In the shaded courtyard of his modest house in Malur, where the jasmine creeper climbed the wall with quiet determination, lived a man called Srinivas. He was not a famous saint or a wandering ascetic, but a simple soul who had spent many years in government service and now found his true occupation in the stillness of early mornings.
One Thursday, the ninth of December, Srinivas sat with his old notebook open on the wooden table. The morning light filtered gently through the mango leaves as he read over the words he had copied with care. He adjusted his spectacles, took a slow sip of his coffee, and began to reflect in that gentle, unhurried manner of his.
“On deep meditation,” the Guru had said, “when you concentrate on the Prayer of Saint Francis, your mind should be like the flame of a lamp in a windless place—it should not even flicker.” Srinivas nodded to himself, as though agreeing with an old friend. “It should rest completely on the words of the prayer. In practical terms, that means one must steadily learn to become like Saint Francis in daily character and conduct.”
He turned the page with a faint smile. How simple it sounded, and yet how difficult in the bustle of Malur life—with the neighbour’s radio blaring film songs and the milkman arguing over every paise.
“When the mind does not flicker,” he continued softly, “there can be no anger. There can be no fear. The mind becomes still.”Srinivas leaned back and gazed at the prayer he had written with reverence:“Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace.”
Meditation, he thought, develops the most precious capacity a human being can possess: the capacity to turn anger into compassion, fear into fearlessness, and hatred into love. This, indeed, was the greatest reward of meditation—to purify the heart of all that is selfish, violent, and degrading.
He closed the notebook with a contented sigh. Outside, the world went on with its usual noise and small confusions, but inside Srinivas there was a quiet flame, steady and untroubled. And in that moment, Malur seemed a little closer to heaven than it had been the day before.
“On deep meditation,” the Guru had said, “when you concentrate on the Prayer of Saint Francis, your mind should be like the flame of a lamp in a windless place—it should not even flicker.” Srinivas nodded to himself, as though agreeing with an old friend. “It should rest completely on the words of the prayer. In practical terms, that means one must steadily learn to become like Saint Francis in daily character and conduct.”
He turned the page with a faint smile. How simple it sounded, and yet how difficult in the bustle of Malur life—with the neighbour’s radio blaring film songs and the milkman arguing over every paise.
“When the mind does not flicker,” he continued softly, “there can be no anger. There can be no fear. The mind becomes still.”Srinivas leaned back and gazed at the prayer he had written with reverence:“Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace.”
Meditation, he thought, develops the most precious capacity a human being can possess: the capacity to turn anger into compassion, fear into fearlessness, and hatred into love. This, indeed, was the greatest reward of meditation—to purify the heart of all that is selfish, violent, and degrading.
He closed the notebook with a contented sigh. Outside, the world went on with its usual noise and small confusions, but inside Srinivas there was a quiet flame, steady and untroubled. And in that moment, Malur seemed a little closer to heaven than it had been the day before.