“Your beliefs don’t make you a better person. Your behavior does.”
— Anonymous
Sant Kabir’s couplet
माला फेरत जुग भया, फिरा न मन का फेर।
कर का मनका छोड़ि दे, मन का मनका फेर॥
Transliteration
Mālā pherat jug bhayā, phirā na man kā pher |
Kar kā mankā chhoṛi de, man kā mankā pher ||
Translation
An age has passed turning the beads of the rosary,
yet the mind itself has not turned.
Leave aside the bead in your hand, says Kabir,
and begin turning the beads of your mind.
My understanding
This one made me smile.
Perhaps because I use a mālā.
And perhaps because Kabir seems to have caught me with it in my hand!
It is very easy to read this doha and conclude that Kabir is criticizing the mālā, japa, pūjā, ritual, or religious practice itself.
I don’t think that is what he is saying at all.
The mālā is doing exactly what it is supposed to do.
The question is whether I am.
A bead passes between my fingers. Then another. And another.
One hundred and eight beads later, I may have completed a round of japa.
But what exactly completed the journey?
My fingers?
My tongue?
Or my mind?
That distinction is enormous.
I can repeat the Divine Name while simultaneously planning tomorrow’s work, remembering yesterday’s insult, worrying about money, composing an answer to someone who annoyed me, and perhaps even congratulating myself on how spiritual I am becoming!
The fingers have travelled around the entire mālā.
The mind has travelled around the entire world.
And Kabir, standing somewhere nearby with that mischievous wisdom of his, asks a very simple question:
Which one of them was doing the japa?
That is what makes the second line so powerful.
Kar kā mankā chhoṛi de, man kā mankā pher.
Don’t merely turn the bead in the hand.
Turn the bead within the mind.
And suddenly the humble mālā becomes a much larger metaphor.
We all have our beads.
They may not be made of rudrākṣa, tulasī, crystal or sandalwood.
For one person, the beads may be daily prayer.
For another, meditation.
For someone else, going to the gym every morning.
Or reading ten pages of a book every day.
Or attending a weekly temple, church, mosque or satsang.
Or perhaps posting profound quotations about kindness on social media!
All of these can be useful disciplines.
But Kabir’s question remains:
What changed?
If I meditate every morning but remain just as easily angered, what did the meditation accomplish?
If I pray every day but remain unwilling to forgive, what did the prayer change?
If I read philosophy but become more arrogant because I now know more philosophy, did knowledge liberate me — or merely give my ego a better vocabulary?
If I perform pūjā beautifully but treat the person standing beside me without compassion, did I really encounter the Divine?
That is uncomfortable.
And therefore probably worth thinking about.
There is another dimension to this that matters deeply to me.
Ritual has value.
Discipline has value.
Repetition has value.
The human mind wanders. A mantra gives it somewhere sacred to return. The mālā gives the fingers something tangible while the mind slowly learns to become still. Pūjā gives form to something that is otherwise difficult to express. These practices have survived centuries because they serve a purpose.
But perhaps Kabir is warning us about the moment when the means quietly replaces the purpose.
I begin by using the mālā to remember God.
Eventually I become concerned about whether I completed the correct number of rounds.
I begin pūjā to surrender myself.
Eventually I become concerned about whether every detail was performed correctly.
I begin studying scripture to understand Truth.
Eventually I become concerned about demonstrating how much scripture I know.
Somewhere along the way, the instrument becomes the achievement.
The finger keeps moving.
The mind stops moving.
And Kabir says:
No. Turn that bead. The one inside.
Perhaps every bead should therefore ask me something.
Am I a little less angry than I was yesterday?
A little less judgmental?
A little more patient?
A little more willing to listen?
A little less interested in winning every argument?
A little quicker to forgive?
A little slower to hurt?
A little more capable of seeing the Divine in someone with whom I completely disagree?
If the answer is yes, perhaps the mālā is working.
More accurately—
perhaps the mālā is helping me work on myself.
And if the answer is no?
I need not throw away the mālā.
I need to stop blaming the beads!
The old weaver from Kashi is pointing somewhere else entirely.
He is pointing inward.
There is a beautiful irony here.
A physical mālā eventually comes back to where it started. After 108 beads, my fingers reach the meru again.
Perhaps the inner mālā does too.
I spend years searching, studying, praying, travelling, arguing, accumulating knowledge and looking for Truth—
only eventually to arrive back at myself.
And there, perhaps, begins the real japa.
So today, when the bead passes through my fingers, perhaps I should pause for just a moment and ask:
What is passing through my mind?
What am I actually trying to change?
The world?
The person next to me?
My circumstances?
God’s mind?
Or mine?
Kabir lived centuries ago.
The mālā is still here.
The restless mind is still here.
And, unfortunately, so am I — happily turning one while frequently forgetting the other!
Perhaps tomorrow I will do better.
For today, I will turn the next bead a little more slowly.
And try to make sure that something inside me turns with it.