Bāla Kāṇḍa

I bow to Vāṇī and Vināyaka — Sarasvatī and Gaṇeśa — who together are the makers of syllables, of the meanings those syllables carry, of the moods those meanings evoke, of the meters those moods take, and of every auspicious beginning.

I bow to Bhavānī and Śaṅkara — the two who are embodied as faith and trust. Without them, even those who have already accomplished the practice cannot see the Lord who is seated within them.

I bow to the guru who is pure knowing itself, eternal, in the very form of Śaṅkara — by whose refuge even the crooked moon, worn on his brow, is honored everywhere.

I bow to the two lords — of poets and of vānaras — of perfectly refined knowing, who wander in the sacred forest that is the collected virtues of Sītā and Rāma.

I bow to Sītā, the beloved of Rāma — she who makes creation, sustenance and dissolution, who takes away every affliction, who works every kind of good.

Under whose māyā the whole universe — Brahmā, the gods, the asuras — all move; by whose being alone the unreal appears real, as a rope appears a snake; whose feet alone are the one raft for those who wish to cross the ocean of becoming — to that Lord, beyond all causes, whose name is Rāma, to that Hari, I bow.

That which the various Purāṇas, the Vedas and the āgamas agree upon, that which the Rāmāyaṇa has said, and here and there a little from elsewhere too — for the joy of his own inner self, Tulasī now sets out the story of Raghunātha, as a most graceful composition in the vernacular.

By whose remembrance every accomplishment is reached — the lord of the gaṇas, whose face is like the elephant’s — may that one grant favour, that mass of intelligence, that house of every auspicious quality.

By whose grace the mute becomes eloquent, and the lame climbs the deep mountain — may that compassionate one, the burner of all the impurities of the Kali age, be moved to pity.

Dark as the blue lotus, with eyes like a freshly-opened red lotus — may He who reclines forever on the ocean of milk make my heart His dwelling place.

Whose body is like the jasmine flower and the moon — husband of Umā, home of compassion, tender to the afflicted, crusher of Kāma — may He grant grace.

I bow to the lotus feet of my guru — an ocean of grace, Hari in human form — whose words are the massed rays of the sun before the massed darkness of great delusion.

I bow to the pollen of my guru’s lotus feet — beautifully fragrant, sweetly perfumed, moist with love. It is a fine powder made of the very root of nectar; it stills the whole household of illnesses that this world brings on.

It is pure ash upon the body of Śambhu that is one’s own good deeds — giving birth to graceful auspiciousness and delight. It removes the smudge from the beautiful mirror of the devotee’s mind; and, once applied as a tilaka, it brings the whole troop of virtues under one’s control.

The light that comes from the cluster of jewel-nails on the guru’s foot — the mere memory of it opens a divine sight in the heart. That light is what shatters the darkness of delusion. Great is the good fortune of the one into whose heart it comes.

The clear eyes of the heart open at that touch; the flaws and the sorrows of the night of becoming are wiped away. The gems and rubies of Rāma’s deeds — hidden or shining, wherever, of whichever mine — become visible.

Just as skilled seekers — sādhakas and siddhas — having applied the fine collyrium to their eyes, delightedly see the mountains, the forests, the earth’s abundant treasures.

The dust of the guru’s foot is a soft, graceful collyrium — nectar for the eyes, destroyer of every defect of sight. Having made the eye of clear discernment pure with it, I begin to tell the story of Rāma, that story which itself sets one free from becoming.

First I bow to the feet of the earth-gods — the brāhmaṇas — who take away every doubt that delusion has produced. To the company of the good, mine of every virtue, I offer my praṇāma with a loving voice.

The conduct of the good is like the auspicious conduct of the cotton-plant — whose fruit, though tasteless in itself, is white, spotless, and made entirely of quality. It suffers hardship to cover the flaws of others, and, by that alone, earns a fame worthy of adoration in the world.

The company of the saints, made all of joy and auspiciousness — is the moving Prayāga of this world, walking city to city. Devotion to Rāma is its Gaṅgā-current there; the spread of reflection on Brahman is its underground Sarasvatī.

The story of duty and prohibition — the story of action itself — is that Prayāga’s Yamunā, daughter of the sun, remover of Kali’s stains. And the twin stories of Hari and Hara together shine as its Triveṇī, which, merely heard, grants every joy and every auspiciousness.

Unshaking trust in one’s own dharma is that Prayāga’s undying banyan; the company’s good deeds are its neighbouring shrines. This tīrtha is available to everyone, every day, in every country — and, if approached with reverence, it burns away every distress.

Unspeakable, otherworldly is that Prayāga; it grants its fruit at once, with visible proof.

Those who hear and understand with a joyful mind, and who bathe with the fullest love — they receive the four fruits of life while still in this very body, in that Prayāga which is the company of saints.

The fruit of that bathing is visible on the spot: crows become cuckoos, herons become swans. Hearing this, let no one be astonished — the greatness of holy company is no hidden thing.

Vālmīki, Nārada, and the jar-born Agastya — each has told his own becoming, in his own words. Of every kind of being in the water, on land, in the sky; all the inert and the sentient life of the world —

Intelligence, renown, liberation, prosperity, plain goodness — whenever anyone anywhere has attained any of these by any means, know that it was the power of holy company. Neither the world nor the Veda knows any other way.

Without holy company, discernment does not arise. And without Rāma’s grace, that company is not easily found. Holy company is the root of joy and auspiciousness. It alone is the fruit and the accomplishment; every other spiritual practice is only its flower.

Even the wicked are set right by holy company — as base metal is beautified by the touch of the philosopher’s stone. And should destiny place a good person into bad company, they behave like the gem on a serpent’s hood — they follow their own quality, not the company’s.

Brahmā, Hari and Hara — the poets, the scholars, even Sarasvatī herself — all stand shy when they set out to speak the greatness of the good. How then could such a thing be told by me? — as much as a vegetable-vendor could speak of the qualities of jewels.

I bow to the saints, whose minds are level, who have neither friend nor foe — as the good flower held in cupped hands gives its fragrance equally to both palms.

O saints — straight of heart, well-wishers of the world — knowing this to be your nature and your affection, hear a child’s petition and mark his good taste: grant me love for Rāma’s feet.

Now I bow, in all seriousness, to the tribe of the wicked — who, for no reason at all, turn hostile even when treated with kindness. Whose profit is another’s loss. Who feel joy when a home is ruined, and sadness when it is built back up.

To the full-moon glory of Hari and Hara they are a Rāhu; in ruining another’s work they are warriors like the thousand-armed Sahasrabāhu. They see another’s faults with a thousand eyes; and their mind is a fly for the ghee of another’s good fortune.

In heat they are the sword itself; in anger, Yama on his buffalo. In the wealth of sin and vice they are Kubera, treasurer of every kind of failing. Their rise is a comet, dreaded by all; their sleep, like Kumbhakarṇa’s, is universally welcome.

For the ruin of another they will discard their own body — like a hailstone, which destroys the harvest and, in the same act, melts itself away. I bow to the wicked as though to an angry Śeṣa — for they, too, describe another’s faults with a thousand mouths.

Again I entreat them, as if they were King Pṛthu — for the wicked hear another’s wrongdoing with ten thousand ears. And I petition them once more as if they were Indra — for whom, always, only sura (wine — or the drink of the gods) is fit and welcome.

To whom words like thunderbolts are always dear; who, with a thousand eyes, watches only for the flaws of others.

Hearing of good — to the neutral, to the enemy, to the friend, without distinction — the wicked burn: such is their custom. Knowing this well, this servant nonetheless folds both hands and offers his petition with love.

From my side, I have done what courtesy asks. From theirs, they will never for a moment turn towards me. Rear a crow with the utmost love — will it ever, on that account, give up eating flesh?

I bow to the feet of the good and of the not-good alike — both give pain, and between the two some difference is worth naming. On separation, one takes one’s very life away; on meeting, the other gives a devastating grief.

Both are born together in this world — as the lotus and the leech, both rising from the same water, are yet marked out by their qualities. Saints and the wicked are like nectar and wine; the world is one unfathomable ocean, and their father is the same.

Good and bad, each by their own doing, come into their inheritance — fair fame, or ill repute. Saints are nectar, the moon and the celestial Gaṅgā; the wicked are poison, fire, and the river of Kali’s filth.

Everyone knows the difference between quality and defect; but what one loves — that is the one one calls good.

The good one arrives at goodness; the base one, only at baseness. Nectar is praised for granting deathlessness; poison, for granting death.

The sins and defects of the wicked, and the virtues of the good — both are oceans, unfathomable and without end. That is why some qualities and some flaws must at least be named: without recognition, there can be no keeping and no letting-go.

The good and the wicked — both are the making of the Creator. It was the Vedas that, weighing quality and flaw, made the two into separate categories. Vedas, epics and Purāṇas all say it: the Creator’s cosmos is mixed of quality and defect together.

Pain and pleasure; sin and merit; day and night. Saint and non-saint; noble birth and base. Demon and god; the high and the low. Nectar of life-restoration — and poison of death.

Māyā and Brahman; the individual soul and the Lord of the world. The rich and the destitute; the pauper and the king. Kāśī and Magadha; the celestial Gaṅgā and the Karma-nāśā. Marwar and Mālwa; the brāhmaṇa and the butcher.

Heaven and hell; attachment and dispassion. Between the two, the Vedas and the āgamas have drawn the line of quality and flaw.

Inert and sentient, quality and defect together — out of these the Creator made the cosmos. The swan-like saints take up the milk of quality, and let the flawed water flow past.

When the Creator grants such a discernment, the mind then abandons flaws and becomes coloured with quality. Time, temperament, action, compulsion — even the good, held by their nature, sometimes fall short of good.

Just as those devoted to Hari take that (fault), set it right, crush its pain and its defect, and give back a pure repute. Even the wicked will do good if they come upon holy company — yet their unbreakable stained nature is not itself erased.

Even the world’s deceivers, when seen in fine attire, are worshipped by the world for the sake of the attire. But in the end they are exposed — the pretence cannot be sustained — as it was with Kālanemi, with Rāvaṇa, with Rāhu.

Even in poor attire, the good are given honour — as the world honoured Jāmavanta and Hanumān. Loss from evil company, gain from holy company: that both the world and the Veda know, and every living soul.

By the company of the wind, dust rises to the sky; by the company of low-lying water, it becomes mud. Kept in a saint’s house, a parrot and a mynah recite “Rāma”; kept in the wicked man’s house, they hurl one insult after another.

Smoke, in poor company, becomes soot; the same smoke, on a scribe’s palette, becomes the beautiful ink in which the Purāṇas are written. The very same smoke, meeting water, fire and wind together, becomes the rain-cloud, the world’s giver of life.

Planets, medicines, water, wind, cloth — upon meeting an ill combination or a good one — all become, in this world, bad substances or good ones. Those with the eye for good signs see it happen.

Light and darkness are equal in both halves of the lunar month — yet the Creator marked a difference in name. Taking the moon in one as “drying” and in the other as “nourishing”, the world gave one fame and the other blame.

Every being in the world, inert or sentient — knowing all of them to be, in essence, Rāma — I bow to their lotus-feet, forever, with both hands joined.

Gods and titans, humans and serpents, birds; ghosts, ancestors, celestial musicians; kinnaras and night-walking demons — I bow to all. Now, all of you, be gracious.

Four kinds of origin; eighty-four hundred thousand species; beings of water, of land, of sky. Knowing the whole world to be nothing but Sītā and Rāma — I bow to all of it, both hands joined.

O merciful ones, take me for your servant — all of you together, drop your reserve and grant me affection. In my own intellect and strength I have no faith at all; that is why my petition is to every one of you.

I wish to sing the virtues of the Lord of Raghus. My intellect is small; his story is fathomless. Not one method for the task presents itself. In mind and in intellect I am a pauper; my ambition, meanwhile, is a king.

My intellect is very low; my taste is loftily high. I want nectar — in a world where I cannot even lay hands on buttermilk. The good will forgive this audacity of mine; they will hear a child’s words with their attention given.

When a child speaks in a lisp, the father and the mother listen with delight in their hearts. Those who will laugh at me are the cruel, the crooked, the ill-thinking — who wear another’s faults as their own ornament.

To whom does his own poem not look fine — whether it is fresh with feeling or entirely tasteless? Those who take joy in hearing another’s composition — such excellent souls are not plentiful in the world.

Brother, most people in the world are like rivers and ponds — they rise only with their own rains, only with their own water. A truly good soul, like the ocean, is a rare one — who swells at the sight of the full moon (the rise of another).

My fortune is small; my ambition is great; I hold on to only one certainty. The good will find joy in the hearing; the wicked will make a mockery of it.

The mockery of the wicked will only do me good. Crows call the cuckoo’s song harsh; the heron laughs at the swan, the frog at the cātaka. In just this way, the stained wicked laugh at any spotless conversation.

Those who have no taste for poetry and no love for Rāma’s feet — for them, at least, this poem will provide the pleasure of laughter. My vernacular composition comes from a simple mind; it is fit to be laughed at, and there is no fault in laughing.

To those without love for the Lord’s feet and without sound understanding, this story will taste flat. To those who love Hari’s feet and Hara’s feet, whose minds do not run on false reasoning, the tale of Raghuvara will be sweet.

Knowing in their hearts that this poem is adorned with devotion to Rāma, the good will listen and praise it in kind words. I am no poet; I am no master of speech; I lack every art and every branch of learning.

Syllables, meanings, and figures of speech of many kinds; metres, and the many arrangements of composition; endless categories of emotion and mood; and the manifold flaws and merits by which verse is judged —

Of all these poetic discernments, not one is mine. I say this truly — write it on a blank sheet of paper.

My composition has no merits — save one merit that the whole world already knows: it speaks the name of Rāma. Reflecting on that one merit, the wise, whose discernment is pure, will listen.

Within this poem stands the generous name of Raghupati — supremely purifying, the essence of the Purāṇas and the Vedas. It is the house of every auspicious thing, the remover of every inauspicious one — the name that Purāri (Śiva) himself chants along with Umā.

Even the brilliant composition of a fine poet does not shine without Rāma’s name. A moon-faced woman, ornamented in every way, does not shine if she stands without her garment.

Even the speech of a bad poet, empty of every merit, is respectfully spoken and heard by the wise — the moment they see that it is marked with the glory of Rāma’s name. Saints, like bees, take only the honey.

Although this poem does not contain even a single poetic flavour, the glory of Rāma stands revealed within it. That is the confidence that comes into my mind — for who has not been raised in stature by good company?

Even smoke gives up its natural bitterness, and, on meeting agar-wood, takes on its fragrance. The composition may be rustic, but the subject it describes is fine — the story of Rāma, which brings blessing to the world.

The story of Raghunātha, says Tulsī, brings every good thing and washes away the impurities of this Kali age. The path of this poor poetry has become the path of a purifying river through its subject. In the company of the Lord’s fair renown my composition will turn out fine — pleasing to the minds of the good. Even the ash of a cremation-ground, worn on Bhava’s (Śiva’s) body, becomes lovely and sanctifying when remembered.

Accompanied by Rāma’s glory, my composition will become dear to everyone. Does anyone examine the wood itself, when the fragrance of Malaya sandal is present, before bowing to it?

The milk of a black cow is white, exceedingly beneficial, and everyone drinks it. In the same way, though the speech be rustic, the wise will sing and hear the glory of Sītā and Rāma in it.

The beauty of gems, rubies and pearls is not the same on the head of the snake, the mountain, or the elephant where they are born. Set into a king’s crown, or placed upon a young woman’s body, all of them gain far greater splendour.

So too, the wise say, are the poems of a good poet: they are born in one place, and gather their beauty in another. When she is called for the sake of devotion, Sāradā (Sarasvatī) leaves even Brahmā’s own house and comes running.

Without a bath in the lake of Rāma’s story, that weariness will not go, though ten million other remedies be tried. Poets and scholars, considering this in their hearts, sing the glory of Hari — the one glory that carries away the filth of the Kali age.

Made to sing the praises of ordinary men, Speech herself strikes her forehead and begins to grieve. The heart is like the ocean, the intellect like the oyster-shell, and Sāradā — as the wise say — is like the Svāti rain-drop.

If the fine rain of considered thought falls, poems become lovely pearl-gems.

Pierced by skilful craft, and then strung on the fine thread of the Rāma-story, those pearls are worn on the pure chests of the good — and the splendour is one of deep love.

Those born in the terrible Kali age — whose deeds are the crow’s, though their outward dress is the swan’s; who walk crooked paths after abandoning the highway of the Veda; whose bodies are vessels of pretence, filled with the filth of the age —

Cheats, calling themselves devotees of Rāma, while in truth they are servants of gold, of anger, and of desire — in the world’s roll of such people, the first mark is mine. A bully; a flag-bearer of dharma without the substance; a chief in the guild of tricksters.

If I were to list all my defects, the tale would swell and I would never reach its end. So I have named only very few — from a little, the wise will understand much.

Considering all these entreaties of mine in their various forms, no one will hear the story and find fault with it. And if, even after all this, someone still holds a doubt — that person is duller and more mind-poor than I am.

I am no poet, nor do I let myself be called clever; I sing Rāma’s virtues only as my understanding allows. Where the boundless deeds of Raghupati stand — and where stands my mind, still absorbed in the world.

Where the winds that blow away Mount Meru itself, tell me — in what account does a wisp of cotton stand? Considering the immeasurable sovereignty of Rāma, my mind trembles greatly at the task of telling.

Sāradā, Śeṣa, Maheśa, Vidhi (Brahmā), the Āgamas, the Nigamas (Vedas), and the Purāṇas — even they, saying only "not this, not this", sing his virtues without ceasing.

Everyone already knows the Lord’s greatness — and yet no one has been able to stop from speaking of it. There the Veda has stored this reason: the power of devotion, described in many ways.

One, without desire, without form, without name; unborn; sat-cit-ānanda; the supreme abode; all-pervading; whose form is the universe itself — that Bhagavān took on a body and performed manifold deeds.

He did this only for the sake of his devotees — supremely gracious, and full of love for those who take refuge. Toward the devotee, his affection and kindness are unmeasured; his compassion is such that he has never allowed himself to become angry.

He restores what has been lost; he raises the poor to honour; Raghurāja is a lord who is at once straightforward and mighty. Knowing this, the wise describe Hari’s fame — and by that speech alone, they render their own words pure and fruitful.

On the strength of that alone, I will tell the story of Raghupati’s virtues, bowing my head at Rāma’s feet. The sages sang Hari’s praises first; walking on that road, brothers, feels easy to me.

However vast and impassable the great rivers may be, when a king builds a bridge across them, even the smallest ant — climbing on — crosses over without effort.

In this way, having shown my mind its strength, I shall tell the pleasant story of Raghupati. Vyāsa and the many great poets before him have reverently sung the fair renown of Hari.

I bow at their lotus feet — may they fulfil every desire of mine. And I salute the poets of the Kali age themselves, whoever has described the whole village of Raghupati’s virtues.

The vernacular poets of supreme wisdom — those who have described the deeds of Hari in the everyday tongue — those who have been, those who are, those who will yet come — I bow to them all, laying aside every pretence.

Be pleased with me; grant this one boon: that my composition find honour in the assembly of the good. A work that the wise do not respect is a wasted labour — the exercise of an unripe poet.

That fame, that composition, that wealth alone is good which, like the Gaṅgā, brings benefit to all. But the pure renown of Rāma set in my rustic verse — this mismatch is what troubles me.

By your grace, even that becomes easy for me — as fine tailoring can make a sackcloth look like silk-brocade.

Simple verse and unstained fame — that alone the wise honour; and even the enemy, forgetting his natural hostility, will listen and speak in its praise.

But that cannot happen without a pure intellect, and the strength of my mind is very small. Grant your grace, so I may speak Hari’s glory — again and again I plead.

O poets and scholars — you who are the beautiful swans of the Mānasa-lake of Raghuvara’s story — hear the entreaty of a child and, seeing the sincerity of taste in it, be gracious to me.

I bow at the lotus feet of the sage who composed the Rāmāyaṇa — a work sharp yet soft, beautiful, free from every fault and yet containing Dūṣaṇa.

I bow to the four Vedas — ships across the ocean of existence — who, describing Raghuvara’s spotless glory, know not even in dream what tiredness is.

I bow to the dust of Vidhi’s (Brahmā’s) feet, by whom the ocean of existence was churned into being — an ocean from which the saints emerged like nectar, the moon and the wish-cow, and the wicked like poison and liquor.

Bowing at the feet of the gods, the brāhmaṇas, the wise, and the planets, I speak with folded hands: be pleased with me, and fulfil every beautiful longing of mine.

Again I bow to Sāradā and Surasaritā (Sarasvatī and Gaṅgā) — a pair, both holy and of enchanting deeds. One removes sin by bathing and drinking; the other, by being spoken and heard, removes ignorance.

To Guru, Father, Mother, Maheśa and Bhavānī, I bow — friend of the wretched, giver of the daily gift. As servant, master, and companion of Sītā’s beloved — Tulsī’s true well-wisher in every possible way.

Seeing the Kali age, Hara and Girijā, for the good of the world, wove a net of Śābara mantras — with syllables that do not match, meanings that will not stand, and no fixed manner of repetition; yet their power is manifest — it is the very might of Maheśa.

May that Lord of Umā be favourable to me and make this telling the root of gladness and blessing. Remembering Śivā and Śiva, and having received their grace, I begin — with an eager heart — to describe the story of Rāma.

My composition, by Śiva’s grace, will shine — as though a company of stars had come together with the moon and made a beautiful night. Those who tell and hear this story with love, and understand it with an alert mind —

— they will become lovers of Rāma’s feet, cleansed of the impurities of Kali, sharers in every good fortune.

If Hara and Gaurī are truly gracious to me — whether in dream or in waking — then let everything I have promised come true; such is the power of a composition in the everyday tongue.

I bow to the exceedingly holy city of Avadha, and to the river Sarayū which erases the impurities of the Kali age. And again I salute the men and women of that city — for whom the Lord’s affection is far from small.

They destroyed the mass of sin belonging to Sītā’s slanderers, and settled every world into a state without sorrow. I bow to Kausalyā, who is like the eastern horizon — her renown has spread through the whole world.

From that horizon appeared the lovely moon-Raghupati — delight of the universe, frost to the lotus of the wicked. And King Daśaratha, along with all his queens — I know them to be the very forms of merit and blessing.

I offer my salutation in deed, mind, and word — grant your grace, knowing me as son and servant. They by whose creation the Creator himself grew great — Rāma’s father and mother, the very boundary of all glory.

I bow to the lord of Avadha, whose love for Rāma’s feet was true — so that on being parted from that friend of the humble, he cast off his dear body as lightly as a blade of grass.

I salute Videha (Janaka), along with all his household, who kept a hidden love for Rāma’s feet. Amidst both yoga and enjoyment he kept it secret — the moment he saw Rāma, that same love stood revealed.

First I bow at Bharata’s feet — whose rules and vows go beyond any telling. His mind, on the lotus of Rāma’s feet, hangs like a captive bee that will not leave the neighbourhood.

I bow to the lotus feet of Lakṣmaṇa — cool, lovely, and giver of happiness to devotees. His fame became the flag-staff of Raghupati’s spotless banner.

The thousand-headed Śeṣa — the cause of the world — who came down to remove the earth’s burden of fear: may that Sumitrā-son, that ocean of grace and mine of virtues, be forever favourable to me.

I bow to Śatrughna’s lotus feet — brave, well-mannered, and follower of Bharata. And I entreat Mahāvīra Hanumān — whose glory Rāma himself has praised.

I bow to the son of the wind — a wildfire in the forest of the wicked, and a cloud dense with knowledge — in the palace of whose heart Rāma dwells, bearing bow and arrow.

The monkey-king (Sugrīva), the bear-lord (Jāmbavān), the rākṣasa-king (Vibhīṣaṇa), and all the monkey assembly beginning with Aṅgada — I bow at all their lovely feet, for even in lowly bodies they attained Rāma.

All who worship the feet of Raghupati — birds, animals, gods, humans, demons alike — I bow at the lotus feet of them all, who are Rāma’s servants without any desire in return.

Śuka, Sanaka and his brothers, the devotee-sage Nārada — those great sages, masters of transcendental knowledge — to all of them I bow, placing my head on the earth; be gracious, O lord of sages, knowing me as your servant.

Janaka’s daughter, mother of the world, Jānakī — dearest of all to the treasury of compassion. I invoke both of her lotus feet — by whose grace I may yet obtain a pure intellect.

Then, in mind, speech, and deed, I bow to the lotus feet of Raghunāyaka — worthy of all worship — the lotus-eyed one bearing bow and arrow, who breaks the calamity of his devotees and gives them happiness.

Speech and its meaning are like water and its wave — spoken of as different and yet not different. I bow to the feet of Sītā and Rāma, to whom the afflicted are supremely dear.

I bow to the Name of Rāma, the Raghu-chief — the very cause of Agni, Sūrya, and Chandra. It is the life-breath of the Veda, made of Brahmā, Hari, and Hara; without attributes, without comparison — and yet the storehouse of every virtue.

It is the great mantra that Maheśa himself chants — the very teaching he gives at Kāśī for liberation. Its glory is known by Gaṇapati — through the power of the Name, he is worshipped first.

The first poet (Vālmīki) knew the power of the Name — he became pure though he chanted it in reverse. And Bhavānī, hearing Śiva’s word that the Name equals a thousand names of Viṣṇu, chants it as her own — in the very company of her beloved.

Delighted to know Śiva’s reason, Bhavānī made an ornament of what was already her ornament. Śiva knows the Name’s power well — Kālakūṭa itself yielded him the fruit of nectar.

Devotion to Raghupati is the rainy season; Tulsī and his fellow good-servants are the paddy-crop; the two syllables of Rāma’s Name are its two greatest months — Sāvana and Bhādava.

Both syllables — sweet and lovely — the letters, the eyes, the very life of the devotee. Easy to remember, delightful to everyone, a gain in this world and a keeping in the next.

Spoken, heard, and remembered — supremely fine — as dear to Tulsī as Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa themselves. Though described as different, the love between the two letters seems to part — as Brahman and jīva do, though they are natural companions.

Like Nara and Nārāyaṇa, the two are noble brothers — protectors of the world, saviours especially of their own people. They are the beautiful ear-ornaments of devotion, personified as a chaste wife — and for the sake of the world, they are the pure moon and sun.

They are like taste and satisfaction to the nectar of the good path; like the tortoise and Śeṣa who bear up the earth; like bees on the lovely lotus of the devotee’s mind; and on the tongue, they are like Yaśodā’s Hari and Haladhara.

One is the royal parasol; the other, the crest-jewel of the crown — both, presiding over every other letter. Tulsī says: the two syllables of Raghuvara’s Name shine in kingly state.