SWANSONG ... 1

SWANSONG ... 1

Life was fever-stricken till the Upanishads met it. Away, far away from the din of this world, from the bustle of incessant activity that throws the mind into chaos, up there in the Himalayan hills, in those remote forest retreats of remotest antiquity, there at the hallowed feet of the ancient Arya rishi is 'Peace that passeth understanding'. There where the lovely chirping mountainous birds break the silence of the dense, making it lovelier all the more, there where the heavens meet the forest treetops in an embrace of God and man, there where the rippling rivulets, the rushing whirlpools, the dainty brooks in their downward course quench the thirst of the aspirant soul, there in the eternal abode of philosophic wisdom is revealed the knowledge, 'Thou art the imperishable Atman, the one substance in a universe of ephemeral dreams.' There lies wisdom, there lies peace, there lies my final repose, my ultimate rest.

Written by Sugata Bose