A mystic clad in guileless grace,
Grasping the sacred in every face,
From quaint temples to paddies untamed,
He distilled our souls, unfastened, unclaimed
Reared at Kali’s lotus feet,
From her blackness arose his rapture’s surfeit,
With churlish bliss and wizardry vast,
Our clouds of maya, he cast and uncast
No books had versed him, no choir song,
Yet his parables rang deep and strong,
To whom a breath was eternity’s flash
To whom, love was all, from cradle to ash
Conjuring equanimity at his own sweet will
Until time and he froze to a still
Arup K. Chatterjee 