I would like to end the year with a tale of hope, grace and fulfilment. It is the story of the blind Hindi poet Surdas. Modern India has seen four films on him; Surdas (1939), Bhakta Surdas (1942), Sant Surdas (1975) and Chintamani Surdas (1988). His verses are still widely sung and danced to, and he is an important figure in the Bhakti movement. Surdas was reportedly born in Sihi village near Delhi, and according to some sources, lived from 1483 to 1573. His compositions are found in the anthology Sur Sagar. There is a line by him in the Guru Granth Sahib, translated as “O mind, do not even associate with those who have turned their backs on God.”
Sur’s original name was said to be Madan Mohan. His mother Jamuna and father Ramdas resented him for being born blind. He was given burnt rotis unlike his sound, whole brothers, who were well-fed, loved and pampered. They got new clothes on Deepavali, but he did not. All he knew every day of his life were angry voices that berated him for his disability. Taking their cue from their aggrieved parents, his brothers tripped him, beat him up and jostled him from one end of the village to the other.
Once, when Sur was only six, they cuffed and pushed him to the village chowk or crossroad and told him not to come back. Sur subsided in an uncomplaining heap, not daring to even cry. By and by, a small troupe of travelling singers crossed the village. “O Krishna, dear Child, we love you with all our hearts. Let us feed you fresh, sweet butter,” they sang. Sur’s heart beat faster. Who was this lucky boy they sang about? He stumbled after them until they halted under some trees. They gave him food that night but stole away at dawn, not wanting to be burdened by him.
Sur wept in terror when he woke up and found himself alone. He did not know what to do and where to go. Luckily, he was found by a kind elderly woman who took him to the headman of her village nearby. The headman deeply pitied the forlorn scrap of humanity that cowered before him and instantly agreed when the woman, also out of pity, offered to keep Sur with her.
A new life began that day for Sur. He was no longer scolded or abused. He was fed well and given clean bedding to sleep on and proper clothes so that he no longer stood in rags. Sur began to pluck up courage in this kindly atmosphere, initially so alien. But when his friends were lovingly called home by their mothers, his heart would hurt and his eyes smart with tears.
Sur proved to have a knack for finding lost implements and stray cattle for the villagers. He also discovered that he could sing and compose verses. People gathered to listen to him and some even noted his songs down.
All of Sur’s songs were about Krishna. He was obsessed with him, and even jealous of this wonderful boy whom everybody loved despite his pranks, whereas he, Sur, was hated by his own parents for no fault of his.
Without realising it, Sur, who was nobody’s child, steadily guilt-tripped Krishna in his songs, pointedly calling him ‘Nand ke dulare’ or ‘Nanda’s beloved child’. His obsession grew with every year until one day, unable to bear it any more, he set out to look for Krishna in his childhood home, Mathura-Vrindavan. The headman sent a boy to accompany Sur, but when they reached the forest of Madhuvan, the companion lost heart and turned back, leaving Sur to fend for himself.
Undaunted, Sur entered the forest, not minding the cuts and bruises when he tripped and fell. On his third day in Madhuvan, Sur suddenly fell into a hole in the ground. Unable to climb out, he desperately called aloud for help.
Suddenly, he heard a bright, boyish voice say, “Hold up your hands, I will pull you out.” After he was set on his feet, Sur thanked his rescuer but got no reply.
The boy had vanished. Unafraid now, Sur fell in with some ascetics who took him to the temple of Dwarkadhish in Mathura. There, to his great good fortune, he was taken charge of by an eminent holy man, Swami Vallabhacharya.
Sur was now set for life under the swami’s kind protection. He sang every day in the temple and here, too, people began noting down his compositions. Many years passed this way and Sur grew old and grey. But he never stopped indirectly accusing Krishna of injustice. It was a lingering thorn in his heart but one day this too was plucked out. It happened this way…
One spring, Sur sat singing on the grass outside the temple, enjoying the pleasant morning sunshine. Bees hummed and songbirds chirped from the flowering trees. But suddenly there was the sound of a child’s anklet bells. “How beautifully you sing, do sing more,” said a bright, boyish voice.
Something in it made Sur say pitifully, “O Krishna, is that you? Why did you leave me alone all these years?”
“But I never left you. I came to you so often. Didn’t you recognise me?” said the voice, “Never mind, do sing more.”
Sur gulped and sang with tears pouring down his face. He heard a sweet, polite ‘Thank you’ and the anklet bells receding. But realisation had split Sur’s heart wide open.
“Ah, Krishna, I was unjust to you,” he cried. You came to me as the travelling singers, as my village guardians, as the boy in the woods, as Swami Vallabhacharya. But I could not see. You are the friendship of friends, the goodness of the good.”
Thereafter, Sur lived out his life in great peace and happiness. His songs remain to inspire and encourage us that emotional well-being, the true aim of life, is at hand if we but look.