“Learning how to think really means learning how to exercise some control over how and what you think.”
— David Foster Wallace, Kenyon College Commencement Address, 2005
Kabir – The couplet
कबीर सेरी साँकड़ी, चंचल मनवाँ चोर।
गुण गावै लैलीन होइ, कछू एक मन मैं और॥
Transliterated
Kabīr serī sā̃kaṛī, cañcal manvā̃ cor |
Guṇ gāvai lailīn hoi, kachū ek man maĩ aur ||
Translation
Kabir says: the lane is narrow, while the restless mind is a thief.
It sings the Divine’s virtues as though absorbed, while secretly holding something else within.
My understanding
Kabir begins with a narrow lane and a thieving mind. In the traditional reading, the lane leads toward the Divine. It is narrow because divided intention cannot travel through it easily. The mouth may sing the qualities of Ram while the mind quietly negotiates with desire, pride, resentment or distraction. The performance looks complete. Something essential is missing.
David Foster Wallace approaches the problem through education and ordinary life rather than devotion. For him, learning to think means developing some choice over attention. Kabir’s concern is more explicitly spiritual: Is my inner attention aligned with the words my lips are speaking?
The two thoughts meet at a difficult truth. Attention does not automatically remain where I place my body. I can sit before a lamp while mentally arranging tomorrow’s work. I can nod during a conversation while composing my reply. I can attend a meeting while reading another message, eat a meal while scrolling through a screen, or say that someone matters while giving them only the smallest remainder of my attention. The body has arrived. The mind has sent its representative!
Kabir calls the mind a thief because it steals the substance while leaving the appearance intact. The song continues, the meeting continues, the conversation continues—but presence has quietly disappeared. This is not a demand to wage war against every wandering thought. The mind wanders; that is part of being human. The deeper problem begins when I stop noticing—or when I mistake outward participation for inward sincerity. Perhaps the discipline is simply to catch the thief without becoming cruel:
- Where is my attention now?
- What am I pretending to be present for?
- What must I put down so that I can actually meet the person, prayer or duty before me?
The answer may be practical. Close the unnecessary window. Put the phone beyond reach. Listen without preparing a defence. Before beginning prayer, sit silently for one minute and allow the body, breath and attention to arrive together. Wallace reminds me that attention can be exercised. Kabir reminds me that it must also become honest. The narrow lane does not ask me to have an empty mind. It asks me to stop walking in two directions at once. My lips may know the song perfectly.
But devotion begins when my attention enters the song with them.