 |
| Bijoy Krishna Goswami |
The moment that cleaves the heart
Vira Chandra: Imagine the veranda in Puri, early May of 1899. A tropical noon hums outside; inside, a saint who has spent his life guiding torn souls to God sits alone, absorbed in nāma‑smaraṇa. Footsteps approach. A stranger bows and presses a Jagannātha‑temple laddoo into his palm, quoting a rule every pilgrim knows: “Mahā‑prasād must be honoured at once, however dry, however old.”
Bijoy Krishna feels the shock beneath the sugar crust. He recognises the toxin—yet he eats. Minutes later the poison surges through his veins. Within weeks his body will fail, yet he will forbid disciples and government officers alike from seeking vengeance. He blesses the plotters and begins to slip, day by day, out of the visible world.
That single act is so luminous, so baffling, that it casts a shadow long enough to reach us more than a century later.
মারে কৃষ্ণ রক্ষা করে কে, রক্ষা করে কৃষ্ণ মারে কে
māre Kṛṣṇa rākṣa kare ke / rākṣa kare Kṛṣṇa māre ke
“If Krishna decrees death, who can protect?
If Krishna decrees protection, who can kill?”
This proverb—echoed in Goswami’s own warning to Kuladananda—sets the key of the entire drama: radical trust that the Mystery behind events is kinder, vaster, and more sovereign than any visible cause.
Saints who drank the cup: descriptive, not prescriptive
Socrates — declines exile, drinks hemlock, and reminds his friends to “pay the debt to Asclepius.”
Jesus — silent before Pilate, walks toward Golgotha forgiving his murderers in real time.
Bijoy Krishna — eats the laddoo he knows is lethal and blesses the conspirators.
These deeds describe the ripeness of the actors; they do not prescribe a template for everyone. Śrī Kṛṣṇa cautions Arjuna that startling those “still bound to action” can do more harm than good (Bhagavad Gītā 3.26). To universalise martyr‑gestures would invert that counsel, demanding a heroism most hearts are not yet wired to carry.
Where history meets the secret theatre of the heart
Hagiographers note that Goswami, widely regarded as a siddha (one irrevocably established in the Self), had resolved to leave the body soon after completing his final pilgrimages. The poisoned laddoo offered a providential alibi: it startled society awake, exposed the shadows lurking in holy precincts, and left behind a living koan sharper than a peaceful passing could have wrought. Malice became teaching‑medium.
Our dharma, circumstances, and level of realization differ. The question is not, “Would I eat the laddoo?” but rather, “How do I meet my own poisons with both courage and discernment?”
Eight meditations for the modern pilgrim
1 · Keep your seat‑belt fastened while chanting. Trust in divine providence does not cancel ordinary causality. Fasten the harness, write the tests, lock the door—then chant freely.
2 · Notice how quickly sacred language can be weaponised. The assassin brandished śāstra to short‑circuit conscience; the same dynamic powers cultic obedience and spiritual gas‑lighting today.
3 · Forgiveness is fruit, not performance. Blessing flowed from Goswami because the ego‑knot was already ash. For us, premature “forgiveness” often seals unhealed wounds; let ripeness decide.
4 · Surrender never absolves responsibility. Krishna told Arjuna to fight without ownership, not to drop his bow. Protecting family, codebase, or sanity can itself be devotion.
5 · Remember that envy is spiritual gravity. The brighter the lamp, the thicker the moth‑cloud. Build clear governance and boundaries around any light you steward.
6 · Test your motives in private before acting in public. A saint’s gesture minus the saint’s centre is spiritual cosplay. Sit until impulse and intuition hum the same note.
7 · Refuse to romanticise martyrdom. Dying nobly is dramatic; living nobly through diapers, deadlines, or drone sirens can demand fiercer stamina.
8 · Let every laddoo become a mirror. Identify today’s sugar‑coated toxins—flattery, doom‑scrolling, over‑work disguised as devotion—and ask from which centre you swallow.
Closing invocation
Hold the scene again: the veranda, the laddoo, the invisible gasp of onlookers when the saint collapses. Now place beside it your daily battlefield—perhaps a sprint review where blame flies, or a cold hallway after sirens fade. Feel the identical question pulsing under both: “From which centre will I respond—fear, strategy, or unconditioned love?”
Your response need not be grand. It may be a simple, clear “No” to an unethical request, or a steady mantra before you correct a teammate rather than gossip about him. It may be the quiet courage to keep living fully while drones buzz overhead.
Carry Bijoy Krishna’s image as a koan, not a script. Let it remind you that there exists a freedom so complete it can meet poison with an open hand—yet that same freedom, while the body lasts, can also build shelters, write honest code, defend the vulnerable, and laugh with children.
May the laddoo that ended one sage’s life become, for us, the laddoo that wakens a fierce, tender, intelligent love—one that refuses both cynicism and reckless sentimentalism. And may that love guide every breath until the day Krishna decides the breathing can stop.
No comments:
Post a Comment