Moon at Half Past Noon

Of Man’s first breach of hospitality,
And the proud fruit of that forbidden scorn
Whose taste brought shame, and with shame, wisdom lost
Till Grace itself a vision did impart,
Sing, Heavenly Muse, that on this lowly theme
Of wedding feast and water, dost impose
A grandeur fit for truth eternal told.

…

Within the perfumed and resounding hall,
Where bright jhoomar lamps like constellations hung
And shehnai’s plaintive voice the air did sway,
There walked a man, Vikram, in city grey.
His soul, too long in lonely pride inured,
The vibrant, kindly confluence abjured;
He moved, a cold and unassailed isle
Amidst a warm and reconciling Nile.

Till Fate, or that same Providence that guides
The falling sparrow, tripped his haughty strides.
The poised thali from his careless hand was thrown,
And on the snow-white vesture of the old
Bapuji, fell the yellow, rich korma—sign
Not of intent, but of a deep design.

A silence, then not malice but a mirth
From rustic hearts, which stung his urban worth,
Did strike his ear. Each jest, to him, a dart,
That pierced the fragile bulwark of his heart.
Then rage, immoderate, seized his better part,
And fixing on the lota, did his art
Of ruin plan. “Your purity!” he cried,
And with a force that naught could then deride,
He cast the rose-water upon the floor—
And sacred Law was broken to its core.

…

Nor did it merely splash. The humble stream,
As if the Ganges’ very source did teem
With latent power, upwelled in liquid light,
And banished the false distinctions of the night.
The wedding hall dissolved; no stone, no sound,
But a new cosmos on that spot was found.
He stood within a desert, vast and old,
And saw a stranger, thirsty, weak, and cold,
And from a well, a woman drew, and gave—
An act that mighty empires could not save,
Yet here was done, and lit the endless sand
With more profound a light than could be planned.

…

Then, as if veils were lifted from his eyes,
He saw the King of Men in lowly guise,
His crown laid down, his royal task to bear
A simple cup, the burden and the care
Of every guest who crossed his threshold stone—
For in their face, the Divine was made known.
The feast was not of mortal grain or bread,
But manna of the spirit, freely spread.

…

The vision closed. Not with a crash, but slow,
As fades a dream that truth begins to show.
He found his knees pressed to the cold, hard stone,
His heated pride extinguished and alone.
The lota, simple, by his knee did rest,
A silent witness to his foolish test.
Bapuji sat, the stain upon his pure
Attire, a lesson now to be the cure.

…

Then Vikram rose, but not in prideful state;
In humbleness, he chose to emulate
The grace he had been shown. He filled the cup,
And offered it, and dared to look up.
“Forgive,” he whispered. And the old man’s hand,
As if in blessing, did the vessel command.
He drank, and in his eyes, a light now shone—
Not of the stars, but of a peace long known.
For he had seen, and in the seeing, learned,
The God who in the guest’s form is returned.