Utter a powerful song to Indra, which will be as sweet as butter and honey. - Rig Veda.
Once upon a time, in the land of Kasi, there lived a poor musician, who was also a poet and a most imaginative storyteller. He had lost his flute in a village brawl, and being too poor to buy a new instrument had to content himself in relating wonderful legends concerning the gods, and stirring tales about the jungle people.
One morning, feeling the necessity of communing with his spirit in quiet and solitude, he wandered into the jungle under a favorite cluster of bamboos.
His soaring imagination was checked in its flight by a song of so extraordinary a tune, so novel and strange to his ears that he fancied he had been carried up by unknown favor to Indra’s heaven. The heavenly singer was only a small bird with feathers like old gold, two eyes green as emeralds, and the beak and legs of the same color.
And the Golden Bird spoke to him: “Asneha! thou hast acquired great merit by thy devotion to matters spiritual, by thy kindness to animals and to human beings. Therefore, if thou wilt cut a reed within these woods they shall repeat my songs to thee.
“But have a care, thou must remain pure and not suffer to be deluded by the love of woman, and thou shalt conquer the world.”
He cut a flute in haste and pressed his lips to it to utter a song from it. And verily the music which flowed from its opening was divine and golden beyond description. Sometimes it sang softly as the moonbeam plays on a silent lake of emerald, dancing and trembling with so gentle a rhythm that only the soul of a poet could hear its melody; at other times it swelled its notes to the power of the roaring Maruts smiting against the unmovable Himalayas, as the wrath of Kali with the shiver of the cold snows from the eternal summits. Again, its melody dripped sweetly as the whitest of honey with the scent of a thousand flowers, of innumerable forms and shadings the most delicate. It wept, also, a song of despair and misery, so sadly, so pitifully, that it caused the tears to surge as readily as the Fountain of all the Sorrows.
So he incised on his flute this motto:
“Once upon a time the Golden Bird sang to me,
Now I shall sing a golden song to the gods.”
He went from village to village, from city to city, playing with the generosity of an inspired poet, followed by man, woman, child and beast alike, whenever he put his flute to his lips. They offered him their homes, their riches, their dearest possessions, but he scorned all, accepting only a little rice with spices, partaking of shelter with the humblest when the tempest-beaten jungle forbade his sleeping out of doors.
Quickly his fame had spread, and reached the ears of the Maharajah, who bade him appear at the palace, to vie with the court musicians, who were the most famous in the land. The court musicians, in their ignorance, eyed the half-naked poet with a defiant leer, as one by one they began playing, while nearby sat the Maharajah with his daughter, the fair Mahismati, and the courtiers around, all fairly laden with gems, appearing as enormous glistening scarabei.
They sang and drummed, they scratched their fiddles and twanged their guitars, they played the harps and clanked the cymbals to the admiring assemblage of noblemen, who wondered how this miserable, half-starved vagabond dared to compete with his wretched little instrument.
When the musicians had ended, Asneha got up, announcing the Song of Songs.
It began imperceptibly, but as insinuatingly as the language of a couple of loving eyes whispers to another loved pair; so indistinct to the ear that it was as the incipient melody in the mind of the composer.
Then it continued, soothing and muffled as the patter of small naked feet dancing the nautch on the marble flooring; rattled speedily as an incessant cascade of rubies, diamonds, sapphires, pearls and emeralds on a basin of gold. Steadily it flowed, like a Song of Desire and Voluptuousness, filling the hall with a scarlet inundation of light; heavy and numbing as the exhalation of soporific flowers.
But now it ascended to healthier altitudes like a Song of Victory and Exultation, direct and concise, in a blast of crystal trumpets, higher, slowly, in the manner of the eagle.
It rang forth agitated and sonorous as a gong, yet farther, solitary, inaccessible.
Then as if it had grown in magnitude by the ascent, it roared like a planet as it shoots into space to restore the equilibrium of the Universe, and suddenly, unexpectedly, in the fashion of the shooting star, it stopped short, carrying in its wake the exhausted assemblage of listeners to the floor as a mass of inert flesh.
One by one, as do the reeds after the violent gust of wind has blown over, they raised themselves, but not quite so erect as before. The musicians approached him humbly, and breaking their instruments, threw them at his feet, salaaming and promising never to play again from that day on.
Then Rajah Nila spoke: “Oh Asneha! Thou art indeed a great musician, and thou shalt be rewarded as befits a king; my riches, my kingdom, my daughter, are thine for thy choosing!”
“Oh, Rajah!” answered Asneha, “I am only a poor man and a musician by divine grace, but I am not a beggar, and have no desire for thy kingly gifts and thy fair daughter!”
The astonished Nila replied: “Assuredly thou art richer than am I, for thou art freed of all desires! But let me be a beggar for once, and entreat thee for another song!”
One day Pavana, the messenger of the gods, appeared to Asneha mounted on his white antelope, a flag in one hand, in the other an arrow, with a command from Indra to present himself immediately to the gods. So he mounted the antelope, and in less time than it takes to think it, he was carried to the eastern spur of the great Mount Meru, which is Swargra, in the City of Asmaravati, the heaven of Indra. All the gods had assembled there. Above all towered the great and mighty Indra, the Ruler of the gods and Lord of the Firmament, mounted on his elephant Airavata, at his right his dog Surana, and at his left his wife Indrani. Farther to the left was Surya, the god of the Sun, on his winged horse Tarkshya. Agni, the god of Fire, on a blue ram, and Varuna, the god of Waters, on his terrible Makara.
At Indra’s right was Yama, the god of Death, on a blue buffalo, with his twin sisters, the Yamunis, at their feet, the Sarameyas, their faithful watchdogs.
On Yama’s right was Kuvera, the god of Wealth, with his sister Kuveri, in their aerial car of jeweled lapis-lazuli.
Then Soma, the god of the Moon, on a white antelope, and Mangala, the god of War.
Also the goddess of Love, Radha, and all the lesser gods in magnificent array, in all their splendor, in all their beauty and power, watching silently Asneha.
Indra patted Airavata, and then spoke:
“Oh Asneha! Thou hast conquered the world with thy songs, and thou hast boasted to conquer the gods too! Now make thy boast good, or thou shalt go into the keeping of Yama!”
Asneha looked around, a little dazed by this gathering of Immortals; he then shook his long black hair, as if to conquer timidity, and then began his Golden Song.
Pure and exquisite as the breath of woman with teeth like pearls, as fragrant as the rose of Cashmere, it sang, now jocund, now sad, as the moods of love-sick Radha; plaintively yearning as an appeal to love in the stillness of the starless night; joyous and eager as the meeting of desirous lips; languishing as the woman’s heart fainting under the first kiss of the loved; it redoubled powerful, passionate as the march of the conquering male who has subdued. Abruptly it altered the rhythm as if awakening in readiness for battle, with the clamor of an army lusting for carnage, with the clank of swords, the discordant clash of shields, armors and spears, the dull thud of shattered bones and skulls, vehement imprecations, deep blasphemies, full of rancor, hatred and vengeance.
Then succeeded a silence, heavy, full of terrible signs, as of a silent flapping of wings, of a roaming of untold shadows, blacker than the night.
It repeated the death-song of the jackal and the hyena, with its harassing, fiendish chorus, pursuing in a mad dance with strange rhythms, the lively reel of the black scavengers on the silent and pale corpses. Then it died out, purling and gurgling as life ebbs out of a tortured body from a deep and crimson wound.
Pity and compassion returned to the song, gently, caressingly, as if nursing multiple wounds, infusing sympathy and life, like the wind, which laden with coolness and fragrance, sweeps over an arid and desolate valley.
It broke into a chant, strong and overwhelming, and so irresistible that it was as a strain of Perfect Joy; persevered tenfold, omnipotent, with a note so true, so deep and so infinite that it was like a sip of the Amrita, blissful and oblivious.
All the gods encircled Asneha, instinctively, irresistibly, as the cobras surround the snake-charmer when he plays to them his captivating melody.
They stared at him fixedly as if to get the sound from its original source, and when he had ended they stood one instant stock-still, dumb, overflowing with admiration and ecstasy. Then they all pressed around him, speaking and shouting confusedly like ordinary mortals. But a hush fell over the assemblage as the great Indra slowly made his way to Asneha, and for a while stood absorbed and pensive, looking at the musician.
He then spoke with his clear, sonorous voice: “Asneha! Verily thou hast made thy daring boast good, therefore thou shalt become immortal too!
“I cannot offer thee what is earthly, for thou canst acquire all earthly things with thy song. But I have created a gem which comprises all the harmonies, all the melodies of music in color. It is ever changing, ever beautiful and imperishable as are your songs. Take it, and delight with it the mortals!”
To the kneeling Asneha he extended his palm, where scintillated, luminous and irradiating as a perfect song, the Opal.
Carlo de Fornaro (1871 - 1949)
Carlo de Fornaro described himself in his book, A Modern Purgatory, as "artist, writer, editor, revolutionary".
De Fornaro was an artist, writer, editor and revolutionary who lived in Mexico for three years where he became interested in politics and established a daily newspaper in Mexico City. On his return to New York in 1909 he published a book entitled 'Diaz, Czar of Mexico' criticising the regime of the general who served as Mexican President. The book created an immediate sensation with copies being smuggled over the border into Mexico, which ultimately led to de Fornaro being convicted for criminal libel. This work published in 1917 is a record of his experiences in the famous Tombs Prison in New York City, and in the New York City penitentiary on Blackwell's Island
