The beggar worships through the iron bowl.
Outside his walls, dervishes dance, preachers wring their hands, and holy men chant. Men and women sit in silent congregations, backs straight, faces solemn, and heads nodding piously. Yogis sit hold their arms up to the heavens and others leave their bodies to fly among the clouds.
But the beggar does not know how to worship. All he has is his iron begging bowl.
He holds the begging bowl with reverence, gleaming equally as its shining shell. He washes it zealously, scrubbing away the rust, examining it carefully, then scrubbing some more. As his begging bowl begins to shine clean, he holds it up to the light. He wants to see a reflection besides his own.
Next door, a wise man contemplates the deep meanings of the scriptures. He feels sorry for the beggar, who is a crazy man who spends his day lost in obsessive rituals. The wise man wishes he could help him; but the beggar’s ignorance is too vast to now reform.
Every day, the beggar scrubs and scrubs his bowl. He washes his walls and his floors and the stove upon which he cooks. He does not let any unwashed thing touch his bowl as he places it with rice upon his stove. And as he cooks, he coos like a bird. He is crazy indeed.
How can the world understand his devotion?
The dervishes dance, preachers preach, chanters chant, followers pray, yogis fly, wise men reflect. But all the beggar has is his begging bowl.
The iron is his lord and master. He loves the iron, he serves the iron with his breath and body.
He scrubs and scrubs with reverence, feeling as if he is serving and infinitely great king. He washes his kitchen clean, like a devoted wife preparing a grand feast for her long-gone husband. There is no logic in what he does; he is divana – crazy indeed.
As he cooks, he calls like a rainbird waiting for a rainfall. His longing calls vibrate off the walls; the grains of rice quiver with his love. A scent of nectar wafts into the air, as tangible as his very hands and feet.
This is his devotion. He knows not know how to worship. His face is aglow with the colours of love. Patiently, he waits and stirs, as the contents of his bowl turn to nectar at the touch of his sweet love-callings.
This is his devotion. He places a clean sheet upon the floor, and sets the warm bowl on the ground at last. This is his Guru’s langar. He thanks his master for this tremendous gift. With no other mouths to feed, he sits to eat the sweet nectarian iron feast his master has prepared for him. This is also his devotion.
Outside, worshippers worship and find themselves. The beggar is crazy indeed. All he finds is
ਸਤਿਗੁਰਬਚਨਕਮਾਵਣੇਸਚਾਏਹੁਵੀਚਾਰੁ॥