“Each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.”
— Bryan Stevenson
Kabir – The couplet
कबीर घास न नींदिये, जो पाऊँ तलि होइ।
उड़ि पड़ै जब आँखि में, खरा दुहेली होइ॥
Transliterated
Kabīr ghās na nīndiye, jo pāū̃ tali hoi |
Uṛi paṛai jab ā̃khi mẽ, kharā duhelī hoi ||
Translation
Kabir says: Do not despise the grass, though it lies beneath your feet.
If it flies into your eye, it can cause great pain.
My understanding
Grass is easy to overlook.
We walk over it without a thought. It has no impressive height, no commanding voice and no obvious power. Yet Kabir asks us not to treat even grass with contempt. The same blade that appears insignificant beneath the foot can become impossible to ignore when it enters the eye.
The traditional force of this sākhī seems to be a warning against dismissing anyone—or anything—because it presently appears small, powerless or unimportant. Circumstances can change very quickly. The relationship between the foot and the grass is not permanent!
But I do not think Kabir is merely saying, “Respect people because they may hurt you later.” That would be calculation, not wisdom.
The deeper question is: Why did I believe that being beneath my foot made something beneath my consideration?
Bryan Stevenson approaches this from the world of justice. A human being, he reminds us, cannot be reduced to the worst act of his or her life. Kabir and Stevenson are not making identical arguments. Stevenson speaks of irreducible human dignity; Kabir uses a sharp everyday image to expose contempt and the arrogance of fixed hierarchies. Yet both challenge the labels through which we make a whole person disappear.
How easily do I do this?
A designation becomes the person. An educational qualification becomes the person. An accent, a bank balance, a political opinion, a past failure—or even one unpleasant conversation—becomes the person.
Once I have placed somebody “below” me, I no longer need to listen. Their pain seems exaggerated, their ideas appear unworthy and their mistakes become proof of what I had already decided.
And then Kabir’s blade of grass enters the eye.
Perhaps the junior employee notices the risk that the expert missed. Perhaps the person I dismissed speaks the truth that my friends were unwilling to speak. Perhaps someone’s old mistake resembles a weakness I carefully hide in myself.
The discomfort is not always caused by their insignificance. Sometimes it comes from the collapse of my imagined superiority.
This does not mean that every action must be excused, every opinion accepted or every harmful relationship continued. Human dignity does not eliminate discernment or accountability. It simply prevents judgment about an action from becoming contempt for the entire person.
So I must ask myself:
Who becomes invisible when I feel important?
Am I courteous only to those whose help I may need?
Can I disagree, correct or hold someone accountable without placing them beneath me?
Kabir’s grass is small—but his warning is enormous.
Nothing beneath my foot is beneath life. The moment I forget that, the speck in my eye is already there.