Maayaa as envisaged by Kabir

 Maayaa as envisaged by Kabir 

माया महा ठगनी हम जानी 

Māyā mahā ṭhaganī ham jānī 
“Māyā — I have known her, the great trickster!” 

Kabir begins not with explanation but with recognition — a confession born of insight. Māyā is no abstract concept here; she is a living presence, the eternal deceiver who beguiles gods and men alike. 

तिरगुन फाँस लिये कर डोलै, बोलै मधुरी बानी। 

She struts with a noose in her hands — of the three guṇas — and speaks in honeyed tones. 

Māyā wields the noose of the Trigunāḥ — sattva, rajas, and tamas — the three strands of nature that bind all beings to life, pleasure, and delusion. Her words are sweet, her traps invisible. She entices through pleasure, through the promise of joy — and yet her embrace is the prelude to bondage. Even virtue (sattva), when clung to, becomes her snare. 

 

केसव के कमला होइ बैठी, सिव के भवन भवानी। 

She sits as Kamalā with Keshava, as Bhavānī in the house of Śiva. 

Even the gods are not beyond her grasp. 
For Viṣṇu, Māyā becomes Lakṣmī — the energy of sustenance, attachment to harmony and beauty. 
For Śiva, she is Pārvatī — the power of creation itself, drawing the ascetic into the play of the world. 
For Brahmā, she becomes Sarasvatī — the voice of knowledge that gives birth to all manifestation. 

Thus even the deities who govern the universe are, in Kabir’s vision, bound by their own energies — unable to transcend the very roles Māyā assigns them. Māyā is not the consort of God; she is His condition. 

पंडा के मूरत होइ बैठी, तीरथहू में पानी। 

For the scholar, she appears as the idol; for the pilgrim, as sacred water. To the intellectual, she becomes form — the comfort of definition, doctrine, and text. To the pilgrim, she appears as place — holy cities, rivers, and rituals. 
The mind clings to what can be seen and touched, never realizing that the very desire to locate God outside oneself is Māyā’s most ingenious snare. Even piety can be bondage when mistaken for truth. 

जोगी के जोगिन होइ बैठी, राजा के घर रानी। 

For the yogi she sits as the yoginī; for the king, as his queen.  

For the ascetic, she comes as distraction — as thought, memory, or vision. 
For the ruler, she is power, possession, and pride. 
Both are equally ensnared: one in subtle desire, the other in overt control. 
Māyā adapts herself to every temperament, appearing as exactly that which the seeker most values. 

खाहू के हीरा वे बैठी, काहू के कौड़ी कानी। 

For some she sits in diamonds; for others, in seashells. 

Māyā’s genius lies in relativity — she gives value to the valueless. 
In the material mind, she becomes greed; in the superstitious mind, faith in talismans and omens. 
She thrives on the illusion of importance — on the endless pursuit of more — turning both the gem and the shell into tokens of desire. 

भक्तन के भक्तिन होइ बैठी, ब्रह्मा के ब्रह्मानी। 

She becomes devotion for the devotee, Sarasvatī for Brahmā. 

Even bhakti and jñāna, says Kabir, are not beyond her play. 
The devotee’s attachment to divine love, the scholar’s pride in divine knowledge — both are her ornaments. 
When even love becomes possession and wisdom becomes identity, Māyā has won again. 

कहैं कबीर सुनो भाई साधो, यह सब अकथ कहानी॥ 

Says Kabir, listen, O seeker — this is the story that cannot be told. 

And so Kabir closes where he began — in mystery. 
Māyā, the cosmic trickster, is not merely illusion; she is the medium through which Truth hides and reveals itself. She is play (līlā) and bondage (bandhana), both. 
Even this understanding — Kabir warns — may itself be Māyā’s final snare. 

Hence, the poem ends in the only language that can transcend Māyā — silence. This seemingly simple song — a catalogue of divine consorts — is, in truth, a map of consciousness. 
To the ascetic, it is a warning against sensual distraction. 
To the advaitin, it is an exposition of ignorance (avidyā). 
To the śākta, it is a hymn to the manifold forms of the Mother. 
To Kabir, it is all these and beyond — the unsaid story (akath kahānī) — where Māyā is neither enemy nor goddess but the mirror of the mind itself. Māyā is not out there; she is the “seer’s own shadow.” When the seer turns fully inward — when he stops chasing form, meaning, or even liberation — Māyā ceases to trick, and simply dances. 

And Kabir, smiling, steps aside.