Songs of Kabir | Page 2

himself, "at once the
child of Allah and of Râm." That Supreme Spirit Whom he knew and
adored, and to Whose joyous friendship he sought to induct the souls of
other men, transcended whilst He included all metaphysical categories,
all credal definitions; yet each contributed something to the description
of that Infinite and Simple Totality Who revealed Himself, according to
their measure, to the faithful lovers of all creeds.

Kabîr's story is surrounded by contradictory legends, on none of which
reliance can be placed. Some of these emanate from a Hindu, some
from a Mohammedan source, and claim him by turns as a Sûfî and a
Brâhman saint. His name, however, is practically a conclusive proof of
Moslem ancestry: and the most probable tale is that which represents
him as the actual or adopted child of a Mohammedan weaver of
Benares, the city in which the chief events of his life took place.
In fifteenth-century Benares the syncretistic tendencies of Bhakti
religion had reached full development. Sûfîs and Brâhmans appear to
have met in disputation: the most spiritual members of both creeds
frequenting the teachings of Râmânanda, whose reputation was then at
its height. The boy Kabîr, in whom the religious passion was innate,
saw in Râmânanda his destined teacher; but knew how slight were the
chances that a Hindu guru would accept a Mohammedan as disciple.
He therefore hid upon the steps of the river Ganges, where Râmânanda
was accustomed to bathe; with the result that the master, coming down
to the water, trod upon his body unexpectedly, and exclaimed in his
astonishment, "Ram! Ram!"--the name of the incarnation under which
he worshipped God. Kabîr then declared that he had received the
mantra of initiation from Râmânanda's lips, and was by it admitted to
discipleship. In spite of the protests of orthodox Brâhmans and
Mohammedans, both equally annoyed by this contempt of theological
landmarks, he persisted in his claim; thus exhibiting in action that very
principle of religious synthesis which Râmânanda had sought to
establish in thought. Râmânanda appears to have accepted him, and
though Mohammedan legends speak of the famous Sûfî Pîr, Takkî of
Jhansî, as Kabîr's master in later life, the Hindu saint is the only human
teacher to whom in his songs he acknowledges indebtedness.
The little that we know of Kabîr's life contradicts many current ideas
concerning the Oriental mystic. Of the stages of discipline through
which he passed, the manner in which his spiritual genius developed,
we are completely ignorant. He seems to have remained for years the
disciple of Râmânanda, joining in the theological and philosophical
arguments which his master held with all the great Mullahs and
Brâhmans of his day; and to this source we may perhaps trace his
acquaintance with the terms of Hindu and Sûfî philosophy. He may or
may not have submitted to the traditional education of the Hindu or the

Sûfî contemplative: it is clear, at any rate, that he never adopted the life
of the professional ascetic, or retired from the world in order to devote
himself to bodily mortifications and the exclusive pursuit of the
contemplative life. Side by side with his interior life of adoration, its
artistic expression in music and words--for he was a skilled musician as
well as a poet--he lived the sane and diligent life of the Oriental
craftsman. All the legends agree on this point: that Kabîr was a weaver,
a simple and unlettered man, who earned his living at the loom. Like
Paul the tentmaker, Boehme the cobbler, Bunyan the tinker, Tersteegen
the ribbon-maker, he knew how to combine vision and industry; the
work of his hands helped rather than hindered the impassioned
meditation of his heart. Hating mere bodily austerities, he was no
ascetic, but a married man, the father of a family--a circumstance which
Hindu legends of the monastic type vainly attempt to conceal or
explain--and it was from out of the heart of the common life that he
sang his rapturous lyrics of divine love. Here his works corroborate the
traditional story of his life. Again and again he extols the life of home,
the value and reality of diurnal existence, with its opportunities for love
and renunciation; pouring contempt--upon the professional sanctity of
the Yogi, who "has a great beard and matted locks, and looks like a
goat," and on all who think it necessary to flee a world pervaded by
love, joy, and beauty--the proper theatre of man's quest--in order to find
that One Reality Who has "spread His form of love throughout all the
world." [Footnote: Cf. Poems Nos. XXI, XL, XLIII, LXVI, LXXVI.]
It does not need much experience of ascetic literature to recognize the
boldness and originality of this attitude in such a time and place. From
the point of view of orthodox sanctity,