Our Lord knows nothing of high or lowly birth, He stops wherever he sees devotion and faith. He ate the pounded grain that Vidura, the slave’s son, offered Him; he protected Prahlada in the demon’s house. He worked with Rohidasa in tanning hides; He wove scarfs on Kabira’s loom. He sold goat’s flesh with the butcher Sajana; He mowed the grass in Savata’s field. He blew the fire with the goldsmith Narhari; with Chokamela He dragged away dead cows. With Rama’s slave Jani He lifted up cowdung cakes; at Dharma’s house He carried water and swept the floors. With Kama He ate and felt no shame; He drew Dnyandeva’s wall. He became a charioteer and drove the horses of Arjuna’s car; He relished the cakes that Sudama’s love presented Him. At the cowherd’s house He tended kine; He kept the door for Bali. The Lord of the senses paid the debts of Vyankoba, He bore Ambarishi’s pain in the womb. For the sake of Miraba He drained the poison cup; He became a Mahar in the service of Damaji. He carried clay for Gora the potter; He paid off the bills of the Mehta Narsi. For Pundalika’s sake He still stands there; blessed, says Tuka, is his story.
If the cook himself is doubtful about the food, others will be drowned in oceans of doubt. Rare is the man that knows the bliss of Brahma; most, as we see, have lost the way in asking others for it. He alone knows what purity is who has searched out the root of the conception; others, engulfed in impurity, make an elegant pretence of it. He alone seizes the opportunity whose mind is awake all three seasons of the day. In a season of doubt others are impressed into the doubter’s sense. That contemplation is unbroken which is practised with a sense of even purpose and peace; others veil their heads and make an idle pretence of this. Everything should be done for His sake whom no importunity can find, unless, says Tuka, you surrender to Him heart and wealth.
If the cook himself is doubtful about the food, others will be drowned in oceans of doubt. Rare is the man that knows the bliss of Brahma; most, as we see, have lost the way in asking others for it. He alone knows what purity is who has searched out the root of the conception; others, engulfed in impurity, make an elegant pretence of it. He alone seizes the opportunity whose mind is awake all three seasons of the day. In a season of doubt others are impressed into the doubter’s sense. That contemplation is unbroken which is practised with a sense of even purpose and peace; others veil their heads and make an idle pretence of this. Everything should be done for His sake whom no importunity can find, unless, says Tuka, you surrender to Him heart and wealth.