I am not a Botanist
by Hari Prasad Shastri

I am not a botanist in a forest. I am a wife who arranges the freshly cut flowers in a vase of a suitable colour in her drawing-room. Not only this. I am a humble devotee who has collected the blossoms herself, early at dawn, from the dale and the glen, from the pond and the mountain slopes, and washed them carefully. My object is not the decoration of my drawing-room but to make an offering of these tiny beauties of nature to the Lord, their creator. To me they reflect His charms, His beauty, His harmony and unity.

As a river runs hundreds of miles through hills, plains and towns to meet the foaming sea, so my loving heart, too, goes through the experiences of life, woes and joys, the high mountain peaks of Shankara's philosophy and the flowery dale of Plato and Rudolph Eucken, to be merged, finally, in beauty absolute.

My friends are my blossoms, which I have gathered in the Land of the Rising Sun, in the Flowery Kingdom, in the high range of the Mahatmas, not to rule them, not to love them for my benefit, but to offer them to Him, who is the honey of existence, Truth eternal.

I have enjoyed the sight of the cherry blossom falling on the streams on Mount Fuji and carried in the waters to the sea—the finite merged in the Infinite.

The Red Admiral and the Painted Lady are butterflies I love to see flitting from blossom to blossom. I have no desire to chase or capture them. In the event of a drizzle I throw my turban on the blossoming bush to protect the butterflies. May their honeymoon continue at least one summer afternoon.

I empty my meagre purse before the fowler and say: 'Pray take this and enjoy your meal. Spare the little songsters of nature. Let them bestow love on their eggs in the nest. To love selflessly is the purpose of life.'

I am not a botanist, nor a zoologist. Step by step He has led my love of nature, form, harmony and philosophy to Himself. This life of mine, though imperfect and insignificant, I offer at the altar of truth with the song: 'Incline our souls unto Thee, O Savitri.'