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his own feet...!"
It is told about Ramakrishna that an artist came and painted his portrait. When he brought the completed portrait, the devotees of Ramakrishna felt very strange because Ramakrishna looked at the picture and started to touch the feet in it. It was his own picture. He began to bow down to it. A devotee said, "Paramahansa, are you going mad? This is your own picture."
Ramakrishna said, "It's good you reminded me, I was seeing a picture of samadhi. It must have been painted while I was in samadhi. It's good you remind, otherwise people will think I am crazy. I was just starting to pay my respects to samadhi. This is a picture of samadhi, not of me."
But those that saw it must have understand that the man has gone mad. Touching the feet of his own picture! Bowing his head to his own picture! What can be more insane? This is the last word in egotism, there can be no heights of ego beyond this.
Janak is making these statements in ecstasy. The taste has arisen. He has become oblivious. If he could dance he would dance like Meera. If he could sing like Chaitanya he would sing. If he could play flute like Krishna he would play on his flute.
Each individual has his own unique possibilities of expression. Janak was an emperor, a cultured man, a well educated person, brilliant, the essence of brilliance -- his statements are worthy of being written in gold letters in the history of man. To understand these words, put aside your own interpretations.
Some day I'm going to look into this world, the life of man is a window into wisdom.
What kind of thing is this intellect which stops my joyful heart in every activity, which interferes with everything.
Creating beauty with meaning is the inspiration of a poet. Getting entangled in words is the art of the mere rhymester.
What kind of thing is this intellect which stops my joyful heart in every activity, which interferes with everything.
Whenever waves arise in the heart, intellect immediately stops them. Whenever some feeling goes deep, intellect immediately starts meddling.
What kind of thing is this intellect which stops my joyful heart
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