Saintliness
cannot be acquired;it has to be discovered as one's own essential
nature. When I can appreciate my incapacity to hurt or get hurt by
an individual, event or situation, I recognise the saint that I am.
Thus the sure mark of a saint is this incapacity to wound or get wounded.
Such a sanctimonious person remains ever as fresh and innocent as
a morning lily, as pliable and tender as a tropical creeper, and as
accommodating and unresisting as the infinite space.
The
external expression of saints vary according to conditionings that
they have acquired down the millennia genetically, racially. But the
essential sweetness and fragrance that emanates through such expressions
remain the same. An Aurobindo cloistered in his wooden panelled study
hatching out of wonderful phrases, ideas and imageries, may appear
diametrically opposed to a Ramakrishna Parama Hamsa stammering out
rustic tales and anecdotes clumsily squatting on a rickety charpay.
A Vivekananda roaring down to the learned assembly of religious leaders,
majestically dominating the stage in his gorgeous orange robes may
look an incongruent counterpart of a Ramana Maharshi in his meager
loin attire silently smiling to an unlettered aspirant. A Christ on
the cross meekly suffering the agony of crucifixion may seem an absolute
antithesis to Lord Krishna, whip in his hand in the battle field exhorting
the unwilling Arjuna to fight a bloody war. A Naranattu Bhrantan gleefully
immersed in his purposeless labour of rolling a huge stone up and
down the slopes of the mountain, resting in the graveyards, contemptuously
looking down upon the tempting and seductive world may stand out ridiculous
compared to a Krishnamurti elegantly employing slick words and streamlined
phrases in Oxford accent to bring out the profound silence that he
experiences.