A Podcast Featuring Sri Aurobindo Studies
Aug. 11, 2024

Savitri: a Legend and a Symbol, by Sri Aurobindo, Book VI The Book of Fate, Canto 2 The Way of Fate and the Problem of Pain, pp. 456-460

Savitri: a Legend and a Symbol, by Sri Aurobindo, Book VI The Book of Fate, Canto 2 The Way of Fate and the Problem of Pain, pp. 456-460

Savitri: a Legend and a Symbol, by Sri Aurobindo, Book VI The Book of Fate, Canto 2 The Way of Fate and the Problem of Pain, pp. 456-460


Additional readings in Savitri: a Legend and a Symbol are located at Sri Aurobindo Studies

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#Sri Aurobindo #Savitri #yoga #integral yoga #aurobindo philosophy #spirituality #mystic poetry

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Then Ashwapati answered to the
seer.

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Is then the Spirit ruled by an
outward world?

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O seer, is there no remedy
within?

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But what is fate if not the
Spirit's will?

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After a long time fulfilled by
cosmic force, I deemed a mighty

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power had come with her.
Is not that power the high

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compeer of fate?
But Narod answered, covering

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truth with truth.
O Ashwapati, random seem the

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ways along whose banks your
footsteps stray, or run in

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casual hours or moments of the
gods, Yet your least stumblings

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are foreseen above infallibly
the curves of life are drawn,

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following the stream of time
through the unknown.

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They are led by a clue.
The calm immortals keep this

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blazoned hieroglyph of prophet
Morns, a meaning more sublime in

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symbol's rites than sealed
thought wakes to.

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But of this high script, how
shall my voice convince the mind

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of earth?
Heaven's wiser love rejects the

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mortal prayer.
Unblinded by the breath of his

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desire, unclouded by the mists
of fear and hope, it bends above

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the strife of love with death.
It keeps for her her privilege

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of pain.
A greatness in thy daughter's

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soul resides that can transform
herself and all around, but must

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cross on stones of suffering to
its goal.

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Although designed like a nectar
cup of heaven, of heavenly ether

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maid, she sought this air.
She too must share the human

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need of grief, and all her cause
of joy transmute to pain.

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The mind of mortal man is led by
words.

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His sight retires behind the
walls of thought and looks out

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only through half open doors.
He cuts the boundless truth into

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sky strips and every strip he
takes for all the heavens.

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He stares at infinite
possibility and gives to the

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plastic vast the name of chance.
He sees the long results of an

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all wise force planning a
sequence of steps in endless

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time, but in its links imagines
a senseless chain or the dead

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hand of cold necessity.
He answers not to the Mystic

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mother's heart, misses the
ardent heavings of her breast,

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and feels cold, rigid limbs of
lifeless law, the will of the

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timeless working out in time in
the free absolute steps of

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cosmic truth, He thinks a dead
machine or unconscious fate.

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A magician's formulas have made
matters laws, and while they

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last, all things by them are
bound.

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But the spirit's consent is
needed for each act, and freedom

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walks in the same pace with law.
All here can change if the

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magician choose.
If human will could be made one

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with God's, If human thought
could echo the thoughts of God.

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Man might be all knowing and
omnipotent.

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But now he walks in nature's
doubtful ray.

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Yet can the mind of man receive
God's light?

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The force of man can be driven
by God's force.

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Then is he a miracle doing
miracles, for only so can he be

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nature's king.
It is decreed, and such Yvonne

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must die.
The hour is fixed, chosen the

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fatal stroke.
What else shall be is written in

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her soul.
But till the hour reveals the

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fateful script, the writing
waits.

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Illegible and mute.
Fate is truth working out in

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ignorance, O King.
Thy fate is a transaction done

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at every hour between nature and
thy soul, with God for its

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foreseeing arbiter.
Fate is a balance drawn in

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destiny's book.
Man can accept his fate.

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He can refuse, even if the one
maintains the unseen decree.

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He writes thy refusal in thy
credit page, For doom is not a

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close, A Mystic seal Arisen from
the tragic crash of life, arisen

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from the bodies torture and
death, The spirit rises mightier

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by defeat, Its God like wings
grow wider with each fall, Its

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splendid failures some to
victory.

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O man, the events that meet thee
on thy Rd., though they smite

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thy body and soul with joy and
grief, are not thy fate.

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They touch thee a while and
pass.

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Even death can cut not short.
Thy spirits walk thy goal, the

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road thou choosest are thy fate
on the altar, throwing thy

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thoughts, thy heart, thy works.
Thy fate is a long sacrifice to

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the gods, till they have opened
to thee thy secret self and made

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thee one with the indwelling
God.

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O soul, intruder in nature's
ignorance, armed traveller to

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the unseen supernal heights.
Thy spirit's fate is a battle

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and ceaseless March against
invisible opponent powers.

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A passage from matter into
timeless self.

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Adventurer through blind,
unforeseen time, a forced

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advance through a long line of
lives.

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It pushes its spearhead through
the centuries across the dust

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and mire of the earthly plain,
on many guarded lines and

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dangerous fronts.
In dire assaults, In wounded,

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slow retreats holding the ideals
ringed and battered Fort, or

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fighting against odds.
In lonely posts.

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Or camped in night around the
bivouac's fires, awaiting the

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tardy trumpets of the dawn.
In hunger and in plenty and in

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pain, Through peril and through
triumph and through fall.

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Through life's green lanes and
over her desert sands, Up the

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bald Moor, along the sunlit
Ridge in serried columns with a

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straggling rear Led by its nomad
vanguard's signal fires, marches

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the army of the way.
Lost God.

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Then late the joy ineffable is
felt.

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Then he remembers his forgotten
self.

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He has refound the skies from
which he fell.

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At length his fronts indomitable
line forces the last passes of

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the ignorance, advancing beyond
nature's last known bounds,

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reconnoitring the formidable
unknown beyond the landmarks of

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things visible.
It mounts through a miraculous

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upper air till, climbing the
mute summit of the world, he

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stands upon the splendor peaks
of God.

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In vain thou mournest that
Satyavan must die.

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His death is a beginning of
greater life.

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Death is the Spirit's
opportunity.

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A vast intention has brought two
souls close, and love and death

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conspired towards 1 great end.
For out of danger and pain

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heaven bliss shall come times
unforeseen event.

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God's secret plan.
This world was not built with

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random bricks of chance.
A blind God is not destiny's

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architect.
A conscious power has drawn the

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plan of life.
There is a meaning in each curve

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and line.
Is it?

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It is an architecture high and
grand by many named and nameless

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Masons, built in which unseeing
hands obey the unseen.

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And of its master builders, she
is one.