Bhaja Govindam

The seed of the whole work sits in the very first line. Sing to Govinda, foolish mind, because when the hour of death draws near, the rules of grammar will not save you. This is the signature line that returns in every refrain. After it, Shankara lays a hand directly on an old habit of the mind, the thirst to earn wealth. He asks you to settle your mind in whatever your own work brings and to learn contentment as an art, with no call to poverty in it at all.

Now Shankara turns toward the impermanence of the body and of life. Do not drift into infatuation at the sight of a woman’s body; all of it is a modification of flesh and fat; see this in your mind again and again. This is a severe anatomy-meditation addressed to the renunciates of the eighth century, close to the ashubha contemplation of the Buddhist tradition. And then the familiar lotus-leaf image: as water fallen on a leaf slides off in an instant, so too is life extremely unsteady, and the whole world is gripped by disease, pride, and grief.

Here Shankara opens the truth of family attachment, laying blame on no one, only observing. As long as you are busy earning wealth, the people of the house stay bound to you; later, when only an aged body is left, no one so much as asks after you. And the next shloka is the last stage of this same movement: as long as breath remains in the body, they inquire after your health; the moment the breath departs, that very body, precious a moment ago, becomes a corpse, and even the wife begins to fear it. This is a merciless record of the transactional reality of relationships.

Now a plain picture, each age with its own distraction. The child is lost in play, the young man in a young woman, the old man in worry, and no one rests in the supreme Brahman. Right after this he sets down the five root questions that begin every true seeker: who is your wife, who your son, how strange this world is, whose are you, who are you, from where have you come. Brother, reflect on these very principles.

Now the most famous shloka of the work, in which Shankara binds the whole of practice into a single ladder. From good company comes non-attachment, from non-attachment comes freedom from delusion, from freedom from delusion comes the stillness of truth, and from that stillness comes liberation while still alive. The entire Advaita program in eleven or twelve words. Alongside it come four parallel questions: once youth has passed, what desire remains; once the water has dried, what pond; once wealth has dwindled, what family; once truth is known, what world. Every dependence rests on a condition, and after the knowledge of truth no world is left at all.

The dvadasha-manjarika closes on pride and on time. Take no pride in wealth, in people, in youth; time carries everything off in the blink of an eye; this whole spread is made of maya; know it and let it go, and enter the state of Brahman. And then the beautiful wheel of time: day and night, evening and morning, winter and spring return again and again, time keeps playing, the lifespan runs down, and still the wind of hope will not loosen its grip. This word asha-vayu is like empty air, and it holds us bound all the same. Here Shankara’s own twelve shlokas come to an end.

Now the disciples’ lines begin. The first is held to be Padmapada’s: why this worry over woman and wealth, madman, have you no ruler over you at all? In all three worlds, the company of the good is the one boat that carries you across the ocean of existence. Then a sharp blow at outer garb: you may wear matted locks, you may be shaven, you may have your hair plucked out, you may drape yourself in ochre, you may put on many costumes, and still the one who sees yet does not see is a fool, because all this dress is for the belly. Outer show cannot take the place of inner realization.

Two shlokas dwell on the aging body and the stubbornness of inner hope. The limbs go slack, the hair turns white, the mouth loses its teeth, the old man walks leaning on a stick, and even so the lump of hope will not let go. Even a renunciate with fire in front of him, the sun at his back, his chin resting on his knees through the night, alms in his palm, his shelter under a tree, cannot loosen the noose of hope. Outer renunciation is easy; renouncing inner hope is hard.

Now the question of knowledge against ritual. One may make the pilgrimage to Gangasagar, keep vows, give in charity, and without knowledge, by any doctrine you like, liberation does not come even in a hundred births. Shankara is immovable on this point: pilgrimage and charity are good, and they are not enough. And on the opposite side, the pleasant face of dispassion: a dwelling in a god’s temple or at the root of a tree, the ground for a bed, a deerskin for clothing, the giving up of all possession and enjoyment, whom does such dispassion fail to make happy. True renunciation is a joy, and no torment at all.

Now the most inclusive note in the work. Absorbed in yoga or in enjoyment, in company or alone, the one whose mind delights in Brahman is glad, is glad, is glad indeed. Outer form does not matter; when the inner turn is toward Brahman, joy arrives on its own. And with this, the glory of the Gita and the Ganga: whoever has read even a little of the Bhagavad Gita, drunk even a drop of Ganga water, offered even a single worship to Murari, has no dispute with Yama. This is a tone of encouragement, even a little is enough.

Now Shankara’s devotional side opens, the side so often forgotten. Birth again, death again, again a sleeping in the mother’s womb; in this world so terribly hard to cross, save me by your boundless grace, Murari. This cry belongs to a devotee, with none of the dry Advaitin in it. Along with it comes the image of the avadhuta: dressed in a patched cloak stitched from scraps of cloth off the road, on a path beyond merit and sin, the yogi whose mind is set on yoga delights like a child or a blissful madman.

The same root question returns, in slightly new words. Who are you, who am I, from where did I come, who is my mother, who my father; reflect on these in depth; this whole universe is without substance, a dream-like notion; let it go. This repetition is deliberate; without being raised again and again, these questions do not hold in the mind. Then Advaita is brought down into relationships: in you, in me, everywhere there is one and the same Vishnu; do not rage at me in vain, do not be intolerant, stay even-minded everywhere if you want Vishnu-hood soon. Anger at others is anger at your own true nature.

That same current of Advaita brings down the walls between relationships still further. With enemy, friend, son, or kinsman, make no effort at quarrel or at truce; see the atman in all of them; from every side let go of the ignorance of division. Then a pointing toward the inner enemies: giving up desire, anger, greed, and delusion, reflect on the atman, who am I. Those without knowledge of the self, the fools, go on cooking in the deep pit of hell.

Now four solid acts, worth doing every day. Sing the Bhagavad Gita and the Vishnu Sahasranama, meditate without pause on the form of Shripati Vishnu, carry the mind into the company of the good, and give wealth to those in need. After this the same old cycle opens again: pleasure is enjoyed, then disease enters the body, and though in this world death is the final refuge, still a person will not give up sinful conduct. Behind the repeating and repeating lies this one worry, that the lesson does not settle in the mind.

A deep critique of wealth and a practical blueprint of practice arrive side by side. See wealth always as a source of ruin; from it not even a fraction of true happiness comes; the wealthy man carries a fear even of his own son; this is the fixed custom everywhere. Then the tools of practice: pranayama, pratyahara, the discernment of the eternal from the fleeting, the discipline of samadhi together with japa; do all of this with great care, with full attention. Here Shankara’s Advaita and Patanjali’s yoga come into a single frame.

Now the work moves toward its close. Become a whole-hearted devotee at the lotus feet of the guru, be freed from the world soon, and through the restraint of the senses and the mind alone, behold the deity seated in your own heart. Here the three threads bind together: devotion to the guru, restraint of the senses, and the deity within the heart. Then a meta-shloka that records the work’s own birth-story inside itself: that foolish grammarian who had been drowning in the study of dukrin, once the disciples of the revered Shankara Bhagavatpada explained things to him, had his senses made pure.

And at the end the same first line returns, though now the reader knows why. Sing to Govinda, foolish mind, because apart from the remembrance of the name we see no other means of crossing the world. After all the philosophical intricacy, Shankara comes to rest on this one simplicity: a single solution, a single refuge.