end, he wrote a document.

Vinaya Patrikā is not a poetic title. A patrikā is a piece of paper with writing on it that you submit to somebody who has the power to act. It is the word for a petition, a written plea, the thing a man with a grievance and no standing gets drawn up and carries to the court and hands in, and then waits. Vinaya is the humility, or the submission, with which you hand it over. The whole work is built on that and on nothing else: a court is sitting, a petition has been drafted by a man who has no case in law, and the petition has been filed.

Anybody who had ever had business with a court knew exactly what he was doing, and in his century a great many people had had business with a court. You do not walk up to the throne. You go through the officers. You find out who is near the seat and well disposed and likely to be listened to, and you get to him, and he raises the matter at the right moment, and if he raises it well the thing is done in an instant and if he raises it badly you wait another year. And what you are hoping for at the end of it, the one thing you have come for, is a mark on the paper. The word for it is sahī: the signature, the countersignature of approval that turns a request into a fact. Until the sahī is on it, a petition is paper. After it, nobody can touch you.

So the Vinaya Patrikā is laid out the way a man lays out an approach to a court, and it takes him two hundred and seventy-nine padas to get across the floor.

He starts at the door with Gaṇapati, who is asked before anything is begun. Then the sun. Then Śiva, eleven padas of him, at length and with love, because this is Śiva's city and he lived in it. Then the goddess. Then Gaṅgā, on whose bank he is sitting. Then Yamunā, the river of the town he was born in. Then Kāśī, the cow. Then Citrakūṭ, the hill that stood up out of the flat land south of that town, which the children could see from the fields and which he had gone back to as a man. Then Hanumān, twelve padas, one more than Śiva. Then Lakhan, then Bharat, then Śatrughna, then Sītā. And then Rām.

The order is not a devotee working outward from the middle. It is a man crossing a floor. And the fact that Hanumān gets more padas than the owner of the city is not sentiment, it is procedure. In a court the person you go to is not the one with the highest title. It is the one who is always in the room, who has the ruler's ear without having to ask for it, who came up from nothing himself and therefore does not despise a petitioner for being nobody, and who is known never once to have turned a request away. Every petitioner in the country knew that the whole thing depended on finding such a man, and spent months looking for him. Tulsī knew where his was. He had found him in a wood a lifetime before, and had taken hold of his feet and refused to let go.

Then he arrives at the seat, and the manner changes completely.

For the first two hundred padas he is a man who knows the protocol and is observing it, and the verse is dense and ornamental and full of clever compounding, and he is enjoying himself. Then, somewhere in the last fifty, the ornament comes off. The padas get shorter. The vocabulary goes ordinary. He stops praising and starts stating, and what he states is his own position, and he states it the way a man states his position when he has decided there is no advantage left in being careful.

He is in his eighties and then his nineties while he is doing this. The petition is the last long thing he wrote. It is the place to hear him, because it is the only work of his in which he is the subject, and he does not spare himself in it, and he is not performing a humility he does not feel. He had been watching the petitions of poor men go in at the doors of courts all his life. He knew what they sounded like. He wrote one.

Here is the old man's account of himself, in his own words, at the end of the petition, where he has stopped arranging it.

He starts with a broken arm.

जैसो हौं तैसो, राम! रावरो जन, जनि परिहरिए ।<br>

कृपासिंधु, कोसलधनी, सरनागत-पालक, ढरनि आपनी ढरिए ॥

Such as I am, Rām, I am your man. Do not put me aside. Sea of kṛpā, master of Kosal, keeper of whoever comes in for shelter: go the way you always go.

हौं तौ बिगरायल और को, बिगरो न बिगरिए ।<br>

तुम सुधारि आए सदा सबकी सब ही बिधि, अब मेरियो सुधरिए ॥

I was spoiled by other hands long ago, spoiled as far as spoiling goes. Do not go spoiling what is already spoiled. You have always set everybody's business right by every means there is. Now set mine right too.

जग हँसिहै मेरे संग्रहे, कत इहि डर डरिए ?<br>

कपि केवट कीन्हे सखा जेहि सील सरल चित, तेहि सुभाव अनुसरिए ॥

The world will laugh at you for taking me in. Why should that frighten you? You made friends of monkeys and of a ferryman, with the same decency and the same plain heart. Deal with me out of that same disposition.

अपराधी तउ आपनो, तुलसी न बिसरिए ।<br>

टूटियो बाँह गरे परै, फूटैहुँ बिलोचन पीर होत हित करिए ॥

An offender, but your own offender: do not forget Tulsī. A broken arm still gets tied up across the neck. An eye that has burst still hurts, and you still do something about it.

He had a broken arm. The man writing that could not lift his right hand, and had written a whole poem about the pain going down it, and here he uses the thing he lives with as the argument: nobody throws away his own arm because it is useless. He puts it in a sling and carries it about with him, precisely because it is his, and a useless eye is still attended to when it hurts, for the same reason and for no other. The claim is not that he is worth keeping. The claim is that owning a thing is not conditional on being able to use it.

And the line above it is the other thing to notice. The world will laugh at you for taking me in. Why should that frighten you. He had been laughed at for fifty years, and had written in the middle of his great book that being laughed at by the spiteful did him good and that crows call the cuckoo harsh, and here, at the end, he turns the laughter round and offers it to Rām as a shared cost of doing business. Then he names the precedents, which are not saints and not sages: monkeys, and the boatman who would not take a fare for ferrying Rām across a river. That is the case law he cites. He is applying to be admitted on the strength of the monkeys.

Then he asks not to be looked away from.

तुम जनि मन मैलो करो, लोचन जनि फेरो ।<br>

सुनहु राम! बिनु रावरे लोकहु परलोकहु कोउ न कहूँ हितु मेरो ॥

Do not go dirty in your mind towards me, and do not turn your eyes away. Listen, Rām: in this world or the next there is nobody anywhere who is any good to me except you.

Then he says what his standing is, and it is a joke at his own expense, and it is also an argument, and both at once.

नाम की ओट पेट भरत हौं, पै कहावत चेरो ।<br>

जगत-बिदित बात है परी, समुझिए धौं अपने, लोक कि बेद बड़ेरो ॥

I fill my belly under cover of your name, and for that I get called your servant. The thing is known all over the world by now. Work out for yourself which of the two is bigger, the world or the Veda.

That needs unpacking once and then it can stand. By the letter of the law, he says, I am not your servant and I have no claim on you. But the whole world calls me your servant, and the world has been saying it for years, and a reputation like that becomes a fact whether or not the books allow it. So decide, he says, which authority you are going to go by. It is the argument of a man who has no case and has noticed that the register has been altered in his favour by public opinion. He is being funny. He is also entirely serious, and he has just made the same move with himself that he made with his book: what the people say counts.

Then the direct question.

तुम तजि हौं कासों कहौं, और को हितु मेरे ?<br>

दीनबंधु सेवक-सखा, आरत अनाथ पर सहज छोह केहि केरे ? ॥

If not to you, who am I to tell? Who else is any good to me? Friend of the poor: whose tenderness comes without being asked for, towards a servant, towards a friend, towards a man in trouble, towards a man who has nobody?

Anātha is the word in the last position. It means a man with no nātha, no lord, nobody over him and nobody behind him and nobody whose business he is. It is the ordinary word for an orphan. He had been one, at five years and five months old, in a town on the Yamunā, and he uses it here as a technical description of his position before the court.

And then, in the same pada, the sentence that tells you how old he is.

जो चितवनि सौंधी लगै चितइए सबेरे ।<br>

तुलसिदास अपनाइए कीजै न ढील अब जीवन-अवधि अति नेरे ॥

Whichever sort of look you like the taste of, look at me with it, and look soon. Take Tulsīdās for your own. Do not be slack about it. The term of this life is very near its end now.

He had just said, two lines earlier, that a great many fallen people have got across the sea of being born with no boat and no raft, and that all that happened to them was that Rām looked at them: out of kṛpā, or out of anger, in earnest, by mistake, or sideways. Any of the five will do. Pick one and be quick.

Then, where am I to go.

जाउँ कहाँ, ठौर है कहाँ देव! दुखित-दीन को ?<br>

को कृपालु स्वामी सारिखो, राखै सरनागत सब अंग बल-बिहीन को ॥

Where am I to go? Where is there a place for a man in trouble with nothing at all? What master anywhere is kind the way you are, and keeps a man who has come in for shelter with no strength left in any part of him?

And then the pada turns into an argument about hiring, which is the most practical thing in the whole work.

गनिहिं गुनिहिं साहिब लहै सेवा समीचीन को ।<br>

अधन, अगुन, आलसिन को पालिबो फबि आयो रघुनायक नवीन को ॥

Other masters get the servant with money behind him, the servant with accomplishments, the servant whose service is correct. Keeping the penniless and the giftless and the idle has never suited anybody but Raghunāth, and he comes to it new every day.

That is his claim, and it is the claim the whole book rests on. He is not saying he deserves to be taken on. He is saying that his complete lack of qualifications is the very thing that makes his application the right one to address here, because this is the one establishment in existence that is known for taking on people no other establishment would look at, and it would be a pity to spoil the record.

Then he says what the years at the doors were like. This is the pada to sit with.

द्वार द्वार दीनता कही, काढ़ि रद, परि पाहुँ ।<br>

हैं दयालु दुनि दस दिसा दुख-दोष-दलन-छम, कियो न संभाषन काहूँ ॥

I told my poverty at door after door, with my teeth showing, falling at feet. The world has kind men in it in all ten directions, quite capable of putting down anybody's trouble and anybody's fault, and not one of them spoke to me.

तनु जन्यो कुटिल कीट ज्यों, तज्यों मातु-पिताहूँ ।<br>

काहे को रोष, दोष काहि धौं? मेरे ही अभाग, मोसों सकुचत छुइ सब छाहूँ ॥

My mother and my father let go of me the way a crooked creature lets go of what its own body bore. Why be angry about it, and who is there to blame? It is my own bad luck. Everything shrinks from touching so much as my shadow.

Ninety-one years old, at the south end of Banaras, and that is still where he starts from when he is asked to say who he is. He does not enlarge on it. He does not ask for sympathy, and he has an explicit line saying that there is nobody to be angry with, which he had evidently settled long before and did not revisit. Then the pada does something that nothing in his life had prepared him for: it records that somebody finally answered him.

दुखित देखि संतन कह्यो, सोचै जनि मन माँहूँ ।<br>

तोसे पसु पाँवर पातकी परिहरे न सरन गए, रघुबर ओर-निबाहूँ ॥

The sants saw the state I was in and said: do not fret about it in your mind. Animals and wretches and sinners like you have come to Raghubar for shelter before now and he has never let one of them go. He sees a thing through to the end.

That is the whole of his religion in one sentence, and notice who says it. Not a god. Not a text. The sants, the company of the good, the people in the courtyard. Somebody sat down beside a man nobody had been speaking to, and told him where to go.

तुलसी तिहारो भये भयो सुखी, प्रीति-प्रतीति बिनाहूँ ।<br>

नाम की महिमा, सील नाथ को, मेरो भलो बिलोकि अब तें सकुचाहुँ, सिहाहूँ ॥

From the day Tulsī became yours he has been well off, and that without love and without trust in him. It was the greatness of the name that did it and your own decency. Looking at how well I have come out of it, I go shy of it now, and I marvel at it.

"Without love and without trust." He will not even let himself have the devotion. He says the results came in anyway, from the name and from the other party's character, and that he had nothing to do with it, and that looking at the account now embarrasses him.

The next pada is the same ground gone over again with the brakes off.

कहा न कियो, कहाँ न गयो, सीस काहि न नायो ?<br>

राम! रावरे बिन भये जन जनमि-जनमि जग दुख दसहूँ दिसि पायो ॥

What have I not done? Where have I not gone? To whom have I not bowed my head? Rām, until a man becomes yours he is born and born again and gets nothing out of this world but trouble from all ten directions.

आस-बिबस खास दास ह्वै नीच प्रभुनि जनायो ।<br>

हा हा करि दीनता कही द्वार-द्वार बार-बार, परी न छार, मुँह बायो ॥

Hope had hold of me, and I let low masters understand that I was their own particular servant. I told them how poor I was, crying out, at door after door, over and over. I held my mouth open and not even ash fell into it.

असन-बसन बिनु बावरो जहँ-तहँ उठि धायो ।<br>

महिमा मान प्रिय प्रान ते तजि, खोलि खलनि आगे खिनु-खिनु पेट खलायो ॥

With nothing to eat and nothing to wear I got up and ran about like a madman. I gave away standing and self-respect, which are dearer to a man than his life, and opened my stomach in front of scoundrels and showed them how empty it was, minute after minute.

नाथ! हाथ कछु नाहि लग्यो, लालच ललचायो ।<br>

साँच कहौं, नाच कौन सो जो न मोहि लोभ लघु हौं निरलज्ज नचायो ॥

Nothing came into my hand, my lord, for all the greed and all the wanting. I will tell you the truth: what dance is there that petty greed has not made me dance, shameless as I am?

मूड़ मारि, हिय हारि कै, हित हेरि, हहरि अब चरन-सरन तकि आयो ॥

I beat my head, and gave up in my heart, and then looked about for where my own good might lie, and in fear I have come now and taken aim at the shelter of your feet.

It is a confession of failure and it is arranged in the right order. Everything tried; nothing worked; head beaten; gave up; and then, only then, this. He does not present the coming as a conversion or a discovery. He presents it as what was left when the alternatives had been exhausted one by one, and the alternatives are itemised, and the itemising takes four lines and is unsparing, and the man doing the itemising had written the most loved poem in the language.

And once, for one line, he lets himself remember what the other party is.

दसरथ के समरथ तुहीं, त्रिभुवन जसु गायो ।<br>

तुलसी नमत अवलोकिए, बलि बाँह-बोल दै बिरुदावली बुलायो ॥

Son of Dasarath, you are the one who can do it, and the three worlds sing about it. Tulsī is bowing; look at him. It was your own roll of titles that called me here, holding out the arm and the word.

Birudāvalī is the list of styles that gets read out before a king: the protector of this, the refuge of that. His argument is that the titles are a form of advertisement, and that he came because of the advertisement, and that the advertisement had better be true.

There is one more pada that belongs here, and it is the hardest of them, because it is the one where he goes through the life decade by decade and finds nothing in it.

कछु ह्वै न आई, गयो जनम जाय ।<br>

अति दुर्लभ तनु पाइ कपट तजि भजे न राम मन बचन काय ॥

Nothing came of me, and the birth has gone. I was given a body that is very hard to get, and I never once put the pretence down and worshipped Rām with mind and word and body.

लरिकाई बीती अचेत चित, चंचलता चौगुने चाय ।<br>

जोबन-जुर जुबती कुपथ्य करि भयो त्रिदोष भरि मदन बाय ॥

Childhood went by with the mind asleep, all fidget and four times the appetite. Youth came on like a fever, and a woman was the food a fever must not have, and it went to all three humours, and the wind of desire filled me up.

The figure is a doctor's. A fever patient is given a diet and forbidden certain foods, and if he eats them the fever goes to the three humours at once, which is the crisis nobody recovers from. He is describing his own marriage as the wrong food eaten during an illness. He does not mention his wife. He is not blaming her and he never did; the line is about the patient.

मध्य बयस धन-हेतु गँवाई कृषी बनिज नाना उपाय ।<br>

राम बिमुख सुख लह्यो न सपनेहुँ, निसिबासर तयौ तिहूँ ताय ॥

The middle years I threw away after money: farming, trade, every device there is. With my back to Rām I never got one happy hour, not even in a dream, and night and day I was scorched by the three heats.

सेये नहिं सीतापति-सेवक साधु सुमति भलि भगति भाय ।<br>

सुने न पुलकि तनु, कहे न मुदित मन, किए जे चरित रघुबंसराय ॥

I never waited on the sādhus who serve Sītā's lord, nor on good sense, nor on bhakti, nor on plain right feeling. I never heard the things the lord of the Raghu line did with the hair standing up on my body, nor said them with a glad mind.

Read that last line again and remember who is saying it. The man who wrote the Rāmcaritmānas, which is twelve thousand lines of the things the lord of the Raghu line did, said with a glad mind, says here that he never said them with a glad mind. He is not being modest. Modesty is a social manner and this is not one. He has looked at the account and found it empty, and he is not going to produce the book as an asset, because the whole point of the petition is that he is coming with nothing in his hands, and a man who brings the Mānas into court as evidence of his merits has not understood his own case.

अब सोचत मनि बिनु भुजंग ज्यों बिकल अंग दले जरा धाय ।<br>

सिर धुनि-धुनि पछिताय मीजि कर कोउ न मीत हित दुसह दाय ॥

Now I fret like a snake that has lost its jewel. Old age ran at me and broke my limbs up. I beat my head and I am sorry and I wring my hands, and there is nobody who is a friend to me in this trouble I cannot bear.

And then, because he will not end a thing there:

जिन्ह लगि निज परलोक बिगार्यौ, ते लजात होत ठाढ़े ठायँ ।<br>

तुलसी अजहुँ सुमिरि रघुनाथहिं, तर्यौ गयँद जाके एक नाँय ॥

The people I ruined the next world for are ashamed to be seen standing where I am. Remember Raghunāth even now, Tulsī. An elephant got across on the strength of one of his names.

Even now. That is the hinge the whole work turns on, and he uses the word deliberately. Not: it is too late. Not: look what I have done. Even now, at this hour, with the account looking like that, there is one thing that can be done and it takes no strength, no money, no learning and no arm. Say the name.

He had said it more directly, earlier in the same collection, in six lines that people have been saying to themselves ever since.

अब लौं नसानी अब न नसैहौं ।<br>

राम-कृपा भव-निसा सिरानी जागे फिरि न डसैहौं ॥

Up to now it has been wasted. From now on I will not waste it. By Rām's kṛpā the night of being born has gone by, and now that I am awake I am not going to make the bed again.

पायो नाम चारु चिंतामनि, उर कर तें न खसैहौं ।<br>

स्याम रूप सुचि रुचिर कसौटी चित कंचनहिं कसैहौं ॥

I have got hold of the name, which is a fine wishing-stone, and I will not let it slip out of the hand that is my heart. That dark shape is a clean and beautiful touchstone, and I mean to test the gold of my mind against it.

परबस जानि हँस्यो इन इंद्रिन, निज बस ह्वै न हँसैहौं ।<br>

मन मधुकर पन करि तुलसी रघुपति-पद-कमल बसैहौं ॥

These senses laughed at me while they had me in their keeping. Now I belong to myself, I will not be laughed at. Tulsī has taken a vow: this bee of a mind is going to live in Raghupati's lotus feet.

Two things in that. The first is the bed. Ḍasaihauṃ is the word for spreading a mat out to sleep on, and the night of the world is over and he says he will not spread it again, which is a flat domestic image for a decision, the kind of thing a man says about a habit he has given up. The second is the touchstone. A gold merchant does not test his gold by hoping. He has a black stone, and he draws the metal across it, and the mark on the stone tells him what he has. He is proposing to draw his own mind across a dark shape and read off the answer, and he is an old man, and he is still checking.

What he had instead of merit was the name, and he had said long before what to do with it, in a couplet two lines long that is the whole of his practical advice: set the jewel-lamp that is Rām's name on the doorsill of your tongue, if what you want is light inside the house and outside it as well.

A lamp set on the sill of a doorway is the one position in a house where a lamp lights both rooms at once. Put it inside and the street is dark; put it outside and the house is dark; put it in the doorway and you have not chosen. The doorway is the tongue. Notice what he does not say. He does not say learn, or renounce, or withdraw, or qualify. He said speak, at the threshold, where it can be overheard.

And in all of it there is not one line where he says he has arrived. He says he is awake, he says he has got the name, he says he will not let go. He never says he has been let in. Right up to the last three padas of the collection the petition is still a petition, which is to say it is still outstanding, and a petition that has been granted is not a petition any more.

The last three padas of the Vinaya Patrikā are the end of the petition, and they are staged. He puts the paper in, he speaks to the officers, and then he stands back and lets the court be seen from the outside, and he is not in the last scene at all except as the name on the document.

First, the paper goes in.

रामराय बिनु रावरे मेरे को हितु साँचो ।<br>

स्वामी सहित सब सों कहाँ सुनि-गुनि बिसेषि कोउ रेख दूसरी खाँचो ॥

King Rām, who is truly any good to me but you? I say it to everybody, my master included: hear it, weigh it, and if anyone is more than you, let him draw a second line.

देह-जीव-जोग के सखा मृषा टाँचन टाँचो ।<br>

किए बिचार सार कदलि ज्यों मनि कनक संग लघु लसत बीच बिच काँचो ॥

The friends a man gets out of the joining of a body to a life are stitched together with false stitching. Look into them and there is as much substance in them as in a plantain stem. Cheap glass looks well enough when it is set between jewels and gold.

And then the three lines the whole work exists for.

बिनय-पत्रिका दीन की, बापु! आपु ही बाँचो ।<br>

हिये हेरि तुलसी लिखी सो सुभाय सही करि बहुरि पूँछिए पाँचो ॥

This petition of a poor man, father: read it yourself. Tulsī looked into his heart and wrote it. Put your signature on it out of your own nature first, and ask the panchayat about it afterwards.

Read it yourself. Not through a clerk, not through a reader, not summarised by somebody whose business it is to say which petitions are worth the court's time. And then the second half, which is the boldest thing in the book: sign it first and consult afterwards. He knows what the assessors would say if they were asked first. He has read the file. The file is the one he has just spent fifty padas putting in evidence against himself: no merit, no practice, no learning to show, a childhood at the doors, the middle years after money, the arm gone, the account empty. A panchayat looking at that on paper will throw it out, and he says so by implication and does not labour it. So he asks for the order of business to be changed. Sign it out of subhāya, out of your own disposition, out of what you are like; then let them look at it all they want, because once the sahī is on the paper nothing they find in it matters.

Then he turns to the officers of the court, and this is the pada where you can see that he really had spent a lifetime watching poor men petition.

पवन-सुवन, रिपु-दवन, भरत लाल, लखन दीन की ।<br>

निज निज अवसर सुधि किए बलि जाउँ, दास आस पूजिहै खास खीन की ॥

Son of the wind; Śatrughna; Bharat; Lakhan: it is a poor man's business. Each of you remember it when your own moment comes, and this worn-out servant's hope will be granted.

Nija nija avasara. Each of you at your own opportunity. He is not asking them to plead. He is asking them to choose the moment, which is what an experienced petitioner asks for, because anybody who has dealt with a court knows that the same words spoken at the wrong hour are worse than not spoken.

राज-द्वार भली सब कहैं साधु समीचीन की ।<br>

सुकृत सुजस साहिब कृपा स्वारथ परमारथ गति भए गति-बिहीन की ॥

At the palace door everybody speaks well of the sādhu who is already in good standing. Get a footing for a man who has no footing, and there is merit in it for you, and a good name, and your master's kṛpā, and your own interest served, and the higher interest too.

He is pointing out, to Rām's own brothers, that recommending the respectable costs nothing and earns nothing, and that the whole value of an intercession lies in whom it is made for. It is the argument of a man who has worked out how influence functions and has decided to say so out loud in a devotional poem.

समय सँभारि सुधारिबी तुलसी मलीन की ।<br>

प्रीति रीति समुझाइबी नतपाल कृपालुहि परमिति पराधीन की ॥

Watch for the moment and set the business of dirty Tulsī right. Explain to your kind lord, who looks after whoever bows to him, the way a man loves when he has nothing of his own, and how far that love can go.

And then the last pada, and he is not in it. The court is sitting. The petition has arrived. The old man is somewhere else, on a bank, with a bad arm.

मारुति मन रुचि भरत की लखि लखन कही है ।<br>

कलिकालहु नाथ! नाम सों परतीति-प्रीति एक किंकर की निबही है ॥

Seeing what was in Māruti's mind and what Bharat wanted, Lakhan spoke. My lord, even in the Kali age one servant's trust in the name, and his love for it, has held out to the end.

सकल सभा सुनि लै उठी, जानी रीति रही है ।<br>

कृपा गरीबनिवाज की, देखत गरीब को साहब बाँह गही है ॥

The whole court heard it and took it up together: yes, we have known his way of going on. It is the kṛpā of one who is good to the poor. Look at it: the master has taken a poor man by the arm.

बिहँसि राम कह्यो 'सत्य है, सुधि मैं हूँ लही है' ।<br>

मुदित माथ नावत बनी तुलसी अनाथ की, परी रघुनाथ सही है ॥

Rām smiled and said: it is true, and I have had word of it myself. He bows his head, glad. It has come out well for Tulsī, who has nobody. Raghunāth's signature has gone on it.

That is the last line of the Vinaya Patrikā and it is the last thing of any length that he wrote. The petition was drawn up by a man with no case, submitted without a fee, supported by four officers who had nothing to gain from it, read by the person it was addressed to rather than by a clerk, and granted. The word at the end is the clerk's word, sahī. A mark on a piece of paper. Everything he ever wanted is in the past tense in that line, and the tense is the point: he did not write "may it be granted". He wrote that it had been.

He does not describe Rām. He does not describe himself being received. He describes a signature going onto a document, and then he stops, and the book is over, and after that line there is nothing in the collection but the closing formula that a scribe puts at the foot of a page.

Śrāvaṇa came round again.

The rains at Banaras start in earnest at the end of Āṣāḍha and by the middle of Śrāvaṇa the river is unrecognisable. It comes up twenty and thirty feet and turns the colour of milky tea, and the current out in the middle runs hard and carries whole trees with their root-balls still on them, and dead cattle, and once in a while a thatched roof. The steps go under. The platforms go under. The boats are walked up the slope every few days and tied to something higher. The lanes behind the ghāṭs run with water and the smell of the wet brick is in everything, and at Asī the little river that gives the place its name comes down full and dirty and shoves its way out into the big one, and for a hundred yards you can see where the two waters meet and have not mixed.

Śrāvaṇa is Śiva's month, and in Śiva's own city that is not a small thing. The lanes up to the great temple fill on the Mondays until a man cannot turn round in them, and they go on filling all month, and the water people carry up those lanes to pour is Ganges water fetched from the steps at the bottom. The whole place is green in Śrāvaṇa. Things grow out of the brickwork. Swings are hung in courtyards and girls sing on them, which is what the month is for in half the songs in the language. It rains in the afternoon and stops and steams and rains again at night, and everything anybody owns is faintly damp for six weeks, and the frogs are deafening, and the river keeps coming up.

He had been born in that month. The Yamunā had been in flood past Rajapur on the night he was born, and the fields had been underwater and the road out of the town had been mud to the knee, and a woman in a house on the bank had looked at a newborn boy with a horoscope on him and started to plan how to get him out alive.

In the bright half of Śrāvaṇa, on the seventh day, in the Saṃvat year 1680, which is 1623, at Asī Ghāṭ on the Ganges, he left his body.

He was ninety-one. The seventh day of the bright half of Śrāvaṇa is also the day the tradition gives for his birth.

There is no scene. What was kept is a rhyme of four short lines, and it gives the year, and the place, and the day, and nothing else at all. Saṃvat sixteen hundred and eighty. Asī, on the bank of the Ganges. The seventh of the bright half of Śrāvaṇa. Tulsī left his body. It is the form of words a village uses to fix a date so that it will not be lost, and it has the shape of a receipt, and that is all there is, and it is enough.

What he had asked for, in the poem he wrote when his body was at its worst, was to live in the world as the servant of Jānakī's lord and to die at Vārāṇasī in the water of the great river. He said in the same breath that a man in that position has a sweet in either hand, because it will do either way, and that whether he lived or died there was no child anywhere who would be upset about it. Both halves of that are true and the second half is the reason the first half is written the way it is. He had no household. He had outlived everyone who might have been in the room. And he got what he asked for exactly: Vārāṇasī, and the water of the great river, in the month of his birth, at the southern boundary stone of the city, in the flood.

Here is what was actually left. None of it is an abstraction.

He left a book that gets recited from end to end, over nine days, in courtyards and under awnings, across the whole of northern India, by people who learned it by ear and many of whom cannot read the page it is printed on. It is still happening this month. It has never stopped happening since.

He left the Hanumān Cālīsā, forty verses long, which is said aloud by more people in a day than any other poem in Hindi. Said on buses. Said in shops before they open. Said by drivers. Said in hospital corridors. Said by people who are not sure what all of it means and are sure of what it is for.

He left the Vinaya Patrikā, which is there for anybody who has nothing to offer and needs to say so, and which was written by a man who worked out that if the whole basis of your case is that you have no merits, the honest thing to do with your best work is leave it out of the file.

He left an occupation. There are men whose whole living is the reciting and explaining of that one book, who train for it, who are known by name in a district for the way they handle a particular passage, who are sent for from three villages away, and who will spend a working life inside seven books of Awadhi verse and never reach the end of them. That trade exists because he wrote. He also left the book itself as an object in a house: wrapped in cloth, kept on the highest shelf in the room, taken down with washed hands, read over nine days when somebody has died, opened at a venture when a family cannot decide something and wants a verdict. A great deal of the religion of northern India is, in practice, that volume being taken down off that shelf.

And he left Awadhi and Braj as languages that scripture has been written in.

That last one cannot be taken back, and it is the thing the pandits of Banaras were right to be worried about. Once the story of Rām exists in the language people quarrel and bargain and sing lullabies in, and exists in it so well that nobody can pretend it is a crib or a summary or a version for the illiterate, the question of which language holds scripture has been answered by the facts on the ground and no assembly can unanswer it. Men who could read Vālmīki thought him a vulgarian and would not have a line of him in the house. Their objection was not stupid and it was not only snobbery; they believed that a thing which is holy is held in a particular form of words and that changing the words breaks it. He thought the opposite, and he did not argue it in a treatise. He wrote the book, in the bhāṣā, and then the book went out into the villages and never came back, and that settled it.

The pandits lost.

They lost completely, and they lost inside his own lifetime, and it should be said once and without any satisfaction in it. A good many of them were serious men and they were defending something they believed could be broken. Losing an argument about who may be given scripture is not a disgrace. It is only a loss.

And then there is the other thing he left, which is harder to put a name to. He made it normal, in the language of a very large part of India, for an ordinary person to talk to god in the first person, out loud, without an officiant, in the words he would use to a landlord or a father. Everything in the Vinaya Patrikā is in that register. Do not look away from me. Nobody spoke to me. Where am I to go. Sign it yourself and ask them afterwards. A man with no Sanskrit and no teacher and no standing, saying those sentences on a step by a river, is not doing a lesser version of what a learned man does. He is doing the thing itself. And he was shown how by somebody who had been exactly that man.

Go back to the beginning of the story. A town on the Yamunā, in the rains, with Citrakūṭ standing up out of the flat land twenty miles to the south, so that the children in the fields knew what the hill was before they could walk. A boy with no house, five years old and then six and then seven, going along the lane in the morning to the houses that were likely and standing outside the doors. Some days somebody gave him something. Most days the door did not open. He learned that town the way only a child in that position learns a town: which houses, which hours, where the water was, where you could sleep out of the rain.

Eighty-four years later, at the other end of his life and a hundred and fifty miles east of there, he sat down and wrote that he had told his poverty at door after door and held his mouth open and not even ash had fallen into it. He was writing about himself. And the reason the book he made exists in the language it exists in is that he never at any point forgot who was standing outside the door, because he had stood there.

Those doors in Rajapur are the ones that matter in the end. In villages like that one, all over the country, in the dark after the work is done, somebody is reading the Mānas aloud in the courtyard and the neighbours are sitting on the ground to listen, and nobody in the courtyard is being asked whether he has the Sanskrit for it. The doors are open, and the story is inside, and it is in the language that the boy outside them spoke.

Narahari gave that boy a tulsī leaf and a name that meant he belonged to something. It is not a grand plant. It is a small woody bush in an earthen pot on a plinth, standing in the courtyard of every house where the name is said, and it has to be watered every single day or it dies, and the watering is done by whoever is up first, and nobody makes an occasion of it. That is what he left: not a monument, which needs nobody, but something that has to be said every day by somebody or it stops. It has been watered every day for four hundred years.

What comes next is his.

Not a word about him: his own voice, the lines as he made them, with English alongside so that nothing is lost on the way over.

All of it was made to be said out loud, by anybody at all, and none of it works silently. So say it out loud.

<a id="the-compositions"></a>

The compositions

<a id="ramcharitmanas"></a>

Rāmcaritmānas: the passages devotees know by heart

The whole Mānas runs to some twelve thousand lines across seven books, and it is not in this section: it is a book of its own and it asks for a volume of its own. What is here is the passages people carry in their mouths. The seven Sanskrit ślokas and the five sorathās that stand at the head of the first book, and the bow to the guru's feet that follows them, which is where a recitation begins. The place in the first book where he answers the men who said he should not have written it in the speech of the villages, and, a little before it, the four lines in which he says where he first heard the story: from his own guru at Sūkarkhet, when he was a boy and could not follow it, until his teacher had told it over and over. The verses on the name, which is what the book is finally about. The two lines in which he sets down the year and the day and the town he began in. Bharat coming up the hill at Citrakūṭ and finding his brother. Hanumān's book: the leap, the getting into Laṅkā, Sītā under the aśok tree, the burning of the city, and the line about there being no rest until the work is done. And the close of the seventh book, where he stops arguing and says what he was given.

<a id="manas-bal-sloka-1"></a>

śloka 1. वर्णानामर्थसंघानां रसानां छन्दसामपि

Bāl Kāṇḍ. The first of the seven Sanskrit ślokas that stand before a word of the story.

Original

वर्णानामर्थसंघानां रसानां छन्दसामपि ।<br>

मङ्गलानां च कर्त्तारौ वन्दे वाणीविनायकौ ॥ १ ॥

Transliteration

varṇānāmarthasaṃghānāṃ rasānāṃ chandasāmapi ।<br>

maṅgalānāṃ ca karttārau vandē vāṇīvināyakau ॥ 1 ॥

English

Letters, and the masses of meaning, and the flavours, and the metres as well,<br>

and every good thing: the two who make them are Vāṇī and Vināyak, and I bow to them.

Vāṇī is Sarasvatī and Vināyak is Gaṇeś. Speech and the removing of obstacles, in that order, before anything else is attempted.

<a id="manas-bal-sloka-2"></a>

śloka 2. भवानीशङ्करौ वन्दे श्रद्धाविश्वासरूपिणौ

Bāl Kāṇḍ.

Original

भवानीशङ्करौ वन्दे श्रद्धाविश्वासरूपिणौ ।<br>

याभ्यां विना न पश्यन्ति सिद्धाः स्वान्तःस्थमीश्वरम् ॥ २ ॥

Transliteration

bhavānīśaṅkarau vandē śraddhāviśvāsarūpiṇau ।<br>

yābhyāṃ vinā na paśyanti siddhāḥ svāntaḥsthamīśvaram ॥ 2 ॥

English

I bow to Bhavānī and Śaṅkar, who are faith and trust in bodily shape.<br>

Without those two, even the accomplished do not see the lord who is standing inside them.

<a id="manas-bal-sloka-3"></a>

śloka 3. वन्दे बोधमयं नित्यं गुरुं शङ्कररूपिणम्

Bāl Kāṇḍ.

Original

वन्दे बोधमयं नित्यं गुरुं शङ्कररूपिणम् ।<br>

यमाश्रितो हि वक्रोऽपि चन्द्रः सर्वत्र वन्द्यते ॥ ३ ॥

Transliteration

vandē bōdhamayaṃ nityaṃ guruṃ śaṅkararūpiṇam ।<br>

yamāśritō hi vakrō'pi candraḥ sarvatra vandyatē ॥ 3 ॥

English

I bow to the guru, who is knowing itself, who does not pass away, and who is Śaṅkar in another form.<br>

The moon is crooked, and because it has taken shelter with him it is bowed to everywhere.

<a id="manas-bal-sloka-4"></a>

śloka 4. सीतारामगुणग्रामपुण्यारण्यविहारिणौ

Bāl Kāṇḍ. Vālmīki and Hanumān.

Original

सीतारामगुणग्रामपुण्यारण्यविहारिणौ ।<br>

वन्दे विशुद्धविज्ञानौ कवीश्वरकपीश्वरौ ॥ ४ ॥

Transliteration

sītārāmaguṇagrāmapuṇyāraṇyavihāriṇau ।<br>

vandē viśuddhavijñānau kavīśvarakapīśvarau ॥ 4 ॥

English

The two who walk about in the holy forest that is the mass of Sītā's and Rām's good qualities,<br>

whose knowing has nothing in it to clean: the lord of poets and the lord of monkeys. I bow to them.

<a id="manas-bal-sloka-5"></a>

śloka 5. उद्भवस्थितिसंहारकारिणीं क्लेशहारिणीम्

Bāl Kāṇḍ.

Original

उद्भवस्थितिसंहारकारिणीं क्लेशहारिणीम् ।<br>

सर्वश्रेयस्करीं सीतां नतोऽहं रामवल्लभाम् ॥ ५ ॥

Transliteration

udbhavasthitisaṃhārakāriṇīṃ klēśahāriṇīm ।<br>

sarvaśrēyaskarīṃ sītāṃ natō'haṃ rāmavallabhām ॥ 5 ॥

English

She who makes the rising and the standing and the ending of things, and takes distress away,<br>

who does good of every kind: Sītā, who is Rām's beloved. I am bowed down before her.

<a id="manas-bal-sloka-6"></a>

śloka 6. यन्मायावशवर्त्ति विश्वमखिलं ब्रह्मादिदेवासुरा

Bāl Kāṇḍ.

Original

यन्मायावशवर्त्ति विश्वमखिलं ब्रह्मादिदेवासुरा<br>

यत्सत्त्वादमृषैव भाति सकलं रज्जौ यथाहेर्भ्रमः ।<br>

यत्पादप्लवमेकमेव हि भवाम्भोधेस्तितीर्षावतां<br>

वन्देऽहं तमशेषकारणपरं रामाख्यमीशं हरिम् ॥ ६ ॥

Transliteration

yanmāyāvaśavartti viśvamakhilaṃ brahmādidēvāsurā<br>

yatsattvādamr̥ṣaiva bhāti sakalaṃ rajjau yathāhērbhramaḥ ।<br>

yatpādaplavamēkamēva hi bhavāmbhōdhēstitīrṣāvatāṃ<br>

vandē'haṃ tamaśēṣakāraṇaparaṃ rāmākhyamīśaṃ harim ॥ 6 ॥

English

The whole world goes as his māyā moves it, and Brahmā and the gods and the demons with it.<br>

Because he is, all of it shows as real and not as a lie, the way the snake a man sees is there because the rope is.<br>

His feet are the one raft there is for those who mean to get across the sea of this world.<br>

He is past the last of causes, and his name is Rām, and he is Hari, and I bow to him.

<a id="manas-bal-sloka-7"></a>

śloka 7. नानापुराणनिगमागमसम्मतं यद्

Bāl Kāṇḍ. The seventh śloka, which says what the book is going to be.

Original

नानापुराणनिगमागमसम्मतं यद्<br>

रामायणे निगदितं क्वचिदन्यतोऽपि ।<br>

स्वान्तःसुखाय तुलसी रघुनाथगाथा-<br>

भाषानिबन्धमतिमञ्जुलमातनोति ॥ ७ ॥

Transliteration

nānāpurāṇanigamāgamasammataṃ yad<br>

rāmāyaṇē nigaditaṃ kvacidanyatō'pi ।<br>

svāntaḥsukhāya tulasī raghunāthagāthā-<br>

bhāṣānibandhamatimañjulamātanōti ॥ 7 ॥

English

What the many purāṇas and the Vedas and the āgamas agree on,<br>

what is told in the Rāmāyaṇa, and some of it picked up elsewhere as well:<br>

for the happiness of his own inward self, Tulsī takes the story of Raghunāth<br>

and sets it out at length, bound in the common tongue, and as beautifully as he is able.

Bhāṣā is the ordinary word for the speech people speak, as against Sanskrit. He puts it in a faultless Sanskrit śloka on his first page, which is not an accident.

<a id="manas-bal-soratha-1"></a>

sorathā 1. जो सुमिरत सिधि होइ गन नायक करिबर बदन

Bāl Kāṇḍ. Five sorathās follow the ślokas, and they are the same five bows made again in Awadhi.

Original

जो सुमिरत सिधि होइ गन नायक करिबर बदन ।<br>

करउ अनुग्रह सोइ बुद्धि रासि सुभ गुन सदन ॥ १ ॥

Transliteration

jō sumirata sidhi hōi gana nāyaka karibara badana ।<br>

karau anugraha sōi buddhi rāsi subha guna sadana ॥ 1 ॥

English

Remember him and the thing is done: the chief of the hosts, with the face of the best of elephants.<br>

Let him do me that kindness, who is a heap of good sense and the house of every fine quality.

<a id="manas-bal-soratha-2"></a>

sorathā 2. मूक होइ बाचाल पंगु चढ़इ गिरिबर गहन

Bāl Kāṇḍ.

Original

मूक होइ बाचाल पंगु चढ़इ गिरिबर गहन ।<br>

जासु कृपाँ सो दयाल द्रवउ सकल कलि मल दहन ॥ २ ॥

Transliteration

mūka hōi bācāla paṃgu caṛhai giribara gahana ।<br>

jāsu kr̥pām̐ sō dayāla dravau sakala kali mala dahana ॥ 2 ॥

English

The dumb man becomes a talker, the lame man climbs the thick of the great hill,<br>

by whose kṛpā. Let that merciful one melt towards me, who burns up all the dirt of the kali age.

<a id="manas-bal-soratha-3"></a>

sorathā 3. नील सरोरुह स्याम तरुन अरुन बारिज नयन

Bāl Kāṇḍ.

Original

नील सरोरुह स्याम तरुन अरुन बारिज नयन ।<br>

करउ सो मम उर धाम सदा छीरसागर सयन ॥ ३ ॥

Transliteration

nīla sarōruha syāma taruna aruna bārija nayana ।<br>

karau sō mama ura dhāma sadā chīrasāgara sayana ॥ 3 ॥

English

Dark as the blue lotus, with eyes like a red lotus newly opened:<br>

let him make his house in my breast, who lies always on the sea of milk.

<a id="manas-bal-soratha-4"></a>

sorathā 4. कुंद इंदु सम देह उमा रमन करुना अयन

Bāl Kāṇḍ.

Original

कुंद इंदु सम देह उमा रमन करुना अयन ।<br>

जाहि दीन पर नेह करउ कृपा मर्दन मयन ॥ ४ ॥

Transliteration

kuṃda iṃdu sama dēha umā ramana karunā ayana ।<br>

jāhi dīna para nēha karau kr̥pā mardana mayana ॥ 4 ॥

English

His body is like the jasmine and like the moon; he is Umā's husband and the dwelling place of mercy.<br>

He has love for the helpless. Let him show me kṛpā, who crushed the god of love.

<a id="manas-bal-soratha-5"></a>

sorathā 5. बंदउँ गुरु पद कंज कृपा सिंधु नररूप हरि

Bāl Kāṇḍ. The fifth bow is to the guru, and the whole of the poem starts from it.

Original

बंदउँ गुरु पद कंज कृपा सिंधु नररूप हरि ।<br>

महामोह तम पुंज जासु बचन रबि कर निकर ॥ ५ ॥

Transliteration

baṃdaum̐ guru pada kaṃja kr̥pā siṃdhu nararūpa hari ।<br>

mahāmōha tama puṃja jāsu bacana rabi kara nikara ॥ 5 ॥

English

I bow at the lotus of the guru's feet: an ocean of kṛpā, Hari in the shape of a man.<br>

The great dark of not knowing lies in a heap, and his words are the sheaf of the sun's rays.

<a id="manas-bal-1"></a>

dohā 1. बंदउँ गुरु पद पदुम परागा

Bāl Kāṇḍ. The first caupāīs of the poem, and the dohā that closes them.

Original

बंदउँ गुरु पद पदुम परागा । सुरुचि सुबास सरस अनुरागा ॥<br>

अमिअ मूरिमय चूरन चारू । समन सकल भव रुज परिवारू ॥<br>

सुकृति संभु तन बिमल बिभूती । मंजुल मंगल मोद प्रसूती ॥<br>

जन मन मंजु मुकुर मल हरनी । किएँ तिलक गुन गन बस करनी ॥<br>

श्रीगुर पद नख मनि गन जोती । सुमिरत दिब्य दृष्टि हियँ होती ॥<br>

दलन मोह तम सो सप्रकासू । बड़े भाग उर आवइ जासू ॥<br>

उघरहिं बिमल बिलोचन ही के । मिटहिं दोष दुख भव रजनी के ॥<br>

सूझहिं राम चरित मनि मानिक । गुपुत प्रगट जहँ जो जेहि खानिक ॥<br>

जथा सुअंजन अंजि दृग साधक सिद्ध सुजान ।<br>

कौतुक देखत सेल बन भूतल भूरि निधान ॥ १ ॥

Transliteration

baṃdaum̐ guru pada paduma parāgā । suruci subāsa sarasa anurāgā ॥<br>

amia mūrimaya cūrana cārū । samana sakala bhava ruja parivārū ॥<br>

sukr̥ti saṃbhu tana bimala bibhūtī । maṃjula maṃgala mōda prasūtī ॥<br>

jana mana maṃju mukura mala haranī । kiēm̐ tilaka guna gana basa karanī ॥<br>

śrīgura pada nakha mani gana jōtī । sumirata dibya dr̥ṣṭi hiyam̐ hōtī ॥<br>

dalana mōha tama sō saprakāsū । baṛē bhāga ura āvai jāsū ॥<br>

ugharahiṃ bimala bilōcana hī kē । miṭahiṃ dōṣa dukha bhava rajanī kē ॥<br>

sūjhahiṃ rāma carita mani mānika । guputa pragaṭa jaham̐ jō jēhi khānika ॥<br>

jathā suaṃjana aṃji dr̥ga sādhaka siddha sujāna ।<br>

kautuka dēkhata sēla bana bhūtala bhūri nidhāna ॥ 1 ॥

English

I bow to the pollen of the lotus of the guru's feet, which is good taste and sweet scent and the sap of love.<br>

It is a fine powder made of the herb that brings the dead back, and it puts down the whole family of the world's diseases.<br>

It is the clean ash on Śambhu's body, and the man it touches does well by it; it gives birth to beauty and good and gladness.<br>

It takes the dirt off the fine mirror that is a man's mind, and made into a tilak it brings the whole troop of virtues under him.<br>

The light off the jewels that are the nails of the guru's feet: remember it and the eye in the heart begins to see.<br>

That light breaks up the dark of not knowing, and great is the luck of the breast it comes into.<br>

The clean eyes of the heart come open. The faults and the pains of this world's night are rubbed out.<br>

Then the gems and rubies that are Rām's doings are seen, wherever they lie and in whatever mine, hidden or in the open.<br>

The way a man who has rubbed the good salve on his eyes, practised and accomplished and knowing,<br>

goes about at his pleasure seeing the hills and the woods and the great hoards of treasure under the ground.

The salve is the one that is supposed to let a man see what is buried. The guru's feet do for the mind what it does for the eyes.

<a id="manas-bal-8"></a>

dohā 8. खल परिहास होइ हित मोरा

Bāl Kāṇḍ. He is fifty pages into his own book and he stops to answer the people who will say he should not have written it.

Original

खल परिहास होइ हित मोरा । काक कहहिं कलकंठ कठोरा ॥<br>

हंसहि बक दादुर चातकही । हँसहिं मलिन खल बिमल बतकही ॥<br>

कबित रसिक न राम पद नेहू । तिन्ह कहँ सुखद हास रस एहू ॥<br>

भाषा भनिति भोरि मति मोरी । हँसिबे जोग हँसें नहिं खोरी ॥<br>

प्रभु पद प्रीति न सामुझि नीकी । तिन्हहि कथा सुनि लागिहि फीकी ॥<br>

हरि हर पद रति मति न कुतरकी । तिन्ह कहुँ मधुर कथा रघुबर की ॥<br>

राम भगति भूषित जियँ जानी । सुनिहहिं सुजन सराहि सुबानी ॥<br>

कबि न होउँ नहिं बचन प्रबीनू । सकल कला सब बिद्या हीनू ॥<br>

भाग छोट अभिलाषु बड़ करउँ एक बिस्वास ।<br>

पैहहिं सुख सुनि सुजन सब खल करिहहिं उपहास ॥ ८ ॥

Transliteration

khala parihāsa hōi hita mōrā । kāka kahahiṃ kalakaṃṭha kaṭhōrā ॥<br>

haṃsahi baka dādura cātakahī । ham̐sahiṃ malina khala bimala batakahī ॥<br>

kabita rasika na rāma pada nēhū । tinha kaham̐ sukhada hāsa rasa ēhū ॥<br>

bhāṣā bhaniti bhōri mati mōrī । ham̐sibē jōga ham̐sēṃ nahiṃ khōrī ॥<br>

prabhu pada prīti na sāmujhi nīkī । tinhahi kathā suni lāgihi phīkī ॥<br>

hari hara pada rati mati na kutarakī । tinha kahum̐ madhura kathā raghubara kī ॥<br>

rāma bhagati bhūṣita jiyam̐ jānī । sunihahiṃ sujana sarāhi subānī ॥<br>

kabi na hōum̐ nahiṃ bacana prabīnū । sakala kalā saba bidyā hīnū ॥<br>

bhāga chōṭa abhilāṣu baṛa karaum̐ ēka bisvāsa ।<br>

paihahiṃ sukha suni sujana saba khala karihahiṃ upahāsa ॥ 8 ॥

English

Being laughed at by the spiteful does me good. Crows call the cuckoo harsh.<br>

The heron laughs at the swan and the frog at the cātak. Dirty minds laugh at clean talk.<br>

Men with no taste for poetry and no love for Rām's feet: for them this will be a good joke, and welcome.<br>

The telling is in the common tongue and my wit is a simple one. It is fit to be laughed at, and there is no blame in laughing.<br>

No love for the lord's feet and no sound understanding: to them the story will taste of nothing.<br>

Love for the feet of Hari and Har, and a mind that does not argue crookedly: to them Raghubar's story is sweet.<br>

Knowing in themselves that it is ornamented with bhakti for Rām, good men will hear it and praise it in good words.<br>

I am no poet and I am not skilled with words. I am without every art and every branch of learning.<br>

My portion is small and what I want is large, and I do one thing only, which is trust.<br>

Good men will all take pleasure in hearing it, and the spiteful will make a joke of it.

Bhāṣā is the ordinary word for the language people speak, as against Sanskrit. He uses it about his own book without apology and without pretending it is not the charge against him.

<a id="manas-bal-caupai-9"></a>

caupāī 9. मंगल भवन अमंगल हारी

Bāl Kāṇḍ. The line said oftenest of all, and it stands here in the passage on the name.

Original

एहि महँ रघुपति नाम उदारा । अति पावन पुरान श्रुति सारा ॥<br>

मंगल भवन अमंगल हारी । उमा सहित जेहि जपत पुरारी ॥

Transliteration

ēhi maham̐ raghupati nāma udārā । ati pāvana purāna śruti sārā ॥<br>

maṃgala bhavana amaṃgala hārī । umā sahita jēhi japata purārī ॥

English

Inside it is Raghupati's open-handed name, which cleans a great deal, the pith of the purāṇas and the Vedas.<br>

It is the house of every good thing and the taker away of every bad one, and Purārī says it over with Umā beside him.

<a id="manas-bal-caupai-10"></a>

caupāī 10. भनिति भदेस बस्तु भलि बरनी

Bāl Kāṇḍ, in the assembly, with the chand that follows it.

Original

जदपि कबित रस एकउ नाहीं । राम प्रताप प्रगट एहि माहीं ॥<br>

सोइ भरोस मोरें मन आवा । केहिं न सुसंग बड़प्पनु पावा ॥<br>

धूमउ तजइ सहज करुआई । अगरु प्रसंग सुगंध बसाई ॥<br>

भनिति भदेस बस्तु भलि बरनी । राम कथा जग मंगल करनी ॥<br>

मंगल करनि कलिमलहरनि तुलसी कथा रघुनाथ की ।<br>

गति कूर कबिता सरित की ज्यों सरित पावन पाथ की ॥<br>

प्रभुसुजस संगति भनिति भलि होइहि सुजन मन भावनी ।<br>

भव अंग भूति मसान की सुमिरत सुहावनि पावनी ॥

Transliteration

jadapi kabita rasa ēkau nāhīṃ । rāma pratāpa pragaṭa ēhi māhīṃ ॥<br>

sōi bharōsa mōrēṃ mana āvā । kēhiṃ na susaṃga baṛappanu pāvā ॥<br>

dhūmau tajai sahaja karuāī । agaru prasaṃga sugaṃdha basāī ॥<br>

bhaniti bhadēsa bastu bhali baranī । rāma kathā jaga maṃgala karanī ॥<br>

maṃgala karani kalimalaharani tulasī kathā raghunātha kī ।<br>

gati kūra kabitā sarita kī jyōṃ sarita pāvana pātha kī ॥<br>

prabhusujasa saṃgati bhaniti bhali hōihi sujana mana bhāvanī ।<br>

bhava aṃga bhūti masāna kī sumirata suhāvani pāvanī ॥

English

Though there is not one drop of poetry's savour in it, Rām's greatness shows through it.<br>

That is the confidence that comes into my mind. What ever kept good company and was not made great by it?<br>

Even smoke gives up the bitterness it was born with, and near aloe wood it comes to smell sweet.<br>

The telling is coarse and the thing told is good. Rām's story does the world good.<br>

Tulsī's story of Raghunāth does every good and takes away the dirt of the kali age.<br>

The course of my poem's river runs crooked, the way a river runs, and the water in it is clean.<br>

By keeping company with the lord's good fame the telling will be good, and will please the minds of good men.<br>

The ash of the burning ground lies on Śiva's body, and to remember it is a pleasant thing and a cleansing one.

<a id="manas-bal-10ka"></a>

dohā 10 (ka). दारु बिचारु कि करइ कोउ बंदिअ मलय प्रसंग

Bāl Kāṇḍ. Malaya is the mountain the sandal grows on.

Original

प्रिय लागिहि अति सबहि मम भनिति राम जस संग ।<br>

दारु बिचारु कि करइ कोउ बंदिअ मलय प्रसंग ॥ १० (क) ॥

Transliteration

priya lāgihi ati sabahi mama bhaniti rāma jasa saṃga ।<br>

dāru bicāru ki karai kōu baṃdia malaya prasaṃga ॥ 10 (ka) ॥

English

My telling will be dear to everyone, for the company it keeps, which is Rām's praise.<br>

Who stops to consider what wood it is? What has stood near Malaya is worth bowing to.

<a id="manas-bal-10kha"></a>

dohā 10 (kha). स्याम सुरभि पय बिसद अति गुनद करहिं सब पान

Bāl Kāṇḍ. The two lines that are the argument of his life.

Original

स्याम सुरभि पय बिसद अति गुनद करहिं सब पान ।<br>

गिरा ग्राम्य सिय राम जस गावहिं सुनहिं सुजान ॥ १० (ख) ॥

Transliteration

syāma surabhi paya bisada ati gunada karahiṃ saba pāna ।<br>

girā grāmya siya rāma jasa gāvahiṃ sunahiṃ sujāna ॥ 10 (kha) ॥

English

The cow is black and her milk is white and does a great deal of good, and everybody drinks it.<br>

The speech is a village speech and the praise is Siyā's and Rām's, and those who know sing it and listen.

Girā grāmya is speech of the village, and the pandits meant it as an insult. He puts it in the same line as the milk.

<a id="manas-bal-caupai-14"></a>

caupāī 14. कलि के कबिन्ह करउँ परनामा

Bāl Kāṇḍ. He bows to the poets who did it before him, and then says what he is afraid of.

Original

एहि प्रकार बल मनहि देखाई । करिहउँ रघुपति कथा सुहाई ॥<br>

ब्यास आदि कबि पुंगव नाना । जिन्ह सादर हरि सुजस बखाना ॥<br>

चरन कमल बंदउँ तिन्ह केरे । पुरवहुँ सकल मनोरथ मेरे ॥<br>

कलि के कबिन्ह करउँ परनामा । जिन्ह बरने रघुपति गुन ग्रामा ॥<br>

जे प्राकृत कबि परम सयाने । भाषाँ जिन्ह हरि चरित बखाने ॥<br>

भए जे अहहिं जे होइहहिं आगें । प्रनवउँ सबहि कपट सब त्यागें ॥<br>

होहु प्रसन्न देहु बरदानू । साधु समाज भनिति सनमानू ॥<br>

जो प्रबंध बुध नहिं आदरहीं । सो श्रम बादि बाल कबि करहीं ॥<br>

कीरति भनिति भूति भलि सोई । सुरसरि सम सब कहँ हित होई ॥<br>

राम सुकीरति भनिति भदेसा । असमंजस अस मोहि अँदेसा ॥<br>

तुम्हरी कृपाँ सुलभ सोउ मोरे । सिअनि सुहावनि टाट पटोरे ॥

Transliteration

ēhi prakāra bala manahi dēkhāī । karihaum̐ raghupati kathā suhāī ॥<br>

byāsa ādi kabi puṃgava nānā । jinha sādara hari sujasa bakhānā ॥<br>

carana kamala baṃdaum̐ tinha kērē । puravahum̐ sakala manōratha mērē ॥<br>

kali kē kabinha karaum̐ paranāmā । jinha baranē raghupati guna grāmā ॥<br>

jē prākr̥ta kabi parama sayānē । bhāṣām̐ jinha hari carita bakhānē ॥<br>

bhaē jē ahahiṃ jē hōihahiṃ āgēṃ । pranavaum̐ sabahi kapaṭa saba tyāgēṃ ॥<br>

hōhu prasanna dēhu baradānū । sādhu samāja bhaniti sanamānū ॥<br>

jō prabaṃdha budha nahiṃ ādarahīṃ । sō śrama bādi bāla kabi karahīṃ ॥<br>

kīrati bhaniti bhūti bhali sōī । surasari sama saba kaham̐ hita hōī ॥<br>

rāma sukīrati bhaniti bhadēsā । asamaṃjasa asa mōhi am̐dēsā ॥<br>

tumharī kr̥pām̐ sulabha sōu mōrē । siani suhāvani ṭāṭa paṭōrē ॥

English

Having shown my mind its own strength in this way, I shall make the beautiful story of Raghupati.<br>

Vyās and many others, chief among poets, who have told over Hari's good fame with reverence:<br>

I bow at the lotus of their feet. Fill up every want of mine.<br>

To the poets of this Kali age I make my bow, who have told over the whole mass of Raghupati's virtues,<br>

and to the Prākṛt poets, who knew very well what they were doing, who set out Hari's doings in the people's own tongue.<br>

Those who have been, those who are, those who are still to come: I bow to all of them with nothing held back.<br>

Be pleased with me and give me this one thing: that the company of the good should think my telling worth something.<br>

A composition the wise do not respect is labour wasted, and only a childish poet makes one.<br>

Fame and a telling and a fortune are good when they do good to everybody, the way the river of the gods does.<br>

Rām's fame is a fine thing and my telling is a coarse one, and it is that mismatch I am afraid of.<br>

By your kṛpā even that comes easily to me. Good stitching looks well on sackcloth and on silk.

<a id="manas-bal-14ka"></a>

dohā 14 (ka). सरल कबित कीरति बिमल सोइ आदरहिं सुजान

Bāl Kāṇḍ. The test, set down where anybody can apply it.

Original

सरल कबित कीरति बिमल सोइ आदरहिं सुजान ।<br>

सहज बयर बिसराइ रिपु जो सुनि करहिं बखान ॥ १४ (क) ॥

Transliteration

sarala kabita kīrati bimala sōi ādarahiṃ sujāna ।<br>

sahaja bayara bisarāi ripu jō suni karahiṃ bakhāna ॥ 14 (ka) ॥

English

Plain poetry and a clean fame: that is what people who know respect.<br>

Poetry an enemy forgets his born enmity in order to hear, and then praises.

<a id="manas-bal-14kha"></a>

dohā 14 (kha). सो न होइ बिनु बिमल मति मोहि मति बल अति थोर

Bāl Kāṇḍ.

Original

सो न होइ बिनु बिमल मति मोहि मति बल अति थोर ।<br>

करहु कृपा हरि जस कहउँ पुनि पुनि करउँ निहोर ॥ १४ (ख) ॥

Transliteration

sō na hōi binu bimala mati mōhi mati bala ati thōra ।<br>

karahu kr̥pā hari jasa kahaum̐ puni puni karaum̐ nihōra ॥ 14 (kha) ॥

English

That does not happen without a clean mind, and the strength of my mind is very small.<br>

Show me kṛpā, so that I can tell Hari's fame. I ask it again and again.

<a id="manas-bal-18"></a>

dohā 18. गिरा अरथ जल बीचि सम कहिअत भिन्न न भिन्न

Bāl Kāṇḍ. The hinge into the long teaching on the name.

Original

गिरा अरथ जल बीचि सम कहिअत भिन्न न भिन्न ।<br>

बंदउँ सीता राम पद जिन्हहि परम प्रिय खिन्न ॥ १८ ॥

Transliteration

girā aratha jala bīci sama kahiata bhinna na bhinna ।<br>

baṃdaum̐ sītā rāma pada jinhahi parama priya khinna ॥ 18 ॥

English

Word and meaning are like water and a wave: they are called two things and they are not two.<br>

I bow at the feet of Sītā and Rām, to whom the wretched are the dearest thing there is.

<a id="manas-bal-caupai-19"></a>

caupāī 19. बंदउँ नाम राम रघुबर को

Bāl Kāṇḍ. The opening of the section on the name.

Original

बंदउँ नाम राम रघुबर को । हेतु कृसानु भानु हिमकर को ॥<br>

बिधि हरि हरमय बेद प्रान सो । अगुन अनूपम गुन निधान सो ॥<br>

महामंत्र जोइ जपत महेसू । कासीं मुकुति हेतु उपदेसू ॥<br>

महिमा जासु जान गनराऊ । प्रथम पूजिअत नाम प्रभाऊ ॥<br>

जान आदिकबि नाम प्रतापू । भयउ सुद्ध करि उलटा जापू ॥<br>

सहस नाम सम सुनि सिव बानी । जपि जेईं पिय संग भवानी ॥

Transliteration

baṃdaum̐ nāma rāma raghubara kō । hētu kr̥sānu bhānu himakara kō ॥<br>

bidhi hari haramaya bēda prāna sō । aguna anūpama guna nidhāna sō ॥<br>

mahāmaṃtra jōi japata mahēsū । kāsīṃ mukuti hētu upadēsū ॥<br>

mahimā jāsu jāna ganarāū । prathama pūjiata nāma prabhāū ॥<br>

jāna ādikabi nāma pratāpū । bhayau suddha kari ulaṭā jāpū ॥<br>

sahasa nāma sama suni siva bānī । japi jēīṃ piya saṃga bhavānī ॥

English

I bow to the name of Rām, of Raghubar, which is the cause of fire and of the sun and of the moon.<br>

It is Brahmā and Hari and Har; it is the life of the Vedas; it has no qualities and no likeness and it is the store of every quality.<br>

It is the great mantra Maheś says over, and at Kāśī it is the teaching he gives for release.<br>

Gaṇrāū knows how great it is, and it is by the power of the name that he is worshipped first.<br>

The first poet knew what the name can do. He said it backwards and was made clean.<br>

Hearing from Śiva's own mouth that it stands for a thousand names, Bhavānī said it over, sitting by her husband.

The first poet is Vālmīki, who is said to have begun with the name turned round and to have arrived at it the right way about.

<a id="manas-bal-19"></a>

dohā 19. बरषा रितु रघुपति भगति तुलसी सालि सुदास

Bāl Kāṇḍ. The two letters of the name are the two months of the rains.

Original

बरषा रितु रघुपति भगति तुलसी सालि सुदास ।<br>

राम नाम बर बरन जुग सावन भादव मास ॥ १९ ॥

Transliteration

baraṣā ritu raghupati bhagati tulasī sāli sudāsa ।<br>

rāma nāma bara barana juga sāvana bhādava māsa ॥ 19 ॥

English

Bhakti for Raghupati is the rainy season, Tulsī, and the good servants are the rice.<br>

The two fine letters of Rām's name are the months of Sāvan and Bhādav.

<a id="manas-bal-30ka"></a>

dohā 30 (ka). मैं पुनि निज गुर सन सुनी कथा सो सूकरखेत

Bāl Kāṇḍ. Sūkarkhet is the town he was taught in, and this is the only scene from his own boyhood he ever put in a book.

Original

मैं पुनि निज गुर सन सुनी कथा सो सूकरखेत ।<br>

समुझी नहिं तसि बालपन तब अति रहेउँ अचेत ॥ ३० (क) ॥

Transliteration

maiṃ puni nija gura sana sunī kathā sō sūkarakhēta ।<br>

samujhī nahiṃ tasi bālapana taba ati rahēum̐ acēta ॥ 30 (ka) ॥

English

And I heard that story from my own guru, at Sūkarkhet.<br>

I did not understand it, being a child then, and altogether without sense.

<a id="manas-bal-30kha"></a>

dohā 30 (kha). श्रोता बकता ग्याननिधि कथा राम कै गूढ़

Bāl Kāṇḍ. He gives the reason he did not understand it.

Original

श्रोता बकता ग्याननिधि कथा राम कै गूढ़ ।<br>

किमि समुझौं मैं जीव जड़ कलि मल ग्रसित बिमूढ़ ॥ ३० (ख) ॥

Transliteration

śrōtā bakatā gyānanidhi kathā rāma kai gūṛha ।<br>

kimi samujhauṃ maiṃ jīva jaṛa kali mala grasita bimūṛha ॥ 30 (kha) ॥

English

The teller of Rām's hidden story and the hearer of it are both of them treasuries of knowledge.<br>

How was I to take it in, a dull creature caught in the dirt of the age, and a fool?

<a id="manas-bal-31-1"></a>

caupāī 31.1. भाषाबद्ध करबि मैं सोई

Bāl Kāṇḍ, the two lines that follow the Sūkarkhet dohās. His teacher told the story over and over, and what came clear is what he says he will write down.

Original

तदपि कही गुर बारहिं बारा । समुझि परी कछु मति अनुसारा ॥<br>

भाषाबद्ध करबि मैं सोई । मोरें मन प्रबोध जेहिं होई ॥

Transliteration

tadapi kahī gura bārahiṃ bārā । samujhi parī kachu mati anusārā ॥<br>

bhāṣābaddha karabi maiṃ sōī । mōrēṃ mana prabōdha jēhiṃ hōī ॥

English

Even so my guru told it over and over, and something came clear, as much as my wit allowed.<br>

That is what I shall bind into bhāṣā, so that my own mind may wake.

Bhāṣā is the speech of the country, as against Sanskrit. The reason he gives for using it is not the reader's benefit but his own: so that his own mind may wake.

<a id="manas-bal-34-2"></a>

caupāī 34.2. संबत सोरह सै एकतीसा

Bāl Kāṇḍ. He gives the year, the day, the weekday and the town, in Awadhi words rather than figures.

Original

संबत सोरह सै एकतीसा । करउँ कथा हरि पद धरि सीसा ॥<br>

नौमी भौम बार मधुमासा । अवधपुरीं यह चरित प्रकासा ॥

Transliteration

saṃbata sōraha sai ēkatīsā । karaum̐ kathā hari pada dhari sīsā ॥<br>

naumī bhauma bāra madhumāsā । avadhapurīṃ yaha carita prakāsā ॥

English

In the year sixteen hundred and thirty-one I set my head on Hari's feet and make this story.<br>

The ninth of the month of honey, on a Tuesday: at Avadhpurī this carit was brought to light.

Saṃvat 1631 is 1574. The month of honey is Caitra, and the ninth of its bright half is Rāmnavamī, the day the scriptures give for the birth of Rām at Ayodhyā. It is the only place in anything he wrote where he dates himself.

<a id="manas-ayodhya-caupai-239"></a>

caupāī 239. भरत दीख प्रभु आश्रमु पावन

Ayodhyā Kāṇḍ. Bharat comes up the hill at Citrakūṭ and sees his brother.

Original

भरत दीख प्रभु आश्रमु पावन । सकल सुमंगल सदनु सुहावन ॥<br>

देखे भरत लखन प्रभु आगे । पूछे बचन कहत अनुरागे ॥<br>

सीस जटा कटि मुनि पट बाँधें । तून कसें कर सरु धनु काँधें ॥<br>

बेदी पर मुनि साधु समाजू । सीय सहित राजत रघुराजू ॥<br>

बलकल बसन जटिल तनु स्यामा । जनु मुनिबेष कीन्ह रति कामा ॥<br>

कर कमलनि धनु सायकु फेरत । जिय की जरनि हरत हँसि हेरत ॥

Transliteration

bharata dīkha prabhu āśramu pāvana । sakala sumaṃgala sadanu suhāvana ॥<br>

dēkhē bharata lakhana prabhu āgē । pūchē bacana kahata anurāgē ॥<br>

sīsa jaṭā kaṭi muni paṭa bām̐dhēṃ । tūna kasēṃ kara saru dhanu kām̐dhēṃ ॥<br>

bēdī para muni sādhu samājū । sīya sahita rājata raghurājū ॥<br>

balakala basana jaṭila tanu syāmā । janu munibēṣa kīnha rati kāmā ॥<br>

kara kamalani dhanu sāyaku phērata । jiya kī jarani harata ham̐si hērata ॥

English

Bharat saw the lord's clean hermitage, the house of every good thing, and beautiful.<br>

Bharat saw Lakhan standing in front of the lord, answering what he had been asked, and speaking with love.<br>

Matted hair on his head, a hermit's cloth tied at the waist, the quiver strapped on, an arrow in his hand, the bow at his shoulder.<br>

On the raised ground the sages and the holy men sat together, and Raghurāj was shining there with Siyā beside him.<br>

Bark for clothing, matted hair, the body dark: as though Rati and Kāma had put on a hermit's dress.<br>

In his lotus hands he was turning the bow and the arrow over, and he looked up and smiled, and the burning in a man's heart was taken away.

<a id="manas-ayodhya-240"></a>

dohā 240. पाहि नाथ कहि पाहि गोसाईं

Ayodhyā Kāṇḍ. Bharat goes down on the ground, and Lakhan cannot move, and then Rām gets up.

Original

सानुज सखा समेत मगन मन । बिसरे हरष सोक सुख दुख गन ॥<br>

पाहि नाथ कहि पाहि गोसाईं । भूतल परे लकुट की नाईं ॥<br>

बंधु सनेह सरस एहि ओरा । उत साहिब सेवा बस जोरा ॥<br>

मिलि न जाइ नहिं गुदरत बनई । सुकबि लखन मन की गति भनई ॥<br>

रहे राखि सेवा पर भारू । चढ़ी चंग जनु खेंच खेलारू ॥<br>

कहत सप्रेम नाइ महि माथा । भरत प्रनाम करत रघुनाथा ॥<br>

उठे रामु सुनि पेम अधीरा । कहूँ पट कहूँ निषंग धनु तीरा ॥<br>

बरबस लिए उठाइ उर लाए कृपानिधान ।<br>

भरत राम की मिलनि लखि बिसरे सबहि अपान ॥ २४० ॥

Transliteration

sānuja sakhā samēta magana mana । bisarē haraṣa sōka sukha dukha gana ॥<br>

pāhi nātha kahi pāhi gōsāīṃ । bhūtala parē lakuṭa kī nāīṃ ॥<br>

baṃdhu sanēha sarasa ēhi ōrā । uta sāhiba sēvā basa jōrā ॥<br>

mili na jāi nahiṃ gudarata banaī । sukabi lakhana mana kī gati bhanaī ॥<br>

rahē rākhi sēvā para bhārū । caṛhī caṃga janu khēṃca khēlārū ॥<br>

kahata saprēma nāi mahi māthā । bharata pranāma karata raghunāthā ॥<br>

uṭhē rāmu suni pēma adhīrā । kahūm̐ paṭa kahūm̐ niṣaṃga dhanu tīrā ॥<br>

barabasa liē uṭhāi ura lāē kr̥pānidhāna ।<br>

bharata rāma kī milani lakhi bisarē sabahi apāna ॥ 240 ॥

English

With his younger brother and his friend beside him, his mind went under; gladness and grief, pleasure and pain, all of it forgotten.<br>

Save me, lord, he said, save me, master, and he went down flat on the ground like a dropped stick.<br>

On this side the sweet love of a brother; on that side the hold of his master's service.<br>

He could not go and hold him and he could not bear to let him lie. What good poet could tell the working of Lakhan's mind?<br>

He stayed, and let the weight fall on the side of service: a kite that has gone up, and the flier on the ground pulling the string.<br>

He bowed his head to the ground and said with love: Bharat is making his obeisance, Raghunāth.<br>

Rām heard it, and love made him unsteady, and he got up; his cloth went one way and the quiver and the bow and the arrows another.<br>

The treasury of kṛpā took hold of him and lifted him up whether he would or not and held him against his breast.<br>

Everyone who saw Bharat and Rām meeting forgot himself.

<a id="manas-ayodhya-caupai-241"></a>

caupāī 241. परम पेम पूरन दोउ भाई

Ayodhyā Kāṇḍ. He stops the poem and says he cannot tell it.

Original

मिलनि प्रीति किमि जाइ बखानी । कबिकुल अगम करम मन बानी ॥<br>

परम पेम पूरन दोउ भाई । मन बुधि चित अहमिति बिसराई ॥<br>

अगम सनेह भरत रघुबर को । जहँ न जाइ मनु बिधि हरि हर को ॥

Transliteration

milani prīti kimi jāi bakhānī । kabikula agama karama mana bānī ॥<br>

parama pēma pūrana dōu bhāī । mana budhi cita ahamiti bisarāī ॥<br>

agama sanēha bharata raghubara kō । jaham̐ na jāi manu bidhi hari hara kō ॥

English

How is the love in that meeting to be told? It is out of the reach of the whole tribe of poets, in act and in mind and in speech.<br>

The two brothers were full to the brim with the highest love. Mind and understanding and thought and the sense of I were all forgotten.<br>

The love between Bharat and Raghubar cannot be got at. The minds of Brahmā and Hari and Har do not reach where it is.

<a id="manas-sundar-sloka-1"></a>

śloka 1. शान्तं शाश्वतमप्रमेयमनघं निर्वाणशान्तिप्रदं

Sundar Kāṇḍ. The three ślokas that open the fifth book, and every recitation of it.

Original

शान्तं शाश्वतमप्रमेयमनघं निर्वाणशान्तिप्रदं<br>

ब्रह्माशम्भुफणीन्द्रसेव्यमनिशं वेदान्तवेद्यं विभुम् ।<br>

रामाख्यं जगदीश्वरं सुरगुरुं मायामनुष्यं हरिं<br>

वन्देऽहं करुणाकरं रघुवरं भूपालचूडामणिम् ॥ १ ॥

Transliteration

śāntaṃ śāśvatamapramēyamanaghaṃ nirvāṇaśāntipradaṃ<br>

brahmāśambhuphaṇīndrasēvyamaniśaṃ vēdāntavēdyaṃ vibhum ।<br>

rāmākhyaṃ jagadīśvaraṃ suraguruṃ māyāmanuṣyaṃ hariṃ<br>

vandē'haṃ karuṇākaraṃ raghuvaraṃ bhūpālacūḍāmaṇim ॥ 1 ॥

English

Still, without beginning or end, beyond measuring, without a fault, the giver of the peace that is release,<br>

waited on without a pause by Brahmā and Śambhu and the lord of serpents, known at the end of the Vedas, and everywhere at once,<br>

called Rām, lord of the world, teacher of the gods, a man by māyā, Hari,<br>

a mine of mercy, best of the Raghus, the crest-jewel of kings: I bow to him.

<a id="manas-sundar-sloka-2"></a>

śloka 2. नान्या स्पृहा रघुपते हृदयेऽस्मदीये

Sundar Kāṇḍ.

Original

नान्या स्पृहा रघुपते हृदयेऽस्मदीये<br>

सत्यं वदामि च भवानखिलान्तरात्मा ।<br>

भक्तिं प्रयच्छ रघुपुङ्गव निर्भरां मे<br>

कामादिदोषरहितं कुरु मानसं च ॥ २ ॥

Transliteration

nānyā spr̥hā raghupatē hr̥dayē'smadīyē<br>

satyaṃ vadāmi ca bhavānakhilāntarātmā ।<br>

bhaktiṃ prayaccha raghupuṅgava nirbharāṃ mē<br>

kāmādidōṣarahitaṃ kuru mānasaṃ ca ॥ 2 ॥

English

There is no other wanting in this heart of mine, Raghupati.<br>

I am telling the truth, and you are the inward self of everything there is.<br>

Give me bhakti, best of the Raghus, and give it to me full.<br>

And make my mānas clean of desire and the faults that come with it.

<a id="manas-sundar-sloka-3"></a>

śloka 3. अतुलितबलधामं हेमशैलाभदेहं

Sundar Kāṇḍ. The verse to Hanumān.

Original

अतुलितबलधामं हेमशैलाभदेहं<br>

दनुजवनकृशानुं ज्ञानिनामग्रगण्यम् ।<br>

सकलगुणनिधानं वानराणामधीशं<br>

रघुपतिप्रियभक्तं वातजातं नमामि ॥ ३ ॥

Transliteration

atulitabaladhāmaṃ hēmaśailābhadēhaṃ<br>

danujavanakr̥śānuṃ jñānināmagragaṇyam ।<br>

sakalaguṇanidhānaṃ vānarāṇāmadhīśaṃ<br>

raghupatipriyabhaktaṃ vātajātaṃ namāmi ॥ 3 ॥

English

The house of a strength that cannot be weighed, his body like a mountain of gold,<br>

fire in the forest of the demon brood, first to be counted among those who know,<br>

the store of every good quality, the chief of the monkeys,<br>

Raghupati's own dear bhakta, born of the wind: I bow to him.

<a id="manas-sundar-1"></a>

dohā 1. राम काजु कीन्हें बिनु मोहि कहाँ बिश्राम

Sundar Kāṇḍ. Hanumān goes over the sea.

Original

जामवंत के बचन सुहाए । सुनि हनुमंत हृदय अति भाए ॥<br>

तब लगि मोहि परिखेहु तुम्ह भाई । सहि दुख कंद मूल फल खाई ॥<br>

जब लगि आवौं सीतहि देखी । होइहि काजु मोहि हरष बिसेषी ॥<br>

यह कहि नाइ सबन्हि कहुँ माथा । चलेउ हरषि हियँ धरि रघुनाथा ॥<br>

सिंधु तीर एक भूधर सुंदर । कौतुक कूदि चढ़ेउ ता ऊपर ॥<br>

बार बार रघुबीर सँभारी । तरकेउ पवनतनय बल भारी ॥<br>

जेहिं गिरि चरन देइ हनुमंता । चलेउ सो गा पाताल तुरंता ॥<br>

जिमि अमोघ रघुपति कर बाना । एही भाँति चलेउ हनुमाना ॥<br>

जलनिधि रघुपति दूत बिचारी । तैं मैनाक होहि श्रमहारी ॥<br>

हनूमान तेहि परसा कर पुनि कीन्ह प्रनाम ।<br>

राम काजु कीन्हें बिनु मोहि कहाँ बिश्राम ॥ १ ॥

Transliteration

jāmavaṃta kē bacana suhāē । suni hanumaṃta hr̥daya ati bhāē ॥<br>

taba lagi mōhi parikhēhu tumha bhāī । sahi dukha kaṃda mūla phala khāī ॥<br>

jaba lagi āvauṃ sītahi dēkhī । hōihi kāju mōhi haraṣa bisēṣī ॥<br>

yaha kahi nāi sabanhi kahum̐ māthā । calēu haraṣi hiyam̐ dhari raghunāthā ॥<br>

siṃdhu tīra ēka bhūdhara suṃdara । kautuka kūdi caṛhēu tā ūpara ॥<br>

bāra bāra raghubīra sam̐bhārī । tarakēu pavanatanaya bala bhārī ॥<br>

jēhiṃ giri carana dēi hanumaṃtā । calēu sō gā pātāla turaṃtā ॥<br>

jimi amōgha raghupati kara bānā । ēhī bhām̐ti calēu hanumānā ॥<br>

jalanidhi raghupati dūta bicārī । taiṃ maināka hōhi śramahārī ॥<br>

hanūmāna tēhi parasā kara puni kīnha pranāma ।<br>

rāma kāju kīnhēṃ binu mōhi kahām̐ biśrāma ॥ 1 ॥

English

Jāmvant's words were good words, and Hanumant heard them and they went straight to his heart.<br>

Wait for me until then, brothers. Bear the hardship, and live on roots and tubers and fruit.<br>

Until I come back, having seen Sītā. The work will be done, and the gladness of it will be mine.<br>

Saying this he bowed his head to all of them, and set off glad, holding Raghunāth in his heart.<br>

There was a fine hill on the shore of the sea, and for sport he jumped and stood on the top of it.<br>

Again and again he called Raghubīr to mind, and then the son of the wind sprang, and his great strength went with him.<br>

The hill Hanumant put his feet on went down into the underworld that instant.<br>

The way an arrow from Raghupati's hand never misses, in that way Hanumān went.<br>

The lord of the waters thought: this is Raghupati's messenger. Maināk, go and take his weariness away.<br>

Hanumān touched him with his hand and then made his obeisance to him:<br>

where is rest for me before Rām's work is done?

Maināk is a mountain that comes up out of the sea to give him somewhere to put his foot down. He touches it, he thanks it, and he does not stop.

<a id="manas-sundar-3"></a>

dohā 3. अति लघु रूप धरौं निसि नगर करौं पइसार

Sundar Kāṇḍ. He is standing outside Laṅkā looking at the guards on the wall.

Original

पुर रखवारे देखि बहु कपि मन कीन्ह बिचार ।<br>

अति लघु रूप धरौं निसि नगर करौं पइसार ॥ ३ ॥

Transliteration

pura rakhavārē dēkhi bahu kapi mana kīnha bicāra ।<br>

ati laghu rūpa dharauṃ nisi nagara karauṃ paisāra ॥ 3 ॥

English

Seeing how many kept guard over the city, the monkey turned it over in his mind:<br>

I shall make myself very small, and go into the town at night.

<a id="manas-sundar-4"></a>

dohā 4. मसक समान रूप कपि धरी

Sundar Kāṇḍ. Laṅkinī keeps the gate, and then she does not.

Original

मसक समान रूप कपि धरी । लंकहि चलेउ सुमिरि नरहरी ॥<br>

नाम लंकिनी एक निसिचरी । सो कह चलेसि मोहि निंदरी ॥<br>

जानेहि नहीं मरमु सठ मोरा । मोर अहार जहाँ लगि चोरा ॥<br>

मुठिका एक महा कपि हनी । रुधिर बमत धरनीं ढनमनी ॥<br>

पुनि संभारि उठी सो लंका । जोरि पानि कर बिनय ससंका ॥<br>

जब रावनहि ब्रह्म बर दीन्हा । चलत बिरंचि कहा मोहि चीन्हा ॥<br>

बिकल होसि तें कपि कें मारे । तब जानेसु निसिचर संघारे ॥<br>

तात मोर अति पुन्य बहूता । देखे नयन राम कर दूता ॥<br>

तात स्वर्ग अपबर्ग सुख धरिअ तुला एक अंग ।<br>

तूल न ताहि सकल मिलि जो सुख लव सतसंग ॥ ४ ॥

Transliteration

masaka samāna rūpa kapi dharī । laṃkahi calēu sumiri naraharī ॥<br>

nāma laṃkinī ēka nisicarī । sō kaha calēsi mōhi niṃdarī ॥<br>

jānēhi nahīṃ maramu saṭha mōrā । mōra ahāra jahām̐ lagi cōrā ॥<br>

muṭhikā ēka mahā kapi hanī । rudhira bamata dharanīṃ ḍhanamanī ॥<br>

puni saṃbhāri uṭhī sō laṃkā । jōri pāni kara binaya sasaṃkā ॥<br>

jaba rāvanahi brahma bara dīnhā । calata biraṃci kahā mōhi cīnhā ॥<br>

bikala hōsi tēṃ kapi kēṃ mārē । taba jānēsu nisicara saṃghārē ॥<br>

tāta mōra ati punya bahūtā । dēkhē nayana rāma kara dūtā ॥<br>

tāta svarga apabarga sukha dharia tulā ēka aṃga ।<br>

tūla na tāhi sakala mili jō sukha lava satasaṃga ॥ 4 ॥

English

The monkey took a shape the size of a mosquito and went on towards Laṅkā with the man-lion in his mind.<br>

There was a night-walker named Laṅkinī, and she said: you are going in, and you have slighted me.<br>

You do not know what I am, fool. Whatever comes in here thieving is my food.<br>

The great monkey hit her once with his fist, and she went down on the ground vomiting blood.<br>

Then Laṅkā gathered herself and stood up, and put her palms together, and spoke humbly, and was afraid.<br>

When Brahmā gave Rāvan his boon, Birañci told me a sign as he went:<br>

when a monkey's blow leaves you helpless, know then that the night-walkers are finished.<br>

My merit is very great, father. These eyes have seen Rām's messenger.<br>

Father, put the pleasures of heaven and of release in one pan of the scales:<br>

all of them together will not weigh against the pleasure of a moment of satsaṅg.

<a id="manas-sundar-soratha-12"></a>

sorathā 12. सुनहि बिनय मम बिटप असोका

Sundar Kāṇḍ. Sītā under the aśok tree, and the ring dropped from above her.

Original

सुनहि बिनय मम बिटप असोका । सत्य नाम करु हरु मम सोका ॥<br>

नूतन किसलय अनल समाना । देहि अगिनि जनि करहि निदाना ॥<br>

देखि परम बिरहाकुल सीता । सो छन कपिहि कलप सम बीता ॥<br>

कपि करि हृदय बिचार दीन्हि मुद्रिका डारि तब ।<br>

जनु असोक अंगार दीन्ह हरषि उठि कर गहेउ ॥ १२ ॥

Transliteration

sunahi binaya mama biṭapa asōkā । satya nāma karu haru mama sōkā ॥<br>

nūtana kisalaya anala samānā । dēhi agini jani karahi nidānā ॥<br>

dēkhi parama birahākula sītā । sō chana kapihi kalapa sama bītā ॥<br>

kapi kari hr̥daya bicāra dīnhi mudrikā ḍāri taba ।<br>

janu asōka aṃgāra dīnha haraṣi uṭhi kara gahēu ॥ 12 ॥

English

Hear what I ask, aśok tree. Make your name a true one and take my sorrow away.<br>

Your new leaves are the same thing as fire. Give me fire, and do not leave the cure half done.<br>

Seeing Sītā so far gone in the pain of being apart, that one moment went by for the monkey like an age of the world.<br>

The monkey turned it over in his heart, and then he let the ring fall.<br>

As though the aśok had handed her a live coal. She got up glad and took it in her hand.

Aśok is the name of the tree and it is also the word for having no sorrow. She is asking the tree to be what it is called.

<a id="manas-sundar-25"></a>

dohā 25. हरि प्रेरित तेहि अवसर चले मरुत उनचास

Sundar Kāṇḍ. They have set his tail alight.

Original

हरि प्रेरित तेहि अवसर चले मरुत उनचास ।<br>

अट्टहास करि गर्जा कपि बढ़ि लाग अकास ॥ २५ ॥

Transliteration

hari prērita tēhi avasara calē maruta unacāsa ।<br>

aṭṭahāsa kari garjā kapi baṛhi lāga akāsa ॥ 25 ॥

English

At that moment, sent by Hari, the forty-nine winds began to move.<br>

The monkey laughed out loud and roared, and grew until he reached the sky.

<a id="manas-sundar-26"></a>

dohā 26. उलटि पलटि लंका सब जारी

Sundar Kāṇḍ. The burning of the city.

Original

देह बिसाल परम हरुआई । मंदिर तें मंदिर चढ़ धाई ॥<br>

जरइ नगर भा लोग बिहाला । झपट लपट बहु कोटि कराला ॥<br>

तात मातु हा सुनिअ पुकारा । एहिं अवसर को हमहि उबारा ॥<br>

हम जो कहा यह कपि नहिं होई । बानर रूप धरें सुर कोई ॥<br>

साधु अवग्या कर फलु ऐसा । जरइ नगर अनाथ कर जैसा ॥<br>

जारा नगरु निमिष एक माहीं । एक बिभीषन कर गृह नाहीं ॥<br>

ता कर दूत अनल जेहिं सिरिजा । जरा न सो तेहि कारन गिरिजा ॥<br>

उलटि पलटि लंका सब जारी । कूदि परा पुनि सिंधु मझारी ॥<br>

पूँछ बुझाइ खोइ श्रम धरि लघु रूप बहोरि ।<br>

जनकसुता कें आगें ठाढ़ भयउ कर जोरि ॥ २६ ॥

Transliteration

dēha bisāla parama haruāī । maṃdira tēṃ maṃdira caṛha dhāī ॥<br>

jarai nagara bhā lōga bihālā । jhapaṭa lapaṭa bahu kōṭi karālā ॥<br>

tāta mātu hā sunia pukārā । ēhiṃ avasara kō hamahi ubārā ॥<br>

hama jō kahā yaha kapi nahiṃ hōī । bānara rūpa dharēṃ sura kōī ॥<br>

sādhu avagyā kara phalu aisā । jarai nagara anātha kara jaisā ॥<br>

jārā nagaru nimiṣa ēka māhīṃ । ēka bibhīṣana kara gr̥ha nāhīṃ ॥<br>

tā kara dūta anala jēhiṃ sirijā । jarā na sō tēhi kārana girijā ॥<br>

ulaṭi palaṭi laṃkā saba jārī । kūdi parā puni siṃdhu majhārī ॥<br>

pūm̐cha bujhāi khōi śrama dhari laghu rūpa bahōri ।<br>

janakasutā kēṃ āgēṃ ṭhāṛha bhayau kara jōri ॥ 26 ॥

English

His body was huge and he was very light with it, and he ran and climbed from house to house.<br>

The city burned and the people were beside themselves. Ten million dreadful tongues of flame leapt and caught.<br>

Father, mother, ah: that was what could be heard being called out. Who will get us out of this now?<br>

We said it: this is no monkey. This is some god who has taken a monkey's shape.<br>

This is the fruit of slighting a good man. The city burns as the city of a man with nobody to keep him burns.<br>

He burned the city in the space of a blink. One house was not burned, and it was Bibhīṣan's.<br>

He is the messenger of the one who made fire; that is why he did not burn, Girijā.<br>

He turned Laṅkā over and over and burned all of it, and then he jumped down into the middle of the sea.<br>

He put his tail out and washed off his weariness and took a small shape again,<br>

and stood in front of Janak's daughter with his palms joined.

Girijā is Pārvatī. Śiva is telling her the whole story, and this is one of the places where he turns and speaks to her inside it.

<a id="manas-sundar-60"></a>

dohā 60. सकल सुमंगल दायक रघुनायक गुन गान

Sundar Kāṇḍ. The close of the fifth book.

Original

निज भवन गवनेउ सिंधु श्रीरघुपतिहि यह मत भायऊ ।<br>

यह चरित कलि मलहर जथामति दास तुलसी गायऊ ॥<br>

सुख भवन संसय समन दवन बिषाद रघुपति गुन गना ।<br>

तजि सकल आस भरोस गावहि सुनहि संतत सठ मना ॥<br>

सकल सुमंगल दायक रघुनायक गुन गान ।<br>

सादर सुनहिं ते तरहिं भव सिंधु बिना जलजान ॥ ६० ॥

Transliteration

nija bhavana gavanēu siṃdhu śrīraghupatihi yaha mata bhāyaū ।<br>

yaha carita kali malahara jathāmati dāsa tulasī gāyaū ॥<br>

sukha bhavana saṃsaya samana davana biṣāda raghupati guna ganā ।<br>

taji sakala āsa bharōsa gāvahi sunahi saṃtata saṭha manā ॥<br>

sakala sumaṃgala dāyaka raghunāyaka guna gāna ।<br>

sādara sunahiṃ tē tarahiṃ bhava siṃdhu binā jalajāna ॥ 60 ॥

English

The sea went home, and Śrīraghupati was pleased with the plan.<br>

Tulsī his servant has sung this carit, which takes away the dirt of the kali age, as far as his wit would carry him.<br>

The mass of Raghupati's virtues is the house of pleasure, the settling of doubt, the putting out of grief.<br>

Give up every other hope and every other trust, foolish mind, and sing them and hear them always.<br>

Singing the good qualities of Raghunāyak gives every good thing there is.<br>

Those who hear it with reverence cross the sea of this world without a boat.

<a id="manas-uttar-130ka"></a>

dohā 130 (ka). मो सम दीन न दीन हित तुम्ह समान रघुबीर

Uttar Kāṇḍ. The chand and the dohā that end the seventh book.

Original

सुंदर सुजान कृपा निधान अनाथ पर कर प्रीति जो ।<br>

सो एक राम अकाम हित निर्बानप्रद सम आन को ॥<br>

जाकी कृपा लवलेस ते मतिमंद तुलसीदासहूँ ।<br>

पायो परम बिश्रामु राम समान प्रभु नाहीं कहूँ ॥<br>

मो सम दीन न दीन हित तुम्ह समान रघुबीर ।<br>

अस बिचारि रघुबंस मनि हरहु बिषम भव भीर ॥ १३० (क) ॥

Transliteration

suṃdara sujāna kr̥pā nidhāna anātha para kara prīti jō ।<br>

sō ēka rāma akāma hita nirbānaprada sama āna kō ॥<br>

jākī kr̥pā lavalēsa tē matimaṃda tulasīdāsahūm̐ ।<br>

pāyō parama biśrāmu rāma samāna prabhu nāhīṃ kahūm̐ ॥<br>

mō sama dīna na dīna hita tumha samāna raghubīra ।<br>

asa bicāri raghubaṃsa mani harahu biṣama bhava bhīra ॥ 130 (ka) ॥

English

Beautiful, knowing, a treasury of kṛpā, who loves the man who has nobody:<br>

there is one such, and it is Rām, who wants nothing, who does good, who gives release. Who is there like him?<br>

By the least particle of whose kṛpā even Tulsīdās, who is slow in the head,<br>

has come to the highest rest. There is nowhere a lord like Rām.<br>

There is nobody as poor as I am and nobody as good to the poor as you are, Raghubīr.<br>

Think of that, jewel of the Raghu line, and take away this hard crowding fear of the world.

<a id="manas-uttar-130kha"></a>

dohā 130 (kha). कामिहि नारि पिआरि जिमि लोभिहि प्रिय जिमि दाम

Uttar Kāṇḍ. The last dohā of the poem.

Original

कामिहि नारि पिआरि जिमि लोभिहि प्रिय जिमि दाम ।<br>

तिमि रघुनाथ निरंतर प्रिय लागहु मोहि राम ॥ १३० (ख) ॥

Transliteration

kāmihi nāri piāri jimi lōbhihi priya jimi dāma ।<br>

timi raghunātha niraṃtara priya lāgahu mōhi rāma ॥ 130 (kha) ॥

English

As a woman is dear to a man in love, as money is dear to a greedy man,<br>

so let you be dear to me without a break, Raghunāth, Rām.

He ends twelve thousand lines with two comparisons nobody would call devotional, and asks for that kind of holding on.

<a id="manas-uttar-sloka-1"></a>

śloka 1. यत्पूर्वं प्रभुणा कृतं सुकविना श्रीशम्भुना दुर्गमं

Uttar Kāṇḍ. The first of the two Sanskrit ślokas at the end.

Original

यत्पूर्वं प्रभुणा कृतं सुकविना श्रीशम्भुना दुर्गमं<br>

श्रीमद्रामपदाब्जभक्तिमनिशं प्राप्त्यै तु रामायणम् ।<br>

मत्वा तद्रघुनाथनामनिरतं स्वान्तस्तमःशान्तये<br>

भाषाबद्धमिदं चकार तुलसीदासस्तथा मानसम् ॥ १ ॥

Transliteration

yatpūrvaṃ prabhuṇā kr̥taṃ sukavinā śrīśambhunā durgamaṃ<br>

śrīmadrāmapadābjabhaktimaniśaṃ prāptyai tu rāmāyaṇam ।<br>

matvā tadraghunāthanāmanirataṃ svāntastamaḥśāntayē<br>

bhāṣābaddhamidaṃ cakāra tulasīdāsastathā mānasam ॥ 1 ॥

English

What the lord made before, that good poet Śrīśambhu, and made hard to get at,<br>

a Rāmāyaṇa, so that bhakti at the lotus feet of Śrīmad Rām might be come at without a break:<br>

holding that in mind, given over to the name of Raghunāth, and to quiet the dark inside himself,<br>

Tulsīdās made this Mānas, and bound it in the common tongue.

He says it in Sanskrit, on his last page, as he said it on his first: the book is in bhāṣā and that is what it is for.

<a id="manas-uttar-sloka-2"></a>

śloka 2. पुण्यं पापहरं सदा शिवकरं विज्ञानभक्तिप्रदं

Uttar Kāṇḍ. The last words of the book.

Original

पुण्यं पापहरं सदा शिवकरं विज्ञानभक्तिप्रदं<br>

मायामोहमलापहं सुविमलं प्रेमाम्बुपूरं शुभम् ।<br>

श्रीमद्रामचरित्रमानसमिदं भक्त्यावगाहन्ति ये<br>

ते संसारपतङ्गघोरकिरणैर्दह्यन्ति नो मानवाः ॥ २ ॥

Transliteration

puṇyaṃ pāpaharaṃ sadā śivakaraṃ vijñānabhaktipradaṃ<br>

māyāmōhamalāpahaṃ suvimalaṃ prēmāmbupūraṃ śubham ।<br>

śrīmadrāmacaritramānasamidaṃ bhaktyāvagāhanti yē<br>

tē saṃsārapataṅgaghōrakiraṇairdahyanti nō mānavāḥ ॥ 2 ॥

English

Holy, taking sin away, always doing good, giving knowledge and bhakti,<br>

carrying off the dirt of māyā and delusion, very clear, filled with the water of love, auspicious:<br>

the men who go down with bhakti into this lake that is Śrīmad Rām's doings,<br>

they are not burned by the terrible rays of the sun that is this world.

<a id="hanuman-calisa"></a>

Hanumān Cālīsā

Forty caupāīs and three dohās, and that is the whole of it. A person who cannot read a word of it can have the thing by heart in an afternoon, because it was made to be heard once and given back. It is said walking, and it is said waiting: on the road, on a platform, in the last minutes before something that has to be got through, and more people say it than say anything else he wrote. It is the argument of the Mānas made small, that Rām's greatness belongs in the mouth of anybody at all, in the words they already have.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-doha-1"></a>

dohā 1. श्रीगुरु चरन सरोज रज, निज मनु मुकुरु सुधारि

Original

श्रीगुरु चरन सरोज रज, निज मनु मुकुरु सुधारि ।<br>

बरनउँ रघुबर बिमल जसु, जो दायकु फल चारि ॥

Transliteration

śrīguru carana sarōja raja, nija manu mukuru sudhāri ।<br>

baranaum̐ raghubara bimala jasu, jō dāyaku phala cāri ॥

English

With the dust of Śrī Guru's lotus feet I have cleaned the mirror of my own mind,<br>

and now I tell the clear praise of Raghubar, which gives the four fruits.

The four fruits are dharma, artha, kām and mokṣa, which is to say everything anyone wants from a life.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-doha-2"></a>

dohā 2. बुद्धिहीन तनु जानिके, सुमिरौं पवन-कुमार

Original

बुद्धिहीन तनु जानिके, सुमिरौं पवन-कुमार ।<br>

बल बुधि बिद्या देहु मोहिं, हरहु कलेस बिकार ॥

Transliteration

buddhihīna tanu jānikē, sumirauṃ pavana-kumāra ।<br>

bala budhi bidyā dēhu mōhiṃ, harahu kalēsa bikāra ॥

English

Knowing this body of mine has no wit in it, I call on Pavankumār.<br>

Give me strength and sense and learning; carry off my trouble and my faults.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-1"></a>

1. जय हनुमान ज्ञान गुन सागर

Original

जय हनुमान ज्ञान गुन सागर ।<br>

जय कपीस तिहुँ लोक उजागर ॥

Transliteration

jaya hanumāna jñāna guna sāgara ।<br>

jaya kapīsa tihum̐ lōka ujāgara ॥

English

Victory, Hanumān, ocean of wisdom and of every good quality.<br>

Victory, lord of the monkeys, who lights up the three worlds.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-2"></a>

2. राम दूत अतुलित बल धामा

Original

राम दूत अतुलित बल धामा ।<br>

अंजनि-पुत्र पवनसुत नामा ॥

Transliteration

rāma dūta atulita bala dhāmā ।<br>

aṃjani-putra pavanasuta nāmā ॥

English

Messenger of Rām, dwelling of strength no one can measure,<br>

Añjanī's son, the wind's son: those are your names.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-3"></a>

3. महाबीर बिक्रम बजरंगी

Original

महाबीर बिक्रम बजरंगी ।<br>

कुमति निवार सुमति के संगी ॥

Transliteration

mahābīra bikrama bajaraṃgī ।<br>

kumati nivāra sumati kē saṃgī ॥

English

Mahābīr, valiant, Bajraṅgī,<br>

you drive the crooked mind out and keep company with the clear one.

Bajra is Indra's thunderbolt, the hardest thing there is. Bajraṅgī is the one whose body is made of it.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-4"></a>

4. कंचन बरन बिराज सुबेसा

Original

कंचन बरन बिराज सुबेसा ।<br>

कानन कुंडल कुंचित केसा ॥

Transliteration

kaṃcana barana birāja subēsā ।<br>

kānana kuṃḍala kuṃcita kēsā ॥

English

The colour of gold, and you shine in fine clothes,<br>

rings in your ears and your hair falling in curls.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-5"></a>

5. हाथ बज्र औ ध्वजा बिराजै

Original

हाथ बज्र औ ध्वजा बिराजै ।<br>

काँधे मूँज जनेऊ साजै ॥

Transliteration

hātha bajra au dhvajā birājai ।<br>

kām̐dhē mūm̐ja janēū sājai ॥

English

In your hands the bajra and the banner shine,<br>

and across your shoulder the sacred thread of mūñj grass sits well.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-6"></a>

6. संकर सुवन केसरीनंदन

Original

संकर सुवन केसरीनंदन ।<br>

तेज प्रताप महा जग बंदन ॥

Transliteration

saṃkara suvana kēsarīnaṃdana ।<br>

tēja pratāpa mahā jaga baṃdana ॥

English

Śaṅkar's own son, and Kesarī's gladness,<br>

great in brightness and in power, and the world bows to you.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-7"></a>

7. बिद्यावान गुनी अति चातुर

Original

बिद्यावान गुनी अति चातुर ।<br>

राम काज करिबे को आतुर ॥

Transliteration

bidyāvāna gunī ati cātura ।<br>

rāma kāja karibē kō ātura ॥

English

Full of learning, full of virtue, and very quick,<br>

eager to get Rām's work done.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-8"></a>

8. प्रभु चरित्र सुनिबे को रसिया

Original

प्रभु चरित्र सुनिबे को रसिया ।<br>

राम लषन सीता मन बसिया ॥

Transliteration

prabhu caritra sunibē kō rasiyā ।<br>

rāma laṣana sītā mana basiyā ॥

English

You take your whole delight in hearing the lord's story,<br>

and Rām, Lakhan and Sītā dwell in your mind.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-9"></a>

9. सूक्ष्म रूप धरि सियहिं दिखावा

Original

सूक्ष्म रूप धरि सियहिं दिखावा ।<br>

बिकट रूप धरि लंक जरावा ॥

Transliteration

sūkṣma rūpa dhari siyahiṃ dikhāvā ।<br>

bikaṭa rūpa dhari laṃka jarāvā ॥

English

Taking a tiny form you showed yourself to Siyā;<br>

taking a terrible form you burned Laṅkā.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-10"></a>

10. भीम रूप धरि असुर सँहारे

Original

भीम रूप धरि असुर सँहारे ।<br>

रामचंद्र के काज सँवारे ॥

Transliteration

bhīma rūpa dhari asura sam̐hārē ।<br>

rāmacaṃdra kē kāja sam̐vārē ॥

English

Taking a huge form you destroyed the demons<br>

and set Rāmcandra's work in order.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-11"></a>

11. लाय सजीवन लखन जियाये

Original

लाय सजीवन लखन जियाये ।<br>

श्रीरघुबीर हरषि उर लाये ॥

Transliteration

lāya sajīvana lakhana jiyāyē ।<br>

śrīraghubīra haraṣi ura lāyē ॥

English

You brought the sajīvan herb and Lakhan lived again,<br>

and Śrī Raghubīr was glad and held you to his heart.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-12"></a>

12. रघुपति कीन्ही बहुत बड़ाई

Original

रघुपति कीन्ही बहुत बड़ाई ।<br>

तुम मम प्रिय भरतहि सम भाई ॥

Transliteration

raghupati kīnhī bahuta baṛāī ।<br>

tuma mama priya bharatahi sama bhāī ॥

English

Raghupati made much of you:<br>

'You are my dear brother, and to me the equal of Bharat.'

<a id="hanuman-calisa-13"></a>

13. सहस बदन तुम्हरो जस गावैं

Original

सहस बदन तुम्हरो जस गावैं ।<br>

अस कहि श्रीपति कंठ लगावैं ॥

Transliteration

sahasa badana tumharō jasa gāvaiṃ ।<br>

asa kahi śrīpati kaṃṭha lagāvaiṃ ॥

English

'A thousand mouths sing your praise.'<br>

Saying this, Śrīpati held you close.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-14"></a>

14. सनकादिक ब्रह्मादि मुनीसा

Original

सनकादिक ब्रह्मादि मुनीसा ।<br>

नारद सारद सहित अहीसा ॥

Transliteration

sanakādika brahmādi munīsā ।<br>

nārada sārada sahita ahīsā ॥

English

Sanak and his brothers, Brahmā, the lords among the munis,<br>

Nārad and Sārad, and Ahīs the lord of snakes with them:

<a id="hanuman-calisa-15"></a>

15. जम कुबेर दिगपाल जहाँ ते

Original

जम कुबेर दिगपाल जहाँ ते ।<br>

कबि कोबिद कहि सके कहाँ ते ॥

Transliteration

jama kubēra digapāla jahām̐ tē ।<br>

kabi kōbida kahi sakē kahām̐ tē ॥

English

Jam, Kuber, the guardians of the quarters: these can tell only so much of you,<br>

so where can a poet or a learned man come to the end of it?

<a id="hanuman-calisa-16"></a>

16. तुम उपकार सुग्रीवहिं कीन्हा

Original

तुम उपकार सुग्रीवहिं कीन्हा ।<br>

राम मिलाय राज पद दीन्हा ॥

Transliteration

tuma upakāra sugrīvahiṃ kīnhā ।<br>

rāma milāya rāja pada dīnhā ॥

English

You did Sugrīv a kindness:<br>

you brought him to Rām and gave him a king's place.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-17"></a>

17. तुम्हरो मंत्र बिभीषन माना

Original

तुम्हरो मंत्र बिभीषन माना ।<br>

लंकेस्वर भए सब जग जाना ॥

Transliteration

tumharō maṃtra bibhīṣana mānā ।<br>

laṃkēsvara bhaē saba jaga jānā ॥

English

Bibhīṣan took the counsel you gave him<br>

and became lord of Laṅkā, as the whole world knows.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-18"></a>

18. जुग सहस्त्र जोजन पर भानू

Original

जुग सहस्त्र जोजन पर भानू ।<br>

लील्यो ताहि मधुर फल जानू ॥

Transliteration

juga sahastra jōjana para bhānū ।<br>

līlyō tāhi madhura phala jānū ॥

English

Thousands of jojan away stands the sun,<br>

and you swallowed him, taking him for a sweet fruit.

A jojan is a distance of several miles, and jug sahastra jojan stacks the measures up until the number stops being a number. Devotees who work it out arrive at the distance of the sun.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-19"></a>

19. प्रभु मुद्रिका मेलि मुख माहीं

Original

प्रभु मुद्रिका मेलि मुख माहीं ।<br>

जलधि लाँघि गये अचरज नाहीं ॥

Transliteration

prabhu mudrikā mēli mukha māhīṃ ।<br>

jaladhi lām̐ghi gayē acaraja nāhīṃ ॥

English

You put the lord's ring inside your mouth<br>

and went over the sea at a stride, and there is no wonder in it.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-20"></a>

20. दुर्गम काज जगत के जेते

Original

दुर्गम काज जगत के जेते ।<br>

सुगम अनुग्रह तुम्हरे तेते ॥

Transliteration

durgama kāja jagata kē jētē ।<br>

sugama anugraha tumharē tētē ॥

English

However many works in the world are too hard for anyone,<br>

so many of them your grace makes easy.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-21"></a>

21. राम दुआरे तुम रखवारे

Original

राम दुआरे तुम रखवारे ।<br>

होत न आज्ञा बिनु पैसारे ॥

Transliteration

rāma duārē tuma rakhavārē ।<br>

hōta na ājñā binu paisārē ॥

English

You are the guard at Rām's door,<br>

and nobody gets in without your leave.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-22"></a>

22. सब सुख लहै तुम्हारी सरना

Original

सब सुख लहै तुम्हारी सरना ।<br>

तुम रच्छक काहू को डर ना ॥

Transliteration

saba sukha lahai tumhārī saranā ।<br>

tuma racchaka kāhū kō ḍara nā ॥

English

In your shelter a man finds every happiness.<br>

You are the one who guards him, so there is nobody to fear.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-23"></a>

23. आपन तेज सम्हारो आपै

Original

आपन तेज सम्हारो आपै ।<br>

तीनों लोक हाँक तें काँपै ॥

Transliteration

āpana tēja samhārō āpai ।<br>

tīnōṃ lōka hām̐ka tēṃ kām̐pai ॥

English

You keep your own blaze in check yourself;<br>

at one shout of yours the three worlds tremble.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-24"></a>

24. भूत पिसाच निकट नहिं आवै

Original

भूत पिसाच निकट नहिं आवै ।<br>

महाबीर जब नाम सुनावै ॥

Transliteration

bhūta pisāca nikaṭa nahiṃ āvai ।<br>

mahābīra jaba nāma sunāvai ॥

English

Ghosts and pisāc do not come near<br>

when a man says out the name of Mahābīr.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-25"></a>

25. नासै रोग हरै सब पीरा

Original

नासै रोग हरै सब पीरा ।<br>

जपत निरंतर हनुमत बीरा ॥

Transliteration

nāsai rōga harai saba pīrā ।<br>

japata niraṃtara hanumata bīrā ॥

English

Sickness is broken and all pain carried off<br>

from whoever keeps the jap of Hanumat Bīr without a break.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-26"></a>

26. संकट तें हनुमान छुड़ावै

Original

संकट तें हनुमान छुड़ावै ।<br>

मन क्रम बचन ध्यान जो लावै ॥

Transliteration

saṃkaṭa tēṃ hanumāna chuṛāvai ।<br>

mana krama bacana dhyāna jō lāvai ॥

English

Hanumān brings a man out of sankaṭ,<br>

whoever fixes his dhyān on him in mind and deed and word.

Sankaṭ is trouble, and it is also a narrow place, a pass with no room to turn round in. To be brought out of sankaṭ is to be let out into the open.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-27"></a>

27. सब पर राम तपस्वी राजा

Original

सब पर राम तपस्वी राजा ।<br>

तिन के काज सकल तुम साजा ॥

Transliteration

saba para rāma tapasvī rājā ।<br>

tina kē kāja sakala tuma sājā ॥

English

Over everyone is Rām, the king who lives by tap,<br>

and every one of his tasks you set in order.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-28"></a>

28. और मनोरथ जो कोइ लावै

Original

और मनोरथ जो कोइ लावै ।<br>

सोइ अमित जीवन फल पावै ॥

Transliteration

aura manōratha jō kōi lāvai ।<br>

sōi amita jīvana phala pāvai ॥

English

And if anyone brings some other wish to you,<br>

he gets a fruit of this life beyond measuring.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-29"></a>

29. चारों जुग परताप तुम्हारा

Original

चारों जुग परताप तुम्हारा ।<br>

है परसिद्ध जगत उजियारा ॥

Transliteration

cārōṃ juga paratāpa tumhārā ।<br>

hai parasiddha jagata ujiyārā ॥

English

Your power stands through all four ages,<br>

known everywhere, and the light of the world.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-30"></a>

30. साधु संत के तुम रखवारे

Original

साधु संत के तुम रखवारे ।<br>

असुर निकंदन राम दुलारे ॥

Transliteration

sādhu saṃta kē tuma rakhavārē ।<br>

asura nikaṃdana rāma dulārē ॥

English

You are the keeper of the sādhus and the sants,<br>

you tear the demons out by the root, and Rām holds you dear.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-31"></a>

31. अष्ट सिद्धि नौ निधि के दाता

Original

अष्ट सिद्धि नौ निधि के दाता ।<br>

अस बर दीन जानकी माता ॥

Transliteration

aṣṭa siddhi nau nidhi kē dātā ।<br>

asa bara dīna jānakī mātā ॥

English

Giver of the eight siddhis and the nine treasures:<br>

that is the boon mother Jānakī gave you.

The eight siddhis are the powers that come to a person who has gone far, and the nine nidhis are Kuber's nine treasures. The boon was not that he should hold them but that he should be the one who gives them away.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-32"></a>

32. राम रसायन तुम्हरे पासा

Original

राम रसायन तुम्हरे पासा ।<br>

सदा रहो रघुपति के दासा ॥

Transliteration

rāma rasāyana tumharē pāsā ।<br>

sadā rahō raghupati kē dāsā ॥

English

Rām's own elixir is in your keeping.<br>

Stay for ever the servant of Raghupati.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-33"></a>

33. तुम्हरे भजन राम को पावै

Original

तुम्हरे भजन राम को पावै ।<br>

जनम जनम के दुख बिसरावै ॥

Transliteration

tumharē bhajana rāma kō pāvai ।<br>

janama janama kē dukha bisarāvai ॥

English

Singing your bhajan a man comes to Rām<br>

and the griefs of birth after birth are forgotten.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-34"></a>

34. अंत काल रघुबर पुर जाई

Original

अंत काल रघुबर पुर जाई ।<br>

जहाँ जन्म हरि-भक्त कहाई ॥

Transliteration

aṃta kāla raghubara pura jāī ।<br>

jahām̐ janma hari-bhakta kahāī ॥

English

At the last hour he goes to Raghubar's city,<br>

and born there, he is known as a bhakt of Hari.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-35"></a>

35. और देवता चित्त न धरई

Original

और देवता चित्त न धरई ।<br>

हनुमत सेइ सर्ब सुख करई ॥

Transliteration

aura dēvatā citta na dharaī ।<br>

hanumata sēi sarba sukha karaī ॥

English

He puts no other god in his mind.<br>

Serving Hanumat, he has every happiness there is.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-36"></a>

36. संकट कटै मिटै सब पीरा

Original

संकट कटै मिटै सब पीरा ।<br>

जो सुमिरै हनुमत बलबीरा ॥

Transliteration

saṃkaṭa kaṭai miṭai saba pīrā ।<br>

jō sumirai hanumata balabīrā ॥

English

The sankaṭ is cut away and all the pain ends<br>

for whoever remembers Hanumat Balbīr.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-37"></a>

37. जै जै जै हनुमान गोसाईं

Original

जै जै जै हनुमान गोसाईं ।<br>

कृपा करहु गुरु देव की नाईं ॥

Transliteration

jai jai jai hanumāna gōsāīṃ ।<br>

kr̥pā karahu guru dēva kī nāīṃ ॥

English

Victory, victory, victory, Hanumān Gosāīṃ.<br>

Do me kṛpā the way a gurudev does it.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-38"></a>

38. जो सत बार पाठ कर कोई

Original

जो सत बार पाठ कर कोई ।<br>

छूटहि बंदि महा सुख होई ॥

Transliteration

jō sata bāra pāṭha kara kōī ।<br>

chūṭahi baṃdi mahā sukha hōī ॥

English

Whoever recites this a hundred times<br>

is let out of his bonds and comes into great happiness.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-39"></a>

39. जो यह पढ़ै हनुमान चलीसा

Original

जो यह पढ़ै हनुमान चलीसा ।<br>

होय सिद्धि साखी गौरीसा ॥

Transliteration

jō yaha paṛhai hanumāna calīsā ।<br>

hōya siddhi sākhī gaurīsā ॥

English

Whoever reads this Hanumān Cālīsā,<br>

siddhi is his, and Gaurīs stands witness to it.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-40"></a>

40. तुलसीदास सदा हरि चेरा

Original

तुलसीदास सदा हरि चेरा ।<br>

कीजै नाथ हृदय महँ डेरा ॥

Transliteration

tulasīdāsa sadā hari cērā ।<br>

kījai nātha hr̥daya maham̐ ḍērā ॥

English

Tulsīdās is Hari's servant always.<br>

Nāth, pitch your camp in this heart.

<a id="hanuman-calisa-closing-doha"></a>

closing dohā. पवनतनय संकट हरन, मंगल मूरति रूप

Original

पवनतनय संकट हरन, मंगल मूरति रूप ।<br>

राम लखन सीता सहित, हृदय बसहु सुर भूप ॥

Transliteration

pavanatanaya saṃkaṭa harana, maṃgala mūrati rūpa ।<br>

rāma lakhana sītā sahita, hr̥daya basahu sura bhūpa ॥

English

Son of the wind, you take sankaṭ away, and your very form is a blessing.<br>

With Rām and Lakhan and Sītā, come and live in my heart, king of the gods.

<a id="hanumanastak"></a>

Sankaṭmocan Hanumānāṣṭak

Eight stanzas, and every one of them ends on the same line: that Hanumān takes distress away, and that there is nobody in the world who does not know it. Before the line comes round, each stanza names one occasion when he did it. The sun swallowed in childhood and the three worlds gone dark, Sugrīv on his hill, Sītā found in the garden at Laṅkā, the herb fetched from the mountain and Lakṣmaṇ raised from where he lay, Ahirāvaṇ killed in Pātāl. Expect the refrain, because the refrain is the poem: the eight stanzas are the evidence for it, and the last of them turns it round on the person reciting, whatever sankaṭ is mine, take it away quickly.

<a id="hanumanastak-1"></a>

1. बाल समय रबि भक्षि लियो तब तीनहुँ लोक भयो अँधियारो

Original

बाल समय रबि भक्षि लियो तब तीनहुँ लोक भयो अँधियारो ।<br>

ताहि सों त्रास भयो जग को यह संकट काहु सों जात न टारो ॥<br>

देवन आनि करी बिनती तब छाँड़ि दियो रबि कष्ट निवारो ।<br>

को नहिं जानत है जगमें कपि संकटमोचन नाम तिहारो ॥ १ ॥

Transliteration

bāla samaya rabi bhakṣi liyō taba tīnahum̐ lōka bhayō am̐dhiyārō ।<br>

tāhi sōṃ trāsa bhayō jaga kō yaha saṃkaṭa kāhu sōṃ jāta na ṭārō ॥<br>

dēvana āni karī binatī taba chām̐ṛi diyō rabi kaṣṭa nivārō ।<br>

kō nahiṃ jānata hai jagamēṃ kapi saṃkaṭamōcana nāma tihārō ॥ 1 ॥

English

When you were a child you ate the sun, and all three worlds went dark.<br>

The world was in terror of it, and this sankaṭ was not one that anybody could turn aside.<br>

Then the gods came and made their petition, and you let the sun go and put an end to the trouble.<br>

Who in the world does not know your name, Kapi: Sankaṭmocan, who takes distress away?

<a id="hanumanastak-2"></a>

2. बालि की त्रास कपीस बसै गिरि जात महाप्रभु पंथ निहारो

Original

बालि की त्रास कपीस बसै गिरि जात महाप्रभु पंथ निहारो ।<br>

चौंकि महा मुनि साप दियो तब चाहिय कौन बिचार बिचारो ॥<br>

कै द्विज रूप लिवाय महाप्रभु सो तुम दास के सोक निवारो ।<br>

को नहिं जानत है जगमें कपि संकटमोचन नाम तिहारो ॥ २ ॥

Transliteration

bāli kī trāsa kapīsa basai giri jāta mahāprabhu paṃtha nihārō ।<br>

cauṃki mahā muni sāpa diyō taba cāhiya kauna bicāra bicārō ॥<br>

kai dvija rūpa livāya mahāprabhu sō tuma dāsa kē sōka nivārō ।<br>

kō nahiṃ jānata hai jagamēṃ kapi saṃkaṭamōcana nāma tihārō ॥ 2 ॥

English

In terror of Bāli, Kapīs was living on the hill, and he saw Mahāprabhu going by on the path.<br>

He started up, for the great muni had laid a curse there, and what counsel was there now to take?<br>

You took the shape of a brāhmaṇ and brought Mahāprabhu to him, and took your servant's grief away.<br>

Who in the world does not know your name, Kapi: Sankaṭmocan, who takes distress away?

Mataṅg the muni had cursed the hill so that Bāli could not set foot on it, which is why Sugrīv was safe there and why two armed men on the path frightened him.

<a id="hanumanastak-3"></a>

3. अंगद के सँग लेन गये सिय खोज कपीस यह बैन उचारो

Original

अंगद के सँग लेन गये सिय खोज कपीस यह बैन उचारो ।<br>

जीवत ना बचिहौ हम सो जु बिना सुधि लाए इहाँ पगु धारो ॥<br>

हेरि थके तट सिंधु सबै तब लाय सिया-सुधि प्रान उबारो ।<br>

को नहिं जानत है जगमें कपि संकटमोचन नाम तिहारो ॥ ३ ॥

Transliteration

aṃgada kē sam̐ga lēna gayē siya khōja kapīsa yaha baina ucārō ।<br>

jīvata nā bacihau hama sō ju binā sudhi lāē ihām̐ pagu dhārō ॥<br>

hēri thakē taṭa siṃdhu sabai taba lāya siyā-sudhi prāna ubārō ।<br>

kō nahiṃ jānata hai jagamēṃ kapi saṃkaṭamōcana nāma tihārō ॥ 3 ॥

English

You went with Aṅgad to look for Siyā, and Kapīs had spoken this word to you:<br>

'If you set foot here again without news of her, none of you will live at my hands.'<br>

They searched till they were worn out on the shore of the sea, and then you brought news of Siyā and saved their lives.<br>

Who in the world does not know your name, Kapi: Sankaṭmocan, who takes distress away?

<a id="hanumanastak-4"></a>

4. रावन त्रास दई सिय को सब राक्षसि सों कहि सोक निवारो

Original

रावन त्रास दई सिय को सब राक्षसि सों कहि सोक निवारो ।<br>

ताहि समय हनुमान महाप्रभु जाय महा रजनीचर मारो ॥<br>

चाहत सीय असोक सों आगि सु दै प्रभु मुद्रिका सोक निवारो ।<br>

को नहिं जानत है जगमें कपि संकटमोचन नाम तिहारो ॥ ४ ॥

Transliteration

rāvana trāsa daī siya kō saba rākṣasi sōṃ kahi sōka nivārō ।<br>

tāhi samaya hanumāna mahāprabhu jāya mahā rajanīcara mārō ॥<br>

cāhata sīya asōka sōṃ āgi su dai prabhu mudrikā sōka nivārō ।<br>

kō nahiṃ jānata hai jagamēṃ kapi saṃkaṭamōcana nāma tihārō ॥ 4 ॥

English

Rāvan set all the rākṣasīs on Sītā and put her in terror, and you took her grief away.<br>

At that time, Hanumān, Mahāprabhu, you went there and struck the great night-walkers down.<br>

Sītā was begging the asok tree for fire, and you gave her the lord's ring and took her grief away.<br>

Who in the world does not know your name, Kapi: Sankaṭmocan, who takes distress away?

The tree is the asok, whose name means without grief, and she is asking it for fire to burn herself with. The line ends with her grief taken away.

<a id="hanumanastak-5"></a>

5. बान लग्यो उर लछिमन के तब प्रान तजे सुत रावन मारो

Original

बान लग्यो उर लछिमन के तब प्रान तजे सुत रावन मारो ।<br>

लै गृह बैद्य सुषेन समेत तबै गिरि द्रोन सु बीर उपारो ॥<br>

आनि सजीवन हाथ दई तब लछिमन के तुम प्रान उबारो ।<br>

को नहिं जानत है जगमें कपि संकटमोचन नाम तिहारो ॥ ५ ॥

Transliteration

bāna lagyō ura lachimana kē taba prāna tajē suta rāvana mārō ।<br>

lai gr̥ha baidya suṣēna samēta tabai giri drōna su bīra upārō ॥<br>

āni sajīvana hātha daī taba lachimana kē tuma prāna ubārō ।<br>

kō nahiṃ jānata hai jagamēṃ kapi saṃkaṭamōcana nāma tihārō ॥ 5 ॥

English

An arrow went into Lachiman's chest and the life left him: it was Rāvan's son who struck him.<br>

You carried the vaidya Suṣen there, house and all, and then, brave one, you tore Mount Dron up by the roots.<br>

You fetched the sajīvan herb and put it in his hand, and so you brought Lachiman's life back.<br>

Who in the world does not know your name, Kapi: Sankaṭmocan, who takes distress away?

<a id="hanumanastak-6"></a>

6. रावन जुद्ध अजान कियो तब नाग कि फाँस सबै सिर डारो

Original

रावन जुद्ध अजान कियो तब नाग कि फाँस सबै सिर डारो ।<br>

श्रीरघुनाथ समेत सबै दल मोह भयो यह संकट भारो ॥<br>

आनि खगेस तबै हनुमान जु बंधन काटि सुत्रास निवारो ।<br>

को नहिं जानत है जगमें कपि संकटमोचन नाम तिहारो ॥ ६ ॥

Transliteration

rāvana juddha ajāna kiyō taba nāga ki phām̐sa sabai sira ḍārō ।<br>

śrīraghunātha samēta sabai dala mōha bhayō yaha saṃkaṭa bhārō ॥<br>

āni khagēsa tabai hanumāna ju baṃdhana kāṭi sutrāsa nivārō ।<br>

kō nahiṃ jānata hai jagamēṃ kapi saṃkaṭamōcana nāma tihārō ॥ 6 ॥

English

Rāvan made a war nobody saw coming, and threw the noose of snakes over every head.<br>

Śrī Raghunāth and the whole army with him went down senseless, and this sankaṭ was a heavy one.<br>

Then you fetched Khages, Hanumān, and the bonds were cut and the terror taken away.<br>

Who in the world does not know your name, Kapi: Sankaṭmocan, who takes distress away?

Khages is Garuḍ, the lord of the birds, and snakes do not stay where he is.

<a id="hanumanastak-7"></a>

7. बंधु समेत जबै अहिरावन लै रघुनाथ पताल सिधारो

Original

बंधु समेत जबै अहिरावन लै रघुनाथ पताल सिधारो ।<br>

देबिहिं पूजि भली बिधि सों बलि देउ सबै मिलि मंत्र बिचारो ॥<br>

जाय सहाय भयो तब ही अहिरावन सैन्य समेत सँहारो ।<br>

को नहिं जानत है जगमें कपि संकटमोचन नाम तिहारो ॥ ७ ॥

Transliteration

baṃdhu samēta jabai ahirāvana lai raghunātha patāla sidhārō ।<br>

dēbihiṃ pūji bhalī bidhi sōṃ bali dēu sabai mili maṃtra bicārō ॥<br>

jāya sahāya bhayō taba hī ahirāvana sainya samēta sam̐hārō ।<br>

kō nahiṃ jānata hai jagamēṃ kapi saṃkaṭamōcana nāma tihārō ॥ 7 ॥

English

When Ahirāvan carried Raghunāth and his brother off down to Pātāl,<br>

they worshipped the goddess in the proper way, and took counsel all together, and settled that the offering should be made.<br>

You went there and were their help at that very hour, and you destroyed Ahirāvan and his army with him.<br>

Who in the world does not know your name, Kapi: Sankaṭmocan, who takes distress away?

<a id="hanumanastak-8"></a>

8. काज किये बड़ देवन के तुम बीर महाप्रभु देखि बिचारो

Original

काज किये बड़ देवन के तुम बीर महाप्रभु देखि बिचारो ।<br>

कौन सो संकट मोर गरीब को जो तुमसों नहिं जात है टारो ॥<br>

बेगि हरो हनुमान महाप्रभु जो कछु संकट होय हमारो ।<br>

को नहिं जानत है जगमें कपि संकटमोचन नाम तिहारो ॥ ८ ॥

Transliteration

kāja kiyē baṛa dēvana kē tuma bīra mahāprabhu dēkhi bicārō ।<br>

kauna sō saṃkaṭa mōra garība kō jō tumasōṃ nahiṃ jāta hai ṭārō ॥<br>

bēgi harō hanumāna mahāprabhu jō kachu saṃkaṭa hōya hamārō ।<br>

kō nahiṃ jānata hai jagamēṃ kapi saṃkaṭamōcana nāma tihārō ॥ 8 ॥

English

You have done great things for the gods, brave one; Mahāprabhu, look at me and consider.<br>

What sankaṭ of mine, poor as I am, could there be that you cannot turn aside?<br>

Take it away quickly, Hanumān, Mahāprabhu, whatever sankaṭ of mine there is.<br>

Who in the world does not know your name, Kapi: Sankaṭmocan, who takes distress away?

<a id="hanumanastak-closing-doha"></a>

closing dohās. लाल देह लाली लसे, अरु धरि लाल लँगूर

Original

लाल देह लाली लसे, अरु धरि लाल लँगूर ।<br>

बज्र देह दानव दलन, जय जय जय कपि सूर ॥<br>

यह अष्टक हनुमानको, बिरचित तुलसीदास ।<br>

गङ्गादास जु प्रेम सों, पढ़े होय दुःख नास ॥

Transliteration

lāla dēha lālī lasē, aru dhari lāla lam̐gūra ।<br>

bajra dēha dānava dalana, jaya jaya jaya kapi sūra ॥<br>

yaha aṣṭaka hanumānakō, biracita tulasīdāsa ।<br>

gaṅgādāsa ju prēma sōṃ, paṛhē hōya duḥkha nāsa ॥

English

The body is red and the red of it shines, and the tail he carries is red.<br>

A body of bajra, and the demons crushed: victory, victory, victory, Kapi the hero.<br>

This aṣṭak of Hanumān was made by Tulsīdās.<br>

Gaṅgādās, read it with love and sorrow comes to an end.

<a id="vinaya-patrika"></a>

Vinaya Patrikā

The petition. Two hundred and seventy-nine padas, written towards the end, in Braj rather than Awadhi, and addressed upward. He begins with Gaṇapati and the sun and Śiva, works through Gaṅgā and Yamunā and Kāśī and Hanumān, and arrives at Rām, and then he stops arguing and simply asks. Nothing else he wrote is so much in the first person.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-1"></a>

1. गाइये गनपति जगबंदन

Rāga Bilāval. To Gaṇapati, the first pada of the petition.

Original

गाइये गनपति जगबंदन । संकर-सुवन भवानी-नंदन ॥<br>

सिद्धि-सदन, गज-बदन, बिनायक । कृपा-सिंधु सुंदर सब लायक ॥<br>

मोदक-प्रिय, मुद-मंगल-दाता । बिद्या-बारिधि बुद्धि-बिधाता ॥<br>

माँगत तुलसिदास कर जोरे । बसहिं रामसिय मानस मोरे ॥ १ ॥

Transliteration

gāiyē ganapati jagabaṃdana । saṃkara-suvana bhavānī-naṃdana ॥<br>

siddhi-sadana, gaja-badana, bināyaka । kr̥pā-siṃdhu suṃdara saba lāyaka ॥<br>

mōdaka-priya, muda-maṃgala-dātā । bidyā-bāridhi buddhi-bidhātā ॥<br>

mām̐gata tulasidāsa kara jōrē । basahiṃ rāmasiya mānasa mōrē ॥ 1 ॥

English

Sing Gaṇapati, before whom the world bows, the son of Śaṅkar, the gladness of Bhavānī.<br>

House of the siddhis, elephant-faced, Vināyak; ocean of kṛpā, beautiful, equal to everything.<br>

To whom the modak is dear, giver of gladness and of every good; sea of learning, ordainer of the mind.<br>

Tulsīdās asks it with his hands joined: let Rām and Siyā dwell in this mind of mine.

Mānas is the mind, and it is also the name of the book he had already written. He is asking for the thing he had spent his life doing.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-2"></a>

2. दीनदयालु दिवाकर देवा

Rāga Bilāval. To Sūrya.

Original

दीनदयालु दिवाकर देवा । कर मुनि मनुज सुरासुर सेवा ॥<br>

हिम-तम-करि-केहरि करमाली । दहन दोष-दुख-दुरित-रुजाली ॥<br>

कोक-कोकनद-लोक-प्रकासी । तेज-प्रताप-रूप-रस-रासी ॥<br>

सारथि पंगु, दिब्य रथ-गामी । हरि-संकर-बिधि-मूरति स्वामी ॥<br>

बेद पुरान प्रगट जस जागै । तुलसी राम-भगति बर माँगै ॥ २ ॥

Transliteration

dīnadayālu divākara dēvā । kara muni manuja surāsura sēvā ॥<br>

hima-tama-kari-kēhari karamālī । dahana dōṣa-dukha-durita-rujālī ॥<br>

kōka-kōkanada-lōka-prakāsī । tēja-pratāpa-rūpa-rasa-rāsī ॥<br>

sārathi paṃgu, dibya ratha-gāmī । hari-saṃkara-bidhi-mūrati svāmī ॥<br>

bēda purāna pragaṭa jasa jāgai । tulasī rāma-bhagati bara mām̐gai ॥ 2 ॥

English

Kind to the destitute, maker of the day, god: munis and men, gods and demons all do you service.<br>

Lion to the elephants of frost and darkness, wearing a garland of rays; you burn up the whole rank of fault and pain and sin and sickness.<br>

You wake the cakavā, you open the red lotus, you light the worlds; you are a heaped store of blaze and might and beauty and savour.<br>

Your charioteer is lame and your chariot goes through the sky; lord, your form is Hari's and Śaṅkar's and the ordainer's.<br>

Your fame is awake and plain in the Veda and the Purāṇas. Tulsī asks one boon: bhakti to Rām.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-3"></a>

3. को जाँचिये संभु तजि आन

To Śiva.

Original

को जाँचिये संभु तजि आन ?<br>

दीनदयालु भगत आरति-हर सब प्रकार समरथ भगवान ॥<br>

कालकूट-जुर जरत सुरासुर, निज पन लागि कियो बिषपान ।<br>

दारुन दनुज जगत-दुखदायक जार्यो त्रिपुर एक ही बान ॥<br>

जो गति अगम महामुनि दुर्लभ कहत संत श्रुति सकल पुरान ।<br>

सोइ गति मरन-काल अपने पुर देत सदासिव सबहिं समान ॥<br>

सेवत सुलभ उदार कलप-तरु पारबती-पति परम सुजान ।<br>

देहु काम-रिपु राम-चरन-रति तुलसिदास कहँ कृपानिधान ॥ ३ ॥

Transliteration

kō jām̐ciyē saṃbhu taji āna ?<br>

dīnadayālu bhagata ārati-hara saba prakāra samaratha bhagavāna ॥<br>

kālakūṭa-jura jarata surāsura, nija pana lāgi kiyō biṣapāna ।<br>

dāruna danuja jagata-dukhadāyaka jāryō tripura ēka hī bāna ॥<br>

jō gati agama mahāmuni durlabha kahata saṃta śruti sakala purāna ।<br>

sōi gati marana-kāla apanē pura dēta sadāsiva sabahiṃ samāna ॥<br>

sēvata sulabha udāra kalapa-taru pārabatī-pati parama sujāna ।<br>

dēhu kāma-ripu rāma-carana-rati tulasidāsa kaham̐ kr̥pānidhāna ॥ 3 ॥

English

Leaving Śambhu, who else is there to beg from?<br>

Kind to the destitute, taker away of his devotees' distress, a god who is able in every way.<br>

Gods and demons were burning in the fever of the kālakūṭ, and for the sake of his own vow he drank the poison.<br>

Tripur, the cruel demon who gave the world its pain, he burnt with a single arrow.<br>

The state that is out of reach, that the great munis hardly come by, as the sants and the śruti and all the Purāṇas say:<br>

that same state Sadāśiv gives in his own city at the hour of death, to everyone alike.<br>

Easy to come at by serving, open-handed as the kalpa tree, Pārvatī's husband, who knows everything.<br>

Enemy of Kām, store of kṛpā, give Tulsīdās love for Rām's feet.

The city that is his own is Kāśī, and what he gives there at the hour of death he gives to everybody on the same terms. That is the argument of the next several padas.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-4"></a>

4. दानी कहूँ संकर सम नाहीं

Rāga Dhanāśrī. To Śiva.

Original

दानी कहूँ संकर सम नाहीं ।<br>

दीन-दयालु दिबोई भावै जाचक सदा सोहाहीं ॥<br>

मारि कै मार थप्यौ जग में जाकी प्रथम रेख भट माहीं ।<br>

ता ठाकुर को रीझि निवाजिबौ कह्यौ क्यों परत मो पाहीं ॥<br>

जोग कोटि करि जो गति हरि सों मुनि माँगत सकुचाहीं ।<br>

बेद-बिदित तेहि पद पुरारि-पुर कीट पंतग समाहीं ॥<br>

ईस उदार उमापति परिहरि अनत जे जाचन जाहीं ।<br>

तुलसिदास ते मूढ़ माँगने, कबहुँ न पेट अघाहीं ॥ ४ ॥

Transliteration

dānī kahūm̐ saṃkara sama nāhīṃ ।<br>

dīna-dayālu dibōī bhāvai jācaka sadā sōhāhīṃ ॥<br>

māri kai māra thapyau jaga mēṃ jākī prathama rēkha bhaṭa māhīṃ ।<br>

tā ṭhākura kō rījhi nivājibau kahyau kyōṃ parata mō pāhīṃ ॥<br>

jōga kōṭi kari jō gati hari sōṃ muni mām̐gata sakucāhīṃ ।<br>

bēda-bidita tēhi pada purāri-pura kīṭa paṃtaga samāhīṃ ॥<br>

īsa udāra umāpati parihari anata jē jācana jāhīṃ ।<br>

tulasidāsa tē mūṛha mām̐ganē, kabahum̐ na pēṭa aghāhīṃ ॥ 4 ॥

English

There is no giver anywhere like Śaṅkar.<br>

Kind to the destitute, giving is all he likes, and beggars always look well to him.<br>

He killed Mār and then set him up in the world again, and Mār's name stands first on the roll of fighters.<br>

How should it fall to me to tell what such a master's pleasure and favour are like?<br>

The state that munis, after ten million yogas, are shy of asking Hari for:<br>

that station, as the Veda knows, worms and moths come into in Purāri's city.<br>

Those who pass by that open-handed lord, Umā's husband, and go begging elsewhere:<br>

Tulsīdās, those are fools with a begging bowl, and their bellies are never full.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-6"></a>

6. जाचिए गिरिजापति कासी

Rāga Rāmkalī. To Śiva at Kāśī.

Original

जाचिए गिरिजापति कासी । जासु भवन अनिमादिक दासी ॥<br>

औढर-दानि द्रवत पुनि थोरे । सकत न देखि दीन कर जोरे ॥<br>

सुख-संपति, मति-सुगति सुहाई । सकल सुलभ संकर सेवकाई ॥<br>

गये सरन आरति-कै लीन्हे । निरखि निहाल निमिष महँ कीन्हे ॥<br>

तुलसिदास जाचक जस गावै । बिमल भगति रघुपति की पावै ॥ ६ ॥

Transliteration

jāciē girijāpati kāsī । jāsu bhavana animādika dāsī ॥<br>

auḍhara-dāni dravata puni thōrē । sakata na dēkhi dīna kara jōrē ॥<br>

sukha-saṃpati, mati-sugati suhāī । sakala sulabha saṃkara sēvakāī ॥<br>

gayē sarana ārati-kai līnhē । nirakhi nihāla nimiṣa maham̐ kīnhē ॥<br>

tulasidāsa jācaka jasa gāvai । bimala bhagati raghupati kī pāvai ॥ 6 ॥

English

Beg at Kāśī of Girijā's husband, in whose house the siddhis beginning with animā are serving maids.<br>

A giver who never weighs the asker, he melts at the least thing; he cannot bear the sight of a poor man with his hands joined.<br>

Ease, wealth, a good mind, a fair end: all of it comes easily out of serving Śaṅkar.<br>

Men went to his śaran sunk in distress; one look, and in the blink of an eye he made them whole.<br>

The beggar who sings his praise, Tulsīdās, comes by clean bhakti to Raghupati.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-13"></a>

13. सेवहु सिव-चरन-सरोज-रेनु

Rāga Basant. To Śiva.

Original

सेवहु सिव-चरन-सरोज-रेनु । कल्यान-अखिल-प्रद कामधेनु ॥<br>

कर्पूर-गौर, करुना-उदार । संसार-सार, भुजगेन्द्र-हार ॥<br>

सुख-जनम-भूमि महिमा अपार । निर्गुन, गुननायक, निराकार ॥<br>

त्रयनयन, मयन-मर्दन, महेस । अहँकार-निहार-उदित-दिनेस ॥<br>

बर बाल-निसाकर मौलि भ्राज । त्रैलोक-सोकहर, प्रमथराज ॥<br>

जिन कहँ बिधि सुगति न लिखी भाल । तिनकी गति कासीपति कृपाल ॥<br>

उपकारी कोऽपर हर-समान ? । सुर-असुर जरत कृत गरल-पान ॥<br>

बहु कल्प उपायन करिय अनेक । बिनु संभु-कृपा नहिं भव-बिबेक ॥<br>

बिग्यान-भवन, गिरिसुता-रमन । कह तुलसिदास मम त्रास-समन ॥ १३ ॥

Transliteration

sēvahu siva-carana-sarōja-rēnu । kalyāna-akhila-prada kāmadhēnu ॥<br>

karpūra-gaura, karunā-udāra । saṃsāra-sāra, bhujagēndra-hāra ॥<br>

sukha-janama-bhūmi mahimā apāra । nirguna, gunanāyaka, nirākāra ॥<br>

trayanayana, mayana-mardana, mahēsa । aham̐kāra-nihāra-udita-dinēsa ॥<br>

bara bāla-nisākara mauli bhrāja । trailōka-sōkahara, pramatharāja ॥<br>

jina kaham̐ bidhi sugati na likhī bhāla । tinakī gati kāsīpati kr̥pāla ॥<br>

upakārī kō'para hara-samāna ? । sura-asura jarata kr̥ta garala-pāna ॥<br>

bahu kalpa upāyana kariya anēka । binu saṃbhu-kr̥pā nahiṃ bhava-bibēka ॥<br>

bigyāna-bhavana, girisutā-ramana । kaha tulasidāsa mama trāsa-samana ॥ 13 ॥

English

Serve the dust of the lotus feet of Śiv, the kāmadhenu that gives every good thing there is.<br>

White as camphor, wide in his karuṇā; the pith of the world, wearing the king of snakes for a garland.<br>

The birthplace of happiness, whose greatness has no shore; without attributes, master of attributes, without form.<br>

Three-eyed, crusher of Mayan, Maheś; the sun risen on the fog that is I-and-mine.<br>

The young moon shines fair on his crown; he carries off the grief of the three worlds, king of the pramathas.<br>

Those on whose forehead the ordainer wrote no good end: the kind lord of Kāśī is their end.<br>

Who else does good like Har? Gods and demons were burning, and he drank the poison down.<br>

Work at it many kalpas, try a hundred ways: without Śambhu's kṛpā there is no seeing through this world.<br>

House of vijñān, husband of the mountain's daughter: Tulsīdās says, put down my fear.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-19"></a>

19. हरति पाप त्रिबिध-ताप सुमिरत सुरसरित

Rāga Rāmkalī. To Gaṅgā.

Original

हरति पाप त्रिबिध-ताप सुमिरत सुरसरित ।<br>

बिलसति महि कल्प-बेलि मुद-मनोरथ-फरित ॥<br>

सोहति ससि-धवल-धार सुधा-सलिल-भरित ।<br>

बिमलतर तरंग लसत रघुबर के-से चरित ॥<br>

तो बिनु जगदंब गंग ! कलिजुग का करित ?<br>

घोर भव-अपार-सिंधु तुलसी कैसे तरित ? ॥ १९ ॥

Transliteration

harati pāpa tribidha-tāpa sumirata surasarita ।<br>

bilasati mahi kalpa-bēli muda-manōratha-pharita ॥<br>

sōhati sasi-dhavala-dhāra sudhā-salila-bharita ।<br>

bimalatara taraṃga lasata raghubara kē-sē carita ॥<br>

tō binu jagadaṃba gaṃga ! kalijuga kā karita ?<br>

ghōra bhava-apāra-siṃdhu tulasī kaisē tarita ? ॥ 19 ॥

English

Remembered, the river of the gods takes away sin and the three kinds of burning.<br>

She plays over the earth, a kalpa vine, fruiting in gladness and in what the heart wants.<br>

Her stream is moon-white and lovely, filled with the water of nectar.<br>

Her waves are clearer still, and they shine like Raghubar's doings.<br>

Without you, Gaṅgā, mother of the world, what would the Kali age do?<br>

How would Tulsī cross this terrible shoreless sea of being?

<a id="vinaya-patrika-20"></a>

20. ईस-सीस बससि, त्रिपथ लससि

To Gaṅgā.

Original

ईस-सीस बससि, त्रिपथ लससि, नभ-पताल-धरनि ।<br>

मुनि, सुर, नर, नाग, सिद्ध, सुजन मंगल-करनि ॥<br>

देखत दुख-दोष-दुरित-दाह-दारिद-दरनि ।<br>

सगर-सुवन साँसति-समनि, जलनिधि-जल-भरनि ॥<br>

महिमा की अवधि करसि बहु बिधि हरि-हरनि ।<br>

तुलसी करु बानि बिमल बिमल-बारि-बरनि ॥ २० ॥

Transliteration

īsa-sīsa basasi, tripatha lasasi, nabha-patāla-dharani ।<br>

muni, sura, nara, nāga, siddha, sujana maṃgala-karani ॥<br>

dēkhata dukha-dōṣa-durita-dāha-dārida-darani ।<br>

sagara-suvana sām̐sati-samani, jalanidhi-jala-bharani ॥<br>

mahimā kī avadhi karasi bahu bidhi hari-harani ।<br>

tulasī karu bāni bimala bimala-bāri-barani ॥ 20 ॥

English

You live on Īś's head; you shine on three roads, sky and underworld and earth.<br>

To munis, gods, men, nāgas, siddhas and honest people you do good.<br>

At the sight of you, pain and fault and sin and burning and want are split open.<br>

You put an end to the torment of Sagar's sons; you fill the sea with water.<br>

You are greatness at its furthest edge, and in a hundred ways you belong to Hari and to Har.<br>

Clean water, clean speech: make Tulsī's clean, since it is you he is telling of.

Hari-haranī holds both: she rises at Viṣṇu's feet and comes to rest on Śiva's head, and the word will not choose between them.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-21"></a>

21. जमुना ज्यों ज्यों लागी बाढ़न

Rāga Bilāval. To Yamunā.

Original

जमुना ज्यों ज्यों लागी बाढ़न ।<br>

त्यों त्यों सुकृत-सुभट कलि भूपहिं निदरि लगे बहु काढ़न ॥<br>

ज्यों ज्यों जल मलीन त्यों त्यों जमगन मुख मलीन लहै आढ़ न ।<br>

तुलसिदास जगदघ जवास ज्यों अनघ-मेघ लागे डाढ़न ॥ २१ ॥

Transliteration

jamunā jyōṃ jyōṃ lāgī bāṛhana ।<br>

tyōṃ tyōṃ sukr̥ta-subhaṭa kali bhūpahiṃ nidari lagē bahu kāṛhana ॥<br>

jyōṃ jyōṃ jala malīna tyōṃ tyōṃ jamagana mukha malīna lahai āṛha na ।<br>

tulasidāsa jagadagha javāsa jyōṃ anagha-mēgha lāgē ḍāṛhana ॥ 21 ॥

English

As the Yamunā began to rise and rise,<br>

so her champions, which are good works, held king Kali cheap and began to drive his men out in numbers.<br>

As her water darkens, so Yama's people darken in the face and find nothing to lean on.<br>

Tulsīdās: the world's sin is a javāsa bush, and sinless clouds have begun to scorch it.

The javāsa is the desert thorn that thrives in drought and burns up when the rains come.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-22"></a>

22. सेइय सहित सनेह देह-भरि कामधेनु कलि कासी

Rāga Bhairav. To Kāśī.

Original

सेइय सहित सनेह देह-भरि कामधेनु कलि कासी ।<br>

समनि-सोक-संताप-पाप-रुज, सकल-सुमंगल-रासी ॥<br>

मरजादा चहूँ ओर चरन बर सेवत सुरपुर-बासी ।<br>

तीरथ सब सुभ अंग, रोम सिवलिंग अमित अबिनासी ॥<br>

अंतरअयन अयन भल, थन फल, बच्छ बेद-बिस्वासी ।<br>

गल कंबल बरुना बिभाति जनु लूम लसति सरितासी ॥<br>

दंडपानि भैरव बिषान, मलरुचि खलगन-भयदा-सी ।<br>

लोलदिनेस त्रिलोचन लोचन, करनघंट घंटा सी ॥<br>

मनिकर्निका-बदन-ससि सुंदर, सुरसरि मुख-सुषमा-सी ।<br>

स्वारथ-परमारथ-परिपूरन पंचकोस महिमा सी ॥<br>

बिस्वनाथ पालक कृपालु चित, लालति नित गिरिजा-सी ।<br>

सिद्ध सची सारद पूजहिं, मन जोगवति रहति रमा सी ॥<br>

पंचाच्छरी प्रान, मुद माधव, गब्य सुपंचनदा सी ।<br>

ब्रह्म जीव सम राम नाम जुग आखर-बिस्व-बिकासी ॥<br>

चारितु चरति करम कुकरम कर मरत जीवगन घासी ।<br>

लहत परमपद पय पावन जेहि, चहत प्रपंच-उदासी ॥<br>

कहत पुरान रची केसव निज कर-करतूति कला-सी ।<br>

तुलसी बसि हरपुरी राम जपु, जो भयो चहै सुपासी ॥ २२ ॥

Transliteration

sēiya sahita sanēha dēha-bhari kāmadhēnu kali kāsī ।<br>

samani-sōka-saṃtāpa-pāpa-ruja, sakala-sumaṃgala-rāsī ॥<br>

marajādā cahūm̐ ōra carana bara sēvata surapura-bāsī ।<br>

tīratha saba subha aṃga, rōma sivaliṃga amita abināsī ॥<br>

aṃtaraayana ayana bhala, thana phala, baccha bēda-bisvāsī ।<br>

gala kaṃbala barunā bibhāti janu lūma lasati saritāsī ॥<br>

daṃḍapāni bhairava biṣāna, malaruci khalagana-bhayadā-sī ।<br>

lōladinēsa trilōcana lōcana, karanaghaṃṭa ghaṃṭā sī ॥<br>

manikarnikā-badana-sasi suṃdara, surasari mukha-suṣamā-sī ।<br>

svāratha-paramāratha-paripūrana paṃcakōsa mahimā sī ॥<br>

bisvanātha pālaka kr̥pālu cita, lālati nita girijā-sī ।<br>

siddha sacī sārada pūjahiṃ, mana jōgavati rahati ramā sī ॥<br>

paṃcāccharī prāna, muda mādhava, gabya supaṃcanadā sī ।<br>

brahma jīva sama rāma nāma juga ākhara-bisva-bikāsī ॥<br>

cāritu carati karama kukarama kara marata jīvagana ghāsī ।<br>

lahata paramapada paya pāvana jēhi, cahata prapaṃca-udāsī ॥<br>

kahata purāna racī kēsava nija kara-karatūti kalā-sī ।<br>

tulasī basi harapurī rāma japu, jō bhayō cahai supāsī ॥ 22 ॥

English

Serve her with love as long as the body lasts: Kāśī, the kāmadhenu of the Kali age,<br>

queller of grief and heat and sin and sickness, a heap of every good.<br>

Her bounds on four sides are her four fine feet, and the dwellers in the city of the gods attend them.<br>

Every tīrth is a good limb of her, and every hair a Śivaliṅga, past counting, past destroying.<br>

Antargṛhī is her good bed, the four fruits her udders, and the calf is trust in the Veda.<br>

The Varuṇā shows like her dewlap, and the river Asī hangs shining for her tail.<br>

Daṇḍapāṇi and Bhairav are her horns, and a terror to dirty-minded, wicked men.<br>

Loladineś and Trilocan are her eyes, and Karṇaghaṇṭ hangs like her bell.<br>

Maṇikarṇikā is the fair moon of her face, and the river of the gods the loveliness of her mouth.<br>

Her five kos round is greatness itself, filled full of this world's good and the next's.<br>

Biśvanāth is her keeper and kind of heart, and Girijā pets her every day.<br>

The siddhas and Śacī and Śārad worship her, and Ramā watches her mood.<br>

The five syllables are her breath, Mādhav her gladness, and Pañcanad her good milk.<br>

Brahma and jīva, matched: the two letters of Rām's name, and the world opens out of them.<br>

She grazes her pasture; doing deeds and misdeeds, the crowds of the living die there like her grass,<br>

and they come by the clean milk that is the highest state, the thing those who are done with the world are after.<br>

The Purāṇas say Keśav made her with his own hand, a piece of his art.<br>

Tulsī, live in Har's city and say Rām, if what you want is to be at your ease.

The Varaṇā and the Asī are the two streams Vārāṇasī is named between, and Maṇikarṇikā, Pañcagaṅgā, Loladineś, Trilocan, Karṇaghaṇṭ and Daṇḍapāṇi are its ghats and its shrines. He is making the whole city into one cow.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-23"></a>

23. सब सोच-बिमोचन चित्रकूट

Rāga Basant. To Citrakūṭ.

Original

सब सोच-बिमोचन चित्रकूट । कलिहरन, करन-कल्यान बूट ॥<br>

सुचि अवनि सुहावनि आलबाल । कानन बिचित्र, बारी बिसाल ॥<br>

मंदाकिनि-मालिनि सदा सींच । बर-बारि, बिषम नर नारि नीच ॥<br>

साखा, सुसूंग, भूरुह सुपात । निरझर मधु, बर मृदु मलय-बात ॥<br>

सुक-पिक-मधुकर-मुनिबर-बिहारु । साधन-प्रसून, फल-चारि चारु ॥<br>

भव-घोरघाम-हर सुखद छाँह । थप्यो थिर प्रभाव जानकी-नाह ॥<br>

साधक-सुपथिक बड़े भाग पाइ । पावत अनेक अभिमत अघाइ ॥<br>

रस एक, रहित-गुन-कर्म-काल । सिय राम लषन पालक कृपाल ॥<br>

तुलसी जो राम पद चहिय प्रेम । सेइय गिरि करि निरुपाधि नेम ॥ २३ ॥

Transliteration

saba sōca-bimōcana citrakūṭa । kaliharana, karana-kalyāna būṭa ॥<br>

suci avani suhāvani ālabāla । kānana bicitra, bārī bisāla ॥<br>

maṃdākini-mālini sadā sīṃca । bara-bāri, biṣama nara nāri nīca ॥<br>

sākhā, susūṃga, bhūruha supāta । nirajhara madhu, bara mr̥du malaya-bāta ॥<br>

suka-pika-madhukara-munibara-bihāru । sādhana-prasūna, phala-cāri cāru ॥<br>

bhava-ghōraghāma-hara sukhada chām̐ha । thapyō thira prabhāva jānakī-nāha ॥<br>

sādhaka-supathika baṛē bhāga pāi । pāvata anēka abhimata aghāi ॥<br>

rasa ēka, rahita-guna-karma-kāla । siya rāma laṣana pālaka kr̥pāla ॥<br>

tulasī jō rāma pada cahiya prēma । sēiya giri kari nirupādhi nēma ॥ 23 ॥

English

Citrakūṭ, which unfastens every worry; it carries off the Kali age, a herb that does nothing but good.<br>

Clean ground, pleasant basins at the tree roots, a strange forest, a wide garden.<br>

Mandākinī is the gardener and waters it always; her water is choice beyond compare, and for men and women of the lowest sort.<br>

Branches, fine peaks, trees in good leaf; springs of honey, and a soft choice wind off Malaya.<br>

Parrots and cuckoos and bees and the best of munis walk in it; its blossom is sādhan and its fruit the four fair fruits.<br>

Its shade is pleasant and takes away the fierce heat of being; Jānakī's husband settled its power there for good.<br>

The seeker who travels well comes into great luck and gets what he wanted, many things, to the full.<br>

One savour, free of quality and act and time; Siy and Rām and Lakhan keep it, and they are kind.<br>

Tulsī, if what you want is love for Rām's feet, serve this hill and keep your vow plain, with nothing asked for it.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-27"></a>

27. जयति मंगलागार, संसारभारापहर

Rāga Dhanāśrī. To Hanumān.

Original

जयति मंगलागार, संसारभारापहर, बानराकार, बिग्रह पुरारी ।<br>

राम-रोषानल-ज्वालमाला-मिस-ध्वांतचर-सलभ-संहारकारी ॥<br>

जयति मरुदंजनामोद-मंदिर, नतग्रीव-सुग्रीव-दुःखैक-बंधो ।<br>

यातुधानोद्धत-क्रुद्ध-कालाग्निहर, सिद्ध-सुर-सज्जनानंद-सिंधो ॥<br>

जयति रुद्राग्रणी, बिश्व-बिद्याग्रणी, बिश्वबिख्यात-भट-चक्रवर्ती ।<br>

सामगाताग्रणी, कामजेताग्रणी, रामहित, रामभक्तानुवर्ती ॥<br>

जयति संग्रामजय, रामसंदेसहर, कौशला-कुशल-कल्याण-भाखी ।<br>

राम-विरहार्क-संतप्त भरतादि-नरनारि-शीतलकरन कल्पसाखी ॥<br>

जयति सिंहासनासीन सीतारमन निरखि निर्भर-हरष-नृत्यकारी ।<br>

राम सम्राज सोभा-सहित सर्वदा तुलसिमानस-रामपुर-बिहारी ॥ २७ ॥

Transliteration

jayati maṃgalāgāra, saṃsārabhārāpahara, bānarākāra, bigraha purārī ।<br>

rāma-rōṣānala-jvālamālā-misa-dhvāṃtacara-salabha-saṃhārakārī ॥<br>

jayati marudaṃjanāmōda-maṃdira, natagrīva-sugrīva-duḥkhaika-baṃdhō ।<br>

yātudhānōddhata-kruddha-kālāgnihara, siddha-sura-sajjanānaṃda-siṃdhō ॥<br>

jayati rudrāgraṇī, biśva-bidyāgraṇī, biśvabikhyāta-bhaṭa-cakravartī ।<br>

sāmagātāgraṇī, kāmajētāgraṇī, rāmahita, rāmabhaktānuvartī ॥<br>

jayati saṃgrāmajaya, rāmasaṃdēsahara, kauśalā-kuśala-kalyāṇa-bhākhī ।<br>

rāma-virahārka-saṃtapta bharatādi-naranāri-śītalakarana kalpasākhī ॥<br>

jayati siṃhāsanāsīna sītāramana nirakhi nirbhara-haraṣa-nr̥tyakārī ।<br>

rāma samrāja sōbhā-sahita sarvadā tulasimānasa-rāmapura-bihārī ॥ 27 ॥

English

Victory, house of good, lifter of the world's load, monkey-shaped, Purāri's own body;<br>

who under the name of the flame-garland of Rām's anger burnt up the night-walkers like moths.<br>

Victory, mansion of the wind's and Añjanā's gladness, one friend of Sugrīv when his neck was bent with grief;<br>

who put out the raised, angry doomsday fire of the demons, sea of joy to the siddhas and gods and the good.<br>

Victory, first of the Rudras, first in all the world's learning, emperor of fighters known through the world;<br>

first of the singers of the Sāma, first of those who beat desire, Rām's well-wisher, follower of Rām's bhaktas.<br>

Victory, winner of battles, carrier of Rām's message, who spoke Kauśalyā's welfare and good news;<br>

who cooled Bharat and the men and women scorched by the sun of Rām's absence, branch of the kalpa tree.<br>

Victory, who looked at Sītā's husband seated on the throne and danced with joy he could not hold;<br>

who walks for ever, with all the splendour of Rām's empire about him, in the Rāmpur that is Tulsī's mind.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-30"></a>

30. जाके गति है श्री हनुमान की

Rāga Sāraṅg. To Hanumān.

Original

जाके गति है श्री हनुमान की ।<br>

ताकी पैज पूजि आई यह रेखा कुलिस पषान की ॥<br>

अघटित-घटन, सुघट-बिघटन, ऐसी बिरुदावलि नहिं आन की ।<br>

सुमिरत संकट-सोच-बिमोचन मूरति मोद-निधान की ॥<br>

तापर सानुकूल गिरिजा, हर, लषन, राम अरु जानकी ।<br>

तुलसी कपि की कृपा-बिलोकनि खानि सकल कल्यान की ॥ ३० ॥

Transliteration

jākē gati hai śrī hanumāna kī ।<br>

tākī paija pūji āī yaha rēkhā kulisa paṣāna kī ॥<br>

aghaṭita-ghaṭana, sughaṭa-bighaṭana, aisī birudāvali nahiṃ āna kī ।<br>

sumirata saṃkaṭa-sōca-bimōcana mūrati mōda-nidhāna kī ॥<br>

tāpara sānukūla girijā, hara, laṣana, rāma aru jānakī ।<br>

tulasī kapi kī kr̥pā-bilōkani khāni sakala kalyāna kī ॥ 30 ॥

English

Whoever has Hanumān for his way out:<br>

his wager is met and paid. That line is cut in rock with a thunderbolt.<br>

Making happen what cannot happen, pulling apart what was well made: nobody else has such a roll of titles.<br>

Remembered, that form, the store of gladness, unfastens trouble and worry.<br>

To such a man Girijā turns kindly, and Har, and Lakhan, and Rām, and Jānakī.<br>

Tulsī: one look of kṛpā from the kapi, and it is a mine of every good thing.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-32"></a>

32. ऐसी तोही न बूझिए हनुमान हठीले

Rāga Bilāval. To Hanumān, complaining.

Original

ऐसी तोही न बूझिए हनुमान हठीले ।<br>

साहेब कहूँ न राम से, तो से न वसीले ॥<br>

तेरे देखत सिंह को सिसु-मेंढक लीले ।<br>

जानत हौं कलि तेरेऊ मन गुनगन कीले ॥<br>

हाँक सुनत दसकंध के भए बंधन ढीले ।<br>

सो बल गयो किधौं भए अब गर्ब-गहीले ॥<br>

सेवक को परदा फटै, तू समरथ सी ले ।<br>

अधिक आपु तें आपुनो सुनि मान सही ले ॥<br>

साँसति तुलसीदास की सुनि सुजस तुही ले ।<br>

तिहूँ काल तिनको भलो जे राम-रँगीले ॥ ३२ ॥

Transliteration

aisī tōhī na būjhiē hanumāna haṭhīlē ।<br>

sāhēba kahūm̐ na rāma sē, tō sē na vasīlē ॥<br>

tērē dēkhata siṃha kō sisu-mēṃḍhaka līlē ।<br>

jānata hauṃ kali tērēū mana gunagana kīlē ॥<br>

hām̐ka sunata dasakaṃdha kē bhaē baṃdhana ḍhīlē ।<br>

sō bala gayō kidhauṃ bhaē aba garba-gahīlē ॥<br>

sēvaka kō paradā phaṭai, tū samaratha sī lē ।<br>

adhika āpu tēṃ āpunō suni māna sahī lē ॥<br>

sām̐sati tulasīdāsa kī suni sujasa tuhī lē ।<br>

tihūm̐ kāla tinakō bhalō jē rāma-ram̐gīlē ॥ 32 ॥

English

Stubborn Hanumān, this is not what you were taken for.<br>

There is no master anywhere like Rām and no go-between like you.<br>

Under your own eyes a frog has swallowed the lion's cub.<br>

I know what it is: the Kali age has put a nail through your mind too, and through your virtues.<br>

At the sound of your shout the ten-necked one's bonds went slack.<br>

Has that strength gone, then, or have you grown proud?<br>

Your servant's curtain is tearing. You are able. Sew it up.<br>

Your own good name counts for more than you do: hear that, and stand by it.<br>

Listen to Tulsīdās's trouble, and the fair name is yours to take.<br>

In all three times it goes well with those who are dyed in Rām.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-33"></a>

33. समरथ सुवन समीर के रघुबीर पियारे

To Hanumān.

Original

समरथ सुवन समीर के रघुबीर पियारे ।<br>

मोपर कीबे तोहि जो करि लेहि भिया, रे ॥<br>

तेरी महिमा ते चलै चिंचिनी-चिया, रे ।<br>

अँधियारो मेरी बार क्यों? त्रिभुवन-उजियारे ॥<br>

केहि करनी जन जानि कै सनमान किया रे ।<br>

केहि अघ अवगुन आपनो कर डारि दिया रे ॥<br>

खायो खोंची माँगे मैं तेरो नाम लिया रे ।<br>

तेरे बल, बलि, आजु लौं जग जागि जिया रे ॥<br>

जो तोसों होतौ फिरौं मेरो हेतु हिया रे ।<br>

तौ क्यों बदन देखावतो कहि बचन इया रे ॥<br>

तो सो ज्ञान-निधान को सर्बज्ञ बिया रे ?<br>

हौं समुझत साँई-द्रोहि की गति छार-छिया रे ॥<br>

तेरे स्वामी राम से, स्वामिनी सिया रे ।<br>

तहँ तुलसी के कौन को काको तकिया रे ॥ ३३ ॥

Transliteration

samaratha suvana samīra kē raghubīra piyārē ।<br>

mōpara kībē tōhi jō kari lēhi bhiyā, rē ॥<br>

tērī mahimā tē calai ciṃcinī-ciyā, rē ।<br>

am̐dhiyārō mērī bāra kyōṃ? tribhuvana-ujiyārē ॥<br>

kēhi karanī jana jāni kai sanamāna kiyā rē ।<br>

kēhi agha avaguna āpanō kara ḍāri diyā rē ॥<br>

khāyō khōṃcī mām̐gē maiṃ tērō nāma liyā rē ।<br>

tērē bala, bali, āju lauṃ jaga jāgi jiyā rē ॥<br>

jō tōsōṃ hōtau phirauṃ mērō hētu hiyā rē ।<br>

tau kyōṃ badana dēkhāvatō kahi bacana iyā rē ॥<br>

tō sō jñāna-nidhāna kō sarbajña biyā rē ?<br>

hauṃ samujhata sām̐ī-drōhi kī gati chāra-chiyā rē ॥<br>

tērē svāmī rāma sē, svāminī siyā rē ।<br>

taham̐ tulasī kē kauna kō kākō takiyā rē ॥ 33 ॥

English

Able son of the wind, dear to Raghubīr,<br>

whatever you mean to do for me, brother, do it and have it done.<br>

By your greatness a tamarind pip gets up and walks.<br>

Light of the three worlds, why is it dark when my turn comes?<br>

For what deed did you know a man as yours and give him honour?<br>

For what sin or fault did you ever let one drop out of your own hand?<br>

I have eaten what I snatched and what I begged, and it was your name I took to get it.<br>

On your strength, and I would die for you, I have lived in the world and been heard of, up to today.<br>

If I had any turning away from you, if my heart had another aim,<br>

why would I show my face at all, or say words like these?<br>

Who is such a store of knowledge as you? What second knows everything?<br>

I understand it: the end of a man who wrongs his master is ash and filth.<br>

Your master is Rām, your mistress Siyā.<br>

With those two, who else is Tulsī's, and whose door is there to watch?

<a id="vinaya-patrika-34"></a>

34. अति आरत, अति स्वारथी, अति दीन दुखारी

To Hanumān.

Original

अति आरत, अति स्वारथी, अति दीन दुखारी ।<br>

इनको बिलगु न मानिए, बोलहिं न बिचारी ॥<br>

लोक-रीति देखी सुनी, व्याकुल नर नारी ।<br>

अति बरषे अनबरषे हूँ देहिं दैवहिं गारी ॥<br>

नाकहि आये नाथ सों, साँसति भय भारी ।<br>

कहि आयो, कीबी छमा निज ओर निहारी ॥<br>

समय साँकरे सुमिरिए समरथ हितकारी ।<br>

सो सब बिधि ऊबर करै, अपराध बिसारी ॥<br>

बिगरी सेवक की सदा साहेबहिं सुधारी ।<br>

तुलसी पर तेरी कृपा निरुपाधि निरारी ॥ ३४ ॥

Transliteration

ati ārata, ati svārathī, ati dīna dukhārī ।<br>

inakō bilagu na māniē, bōlahiṃ na bicārī ॥<br>

lōka-rīti dēkhī sunī, vyākula nara nārī ।<br>

ati baraṣē anabaraṣē hūm̐ dēhiṃ daivahiṃ gārī ॥<br>

nākahi āyē nātha sōṃ, sām̐sati bhaya bhārī ।<br>

kahi āyō, kībī chamā nija ōra nihārī ॥<br>

samaya sām̐karē sumiriē samaratha hitakārī ।<br>

sō saba bidhi ūbara karai, aparādha bisārī ॥<br>

bigarī sēvaka kī sadā sāhēbahiṃ sudhārī ।<br>

tulasī para tērī kr̥pā nirupādhi nirārī ॥ 34 ॥

English

Very troubled, very self-seeking, very poor and hurting:<br>

do not take offence at such people. They speak without thinking.<br>

I have seen and heard the way of the world: men and women beside themselves.<br>

Too much rain, or no rain at all, and either way they abuse God for it.<br>

It has come up to my nose, lord: the torment, the heavy fear.<br>

I have come out with it. Pardon it. Look to your own side of the matter.<br>

In a narrow hour you remember the one who is able and means you well,<br>

and he brings you clear of it every way, and forgets the offence.<br>

What the servant spoils, the master has always set right.<br>

Your kṛpā on Tulsī asks nothing for itself and is like nothing else.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-36"></a>

36. मंगल-मूरति मारुत-नंदन

To Hanumān.

Original

मंगल-मूरति मारुत-नंदन । सकल-अमंगल-मूल-निकंदन ॥<br>

पवनतनय संतन हितकारी । हृदय बिराजत अवध-बिहारी ॥<br>

मातु-पिता गुरु गनपति सारद । सिवा समेत संभु सुक नारद ॥<br>

चरन बंदि बिनवौं सब काहू । देहु रामपद-नेह-निबाहू ॥<br>

बंदौं राम लषन बैदेही । जे तुलसी के परम सनेही ॥ ३६ ॥

Transliteration

maṃgala-mūrati māruta-naṃdana । sakala-amaṃgala-mūla-nikaṃdana ॥<br>

pavanatanaya saṃtana hitakārī । hr̥daya birājata avadha-bihārī ॥<br>

mātu-pitā guru ganapati sārada । sivā samēta saṃbhu suka nārada ॥<br>

carana baṃdi binavauṃ saba kāhū । dēhu rāmapada-nēha-nibāhū ॥<br>

baṃdauṃ rāma laṣana baidēhī । jē tulasī kē parama sanēhī ॥ 36 ॥

English

Form of good, son of the wind; you cut out the root of everything that is not good.<br>

Child of the wind, who does the sants good; the one who walks in Avadh is seated in your heart.<br>

Mother, father, guru, Gaṇapati, Śārad; Śambhu with Śivā, Śuk, Nārad:<br>

I bow at all their feet and ask them all for this: love for Rām's feet, and see it through to the end.<br>

I bow to Rām and Lakhan and Baidehī, who love Tulsī most of all.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-42"></a>

42. कबहूँ समय सुधि द्याइबी मेरी मातु जानकी

Rāga Kedārā. To Sītā.

Original

कबहूँ समय सुधि द्याइबी मेरी मातु जानकी ।<br>

जन कहाइ नाम लेत हौं किए पन चातक ज्यों, प्यास-प्रेम-पान की ॥<br>

सरल-प्रकृति आपु जानिए करुना-निधान की ।<br>

निजगुन अरि-कृत अनहितौ दास-दोष सुरति चित रहति न दिए दान की ॥<br>

बानि बिसारनसील है मानद अमान की ।<br>

तुलसीदास न बिसारिए मन क्रम बचन जाके सपनेहुँ गति न आन की ॥ ४२ ॥

Transliteration

kabahūm̐ samaya sudhi dyāibī mērī mātu jānakī ।<br>

jana kahāi nāma lēta hauṃ kiē pana cātaka jyōṃ, pyāsa-prēma-pāna kī ॥<br>

sarala-prakr̥ti āpu jāniē karunā-nidhāna kī ।<br>

nijaguna ari-kr̥ta anahitau dāsa-dōṣa surati cita rahati na diē dāna kī ॥<br>

bāni bisāranasīla hai mānada amāna kī ।<br>

tulasīdāsa na bisāriē mana krama bacana jākē sapanēhum̐ gati na āna kī ॥ 42 ॥

English

Some time, when the moment comes, remind him of me, Jānakī my mother.<br>

I call myself his and I take his name. Like the cātak I have made a vow, and the thirst is for one drink, and the drink is love.<br>

You know for yourself how plain the nature of that store of karuṇā is.<br>

What he himself has done well, the harm his enemies did him, his servant's faults, the gifts he has given: none of it stays in his mind.<br>

Forgetting is his habit. He gives honour and lets the slight go.<br>

Do not forget Tulsīdās, whose mind and act and word have not, even in a dream, gone anywhere else.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-45"></a>

45. श्री रामचंद्र कृपालु भजु मन

Rāga Gaurī. To Rām. The one people know by heart.

Original

श्री रामचंद्र कृपालु भजु मन हरण भवभय दारुणं ।<br>

नवकंज-लोचन, कंज-मुख, कर-कंज, पद-कंजारुणं ॥ १ ॥<br>

कंदर्प-अगणित-अमित-छबि, नवनील-नीरज-सुंदरं ।<br>

पट-पीत मानहु तड़ित-रुचि शुचि नौमि जनक-सुता-वरं ॥ २ ॥<br>

भजु दीनबंधु दिनेश दानव-दैत्य-वंश निकंदनं ।<br>

रघुनंद आनंदकंद कोशलचंद दशरथ-नंदनं ॥ ३ ॥<br>

सिर मुकुट, कुंडल तिलक चारु, उदार अंग विभूषणं ।<br>

आजानुभुज, सर-चाप-धर, संग्राम-जित-खरदूषणं ॥ ४ ॥<br>

इति बदत तुलसीदास संकर-सेष-मुनि-मन-रंजनं ।<br>

मम हृदय-कंज निवास करु कामादि-खल-दल-गंजनं ॥ ५ ॥

Transliteration

śrī rāmacaṃdra kr̥pālu bhaju mana haraṇa bhavabhaya dāruṇaṃ ।<br>

navakaṃja-lōcana, kaṃja-mukha, kara-kaṃja, pada-kaṃjāruṇaṃ ॥ 1 ॥<br>

kaṃdarpa-agaṇita-amita-chabi, navanīla-nīraja-suṃdaraṃ ।<br>

paṭa-pīta mānahu taṛita-ruci śuci naumi janaka-sutā-varaṃ ॥ 2 ॥<br>

bhaju dīnabaṃdhu dinēśa dānava-daitya-vaṃśa nikaṃdanaṃ ।<br>

raghunaṃda ānaṃdakaṃda kōśalacaṃda daśaratha-naṃdanaṃ ॥ 3 ॥<br>

sira mukuṭa, kuṃḍala tilaka cāru, udāra aṃga vibhūṣaṇaṃ ।<br>

ājānubhuja, sara-cāpa-dhara, saṃgrāma-jita-kharadūṣaṇaṃ ॥ 4 ॥<br>

iti badata tulasīdāsa saṃkara-sēṣa-muni-mana-raṃjanaṃ ।<br>

mama hr̥daya-kaṃja nivāsa karu kāmādi-khala-dala-gaṃjanaṃ ॥ 5 ॥

English

Praise Śrī Rāmcandra, mind. He is kind, and he takes away the cruel fear of being.<br>

New-lotus eyes, a lotus face, lotus hands, feet like the red lotus.<br>

Beauty past counting, past measure, more than Kandarp's; lovely as a fresh blue lotus.<br>

His yellow cloth is like the sheen of lightning, and it is clean. I bow to him, the one Janak's daughter chose.<br>

Praise the friend of the poor, the sun, who cuts out the line of the dānavs and the daityas,<br>

Raghu's gladness, the root of joy, the moon of Kośal, Daśrath's son.<br>

A crown on his head, earrings, a fair tilak, ornaments on his open frame.<br>

Arms to his knees, holding arrow and bow, who beat Khar and Dūṣaṇ in the fight.<br>

So says Tulsīdās: you who gladden the minds of Śaṅkar and Śeṣ and the munis,<br>

make your home in the lotus of my heart, you who break the wicked ranks of desire and the rest.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-47"></a>

47. ऐसी आरती राम रघुबीर की करहि मन

Rāga Rāmkalī. The ārtī, done inwardly.

Original

ऐसी आरती राम रघुबीर की करहि मन ।<br>

हरन दुखद्वंद्व गोबिंद आनन्दघन ॥ १ ॥<br>

अचर-चर-रूप हरि सर्बगत सर्बदा बसत, इति बासना धूप दीजै ।<br>

दीप निज-बोध, गत क्रोध मद मोह तम, प्रौढ़ अभिमान-चितबृति छीजै ॥ २ ॥<br>

भाव अतिसय बिसद प्रवर नैवेद्य सुभ श्रीरमन परम-संतोषकारी ।<br>

प्रेम-तांबूल, गत-शूल संसय सकल, बिपुल-भव-बासना-बीज-हारी ॥ ३ ॥<br>

असुभ-सुभकर्म घृत-पूर्ण दस वर्तिका, त्याग पावक, सतोगुन प्रकासं ।<br>

भगति-बैराग-बिज्ञान दीपावली अर्पि नीराजनं जगनिवासं ॥ ४ ॥<br>

बिमल-हृदि-भवन कृत सांति पर्यक सुभ-सयन विश्राम श्रीरामराया ।<br>

क्षमा करुणा प्रमुख तत्र परिचारिका, यत्र हरि तत्र नहिं भेद-माया ॥ ५ ॥<br>

आरती-निरत सनकादि, श्रुति, सेष, सिव, देव-रिषि, अखिल मुनि तत्व-दरसी ।<br>

करै सोइ तरै, परिहरै कामादि मल, वदति इति अमलमति-दास तुलसी ॥ ६ ॥

Transliteration

aisī āratī rāma raghubīra kī karahi mana ।<br>

harana dukhadvaṃdva gōbiṃda ānandaghana ॥ 1 ॥<br>

acara-cara-rūpa hari sarbagata sarbadā basata, iti bāsanā dhūpa dījai ।<br>

dīpa nija-bōdha, gata krōdha mada mōha tama, prauṛha abhimāna-citabr̥ti chījai ॥ 2 ॥<br>

bhāva atisaya bisada pravara naivēdya subha śrīramana parama-saṃtōṣakārī ।<br>

prēma-tāṃbūla, gata-śūla saṃsaya sakala, bipula-bhava-bāsanā-bīja-hārī ॥ 3 ॥<br>

asubha-subhakarma ghr̥ta-pūrṇa dasa vartikā, tyāga pāvaka, satōguna prakāsaṃ ।<br>

bhagati-bairāga-bijñāna dīpāvalī arpi nīrājanaṃ jaganivāsaṃ ॥ 4 ॥<br>

bimala-hr̥di-bhavana kr̥ta sāṃti paryaka subha-sayana viśrāma śrīrāmarāyā ।<br>

kṣamā karuṇā pramukha tatra paricārikā, yatra hari tatra nahiṃ bhēda-māyā ॥ 5 ॥<br>

āratī-nirata sanakādi, śruti, sēṣa, siva, dēva-riṣi, akhila muni tatva-darasī ।<br>

karai sōi tarai, pariharai kāmādi mala, vadati iti amalamati-dāsa tulasī ॥ 6 ॥

English

Do an ārtī like this one for Rām Raghubīr, mind:<br>

he takes away the paired pains, Gobind, the thick cloud of joy.<br>

Hari's form is everything that moves and everything that does not; he is everywhere and he lives there always: give that thought for your incense.<br>

Your own knowing is the lamp; anger and pride and delusion, that darkness, are gone; and the grown habit of thinking of yourself wears thin.<br>

Feeling, very clear and of the best kind, is the good offering of food, and it satisfies Śrī's husband utterly.<br>

Love is the betel roll; every thorn and doubt is gone; it carries off the seed of the whole great craving to be born.<br>

Deeds bad and good are the ghee and the ten wicks are full of it; letting go is the flame, and sattva the light.<br>

Bhakti and detachment and vijñān are the row of lamps: offer that circling light to him who lives in the world.<br>

A clean heart for his house, peace made into a couch, a good bed for Śrī Rām the king to rest on.<br>

Pardon and karuṇā and the rest are the waiting women there; and where Hari is, there is no māyā to divide anything.<br>

Sanak and his brothers are bent on this ārtī, and the śruti, and Śeṣ, and Śiv, and the god-ṛṣis, and every muni who sees into things.<br>

Whoever does it crosses over and leaves the dirt of desire behind. So says Tulsī, the servant, with a clean mind.

Bāsanā is a scent and it is also the trace a thought leaves behind. He offers the second as the first.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-66"></a>

66. राम जपु, राम जपु, राम जपु, बावरे

Rāga Bhairav. On the name.

Original

राम जपु, राम जपु, राम जपु, बावरे ।<br>

घोर भव-नीर-निधि नाम निजु नाव, रे ॥<br>

एकहि साधन सब रिद्धि सिद्धि साधि, रे ।<br>

ग्रसे कलि रोग जोग संजम समाधि, रे ॥<br>

भलो जो है, पोच जो है, दाहिनो जो बाम, रे ।<br>

राम-नाम ही सों अंत सबही को काम, रे ॥<br>

जग नभ-बाटिका रही है फलि फूलि, रे ।<br>

धुवाँ के से धौरहर देखि तू न भूलि, रे ॥<br>

राम-नाम छाँड़ि जो भरोसो करै और, रे ।<br>

तुलसी परोसो त्यागि माँगै कूर कौर, रे ॥ ६६ ॥

Transliteration

rāma japu, rāma japu, rāma japu, bāvarē ।<br>

ghōra bhava-nīra-nidhi nāma niju nāva, rē ॥<br>

ēkahi sādhana saba riddhi siddhi sādhi, rē ।<br>

grasē kali rōga jōga saṃjama samādhi, rē ॥<br>

bhalō jō hai, pōca jō hai, dāhinō jō bāma, rē ।<br>

rāma-nāma hī sōṃ aṃta sabahī kō kāma, rē ॥<br>

jaga nabha-bāṭikā rahī hai phali phūli, rē ।<br>

dhuvām̐ kē sē dhaurahara dēkhi tū na bhūli, rē ॥<br>

rāma-nāma chām̐ṛi jō bharōsō karai aura, rē ।<br>

tulasī parōsō tyāgi mām̐gai kūra kaura, rē ॥ 66 ॥

English

Say Rām, say Rām, say Rām, you madman.<br>

This sea of being is a terrible one, and the name is your own boat.<br>

With this one practice work out every riddhi and siddhi there is.<br>

The Kali age has eaten yoga and self-command and samādhi the way a sickness eats.<br>

Whatever is good, whatever is poor, what is on the right hand and what is on the left:<br>

in the end everybody's business is with Rām's name and with nothing else.<br>

The world is a garden in the sky, and it has come into flower and fruit.<br>

Palaces made of smoke. Look at them and do not be taken in.<br>

Whoever puts Rām's name aside and trusts something else:<br>

Tulsī, he pushes away the meal set in front of him and begs for a cold scrap.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-83"></a>

83. कछु ह्वै न आइ, गयो जनम जाय

Rāga Jaitśrī. The petition proper begins. He gives an account of his life.

Original

कछु ह्वै न आइ, गयो जनम जाय ।<br>

अति दुर्लभ तनु पाइ कपट तजि भजे न राम मन बचन काय ॥ १ ॥<br>

लरिकाई बीती अचेत चित, चंचलता चौगुने चाय ।<br>

जोबन-जुर जुबती कुपथ्य करि भयो त्रिदोष भरि मदन बाय ॥ २ ॥<br>

मध्य बयस धन-हेतु गँवाई कृषी बनिज नाना उपाय ।<br>

राम बिमुख सुख लह्यो न सपनेहुँ, निसिबासर तयौ तिहूँ ताय ॥ ३ ॥<br>

सेये नहिं सीतापति-सेवक साधु सुमति भलि भगति भाय ।<br>

सुने न पुलकि तनु, कहे न मुदित मन, किए जे चरित रघुबंसराय ॥ ४ ॥<br>

अब सोचत मनि बिनु भुजंग ज्यों बिकल अंग दले जरा धाय ।<br>

सिर धुनि-धुनि पछिताय मीजि कर कोउ न मीत हित दुसह दाय ॥ ५ ॥<br>

जिन्ह लगि निज परलोक बिगार्यौ, ते लजात होत ठाढ़े ठायँ ।<br>

तुलसी अजहूँ सुमिरि रघुनाथहिं, तरो गयंद जाके अर्द्ध नायँ ॥ ८३ ॥

Transliteration

kachu hvai na āi, gayō janama jāya ।<br>

ati durlabha tanu pāi kapaṭa taji bhajē na rāma mana bacana kāya ॥ 1 ॥<br>

larikāī bītī acēta cita, caṃcalatā caugunē cāya ।<br>

jōbana-jura jubatī kupathya kari bhayō tridōṣa bhari madana bāya ॥ 2 ॥<br>

madhya bayasa dhana-hētu gam̐vāī kr̥ṣī banija nānā upāya ।<br>

rāma bimukha sukha lahyō na sapanēhum̐, nisibāsara tayau tihūm̐ tāya ॥ 3 ॥<br>

sēyē nahiṃ sītāpati-sēvaka sādhu sumati bhali bhagati bhāya ।<br>

sunē na pulaki tanu, kahē na mudita mana, kiē jē carita raghubaṃsarāya ॥ 4 ॥<br>

aba sōcata mani binu bhujaṃga jyōṃ bikala aṃga dalē jarā dhāya ।<br>

sira dhuni-dhuni pachitāya mīji kara kōu na mīta hita dusaha dāya ॥ 5 ॥<br>

jinha lagi nija paralōka bigāryau, tē lajāta hōta ṭhāṛhē ṭhāyam̐ ।<br>

tulasī ajahūm̐ sumiri raghunāthahiṃ, tarō gayaṃda jākē arddha nāyam̐ ॥ 83 ॥

English

Nothing has come of anything. The birth is going, going for nothing.<br>

I got this body that is so hard to come by, and I did not drop my crookedness and praise Rām with mind and word and body.<br>

Childhood went by with my mind on nothing, restless, with four times the appetite.<br>

Youth was the fever, women were the forbidden food, the three humours went wrong together, and desire was the wind in me.<br>

Middle age I threw away for money: farming, trade, a hundred schemes.<br>

With my face turned from Rām I got no ease, not even in a dream, and night and day I was heated in the three heats.<br>

I did not serve Sītāpati's servants, the sādhus, with a good mind and the feeling of bhakti.<br>

I never heard with the hair rising on me, never told with a glad mind, the things the lord of Raghu's line did.<br>

Now I fret like a snake that has lost its jewel, my limbs undone, old age running up to crush them.<br>

Beating my head, wringing my hands, sorry for it all, and in this unbearable pass there is no friend and nobody who means me well.<br>

The people for whose sake I spoiled my own next world are ashamed to stand beside me now.<br>

Tulsī, even now remember Raghunāth. The elephant crossed over on half of his name.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-90"></a>

90. ऐसी मूढ़ता या मन की

Rāga Dhanāśrī. On his own mind.

Original

ऐसी मूढ़ता या मन की ।<br>

परिहरि राम-भगति-सुरसरिता आस करत ओसकन की ॥ १ ॥<br>

धूम-समूह निरखि चातक ज्यों तृषित जानि मति घन की ।<br>

नहिं तहँ सीतलता न बारि, पुनि हानि होति लोचन की ॥ २ ॥<br>

ज्यों गच-काँच बिलोकि सेन जड़ छाँह आपने तन की ।<br>

टूटत अति आतुर अहार बस छति बिसारि आनन की ॥ ३ ॥<br>

कहाँ लौं कहौं कुचाल कृपानिधि जानत हौ गति जन की ।<br>

तुलसिदास प्रभु हरहु दुसह दुख, करहु लाज निज पन की ॥ ९० ॥

Transliteration

aisī mūṛhatā yā mana kī ।<br>

parihari rāma-bhagati-surasaritā āsa karata ōsakana kī ॥ 1 ॥<br>

dhūma-samūha nirakhi cātaka jyōṃ tr̥ṣita jāni mati ghana kī ।<br>

nahiṃ taham̐ sītalatā na bāri, puni hāni hōti lōcana kī ॥ 2 ॥<br>

jyōṃ gaca-kām̐ca bilōki sēna jaṛa chām̐ha āpanē tana kī ।<br>

ṭūṭata ati ātura ahāra basa chati bisāri ānana kī ॥ 3 ॥<br>

kahām̐ lauṃ kahauṃ kucāla kr̥pānidhi jānata hau gati jana kī ।<br>

tulasidāsa prabhu harahu dusaha dukha, karahu lāja nija pana kī ॥ 90 ॥

English

Such is the stupidity of this mind of mine.<br>

It walks away from the Gaṅgā that is bhakti to Rām, and puts its hope in a drop of dew.<br>

Like the cātak that looks at a pile of smoke and, being thirsty, takes it for a cloud.<br>

There is no coolness there and no water, and it loses its eyes into the bargain.<br>

Like the dull hawk that sees in the polished floor the shadow of its own body,<br>

and stoops at it in a hurry for food, forgetting what it will cost its face.<br>

How far am I to go on telling my bad habits? Store of kṛpā, you know how it stands with your man.<br>

Lord, take away Tulsīdās's unbearable pain, and keep the honour of your own vow.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-92"></a>

92. माधव जू मो सम मंद न कोऊ

Rāga Dhanāśrī.

Original

माधव जू मो सम मंद न कोऊ ।<br>

जद्यपि मीन पतंग हीनमति मोहि नहिं पूजहिं ओऊ ॥ १ ॥<br>

रुचिर रुप-आहार-बस्य उन पावक लोह न जान्यो ।<br>

देखत बिपति बिषय न तजत हौं, तातें अधिक अजान्यो ॥ २ ॥<br>

महामोह-सरिता अपार महँ संतत फिरत बह्यो ।<br>

श्रीहरि-चरन-कमल नौका तजि फिरि फिरि फेन गह्यो ॥ ३ ॥<br>

अस्थि पुरातन छुधित स्वान अति ज्यौं भरि मुख पकर्यो ।<br>

निज तालूगत रुधिर पान करि मन संतोष धर्यो ॥ ४ ॥<br>

परम कठिन भव-ब्याल-ग्रसित हौं, त्रसित भयो अति भारी ।<br>

चाहत अभय भेक सरनागत खगपति-नाथ बिसारी ॥ ५ ॥<br>

जलचर बुंद जाल-अंतरगत होत सिमिटि इक पासा ।<br>

एकहि एक खात लालच-बस, नहिं देखत निज नासा ॥ ६ ॥<br>

मेरे अघ सारद अनेक जुग गनत पार नहिं पावै ।<br>

तुलसिदास पतित-पावन प्रभु यह भरोस जिय आवै ॥ ९२ ॥

Transliteration

mādhava jū mō sama maṃda na kōū ।<br>

jadyapi mīna pataṃga hīnamati mōhi nahiṃ pūjahiṃ ōū ॥ 1 ॥<br>

rucira rupa-āhāra-basya una pāvaka lōha na jānyō ।<br>

dēkhata bipati biṣaya na tajata hauṃ, tātēṃ adhika ajānyō ॥ 2 ॥<br>

mahāmōha-saritā apāra maham̐ saṃtata phirata bahyō ।<br>

śrīhari-carana-kamala naukā taji phiri phiri phēna gahyō ॥ 3 ॥<br>

asthi purātana chudhita svāna ati jyauṃ bhari mukha pakaryō ।<br>

nija tālūgata rudhira pāna kari mana saṃtōṣa dharyō ॥ 4 ॥<br>

parama kaṭhina bhava-byāla-grasita hauṃ, trasita bhayō ati bhārī ।<br>

cāhata abhaya bhēka saranāgata khagapati-nātha bisārī ॥ 5 ॥<br>

jalacara buṃda jāla-aṃtaragata hōta simiṭi ika pāsā ।<br>

ēkahi ēka khāta lālaca-basa, nahiṃ dēkhata nija nāsā ॥ 6 ॥<br>

mērē agha sārada anēka juga ganata pāra nahiṃ pāvai ।<br>

tulasidāsa patita-pāvana prabhu yaha bharōsa jiya āvai ॥ 92 ॥

English

Mādhav jū, there is nobody as dull as I am.<br>

The fish and the moth have poor wits, and even they do not come up to me.<br>

They were in the grip of a lovely shape and of food, and did not know that one was fire and the other iron.<br>

I see the ruin coming and still do not let the objects go, and so I am the more ignorant of the two.<br>

In the shoreless river of the great delusion I have drifted, turning and turning, without a break.<br>

I let go of the boat that is Śrīhari's lotus feet and caught at the foam again and again.<br>

As a starving dog takes an old bone and fills its mouth with it,<br>

and drinks the blood out of its own palate and is satisfied.<br>

The hard snake of being has swallowed me, and I am very much afraid.<br>

Like a frog I go looking for shelter and safety, and I have forgotten the master of the king of birds.<br>

A shoal of fish inside the net, crowding together into one corner,<br>

eat one another out of greed, and do not see their own end coming.<br>

Śārad could count my sins for many ages and not come to the end of them.<br>

Tulsīdās: my lord makes the fallen clean, and that is the confidence that comes into my heart.

Garuḍa eats snakes and Garuḍa's master is Viṣṇu. The frog in the snake's mouth is looking everywhere except there.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-96"></a>

96. जौ पै जिय धरिहौ अवगुन जन के

Rāga Dhanāśrī.

Original

जौ पै जिय धरिहौ अवगुन जन के ।<br>

तौ क्यों कटत सुकृत-नख तें मोपै बिपुल बृंद अघ-बन के ॥ १ ॥<br>

कहिहै कौन कलुष मेरे कृत करम बचन अरु मन के ।<br>

हारहिं अमित सेष सारद श्रुति गिनत एक-एक छन के ॥ २ ॥<br>

जो चित चढ़ै नाम-महिमा निज, गुनगन पावन पन के ।<br>

तो तुलसिहिं तारिहौ बिप्र ज्यों दसन तोरि जमगन के ॥ ३ ॥

Transliteration

jau pai jiya dharihau avaguna jana kē ।<br>

tau kyōṃ kaṭata sukr̥ta-nakha tēṃ mōpai bipula br̥ṃda agha-bana kē ॥ 1 ॥<br>

kahihai kauna kaluṣa mērē kr̥ta karama bacana aru mana kē ।<br>

hārahiṃ amita sēṣa sārada śruti ginata ēka-ēka chana kē ॥ 2 ॥<br>

jō cita caṛhai nāma-mahimā nija, gunagana pāvana pana kē ।<br>

tō tulasihiṃ tārihau bipra jyōṃ dasana tōri jamagana kē ॥ 3 ॥

English

If you are going to keep your man's faults in your mind,<br>

then how should the great forest of my sin be cut down by me with the nail-paring of merit I have?<br>

Who is going to tell out the filth I have made with act and word and mind?<br>

Śeṣ and Śārad and the śruti give up, counting them moment by moment without end.<br>

If the greatness of the name gets up into my mind, and the train of clean virtues that go with your vow,<br>

then you will carry Tulsī across as you did the brāhmaṇ, breaking the teeth of Yama's men.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-99"></a>

99. बिरद गरीबनिवाज राम को

Rāga Dhanāśrī.

Original

बिरद गरीबनिवाज राम को ।<br>

गावत बेद पुरान संभु सुक प्रगट प्रभाव नाम को ॥ १ ॥<br>

ध्रुव, प्रहलाद, बिभीषन, कपिपति, जड़, पतंग, पाँडव, सुदाम को ।<br>

लोक सुजस परलोक सुगति इनमें को है राम काम को ॥ २ ॥<br>

गनिका, कोल, किरात, आदि-कबि इनते अधिक बाम को ।<br>

बाजिमेध कब कियो अजामिल, गज गायो कब साम को ॥ ३ ॥<br>

छली मलीन हीन सब ही अँग, तुलसी सो छीन छाम को ।<br>

नाम-नरेस-प्रताप प्रबल जग जुग जुग चालत चाम को ॥ ९९ ॥

Transliteration

birada garībanivāja rāma kō ।<br>

gāvata bēda purāna saṃbhu suka pragaṭa prabhāva nāma kō ॥ 1 ॥<br>

dhruva, prahalāda, bibhīṣana, kapipati, jaṛa, pataṃga, pām̐ḍava, sudāma kō ।<br>

lōka sujasa paralōka sugati inamēṃ kō hai rāma kāma kō ॥ 2 ॥<br>

ganikā, kōla, kirāta, ādi-kabi inatē adhika bāma kō ।<br>

bājimēdha kaba kiyō ajāmila, gaja gāyō kaba sāma kō ॥ 3 ॥<br>

chalī malīna hīna saba hī am̐ga, tulasī sō chīna chāma kō ।<br>

nāma-narēsa-pratāpa prabala jaga juga juga cālata cāma kō ॥ 99 ॥

English

Rām's standing title is this: he looks after the poor.<br>

The Veda and the Purāṇas sing it, and Śambhu and Śuk; the power of the name is out in the open.<br>

Dhruv, Prahlād, Bibhīṣan, the monkey king, the senseless, the bird, the Pāṇḍavs, Sudāmā:<br>

a good name in this world, a good end in the next; and which of them, Rām, was ever of any use to you?<br>

The courtesan, the Kol, the Kirāt, the first poet: who was ever more crooked than these?<br>

When did Ajāmil perform a horse sacrifice? When did the elephant sing the Sāma?<br>

A cheat, dirty, wanting in every part, worn as thin as Tulsī is:<br>

the power of that king, the name, is strong in the world, and age after age his leather money passes.

A king strong enough can make leather pass for coin. That is the kind of authority he means.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-101"></a>

101. जाउँ कहाँ तजि चरन तुम्हारे

Rāga Dhanāśrī.

Original

जाउँ कहाँ तजि चरन तुम्हारे ?<br>

काको नाम पतित-पावन जग? केहि अति दीन पियारे ? ॥ १ ॥<br>

कौने देव बराय बिरद-हित हठि हठि अधम उधारे ?<br>

खग, मृग, ब्याध, पषान, बिटप, जड़, जवन कवन सुर तारे ? ॥ २ ॥<br>

देव, दनुज, मुनि, नाग, मनुज सब माया-बिबस बिचारे ।<br>

तिनके हाथ दासतुलसी प्रभु कहा अपनपौ हारे ? ॥ १०१ ॥

Transliteration

jāum̐ kahām̐ taji carana tumhārē ?<br>

kākō nāma patita-pāvana jaga? kēhi ati dīna piyārē ? ॥ 1 ॥<br>

kaunē dēva barāya birada-hita haṭhi haṭhi adhama udhārē ?<br>

khaga, mr̥ga, byādha, paṣāna, biṭapa, jaṛa, javana kavana sura tārē ? ॥ 2 ॥<br>

dēva, danuja, muni, nāga, manuja saba māyā-bibasa bicārē ।<br>

tinakē hātha dāsatulasī prabhu kahā apanapau hārē ? ॥ 101 ॥

English

Where would I go, leaving your feet?<br>

Whose name in the world is the one that makes the fallen clean? To whom are the very poor dear?<br>

What god has picked them out for his own name's sake and lifted the lowest of them up by force?<br>

A bird, a beast, a hunter, a stone, a tree, the senseless, a Yavan: what god has carried such across?<br>

Gods, demons, munis, nāgas, men: poor things, all of them, in māyā's grip.<br>

Lord, why should your servant Tulsī gamble his own self away into their hands?

<a id="vinaya-patrika-105"></a>

105. अब लौं नसानी अब न नसैहौं

Rāga Dhanāśrī.

Original

अब लौं नसानी अब न नसैहौं ।<br>

राम-कृपा भव-निसा सिरानी जागे फिरि न डसैहौं ॥ १ ॥<br>

पायो नाम चारु चिंतामनि, उर कर तें न खसैहौं ।<br>

स्याम रूप सुचि रुचिर कसौटी चित कंचनहिं कसैहौं ॥ २ ॥<br>

परबस जानि हस्यो इन इंद्रिन, निज बस है न हँसैहौं ।<br>

मन मधुकर पन करि तुलसी रघुपति-पद-कमल बसैहौं ॥ १०५ ॥

Transliteration

aba lauṃ nasānī aba na nasaihauṃ ।<br>

rāma-kr̥pā bhava-nisā sirānī jāgē phiri na ḍasaihauṃ ॥ 1 ॥<br>

pāyō nāma cāru ciṃtāmani, ura kara tēṃ na khasaihauṃ ।<br>

syāma rūpa suci rucira kasauṭī cita kaṃcanahiṃ kasaihauṃ ॥ 2 ॥<br>

parabasa jāni hasyō ina iṃdrina, nija basa hai na ham̐saihauṃ ।<br>

mana madhukara pana kari tulasī raghupati-pada-kamala basaihauṃ ॥ 105 ॥

English

Up to now it was all spoiled. It will not be spoiled now.<br>

By Rām's kṛpā the night of the world is over. I am awake, and I will not spread the bed again.<br>

I have got the name, that fine wishing-stone, and I will not let it slip out of my heart or my hand.<br>

That dark form is the clean bright touchstone, and I will test the gold of my mind on it.<br>

These senses laughed at me when they saw me in another's power. I am in my own power now, and they will not laugh.<br>

Tulsī has taken a vow: this mind of his, a bee, will live in the lotus of Raghupati's feet.

Ḍasaihauṃ is from ḍasnā, to spread a bed. The night is over and he is not going to lie down again. The whole pada rhymes on that one sound, six times over.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-111"></a>

111. केसव! कहि न जाइ का कहिए

Rāga Bilāval. On māyā.

Original

केसव! कहि न जाइ का कहिए ?<br>

देखत तव रचना बिचित्र अति समुझि मनहिं मन रहिए ॥ १ ॥<br>

सून्य भीति पर चित्र, रंग नहिं, तनु बिनु लिखा चितेरे ।<br>

धोये मिटै न, मरै भीति, दुख पाइय एहि तनु हेरे ॥ २ ॥<br>

रबिकर-नीर बसै अति दारुन मकर रूप तेहि माहीं ।<br>

बदन-हीन सो ग्रसै चराचर पान करन जे जाहीं ॥ ३ ॥<br>

कोउ कह सत्य, झूठ कह कोऊ, जुगल प्रबल कोउ मानै ।<br>

तुलसिदास परिहरै तीन भ्रम सो आपन पहिचानै ॥ १११ ॥

Transliteration

kēsava! kahi na jāi kā kahiē ?<br>

dēkhata tava racanā bicitra ati samujhi manahiṃ mana rahiē ॥ 1 ॥<br>

sūnya bhīti para citra, raṃga nahiṃ, tanu binu likhā citērē ।<br>

dhōyē miṭai na, marai bhīti, dukha pāiya ēhi tanu hērē ॥ 2 ॥<br>

rabikara-nīra basai ati dāruna makara rūpa tēhi māhīṃ ।<br>

badana-hīna sō grasai carācara pāna karana jē jāhīṃ ॥ 3 ॥<br>

kōu kaha satya, jhūṭha kaha kōū, jugala prabala kōu mānai ।<br>

tulasidāsa pariharai tīna bhrama sō āpana pahicānai ॥ 111 ॥

English

Keśav, it will not be said. What is there to say?<br>

Looking at your very strange making, a man understands, and keeps it to himself.<br>

A picture on an empty wall, and no paint used; and the painter had no body when he drew it.<br>

Washing will not rub it out, and the wall will not die. Go looking for this body and all you come by is pain.<br>

In the water that is made of the sun's rays there lives a very cruel thing in the shape of a crocodile.<br>

It has no mouth and it swallows everything that moves and does not move, whoever goes there to drink.<br>

One man calls it true, one calls it false, and one holds that both are strong.<br>

Tulsīdās: the man who lets all three go, that man knows himself.

The three are the three answers people give about māyā: that the world is real, that it is false, that it is both. He puts down all three.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-114"></a>

114. माधव! मो समान जग माहीं

Rāga Bilāval.

Original

माधव! मो समान जग माहीं ।<br>

सब बिधि हीन, मलीन, दीन अति लीन-बिषय कोउ नाहीं ॥ १ ॥<br>

तुम सम हेतु-रहित कृपालु आरत-हित ईस न त्यागी ।<br>

मैं दुख-सोक-बिकल कृपालु! केहि कारन दया न लागी ? ॥ २ ॥<br>

नाहिंन कछु अवगुन तुम्हार, अपराध मोर मैं माना ।<br>

ज्ञान-भवन तनु दिएहु नाथ! सोउ पाय न मैं प्रभु जाना ॥ ३ ॥<br>

बेनु करील, श्रीखंड बसंतहि दूषन मृषा लगावै ।<br>

सार-रहित, हत-भाग्य सुरभि पल्लव सो कहु कहँ पावै ॥ ४ ॥<br>

सब प्रकार मैं कठिन, मृदुल हरि, दृढ़ बिचार जिय मोरे ।<br>

तुलसिदास प्रभु मोह-शृंखला छुटिहि तुम्हारे छोरे ॥ ११४ ॥

Transliteration

mādhava! mō samāna jaga māhīṃ ।<br>

saba bidhi hīna, malīna, dīna ati līna-biṣaya kōu nāhīṃ ॥ 1 ॥<br>

tuma sama hētu-rahita kr̥pālu ārata-hita īsa na tyāgī ।<br>

maiṃ dukha-sōka-bikala kr̥pālu! kēhi kārana dayā na lāgī ? ॥ 2 ॥<br>

nāhiṃna kachu avaguna tumhāra, aparādha mōra maiṃ mānā ।<br>

jñāna-bhavana tanu diēhu nātha! sōu pāya na maiṃ prabhu jānā ॥ 3 ॥<br>

bēnu karīla, śrīkhaṃḍa basaṃtahi dūṣana mr̥ṣā lagāvai ।<br>

sāra-rahita, hata-bhāgya surabhi pallava sō kahu kaham̐ pāvai ॥ 4 ॥<br>

saba prakāra maiṃ kaṭhina, mr̥dula hari, dr̥ṛha bicāra jiya mōrē ।<br>

tulasidāsa prabhu mōha-śr̥ṃkhalā chuṭihi tumhārē chōrē ॥ 114 ॥

English

Mādhav, in the whole world there is nobody like me:<br>

wanting in every way, dirty, very poor, sunk in the objects of sense; there is nobody.<br>

There is no lord so free with his hand as you, kind for no reason, a friend to the troubled.<br>

I am undone with pain and grief; kind one, for what reason has your pity not touched me?<br>

There is no fault of yours in this. The offence is mine, and I own it.<br>

Lord, you gave me a body that is a house of knowledge, and even with that in my hands I did not know you.<br>

The bamboo and the karīl lay a false charge on the sandal tree and on the spring.<br>

No pith in it, no luck in it: tell me, where is such a thing to get its sweet new leaf?<br>

In every way I am hard and you are soft, Hari; that thought stands firm in my heart.<br>

Lord, the chain of Tulsīdās's delusion will come off when you undo it and not before.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-122"></a>

122. मैं हरि, साधन करइ न जानी

Rāga Bilāval.

Original

मैं हरि, साधन करइ न जानी ।<br>

जस आमय भेषज न कीन्ह तस, दोष कहा दिरमानी ॥ १ ॥<br>

सपने नृप कहूँ घटै बिप्र-बध, बिकल फिरै अघ लागे ।<br>

बाजिमेध सत कोटि करै नहिं सुद्ध होइ बिनु जागे ॥ २ ॥<br>

स्रग महँ सर्प बिपुल भयदायक प्रगट होइ अबिचारे ।<br>

बहु आयुध धरि, बल अनेक करि हारहिं, मरै न मारे ॥ ३ ॥<br>

निज भ्रम ते रबिकर-सम्भव सागर अति भय उपजावै ।<br>

अवगाहत बोहित नौका चढ़ि कबहुँ पार न पावै ॥ ४ ॥<br>

तुलसिदास जग आपु सहित जब लगि निर्मूल न जाई ।<br>

तब लगि कोटि कलप उपाय करि मरिय, तरिय नहिं भाई ॥ १२२ ॥

Transliteration

maiṃ hari, sādhana karai na jānī ।<br>

jasa āmaya bhēṣaja na kīnha tasa, dōṣa kahā diramānī ॥ 1 ॥<br>

sapanē nr̥pa kahūm̐ ghaṭai bipra-badha, bikala phirai agha lāgē ।<br>

bājimēdha sata kōṭi karai nahiṃ suddha hōi binu jāgē ॥ 2 ॥<br>

sraga maham̐ sarpa bipula bhayadāyaka pragaṭa hōi abicārē ।<br>

bahu āyudha dhari, bala anēka kari hārahiṃ, marai na mārē ॥ 3 ॥<br>

nija bhrama tē rabikara-sambhava sāgara ati bhaya upajāvai ।<br>

avagāhata bōhita naukā caṛhi kabahum̐ pāra na pāvai ॥ 4 ॥<br>

tulasidāsa jaga āpu sahita jaba lagi nirmūla na jāī ।<br>

taba lagi kōṭi kalapa upāya kari mariya, tariya nahiṃ bhāī ॥ 122 ॥

English

Hari, I have not known how to do any sādhan at all.<br>

The medicine was not made to match the disease; where is the remedy at fault?<br>

In a dream a king somewhere kills a brahmin, and he goes about beside himself with the sin on him.<br>

Let him do a thousand million horse sacrifices; he will not be clean until he wakes up.<br>

In the garland a snake shows itself, very frightening, to a man who has not looked properly.<br>

Take up weapon after weapon, put out all your strength, and you lose: it will not die by being killed.<br>

Out of your own mistake the sea that the sun's rays make breeds a terrible fear.<br>

Get into a ship or a boat and sound it, and you never reach the other bank.<br>

Tulsīdās: until the world goes out root and all, and you along with it,<br>

till then, brother, you may work at it ten million kalpas and die of it, and still not cross.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-127"></a>

127. मैं जानी हरिपद-रति नाहीं

Rāga Bilāval.

Original

मैं जानी हरिपद-रति नाहीं । सपनेहुँ नहिं बिराग मन माहीं ॥ १ ॥<br>

जे रघुबीर चरन अनुरागे । तिन्ह सब भोग रोग-सम त्यागे ॥ २ ॥<br>

काम, भुजंग डसत जब जाहीं । बिषय-नींब कटु लगत न ताही ॥ ३ ॥<br>

असमंजस अस हृदय बिचारी । बढ़त सोच नित नूतन भारी ॥ ४ ॥<br>

जब कब राम-कृपा दुख जाई । तुलसिदास नहिं आन उपाई ॥ १२७ ॥

Transliteration

maiṃ jānī haripada-rati nāhīṃ । sapanēhum̐ nahiṃ birāga mana māhīṃ ॥ 1 ॥<br>

jē raghubīra carana anurāgē । tinha saba bhōga rōga-sama tyāgē ॥ 2 ॥<br>

kāma, bhujaṃga ḍasata jaba jāhīṃ । biṣaya-nīṃba kaṭu lagata na tāhī ॥ 3 ॥<br>

asamaṃjasa asa hr̥daya bicārī । baṛhata sōca nita nūtana bhārī ॥ 4 ॥<br>

jaba kaba rāma-kr̥pā dukha jāī । tulasidāsa nahiṃ āna upāī ॥ 127 ॥

English

I have found it out: there is no love in me for Hari's feet, and not a dream of detachment in my mind.<br>

Those who came to love Raghubīr's feet gave up every pleasure as though it were a disease.<br>

When the snake that is desire bites a man, the neem of the senses does not taste bitter to him.<br>

Turning that contradiction over in my heart, my worry grows heavier, and new every day.<br>

Whenever this pain goes, it will go by Rām's kṛpā. Tulsīdās has no other way.

Neem tastes of nothing to a man with snake venom in him, and that was how the vaidya tested for it.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-149"></a>

149. कहाँ जाउँ, कासों कहौं, और ठौर न मेरो

Rāga Bilāval.

Original

कहाँ जाउँ, कासों कहौं, और ठौर न मेरो ।<br>

जनम गँवायो तेरेहि द्वार मैं किंकर तेरो ॥ १ ॥<br>

मैं तौ बिगारी नाथ सों आरति के लीन्हें ।<br>

तोहि कृपानिधि क्यों बने मेरी सी कीन्हें ? ॥ २ ॥<br>

दिन दुरदिन, दिन दुरदसा, दिन दुख, दिन दूषन ।<br>

जब लौं तू न बिलोकिहै रघुबंस-बिभूषन ॥ ३ ॥<br>

दई पीठ बिनु डीठ मैं, तुम बिस्व-बिलोचन ।<br>

तोसों तुही न दूसरो नत-सोच-बिमोचन ॥ ४ ॥<br>

पराधीन देव, दीन हौं, स्वाधीन गुसाईं ।<br>

बोलनिहारे सों करै, बलि, बिनय कि झाई ॥ ५ ॥<br>

आपु देखि मोहि देखिये जन मानिय साँचो ।<br>

बड़ी ओट रामनाम की जेहि लई सो बाँचो ॥ ६ ॥<br>

रहनि रीति राम रावरी नित हिय हुलसी है ।<br>

ज्यों भावै त्यों करु कृपा तेरो तुलसी है ॥ १४९ ॥

Transliteration

kahām̐ jāum̐, kāsōṃ kahauṃ, aura ṭhaura na mērō ।<br>

janama gam̐vāyō tērēhi dvāra maiṃ kiṃkara tērō ॥ 1 ॥<br>

maiṃ tau bigārī nātha sōṃ ārati kē līnhēṃ ।<br>

tōhi kr̥pānidhi kyōṃ banē mērī sī kīnhēṃ ? ॥ 2 ॥<br>

dina duradina, dina duradasā, dina dukha, dina dūṣana ।<br>

jaba lauṃ tū na bilōkihai raghubaṃsa-bibhūṣana ॥ 3 ॥<br>

daī pīṭha binu ḍīṭha maiṃ, tuma bisva-bilōcana ।<br>

tōsōṃ tuhī na dūsarō nata-sōca-bimōcana ॥ 4 ॥<br>

parādhīna dēva, dīna hauṃ, svādhīna gusāīṃ ।<br>

bōlanihārē sōṃ karai, bali, binaya ki jhāī ॥ 5 ॥<br>

āpu dēkhi mōhi dēkhiyē jana māniya sām̐cō ।<br>

baṛī ōṭa rāmanāma kī jēhi laī sō bām̐cō ॥ 6 ॥<br>

rahani rīti rāma rāvarī nita hiya hulasī hai ।<br>

jyōṃ bhāvai tyōṃ karu kr̥pā tērō tulasī hai ॥ 149 ॥

English

Where am I to go, who am I to tell? There is no other place of mine.<br>

I have spent a whole life at your door. I am your servant.<br>

It is I who have spoiled things with my lord, taken up as I was with my own distress.<br>

Store of kṛpā, how would it suit you to do as I have done?<br>

Every day a bad day, every day bad luck, every day pain, every day fault,<br>

for as long as you do not look at me, ornament of Raghu's line.<br>

I turned my back on you, having no eyes; and you are the eye of the world.<br>

There is no second to you, who unfasten the worry of those who bow.<br>

I am in another's power, god, and poor with it; you are your own master.<br>

A plea is made to one who answers; and mine, and I would die for you, is barely the shadow of a plea.<br>

Look at yourself, and then look at me, and take your man for a true one.<br>

Rām's name is a great shelter. Whoever took it came through.<br>

Rām, your way of living and of doing gladdens my heart every day.<br>

Do your kṛpā as you please. Tulsī is yours.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-153"></a>

153. मेरे रावरिये गति है रघुपति

Rāga Bilāval.

Original

मेरे रावरिये गति है रघुपति बलि जाउँ ।<br>

निलज, नीच, निरधन, निरगुन कहूँ जग दूसरो न ठाकुर ठाउँ ॥ १ ॥<br>

है घर घर बहु भरे सुसाहिब, सूझत सबनि आपनो दाउँ ।<br>

बानर-बंधु, बिभीषन-हित बिनु कोसलपाल कहूँ न समाउँ ॥ २ ॥<br>

प्रनतारति-भंजन जन-रंजन सरनागत पबि-पंजर नाउँ ।<br>

कीजै दास दास तुलसी अब कृपासिंधु बिनु मोल बिकाऊँ ॥ १५३ ॥

Transliteration

mērē rāvariyē gati hai raghupati bali jāum̐ ।<br>

nilaja, nīca, niradhana, niraguna kahūm̐ jaga dūsarō na ṭhākura ṭhāum̐ ॥ 1 ॥<br>

hai ghara ghara bahu bharē susāhiba, sūjhata sabani āpanō dāum̐ ।<br>

bānara-baṃdhu, bibhīṣana-hita binu kōsalapāla kahūm̐ na samāum̐ ॥ 2 ॥<br>

pranatārati-bhaṃjana jana-raṃjana saranāgata pabi-paṃjara nāum̐ ।<br>

kījai dāsa dāsa tulasī aba kr̥pāsiṃdhu binu mōla bikāūm̐ ॥ 153 ॥

English

Raghupati, you are my one way out, and I would give my life for you.<br>

Shameless, low, penniless, with no quality in me: nowhere in the world is there another master's place for such a man.<br>

House after house is full of good masters, and every one of them can see his own advantage.<br>

Except for the friend of the monkeys and Bibhīṣan's well-wisher, the lord of Kosal, I fit in nowhere.<br>

Breaker of the distress of those who bow, gladdener of your own; your name is a cage of adamant to whoever comes into śaraṇ.<br>

Make Tulsī now the servant of your servants. Ocean of kṛpā, I am for sale and there is no price on me.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-154"></a>

154. देव ! दूसरो कौन दीन को दयालु

Rāga Bilāval.

Original

देव ! दूसरो कौन दीन को दयालु ?<br>

सील-निधान, सुजान-सिरोमनि, सरनागत-प्रिय, प्रनत-पालु ॥ १ ॥<br>

को समर्थ सर्बज्ञ सकल प्रभु सिव-सनेह-मानस मरालु ?<br>

को साहिब किए मीत प्रीति बस खग निसिचर कपि भील भालु ? ॥ २ ॥<br>

नाथ हाथ माया-प्रपंच सब जीव दोष गुन-करम-कालु ।<br>

तुलसिदास भलो पोच रावरो, नेकु निरखि कीजै निहालु ॥ १५४ ॥

Transliteration

dēva ! dūsarō kauna dīna kō dayālu ?<br>

sīla-nidhāna, sujāna-sirōmani, saranāgata-priya, pranata-pālu ॥ 1 ॥<br>

kō samartha sarbajña sakala prabhu siva-sanēha-mānasa marālu ?<br>

kō sāhiba kiē mīta prīti basa khaga nisicara kapi bhīla bhālu ? ॥ 2 ॥<br>

nātha hātha māyā-prapaṃca saba jīva dōṣa guna-karama-kālu ।<br>

tulasidāsa bhalō pōca rāvarō, nēku nirakhi kījai nihālu ॥ 154 ॥

English

God, who else is kind to the poor?<br>

Store of good nature, crown of those who know, who loves whoever comes into śaraṇ, keeper of those who bow.<br>

Who else is able, who knows everything, who is lord of all, the swan on the lake of Śiv's love?<br>

What master, out of love, made friends of a bird, a night-walker, a monkey, a Bhīl, a bear?<br>

Lord, the whole machinery of māyā is in your hand: the jīva, its faults, its merits, its acts, its time.<br>

Tulsīdās is yours, good or bad of him. Look at him a moment and make him whole.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-160"></a>

160. मैं हरि पतित-पावन सुने

Rāga Naṭ.

Original

मैं हरि पतित-पावन सुने ।<br>

मैं पतित तुम पतित-पावन दोउ बानक बने ॥ १ ॥<br>

ब्याध, गनिका, गज अजामिल साखि निगमनि भने ।<br>

और अधम अनेक तारे, जात कापै गने ? ॥ २ ॥<br>

जानि नाम अजानि लीन्हें नरक सुरपुर मने ।<br>

दासतुलसी सरन आयो राखिए आपने ॥ १६० ॥

Transliteration

maiṃ hari patita-pāvana sunē ।<br>

maiṃ patita tuma patita-pāvana dōu bānaka banē ॥ 1 ॥<br>

byādha, ganikā, gaja ajāmila sākhi nigamani bhanē ।<br>

aura adhama anēka tārē, jāta kāpai ganē ? ॥ 2 ॥<br>

jāni nāma ajāni līnhēṃ naraka surapura manē ।<br>

dāsatulasī sarana āyō rākhiē āpanē ॥ 160 ॥

English

Hari, I have heard that you make the fallen clean.<br>

I am fallen and you make the fallen clean. The two of us go well together.<br>

The hunter, the courtesan, the elephant, Ajāmil: the Vedas have said them out for witnesses.<br>

And many another low man you have carried across. Who could get to the end of counting them?<br>

Take the name knowing or not knowing, and hell is reckoned the city of the gods.<br>

Your servant Tulsī has come into your śaraṇ. Keep him as your own.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-169"></a>

169. जो मोही राम लागते मीठे

Rāga Soraṭh.

Original

जो मोही राम लागते मीठे ।<br>

तौ नवरस, षटरस-रस अनरस है जाते सब सीठे ॥ १ ॥<br>

बंचक बिषय बिबिध तनु धरि अनुभवे सुने अरु डीठे ।<br>

यह जानत हौं हृदय आपने सपने न अघाइ उबीठे ॥ २ ॥<br>

तुलसिदास प्रभु सों एकहि बल बचन कहत अति ढीठे ।<br>

नाम की लाज राम करुनाकर केहि न दिये कर चीठे ॥ १६९ ॥

Transliteration

jō mōhī rāma lāgatē mīṭhē ।<br>

tau navarasa, ṣaṭarasa-rasa anarasa hai jātē saba sīṭhē ॥ 1 ॥<br>

baṃcaka biṣaya bibidha tanu dhari anubhavē sunē aru ḍīṭhē ।<br>

yaha jānata hauṃ hr̥daya āpanē sapanē na aghāi ubīṭhē ॥ 2 ॥<br>

tulasidāsa prabhu sōṃ ēkahi bala bacana kahata ati ḍhīṭhē ।<br>

nāma kī lāja rāma karunākara kēhi na diyē kara cīṭhē ॥ 169 ॥

English

If Rām had tasted sweet to me,<br>

then the nine rasas and the six tastes would all have gone to no taste at all, gone flat.<br>

These cheating objects of sense: I have taken body after body and felt them and heard them and seen them.<br>

And this I know in my own heart: not once, not in a dream, have I had enough of them to be sick of them.<br>

Tulsīdās has one strength only, and on it he says a very bold thing to his lord:<br>

for your name's honour, Rām, store of karuṇā, whose hand have you not put a warrant into?

<a id="vinaya-patrika-176"></a>

176. राख्यो राम सुस्वामी सों नीच नेह न नातो

Rāga Soraṭh. To his own mind.

Original

राख्यो राम सुस्वामी सों नीच नेह न नातो । एते अनादर हूँ तोहि ते न हातो ॥ १ ॥<br>

जोरे नए नाते नेह फोकट फीके । देह के दाहक, गाहक जी के ॥ २ ॥<br>

अपने अपने को सब चाहत नीको । मूल दुहुँ को दयालु दूलह सी को ॥ ३ ॥<br>

जीव को जीवन, प्रान को प्यारो । सुखहू को सुख राम सो बिसारो ॥ ४ ॥<br>

कियो, करैगो तोसे खल को भलो । ऐसे सुसाहब सों तू कुचाल क्यों चलो ॥ ५ ॥<br>

तुलसी तेरी भलाई अजहूँ बूझै । राढ़उ राउत होत फिरि कै जूझै ॥ १७६ ॥

Transliteration

rākhyō rāma susvāmī sōṃ nīca nēha na nātō । ētē anādara hūm̐ tōhi tē na hātō ॥ 1 ॥<br>

jōrē naē nātē nēha phōkaṭa phīkē । dēha kē dāhaka, gāhaka jī kē ॥ 2 ॥<br>

apanē apanē kō saba cāhata nīkō । mūla duhum̐ kō dayālu dūlaha sī kō ॥ 3 ॥<br>

jīva kō jīvana, prāna kō pyārō । sukhahū kō sukha rāma sō bisārō ॥ 4 ॥<br>

kiyō, karaigō tōsē khala kō bhalō । aisē susāhaba sōṃ tū kucāla kyōṃ calō ॥ 5 ॥<br>

tulasī tērī bhalāī ajahūm̐ būjhai । rāṛhau rāuta hōta phiri kai jūjhai ॥ 176 ॥

English

You have kept neither love nor kinship with Rām, who is a good master, you low thing; and for all that slighting he has not drawn back from you.<br>

You have joined yourself to new ties, and their love is empty and thin. They burn the body and they buy up the life.<br>

Everyone wants what is good for his own; and the root of both is the kind one, Siyā's bridegroom.<br>

The life of the living, the dear one of the breath, the happiness of happiness itself: and it is Rām you have forgotten.<br>

He has done good to a wretch like you and he will do it again. Why play crooked with a master as good as that?<br>

Tulsī, understand your own good even now. A runaway turns soldier, comes about and fights.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-229"></a>

229. गरैगी जीह जो कहौं और को हौं

Rāga Kalyān.

Original

गरैगी जीह जो कहौं और को हौं ।<br>

जानकी-जीवन! जनम-जनम जग ज्यायो तिहारेहि कौर को हौं ॥ १ ॥<br>

तीनि लोक तिहुँ काल न देखत सुहृद रावरे जोर को हौं ।<br>

तुम्ह सों कपट करि कलप कलप कृमि ह्वैहौं नरक घोर को हौं ॥ २ ॥<br>

कहा भयो जो मन मिलि कलिकालहिं कियो भौंतुवा भौंर को हौं ।<br>

तुलसिदास सीतल नित यहि बल बड़े ठेकाने ठौर को हौं ॥ २२९ ॥

Transliteration

garaigī jīha jō kahauṃ aura kō hauṃ ।<br>

jānakī-jīvana! janama-janama jaga jyāyō tihārēhi kaura kō hauṃ ॥ 1 ॥<br>

tīni lōka tihum̐ kāla na dēkhata suhr̥da rāvarē jōra kō hauṃ ।<br>

tumha sōṃ kapaṭa kari kalapa kalapa kr̥mi hvaihauṃ naraka ghōra kō hauṃ ॥ 2 ॥<br>

kahā bhayō jō mana mili kalikālahiṃ kiyō bhauṃtuvā bhauṃra kō hauṃ ।<br>

tulasidāsa sītala nita yahi bala baṛē ṭhēkānē ṭhaura kō hauṃ ॥ 229 ॥

English

My tongue will rot if I say I belong to anybody else.<br>

Life of Jānakī, birth after birth I have been kept alive in this world, and it is your bread I belong to.<br>

In the three worlds and in all three times I see no friend to match you. I am yours.<br>

If I play false with you then kalpa after kalpa I shall be a worm; I belong to a hideous hell.<br>

What of it if my mind went in with the Kali age and made a dupe of me, a thing spun round in a whirlpool? I am yours.<br>

Tulsīdās is cool every day on this one strength: I belong to a place of great standing.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-232"></a>

232. दीनबंधु दूसरो कहाँ पावों

Rāga Kalyān.

Original

दीनबंधु दूसरो कहाँ पावों ?<br>

को तुम बिनु पर-पीर पाइहै ? केहि दीनता सुनावों ? ॥ १ ॥<br>

प्रभु अकृपालु, कृपालु अलायक जहाँ जहाँ चितहिं डोलावों ।<br>

इहै समुझि सुनि रहौं मौन ही, कहि भ्रम कहाँ गँवावों ? ॥ २ ॥<br>

गोपद बूड़िबे जोग करम करौं बातनि जलधि थहावों ।<br>

अति लालची काम-किंकर मन, मुख रावरो कहावों ॥ ३ ॥<br>

तुलसी प्रभु जिय की जानत सब, अपनौ कछुक जनावों ।<br>

सो कीजै जेहि भाँति छाँडि छल द्वार परो गुन गावों ॥ २३२ ॥

Transliteration

dīnabaṃdhu dūsarō kahām̐ pāvōṃ ?<br>

kō tuma binu para-pīra pāihai ? kēhi dīnatā sunāvōṃ ? ॥ 1 ॥<br>

prabhu akr̥pālu, kr̥pālu alāyaka jahām̐ jahām̐ citahiṃ ḍōlāvōṃ ।<br>

ihai samujhi suni rahauṃ mauna hī, kahi bhrama kahām̐ gam̐vāvōṃ ? ॥ 2 ॥<br>

gōpada būṛibē jōga karama karauṃ bātani jaladhi thahāvōṃ ।<br>

ati lālacī kāma-kiṃkara mana, mukha rāvarō kahāvōṃ ॥ 3 ॥<br>

tulasī prabhu jiya kī jānata saba, apanau kachuka janāvōṃ ।<br>

sō kījai jēhi bhām̐ti chām̐ḍi chala dvāra parō guna gāvōṃ ॥ 232 ॥

English

Where am I to find a second friend of the poor?<br>

Who but you will feel another man's pain? To whom shall I tell how poor I am?<br>

Wherever I let my mind wander, the lords are unkind and the kind ones are not up to it.<br>

Understanding that, I listen and hold my tongue. Where would telling get this confusion off my hands?<br>

My deeds are fit to drown me in a cow's hoofprint, and with words I sound the ocean.<br>

My mind is greedy and a servant of desire, and with my mouth I have myself called yours.<br>

Tulsī: lord, you know everything that is in my heart; I am only telling you a little of my own.<br>

Do it however it can be done: that I drop the cheating, lie down at your door, and sing what you are.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-234"></a>

234. जनम गयो बादिहिं बर बीति

Rāga Kalyān.

Original

जनम गयो बादिहिं बर बीति ।<br>

परमारथ पाले न पर्यो कछु, अनुदिन अधिक अनीति ॥ १ ॥<br>

खेलत खात लरिकपन गो चलि, जौबन जुवतिन लियो जीति ।<br>

रोग-बियोग-सोग-स्रम-संकुल बड़ि बय बृथहि अतीति ॥ २ ॥<br>

राग-रोष-इरषा-बिमोह-बस रुची न साधु-समीति ।<br>

कहे न सुने गुनगन रघुबर के, भइ न रामपद-प्रीति ॥ ३ ॥<br>

हृदय दहत पछिताय-अनल अब सुनत दुसह भवभीति ।<br>

तुलसी प्रभु तें होइ सो कीजिय समुझि बिरद की रीति ॥ २३४ ॥

Transliteration

janama gayō bādihiṃ bara bīti ।<br>

paramāratha pālē na paryō kachu, anudina adhika anīti ॥ 1 ॥<br>

khēlata khāta larikapana gō cali, jaubana juvatina liyō jīti ।<br>

rōga-biyōga-sōga-srama-saṃkula baṛi baya br̥thahi atīti ॥ 2 ॥<br>

rāga-rōṣa-iraṣā-bimōha-basa rucī na sādhu-samīti ।<br>

kahē na sunē gunagana raghubara kē, bhai na rāmapada-prīti ॥ 3 ॥<br>

hr̥daya dahata pachitāya-anala aba sunata dusaha bhavabhīti ।<br>

tulasī prabhu tēṃ hōi sō kījiya samujhi birada kī rīti ॥ 234 ॥

English

A good birth has gone by for nothing.<br>

Nothing of the highest good came into my keeping, and day by day more wrong.<br>

Childhood walked off in playing and eating, and youth was won away by women.<br>

Crowded with sickness and parting and grief and toil, the great years went past to no purpose.<br>

Held by liking and anger and envy and delusion, I never took to the company of sādhus.<br>

I did not say and did not hear what Raghubar is, and no love for Rām's feet came of it.<br>

Now the fire of regret burns in my heart, and I hear the unbearable fear of being.<br>

Tulsī: lord, do what can be done by you, remembering the way of your own vow.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-267"></a>

267. पन करि हौं हठि आजु तें राम द्वार पर्यो हौं

Rāga Kalyān. He lies down at the door.

Original

पन करि हौं हठि आजु तें राम द्वार पर्यो हौं ।<br>

'तू मेरो' यह बिन कहे उठिहौं न जनम भरि, प्रभु की सौं करि निर्यो हौं ॥ १ ॥<br>

दे दै धक्का जमभट थके, टारे न टर्यो हौं ।<br>

उदर दुसह साँसति सही बहु बार जनमि जग नरक निदरि निकर्यो हौं ॥ २ ॥<br>

हौं मचला लै छाड़िहौं, जेहि लागि अर्यो हौं ।<br>

तुम दयालु बनिहै दिए बलि, बिलंब न कीजिए जात गलानि गर्यो हौं ॥ ३ ॥<br>

प्रगट कहत जो सकुचिए, अपराध भर्यो हौं ।<br>

तौ मन में अपनाइए तुलसीहिं कृपा करि, कलि बिलोकि हहर्यो हौं ॥ २६७ ॥

Transliteration

pana kari hauṃ haṭhi āju tēṃ rāma dvāra paryō hauṃ ।<br>

'tū mērō' yaha bina kahē uṭhihauṃ na janama bhari, prabhu kī sauṃ kari niryō hauṃ ॥ 1 ॥<br>

dē dai dhakkā jamabhaṭa thakē, ṭārē na ṭaryō hauṃ ।<br>

udara dusaha sām̐sati sahī bahu bāra janami jaga naraka nidari nikaryō hauṃ ॥ 2 ॥<br>

hauṃ macalā lai chāṛihauṃ, jēhi lāgi aryō hauṃ ।<br>

tuma dayālu banihai diē bali, bilaṃba na kījiē jāta galāni garyō hauṃ ॥ 3 ॥<br>

pragaṭa kahata jō sakuciē, aparādha bharyō hauṃ ।<br>

tau mana mēṃ apanāiē tulasīhiṃ kr̥pā kari, kali bilōki haharyō hauṃ ॥ 267 ॥

English

I have taken a vow and set my heels down: from today I am lying at Rām's door.<br>

Until he says 'you are mine' I will not get up, not for a whole lifetime. I have sworn by my lord and settled it.<br>

Yama's men have worn themselves out shoving me; pushed and pushed, I have not budged.<br>

I have borne the unbearable torment of the womb, been born in the world many times over, and come out again holding hell in contempt.<br>

I am a child down in the road, and I will let go only when I have what I planted myself here for.<br>

You are kind, and it will come right only by your giving; I would die for you, do not be slow, I am melting away with shame.<br>

If you are shy of saying it out loud, well, I am full of offences.<br>

then take Tulsī for your own in your mind, show him kṛpā; I have looked at the Kali age and I am shaking.

A macalā is the child who lies down where he is and will not get up until he is given the thing he asked for.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-273"></a>

273. तुम तजि हौं कासों कहौं

Rāga Kalyān.

Original

तुम तजि हौं कासों कहौं, और को हितु मेरे ?<br>

दीनबंधु सेवक-सखा, आरत अनाथ पर सहज छोह केहि केरे ? ॥ १ ॥<br>

बहुत पतित भवनिधि तरे बिनु तरि बिनु बेरे ।<br>

कृपा, कोप, सति भाय हूँ धोखे हुँ, तिरछेहूँ, राम तिहारेहि हेरे ॥ २ ॥<br>

जो चितवनि सौंधी लगै चितइए सबेरे ।<br>

तुलसिदास अपनाइए कीजै न ढील अब जीवन-अवधि अति नेरे ॥ २७३ ॥

Transliteration

tuma taji hauṃ kāsōṃ kahauṃ, aura kō hitu mērē ?<br>

dīnabaṃdhu sēvaka-sakhā, ārata anātha para sahaja chōha kēhi kērē ? ॥ 1 ॥<br>

bahuta patita bhavanidhi tarē binu tari binu bērē ।<br>

kr̥pā, kōpa, sati bhāya hūm̐ dhōkhē hum̐, tirachēhūm̐, rāma tihārēhi hērē ॥ 2 ॥<br>

jō citavani sauṃdhī lagai citaiē sabērē ।<br>

tulasidāsa apanāiē kījai na ḍhīla aba jīvana-avadhi ati nērē ॥ 273 ॥

English

Leaving you, who am I to tell? Who else means me well?<br>

Friend of the poor, companion of your servants: whose tenderness for the troubled and the orphaned comes as easily as yours?<br>

Many who had fallen crossed the sea of being with no boat and no raft.<br>

By kṛpā, by anger, in good faith, by mistake, even sideways: Rām, it was your looking that did it.<br>

If a kindly look is the one that suits you, then look at me soon.<br>

Take Tulsīdās for your own, do not be slack about it now; the end of the life is very near.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-274"></a>

274. जाउँ कहाँ, ठौर है कहाँ देव

Rāga Kalyān.

Original

जाउँ कहाँ, ठौर है कहाँ देव! दुखित-दीन को ?<br>

को कृपालु स्वामी सारिखो, राखै सरनागत सब अंग बल-बिहीन को ॥ १ ॥<br>

गनिहिं गुनिहिं साहिब लहै सेवा समीचीन को ।<br>

अधन, अगुन, आलसिन को पालिबो फबि आयो रघुनायक नवीन को ॥ २ ॥<br>

मुख कै कहा कहौं? बिदित है जी की प्रभु प्रबीन को ।<br>

तिहूँ काल, तिहुँ लोक में, एक टेक रावरी तुलसी से मन-मलीन को ॥ २७४ ॥

Transliteration

jāum̐ kahām̐, ṭhaura hai kahām̐ dēva! dukhita-dīna kō ?<br>

kō kr̥pālu svāmī sārikhō, rākhai saranāgata saba aṃga bala-bihīna kō ॥ 1 ॥<br>

ganihiṃ gunihiṃ sāhiba lahai sēvā samīcīna kō ।<br>

adhana, aguna, ālasina kō pālibō phabi āyō raghunāyaka navīna kō ॥ 2 ॥<br>

mukha kai kahā kahauṃ? bidita hai jī kī prabhu prabīna kō ।<br>

tihūm̐ kāla, tihum̐ lōka mēṃ, ēka ṭēka rāvarī tulasī sē mana-malīna kō ॥ 274 ॥

English

Where am I to go? God, where is there a place for a man in pain and poor with it?<br>

What kind one is there like my master, who keeps a man who has come into śaraṇ with no strength left in any limb of him?<br>

The masters count and weigh, and what they get is the service of the sound man.<br>

Keeping the penniless and the worthless and the lazy: that has come to suit the ever-new Raghunāyak.<br>

What am I to say with my mouth? My lord is skilled and he knows what is in the heart.<br>

In all three times, in all three worlds, there is one prop only, and it is yours, for a man whose mind is as dirty as Tulsī's.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-277"></a>

277. रामराय बिनु रावरे मेरे को हितु साँचो

Rāga Kalyān. He names the document.

Original

रामराय बिनु रावरे मेरे को हितु साँचो ।<br>

स्वामी सहित सब सों कहाँ सुनि-गुनि बिसेषि कोउ रेख दूसरी खाँचो ॥ १ ॥<br>

देह-जीव-जोग के सखा मृषा टाँचन टाँचो ।<br>

किए बिचार सार कदलि ज्यों मनि कनक संग लघु लसत बीच बिच काँचो ॥ २ ॥<br>

बिनय-पत्रिका दीन की, बापु! आपु ही बाँचो ।<br>

हिये हेरि तुलसी लिखी सो सुभाय सही करि बहुरि पूँछिए पाँचो ॥ २७७ ॥

Transliteration

rāmarāya binu rāvarē mērē kō hitu sām̐cō ।<br>

svāmī sahita saba sōṃ kahām̐ suni-guni bisēṣi kōu rēkha dūsarī khām̐cō ॥ 1 ॥<br>

dēha-jīva-jōga kē sakhā mr̥ṣā ṭām̐cana ṭām̐cō ।<br>

kiē bicāra sāra kadali jyōṃ mani kanaka saṃga laghu lasata bīca bica kām̐cō ॥ 2 ॥<br>

binaya-patrikā dīna kī, bāpu! āpu hī bām̐cō ।<br>

hiyē hēri tulasī likhī sō subhāya sahī kari bahuri pūm̐chiē pām̐cō ॥ 277 ॥

English

Rām my king, apart from you, who is a true friend of mine?<br>

I have said it out to everybody, my master included: hear it, weigh it, and if anyone can, let him draw a second line.<br>

The friends of the body and the jīva and their joining are false, tacked on with tacking thread.<br>

Think it out and the pith of them is a plantain's; and beside gold and gem, small bits of glass shine here and there in between.<br>

The poor man's petition, father: read it yourself.<br>

Tulsī looked into his heart and wrote it. Sign it as it stands, and afterwards, if you like, ask the five.

The pañc are the five men who sit on a village case and decide it. He is asking for the signature first and the hearing afterwards.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-278"></a>

278. पवन-सुवन, रिपु-दवन, भरत लाल, लखन

He hands it to the four who will carry it in.

Original

पवन-सुवन, रिपु-दवन, भरत लाल, लखन दीन की ।<br>

निज निज अवसर सुधि किए बलि जाउँ, दास आस पूजिहै खास खीन की ॥ १ ॥<br>

राज-द्वार भली सब कहैं साधु समीचीन की ।<br>

सुकृत सुजस साहिब कृपा स्वारथ परमारथ गति भए गति-बिहीन की ॥ २ ॥<br>

समय सँभारि सुधारिबी तुलसी मलीन की ।<br>

प्रीति रीति समुझाइबी नतपाल कृपालुहि परमिति पराधीन की ॥ २७८ ॥

Transliteration

pavana-suvana, ripu-davana, bharata lāla, lakhana dīna kī ।<br>

nija nija avasara sudhi kiē bali jāum̐, dāsa āsa pūjihai khāsa khīna kī ॥ 1 ॥<br>

rāja-dvāra bhalī saba kahaiṃ sādhu samīcīna kī ।<br>

sukr̥ta sujasa sāhiba kr̥pā svāratha paramāratha gati bhaē gati-bihīna kī ॥ 2 ॥<br>

samaya sam̐bhāri sudhāribī tulasī malīna kī ।<br>

prīti rīti samujhāibī natapāla kr̥pāluhi paramiti parādhīna kī ॥ 278 ॥

English

Son of the wind, queller of enemies, Bharat my dear, Lakhan: the poor man's business,<br>

if each of you remembers it at his own moment, and I would give my life for you, then a worn-out servant of the household will have his hope met.<br>

At a king's gate they all speak well of a sādhu who is sound.<br>

Good works, a good name, the master's kṛpā, this world's gain and the next's: all of it becomes the way out for a man who has no way.<br>

Watch for the moment, and set dirty Tulsī's case right.<br>

Make the kind keeper of those who bow understand how love works, and how far a man in another's power can go.

<a id="vinaya-patrika-279"></a>

279. मारुति मन रुचि भरत की लखि लखन कही है

The last pada. The court is sitting.

Original

मारुति मन रुचि भरत की लखि लखन कही है ।<br>

कलि-कालहुँ नाथ नाम सों प्रतीति प्रीति एक किंकर की निबही है ॥ १ ॥<br>

सकल सभा सुनि लै उठी, जानी रीति रही है ।<br>

कृपा गरीबनिवाज की, देखत गरीब को साहब बाँह गही है ॥ २ ॥<br>

बिहँसे राम कह्यो सत्य है सुधि मैंहूँ लही है ।<br>

मुदित माथ नावत बनी तुलसी अनाथ की, परी रघुनाथ सही है ॥ २७९ ॥

Transliteration

māruti mana ruci bharata kī lakhi lakhana kahī hai ।<br>

kali-kālahum̐ nātha nāma sōṃ pratīti prīti ēka kiṃkara kī nibahī hai ॥ 1 ॥<br>

sakala sabhā suni lai uṭhī, jānī rīti rahī hai ।<br>

kr̥pā garībanivāja kī, dēkhata garība kō sāhaba bām̐ha gahī hai ॥ 2 ॥<br>

biham̐sē rāma kahyō satya hai sudhi maiṃhūm̐ lahī hai ।<br>

mudita mātha nāvata banī tulasī anātha kī, parī raghunātha sahī hai ॥ 279 ॥

English

Māruti's mind, and what Bharat wanted: Lakhan saw them both and spoke.<br>

Lord, even in the Kali age one servant's trust and love for the name have held out to the end.<br>

The whole court heard and took up the same words; they knew the way of it.<br>

The kṛpā of one who looks after the poor: in front of them all, the master took the poor man by the arm.<br>

Rām laughed and said, it is true, and word of him has reached me too.<br>

Heads bowing, glad: it has come right for Tulsī, who had nobody, and Raghunāth's signature is on it.

Sahī is the signature that makes a petition good in law. The document he has been drafting for two hundred and seventy-nine padas is signed.

<a id="dohavali"></a>

Dohāvalī

Five hundred and seventy-three dohās, twenty-three of them sorathās, gathered rather than composed as a book: couplets he made across a working life, many of them also standing in the Rāmcaritmānas or the Rāmājñā Praśna. A dohā is two lines and it has to be complete in them. This is where his thinking is at its most compressed, and it is mostly about the name.

<a id="dohavali-1"></a>

1. राम बाम दिसि जानकी लषन दाहिनी ओर

Original

राम बाम दिसि जानकी लषन दाहिनी ओर ।<br>

ध्यान सकल कल्यानमय सुरतरू तुलसी तोर ॥ १ ॥

Transliteration

rāma bāma disi jānakī laṣana dāhinī ōra ।<br>

dhyāna sakala kalyānamaya suratarū tulasī tōra ॥ 1 ॥

English

Rām, and Jānakī on his left side, and Lakhan on the right:<br>

hold that picture and every good is in it, Tulsī. It is your wishing tree.

<a id="dohavali-6"></a>

6. रामनाम-मनि-दीप धरू जीह-देहरी द्वार

Original

रामनाम-मनि-दीप धरू जीह-देहरी द्वार ।<br>

तुलसी भीतर बाहिरौ जौ चाहसि उजियार ॥ ६ ॥

Transliteration

rāmanāma-mani-dīpa dharū jīha-dēharī dvāra ।<br>

tulasī bhītara bāhirau jau cāhasi ujiyāra ॥ 6 ॥

English

Set the jewel-lamp that is Rām's name on the doorsill of your tongue,<br>

Tulsī, if what you want is light inside the house and outside it as well.

A lamp set in the doorway is the one place a lamp lights both rooms at once. The tongue is that doorway.

<a id="dohavali-7"></a>

7. हिय निर्गुन, नयनन्हि सगुन, रसना राम सुनाम

Original

हिय निर्गुन, नयनन्हि सगुन, रसना राम सुनाम ।<br>

मनहुँ पुरट संपुट लसत, तुलसी ललित ललाम ॥ ७ ॥

Transliteration

hiya nirguna, nayananhi saguna, rasanā rāma sunāma ।<br>

manahum̐ puraṭa saṃpuṭa lasata, tulasī lalita lalāma ॥ 7 ॥

English

The formless in the heart, the form before the eyes, on the tongue Rām's good name:<br>

it is a jewel shining in a gold casket, Tulsī, and nothing is lovelier.

Puraṭ is gold. The two halves of the casket are the formless and the form, and the name is what they hold.

<a id="dohavali-8"></a>

8. सगुन ध्यान रूचि सरस नहीं, निर्गुन मन तें दूरि

Original

सगुन ध्यान रूचि सरस नहीं, निर्गुन मन तें दूरि ।<br>

तुलसी सुमिरहु राम को नाम सजीवन-मूरि ॥ ८ ॥

Transliteration

saguna dhyāna rūci sarasa nahīṃ, nirguna mana tēṃ dūri ।<br>

tulasī sumirahu rāma kō nāma sajīvana-mūri ॥ 8 ॥

English

No taste for holding the form in mind, and the formless a long way from your thinking:<br>

then remember Rām's name, Tulsī. It is the herb that brings the dead back.

<a id="dohavali-9"></a>

9. एक छत्र, इक मुकुटमनि, सब बरनन पर जोउ

Original

एक छत्र, इक मुकुटमनि, सब बरनन पर जोउ ।<br>

तुलसी रघुबर-नाम के बरन बिराजत दोउ ॥ ९ ॥

Transliteration

ēka chatra, ika mukuṭamani, saba baranana para jōu ।<br>

tulasī raghubara-nāma kē barana birājata dōu ॥ 9 ॥

English

One wears a parasol and one a crest-jewel, and both stand above every other letter:<br>

these are the two letters of Raghubar's name, Tulsī, and they shine.

Written out, the रा of राम carries its mātrā above it like a parasol, and the म its dot like the jewel on a crown.

<a id="dohavali-10"></a>

10. रामनाम को अंक है सब साधन हैं सून

Original

रामनाम को अंक है सब साधन हैं सून ।<br>

अंक गये कछु हाथ नहिं अंक रहे दसगून ॥ १० ॥

Transliteration

rāmanāma kō aṃka hai saba sādhana haiṃ sūna ।<br>

aṃka gayē kachu hātha nahiṃ aṃka rahē dasagūna ॥ 10 ॥

English

Rām's name is the figure, and all the practices are the noughts.<br>

Lose the figure and nothing at all is left in your hand; keep the figure and they are worth ten times over.

Sūn is the zero and also emptiness. Ten noughts in a row are nothing; put a one in front and each of them multiplies it.

<a id="dohavali-11"></a>

11. नाम राम को कलपतरू कलि कल्यान-निवास

Original

नाम राम को कलपतरू कलि कल्यान-निवास ।<br>

जो सुमिरत भयो भाग तें तुलसी तुलसीदास ॥ ११ ॥

Transliteration

nāma rāma kō kalapatarū kali kalyāna-nivāsa ।<br>

jō sumirata bhayō bhāga tēṃ tulasī tulasīdāsa ॥ 11 ॥

English

Rām's name is the wishing tree of the kali age, the house where every good thing lives.<br>

Remembering it, by good luck, tulsī became Tulsīdās.

He says his own name twice: tulsī the common plant, and the man the name made out of it.

<a id="dohavali-14"></a>

14. कासी बिधि बसि तनु तजै हठि तनु तजै प्रयाग

Original

कासी बिधि बसि तनु तजै हठि तनु तजै प्रयाग ।<br>

तुलसी जो फल सो सुलभ राम-नाम अनुराग ॥ १४ ॥

Transliteration

kāsī bidhi basi tanu tajai haṭhi tanu tajai prayāga ।<br>

tulasī jō phala sō sulabha rāma-nāma anurāga ॥ 14 ॥

English

To live at Kāśī by the rule and lay the body down there, or to lay it down at Prayāg by force of will:<br>

whatever fruit those bring, Tulsī, comes easily to anyone who loves Rām's name.

<a id="dohavali-18"></a>

18. मोर मोर सब कहँ कहिस तू को? कहु निज नाम

Original

मोर मोर सब कहँ कहिस तू को? कहु निज नाम ।<br>

कै चुप साधहि सुनि समुझि कै तुलसी जपु राम ॥ १८ ॥

Transliteration

mōra mōra saba kaham̐ kahisa tū kō? kahu nija nāma ।<br>

kai cupa sādhahi suni samujhi kai tulasī japu rāma ॥ 18 ॥

English

Mine, mine, you say of everything. And who are you? Say your own name.<br>

Hear that and understand it, and then either hold your tongue or say Rām, Tulsī.

<a id="dohavali-20"></a>

20. राम-नाम-अवलंब बिनु परमारथ की आस

Original

राम-नाम-अवलंब बिनु परमारथ की आस ।<br>

बरषत बारिद बूँद गहि चाहत चढ़न अकास ॥ २० ॥

Transliteration

rāma-nāma-avalaṃba binu paramāratha kī āsa ।<br>

baraṣata bārida būm̐da gahi cāhata caṛhana akāsa ॥ 20 ॥

English

Hoping for the highest good with no support from Rām's name:<br>

it is catching a raindrop as the cloud lets it fall, and wanting to climb the sky on it.

<a id="dohavali-22"></a>

22. बिगरी जनम अनेक की सुधरै अबहीं आजु

Original

बिगरी जनम अनेक की सुधरै अबहीं आजु ।<br>

होहि राम को नाम जपु तुलसी तजि कुसमाजु ॥ २२ ॥

Transliteration

bigarī janama anēka kī sudharai abahīṃ āju ।<br>

hōhi rāma kō nāma japu tulasī taji kusamāju ॥ 22 ॥

English

What many births have spoilt can be put right now, today.<br>

Be Rām's, say his name, Tulsī, and get out of bad company.

<a id="dohavali-29"></a>

29. जथा भूमि सब बीज मै नखत-निवास अकास

Original

जथा भूमि सब बीज मै नखत-निवास अकास ।<br>

रामनाम सब धरम मै जानत तुलसीदास ॥ २९ ॥

Transliteration

jathā bhūmi saba bīja mai nakhata-nivāsa akāsa ।<br>

rāmanāma saba dharama mai jānata tulasīdāsa ॥ 29 ॥

English

As the earth holds every seed and the sky is where the stars live,<br>

Rām's name is in every dharma. Tulsīdās knows it.

<a id="dohavali-37"></a>

37. जल थल नभ गति अमित अति, अग जग जीव अनेक

Original

जल थल नभ गति अमित अति, अग जग जीव अनेक ।<br>

तुलसी तो से दीन कहँ रामनाम-गति एक ॥ ३७ ॥

Transliteration

jala thala nabha gati amita ati, aga jaga jīva anēka ।<br>

tulasī tō sē dīna kaham̐ rāmanāma-gati ēka ॥ 37 ॥

English

Water, land, sky: the roads are past counting, and the creatures on them, still and moving, are many.<br>

For one as poor as you, Tulsī, there is one road, and it is Rām's name.

<a id="dohavali-40"></a>

40. रसना साँपिन, बदन बिल, जे न जपहिं हरिनाम

Original

रसना साँपिन, बदन बिल, जे न जपहिं हरिनाम ।<br>

तुलसी प्रेम न राम सों ताहि बिधाता बाम ॥ ४० ॥

Transliteration

rasanā sām̐pina, badana bila, jē na japahiṃ harināma ।<br>

tulasī prēma na rāma sōṃ tāhi bidhātā bāma ॥ 40 ॥

English

In those who do not say hari's name the tongue is a snake and the mouth its hole.<br>

Whoever has no love for Rām, Tulsī, has the maker against him.

<a id="dohavali-41"></a>

41. हिय फाटहू, फूटहु नयन, जरउ सो तन केहि काम

Original

हिय फाटहू, फूटहु नयन, जरउ सो तन केहि काम ।<br>

द्रवहिं, स्रवहिं, पुलकहिं नहीं तुलसी सुमिरत राम ॥ ४१ ॥

Transliteration

hiya phāṭahū, phūṭahu nayana, jarau sō tana kēhi kāma ।<br>

dravahiṃ, sravahiṃ, pulakahiṃ nahīṃ tulasī sumirata rāma ॥ 41 ॥

English

Let the heart split, let the eyes burst, let that body burn: what is it good for,<br>

if it does not melt, does not run over, does not shiver when Rām is remembered, Tulsī.

<a id="dohavali-44"></a>

44. स्रवै न सलिल सनेह तुलसी सुनि रघुबीर-जस

A sorathā.

Original

स्रवै न सलिल सनेह तुलसी सुनि रघुबीर-जस ।<br>

ते नयना जनि देहु राम करहु बरू आँधरो ॥ ४४ ॥

Transliteration

sravai na salila sanēha tulasī suni raghubīra-jasa ।<br>

tē nayanā jani dēhu rāma karahu barū ām̐dharō ॥ 44 ॥

English

Eyes that do not run with the water of love, Tulsī, when they hear Raghubīr praised:<br>

do not give me eyes like those, Rām. Make me blind instead.

<a id="dohavali-63"></a>

63. तुलसी जोपै राम सो, नाहिन सहज सनेह

Original

तुलसी जोपै राम सो, नाहिन सहज सनेह ।<br>

मूँड मुड़ायो बादि ही, भाँड़ भयो तजि गेह ॥ ६३ ॥

Transliteration

tulasī jōpai rāma sō, nāhina sahaja sanēha ।<br>

mūm̐ḍa muṛāyō bādi hī, bhām̐ṛa bhayō taji gēha ॥ 63 ॥

English

Tulsī, if there is no natural love in you for Rām,<br>

you shaved your head for nothing, and leaving home you only turned into a clown.

<a id="dohavali-89"></a>

89. नातो नाते राम के, राम-सनेह सनेहु

Original

नातो नाते राम के, राम-सनेह सनेहु ।<br>

तुलसी माँगत जोरि कर जनम जनम सिव देहु ॥ ८९ ॥

Transliteration

nātō nātē rāma kē, rāma-sanēha sanēhu ।<br>

tulasī mām̐gata jōri kara janama janama siva dēhu ॥ 89 ॥

English

The only kinship is kinship with Rām, and the only love is love of Rām.<br>

Tulsī asks it with his hands joined: give me that, Śiv, birth after birth.

<a id="dohavali-132"></a>

132. बिनु सतसंग न हरिकथा, तेहि बिनु मोह न भाग

Original

बिनु सतसंग न हरिकथा, तेहि बिनु मोह न भाग ।<br>

मोह गए बिनु रामपद होइ न दृढ़ अनुराग ॥ १३२ ॥

Transliteration

binu satasaṃga na harikathā, tēhi binu mōha na bhāga ।<br>

mōha gaē binu rāmapada hōi na dr̥ṛha anurāga ॥ 132 ॥

English

Without satsaṅg there is no hari-kathā, and without that the confusion does not run off.<br>

And till the confusion has gone, love for Rām's feet does not set firm.

<a id="dohavali-133"></a>

133. बिनु बिस्वास भगति नहीं तेहि बिनु द्रवहिं न राम

Original

बिनु बिस्वास भगति नहीं तेहि बिनु द्रवहिं न राम ।<br>

राम-कृपा बिनु सपनेहुँ जीव न लह बिस्राम ॥ १३३ ॥

Transliteration

binu bisvāsa bhagati nahīṃ tēhi binu dravahiṃ na rāma ।<br>

rāma-kr̥pā binu sapanēhum̐ jīva na laha bisrāma ॥ 133 ॥

English

Without trust there is no bhakti, and without bhakti Rām does not melt.<br>

And without Rām's kṛpā nothing alive finds rest, not even in a dream.

<a id="dohavali-137"></a>

137. बिनु गुर होइ कि ज्ञान, ज्ञान कि होइ बिराग बिनु

A sorathā.

Original

बिनु गुर होइ कि ज्ञान, ज्ञान कि होइ बिराग बिनु ।<br>

गावहिं बेद पुरान, सुख कि लहिय हरि भगति बिनु ॥ १३७ ॥

Transliteration

binu gura hōi ki jñāna, jñāna ki hōi birāga binu ।<br>

gāvahiṃ bēda purāna, sukha ki lahiya hari bhagati binu ॥ 137 ॥

English

Can there be knowledge without a guru? Can there be knowledge without letting go?<br>

The Veds and the Purāns sing it: can happiness be had without bhakti for hari?

<a id="dohavali-229"></a>

229. मंजुल मंगल मोदमय मूरति मारूत-पूत

Original

मंजुल मंगल मोदमय मूरति मारूत-पूत ।<br>

सकल सिद्धि कर-कमल-तल सुमिरत रघुबर-दूत ॥ २२९ ॥

Transliteration

maṃjula maṃgala mōdamaya mūrati mārūta-pūta ।<br>

sakala siddhi kara-kamala-tala sumirata raghubara-dūta ॥ 229 ॥

English

Lovely, and made of gladness and of every good: the shape of the wind's son.<br>

Every siddhi lies in the palm of his hand. Remember Raghubar's messenger.

<a id="dohavali-251"></a>

251. ज्ञान कहै अज्ञान बिनु, तम बिनु कहै प्रकास

Original

ज्ञान कहै अज्ञान बिनु, तम बिनु कहै प्रकास ।<br>

निरगुन कहै जो सगुन बिनु सो गुरु, तुलसीदास ॥ २५१ ॥

Transliteration

jñāna kahai ajñāna binu, tama binu kahai prakāsa ।<br>

niraguna kahai jō saguna binu sō guru, tulasīdāsa ॥ 251 ॥

English

One who can tell you what knowledge is without ignorance, and light without darkness,<br>

and the formless without the form: that one is a guru, Tulsīdās.

<a id="dohavali-277"></a>

277. एक भरोसो, एक बल, एक आस बिस्वास

Original

एक भरोसो, एक बल, एक आस बिस्वास ।<br>

एक राम-घन-स्याम हित चातक तुलसीदास ॥ २७७ ॥

Transliteration

ēka bharōsō, ēka bala, ēka āsa bisvāsa ।<br>

ēka rāma-ghana-syāma hita cātaka tulasīdāsa ॥ 277 ॥

English

One trust, one strength, one hope, one faith.<br>

For one dark cloud, which is Rām, Tulsīdās is the cātak bird.

The cātak will drink nothing but rain as it falls, and so it waits out a whole year for one cloud.

<a id="dohavali-363"></a>

363. राम-कृपा तुलसी सुलभ गंग सुसंग समान

Original

राम-कृपा तुलसी सुलभ गंग सुसंग समान ।<br>

जो जल परे जो जन मिलै कीजै आपु समान ॥ ३६३ ॥

Transliteration

rāma-kr̥pā tulasī sulabha gaṃga susaṃga samāna ।<br>

jō jala parē jō jana milai kījai āpu samāna ॥ 363 ॥

English

Rām's kṛpā comes easily, Tulsī, the way the Gaṅgā does, and good company too:<br>

whatever water falls in, whoever comes to it, is made the same as itself.

<a id="dohavali-369"></a>

369. जड़ चेतन गुन-दोष मय बिस्व कीन्ह करतार

Original

जड़ चेतन गुन-दोष मय बिस्व कीन्ह करतार ।<br>

संत हंस गुन गहहि पय परिहरि बारि बिकार ॥ ३६९ ॥

Transliteration

jaṛa cētana guna-dōṣa maya bisva kīnha karatāra ।<br>

saṃta haṃsa guna gahahi paya parihari bāri bikāra ॥ 369 ॥

English

The maker made the world of the living and the lifeless, of merit and of fault.<br>

A sant is a swan: he takes the milk and leaves the water behind.

<a id="dohavali-528"></a>

528. साहब तें सेवक बड़ो जो निज धरम सुजान

Original

साहब तें सेवक बड़ो जो निज धरम सुजान ।<br>

राम बाँधि उतरे उदधि, लाँघि गए हनुमान ॥ ५२८ ॥

Transliteration

sāhaba tēṃ sēvaka baṛō jō nija dharama sujāna ।<br>

rāma bām̐dhi utarē udadhi, lām̐ghi gaē hanumāna ॥ 528 ॥

English

The servant is greater than his master when he knows his own work.<br>

Rām bridged the sea and crossed it. Hanumān jumped it.

<a id="dohavali-563"></a>

563. स्रवन घटहु, पुनि दृग घटहु, घटहु सकल बल देह

Original

स्रवन घटहु, पुनि दृग घटहु, घटहु सकल बल देह ।<br>

इते घटें घटिहै कहा जो न घटै हरि-नेह ॥ ५६३ ॥

Transliteration

sravana ghaṭahu, puni dr̥ga ghaṭahu, ghaṭahu sakala bala dēha ।<br>

itē ghaṭēṃ ghaṭihai kahā jō na ghaṭai hari-nēha ॥ 563 ॥

English

Let the hearing go, and the sight go, and all the strength of the body go.<br>

What is lost by so much going, if love for hari does not go?

<a id="dohavali-564"></a>

564. तुलसी पावस के समय धरी कोकिलन मौन

Original

तुलसी पावस के समय धरी कोकिलन मौन ।<br>

अब तौ दादुर बोलिहैं, हमैं पूछिहे कौन ॥ ५६४ ॥

Transliteration

tulasī pāvasa kē samaya dharī kōkilana mauna ।<br>

aba tau dādura bōlihaiṃ, hamaiṃ pūchihē kauna ॥ 564 ॥

English

In the rains, Tulsī, the koels have gone quiet.<br>

Now the frogs will do the talking, and who is going to ask after us?

<a id="dohavali-572"></a>

572. का भाषा का संस्कृत, प्रेम चाहिये साँच

Original

का भाषा का संस्कृत, प्रेम चाहिये साँच ।<br>

काम जु आवै कामरी, का लै करै कुमाच ॥ ५७२ ॥

Transliteration

kā bhāṣā kā saṃskr̥ta, prēma cāhiyē sām̐ca ।<br>

kāma ju āvai kāmarī, kā lai karai kumāca ॥ 572 ॥

English

What bhāṣā, what Sanskrit? What is wanted is true love.<br>

If a rough blanket does the work, what will you do with brocade?

Bhāṣā is the people's spoken language, and Sanskrit is what a scripture was supposed to be written in. A kāmrī is coarse wool and a kumāc is figured silk.

<a id="dohavali-573"></a>

573. मनि मानिक महँगे किए, सहँगे तृन जल नाज

Original

मनि मानिक महँगे किए, सहँगे तृन जल नाज ।<br>

तुलसी एतो जानिये राम गरीब-नेवाज ॥ ५७३ ॥

Transliteration

mani mānika maham̐gē kiē, saham̐gē tr̥na jala nāja ।<br>

tulasī ētō jāniyē rāma garība-nēvāja ॥ 573 ॥

English

He made gems and rubies dear, and grass and water and grain cheap.<br>

By that much alone, Tulsī, know that Rām looks after the poor.

<a id="gitavali"></a>

Gītāvalī

Some three hundred and fifty padas, each one marked with the rāga it is to be sung in, arranged across the seven books of the Mānas. It is the same story and it is not the same book: where the Mānas narrates, the Gītāvalī stops inside a moment and stays there. A cradle being rocked before dawn. A mother holding two fingers out while a child works out how to walk. The courtyard. A town on the morning of a wedding. The women of Ayodhyā on the day the exile is announced, saying to one another that this is a very great wrong. More than a third of it is the Bāl Kāṇḍ, and that is where people go, and once you have heard the pada about the little feet and the little toes you know why.

<a id="gitavali-bal-7"></a>

7. सुभग-सेज सोभित कौसिल्या रुचिर राम-सिसु गोद लिये

Rāga Bilāval. Bāl Kāṇḍ.

Original

सुभग-सेज सोभित कौसिल्या रुचिर राम-सिसु गोद लिये ।<br>

बार बार बिधुबदन बिलोकति लोचन चारु चकोर किये ॥<br>

कबहुँ पौढ़ि पयपान करावति, कबहूँ राखति लाइ हिये ।<br>

बालकेलि गावति हलरावति, पुलकति प्रेम-पियूष पिये ॥<br>

बिधि महेस मुनि सुर सिहात सब, देखत अंबुद ओट दिये ।<br>

तुलसिदास ऐसो सुख रघुपति पै काहू तो पायो न बिये ॥ ७ ॥

Transliteration

subhaga-sēja sōbhita kausilyā rucira rāma-sisu gōda liyē ।<br>

bāra bāra bidhubadana bilōkati lōcana cāru cakōra kiyē ॥<br>

kabahum̐ pauṛhi payapāna karāvati, kabahūm̐ rākhati lāi hiyē ।<br>

bālakēli gāvati halarāvati, pulakati prēma-piyūṣa piyē ॥<br>

bidhi mahēsa muni sura sihāta saba, dēkhata aṃbuda ōṭa diyē ।<br>

tulasidāsa aisō sukha raghupati pai kāhū tō pāyō na biyē ॥ 7 ॥

English

Kausalyā on the fine bed, and the child Rām in her lap.<br>

Over and over she looks at that moon of a face, and makes her two eyes cakors.<br>

Now she lies down and gives him the breast, now she keeps him held against her heart.<br>

She sings his child's play and rocks him, and trembles, drinking the nectar of prem.<br>

Brahmā, Maheś, the munis and the gods all envy her, and watch from behind a cloud.<br>

Tulsīdās: joy like this, out of Raghupati, nobody has ever had, and no second soul at all.

The cakor is the bird that does nothing but look at the moon.

<a id="gitavali-bal-8"></a>

8. है हौ लाल कबहिं बड़े बलि भैया

Rāga Soraṭh. Bāl Kāṇḍ. Kausalyā to the child.

Original

है हौ लाल कबहिं बड़े बलि भैया ।<br>

राम लषन भावते भरत रिपुदवन चारु चार्यो भैया ॥<br>

बाल-बिभूषन-बसन मनोहर अँग नित बिरचि बनैहों ।<br>

सोभा निरखि निछावरि करि उर लाइ बारने जैहों ॥<br>

छगन-मगन अँगना खेलिहौ मिलि ठुमुकु ठुमुकु कब धैहौ ।<br>

कलवल वचन तोतरे मंजुल कहि “माँ” मोहिं बुलैहौ ॥<br>

पुरजन सचिव राउ राना सब सेवक सखा सहेली ।<br>

लैहैं लोचन-लाहु सुफल लखि ललित मनोरथ-बेली ॥<br>

जा सुख की लालसा लटू सिव, सुक, सनकादि उदासी ।<br>

तुलसी तेहि सुखसिंधु कौसिला मगन, पै प्रेम-पियासी ॥ ८ ॥

Transliteration

hai hau lāla kabahiṃ baṛē bali bhaiyā ।<br>

rāma laṣana bhāvatē bharata ripudavana cāru cāryō bhaiyā ॥<br>

bāla-bibhūṣana-basana manōhara am̐ga nita biraci banaihōṃ ।<br>

sōbhā nirakhi nichāvari kari ura lāi bāranē jaihōṃ ॥<br>

chagana-magana am̐ganā khēlihau mili ṭhumuku ṭhumuku kaba dhaihau ।<br>

kalavala vacana tōtarē maṃjula kahi “mām̐” mōhiṃ bulaihau ॥<br>

purajana saciva rāu rānā saba sēvaka sakhā sahēlī ।<br>

laihaiṃ lōcana-lāhu suphala lakhi lalita manōratha-bēlī ॥<br>

jā sukha kī lālasā laṭū siva, suka, sanakādi udāsī ।<br>

tulasī tēhi sukhasiṃdhu kausilā magana, pai prēma-piyāsī ॥ 8 ॥

English

When will you be big, my child? Bless you, little brother.<br>

Rām and Lakhan, my dear ones, Bharat and Ripudavan: four brothers, and all four of them lovely.<br>

Every day I shall have a child's ornaments and fine clothes made for those limbs.<br>

I shall look at that beauty, wave the offering round you, hold you to my heart, and go as the price of it.<br>

When will my little ones play together in the courtyard, and set down step after tottering step?<br>

When will you call me in those sweet stumbling words, and say mā?<br>

The townspeople, the ministers, the king, the chiefs, every servant, friend and companion of mine:<br>

they will take the profit of their eyes, seeing the creeper of my longing come into fruit.<br>

The joy that Śiv is besotted with, and Śuk, and Sanak and his brothers who want nothing:<br>

Tulsī: Kausalyā is sunk in that ocean of joy, and thirsty with prem still.