Its always the flower- never the fire


The Flowers or the Fire

Two days before, the temples begin—
polished brass, festive cloth,
the air thick with preparation.

They lay out the branding irons:
Shankha, Chakra—
sacred weapons, or so they believe,
promising moksha
at the end of this life.

With this false assurance
and uncommon common sense,
they queue in silence
for Mudra Dhāraṇa—
hot seals pressed into skin
as public declarations of devotion.

Proof of what?

Belonging? Belief?

But the soul bears no scar.
Only the body remembers pain.

The truest offering is quieter.
Eight flowers—never plucked, never wilted—
offered not once a year,
but simply- but always:

Ahimsa. Indriya Nigraha. Daya. Kṣamā.
Jñāna. Tapas. Dhyāna. Satya.

These are not rituals.
They do not announce themselves.
No audience. No applause.

But if even one is truly offered,
the gods are already near.

And if none are—
no mudra, no burn,
no badge, no hymn
will bring them closer.

To the Lord,
To liberation,
To what alone is real.



Comments

  1. AnonymousJuly 7, 2025 at 10:19 PM

    Very nicely brought out. Excellent!!

    ReplyDelete

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