Summary:
The poem
"Mahaparinirvan" is a deeply spiritual and reflective portrayal of
the final moments of Lord Buddha’s life and his transition into Nirvana. The
poem begins with Buddha inviting questions, but no one speaks as they are
absorbed in the profound silence of the moment. In this divine, luminous light,
all questions, answers, doubts, and concepts seem to dissolve into nothingness.
Buddha breaks the silence and gives his final message, emphasizing the impermanence of all things and urging his disciples to remain mindful, disciplined, and unattached to worldly desires. His words underscore the transient nature of life and the ultimate release from suffering through spiritual awakening.
The Poem
Today,
In the long, dark,
half-closed eyes of Vaishali,
In the dusky shade of
lotus-tinted eyelids,
The cycle of
existence—
Rising, setting,
awakening, wandering.
In the blue eyes, near
the lotus banks,
In the tear-released
garlands,
Woven in threads of
sorrow, collected, the Lord’s message—
He is silent.
Silent, the heart’s
trembling,
The vibration of past
memories,
Burnt by separation,
lamenting in songs—
The quivering strings
of the mind’s veena.
The Lord—
Resided through the
rainy retreats, in Veluvagram of Vaishali.
Profound weariness in
body, in mind,
Weary, serene,
disciplined.
In a soft voice, he
uttered— "Ananda."
Ananda.
Ananda, who sought
only that,
Throughout life, in
the thorny forest of suffering.
In deep darkness,
always yearning for a ray of light.
He became, by
renouncing all,
A monk.
A tranquil mind.
Desires stilled.
Life, flowing without
waves of thoughts.
Today, in this rare
quiet,
he gazes at the serene
evening hour of life,
In the midst of these
crowds of cravings.
A being, entangled in
the filaments of his own desires,
Walking life's path,
littered with thorns
and fears.
Desires flare, hissing
like serpents.
Yet, staring into the
eyes of craving,
The mind still weaves
mirages,
As it has for
countless ages.
Suffering through it,
never resisting,
blind in
delusion.
Helpless, losing the
way,
And not even accepting
this truth.
Today, this garland of
breaths,
Even time has counted
them.
How many days, how
many nights
Have passed, walking
this path?
Speaking,
understanding—
Ah, deceitful
craving!
Helpless being,
Your swift, nimble
steps—
Never stopping, never
bound.
Whether the sun of
life rises or sets,
You scatter the colors
of desire.
But now, the evening
of life has arrived.
Until the final
moment—liberation, nirvana—
This has been my
constant effort.
Reflecting,
meditating—
Suffering. Suffering
alone is the noble truth,
This is the undeniable
fact of life.
I have sought to
understand these Four Noble Truths.
Life, like a vessel
filled with nectar,
Overflowed
endlessly.
Never empty, no one
left thirsty.
Even now, I
contemplate this,
Let none remain in
delusion.
Let no thorn pierce
anyone’s feet.
Let no one say, with a
choked voice—
"Ah, life, it was
all just a mistake."
Life is, indeed,
an entry pass to the
gateway of liberation.
While thinking, his
meditation was interrupted.
He looked around,
searching for Ananda.
Seeing him near, he
spoke— "Ananda!
Dutiful. Humble. Ever
in service.
Laziness never touched
you.
Not for a moment did
you leave my side.
Ever diligent, alert,
without flaw,
You remained like a
shadow with me."
I have grown
weary,
But you have not.
I slumbered,
But you remained
awake.
Fifty-one years have
passed.
Now this frail and
worn-out vessel of life,
This body,
Beholds the world’s
relentless oppression.
How long could it hold
together
This powerless body
and mind, devoid of energy?
No, Ananda, not
anymore.
When will its journey
cease?
Ananda startled,
Every rhythm of
consciousness shattered.
Nature, ever
unyielding,
Her eternal flow
unbroken, never disturbed by delusion.
He stood watching in
silence, unblinking, still.
He never acknowledged
fate or destiny,
But today, now, he is
speechless.
There is no
alternative for this moment,
There is no answer
anywhere.
On the blue horizon of
Ananda's eyes,
A deep despair, a dark
shadow descended.
In the vast ocean of
his gaze,
The faint light
flickered, shattered into a thousand pieces, trembling and scattered.
The dark clouds of
sorrow gathered, thick as coal.
The ocean of despair
swelled, rising in waves.
Meteors and
thunderbolts rained down without end,
His mind, lonely and
desolate.
He could not bear
it,
Speechless, he stood
watching.
That universal,
eternal truth—
Which he knew but
pretended not to—
The very sun of his
life,
In whose light,
carefree, untroubled,
His life’s chariot
moved forward.
Unaware of when
His morning, noon, and
afternoon passed.
Now, as the evening
descends from the sky,
Unruly, scattered
black locks of hair,
A profound twilight
darkens.
In its veil, spiritual
grandeur, grace, reflection, and contemplation gather.
Ananda stood there,
silent as wood, unmoving,
Caught in the tight,
intricate grip of pain.
The Lord saw
Ananda—
Helpless, solitary,
consumed by his emptiness.
He spoke, in a voice
full of compassion and comfort—
“Ananda!
The blazing sun,
scattering its fierce, radiant light,
Ascends to the throne
of noon with its indomitable strength.
And the moon,
heart-jewel of the chariot of night,
Bathed deeply in the
inky ocean of darkness,
Rises, tearing through
the waves with powerful arms,
Bearing the nectar of
immortality.
From their nests,
newborn fledglings,
With awkward,
inexperienced wings,
Seek their balance,
searching for their food on their own.
This world is a
nest,
A crowded swarm.
Man, when has he ever
relied on others?
He paves his own
path,
Though it be
harsh,
Wings of fire,
constantly traversed by the winds.
The wind-bird,
Never touches the
earth or sky,
Absorbed in
itself,
Spreading its wings,
it flies through the emptiness,
Relying solely on its
own strength,
Balancing its wings
alone.
Ananda! Do not become
like a rudderless boat, lost in self-delusion.”
Ananda, hearing this,
was startled.
“You are wise,
discerning, steadfast, composed.
Be your own
support,
Do not look for others
as your pillar of strength.
Who lights the
twinkling lamps of the stars?
Who arranges the
pearls in their shells?
All depends on their
own deeds,
Whether it be rivers
or waterfalls.
You are capable,
In every way
competent.
Do not let the strings
of your life’s veena quiver in disarray.
Do not think yourself
weak, distressed, or helpless.
You are eternal,
fearless, and inexhaustible.
In the blue sky of
your heart,
Light the lamp of
Dharma.
The path of
light,
Clear, pure, and
radiant.
Only you can scatter
the rays of truth upon it.
Only truth, the
unveiled truth—
This, the supreme
companion,
The essential fact of
life.
Do not despair.
Come, let us walk to
the Chaitya of Chapala,
Follow me.
Through the
northwestern gate, he stepped outside,
And with supreme
contentment,
He gazed at
Vaishali—
Adorned in the
fragrance of spirituality,
Crowned with the
exquisite, glowing hue of divine brilliance."
Ananda!
Nature, always
timeless, ever serene,
Breathes life into
every moment—
vital, vibrant, full
of essence.
Each pulse, a
transformative surge,
How much nectar flows
through these alive and awakening motions,
Unveiling profound,
ineffable truths.
On every leaf is
inscribed,
The essence of life,
filled with meaning and depth.
Only those who can
read it, know—
These silent words,
how deeply they move the heart.
These playful leaves,
drunk on their own
vitality, sway with devotion.
They are the open
scrolls of spiritual mysteries—
These trees, forests,
stones, rocks—
living and still,
One rhythm, one pulse,
one universal breath.
Every beat resonates
with their beat,
Illuminated by a
single force,
The radiant moon of
knowledge shining over the lotus leaves,
Scattering a nectarous
light upon them.
Ananda!
Vaishali, the city of
supreme pride—
It glows with the
brilliance of wisdom.
Beauty vast and
boundless is spread here.
It stands fearlessly
upon seven hills,
Seven thousand golden
spires crowned with shining pinnacles,
On fourteen thousand
are silver,
And on twenty-one
thousand, copper domes gleam.
Seventy-seven thousand
seventy-seven palaces and mansions,
Brimming with lotus
ponds and tranquil gardens.
Each home, every
flower grove,
resounds with waves of
music and dance—
Veena, harp, flute,
drums,
and mṛidaṅga fill the
air,
Spreading the charm of
grace and beauty everywhere.
How Vaishali honored
me, how it welcomed me,
Time and again,
it bathed my feet in
tears of devotion and love.
I, the dispassionate
Arhat,
Yet, at the time of
parting, I felt the piercing sorrow.
Countless sermons I
have delivered, inscribed upon the rippling waves of Vaishali.
It was illuminated by
the rare, unattainable light of the soul,
Fragrant with the
essence of spirituality.
How beautiful it
is!
So serene, so lovely,
so enchanting—
The Udayana Chaitya,
Gautama Chaitya, Stupa Chaitya, Bahuputra Chaitya,
All perfumed with the
fragrance of my teachings,
And within them, a
higher consciousness stirs.
Here, where the
ascetic’s time passed in search of memory,
Kapilavastu’s Banyan
Grove, Grihakut, Vaibhara, Venuvan, Kalandak—
Their inner beauty
overflows,
And the unending
shower of wisdom bathes them relentlessly.
Anoma, Saptadhara,
Tapoda, and the Niranjana River—
Who do I
remember,
As all of them stir
the dormant strings of the mind’s veena.
The more they touch
the soul,
The deeper they sink
into the heart,
Unveiling a profound,
relentless sorrow."
"I, the
Tathagata, am beyond attachment.
For me, what is
future, present, or past?
I have passed through
all of it, untouched, unconflicted.
This pain is not my
own;
It is the suffering of
others that stirs within me.
Ananda!
What is unpleasant
stays only on the surface.
But that which is
deeply dear—
those who spark
joy—
They plunge into the
profound depths of suffering, untouched by conflict.
Thus, both joy and
sorrow become, in the end,
Sources of anguish,
piercing the soul.
The mind—
When it transcends
these forms, formlessness, sensations, and touches—
It enters a vast
expanse of void.
Where form and
formlessness, colors and shapes, merge into one,
In the sacrificial
fire of knowledge,
The flames burn
bright,
Consuming all
impurities into ashes.
No matter how fertile
the soil,
Or how abundant the rain,
If seeds are roasted
in the fire of tapas,
They never sprout, no
matter the cause or effort.
A broken vessel can
never be filled again.
In impermanence and
fleeting moments,
The quicker things
pass, the more alluring and destructive they become.
One who knows this
truth—
When does he ever bind
himself to it?
When does he, blinded
by delusion,
Bend to fill his
vessel with mirages?
The five elements
disintegrate—
This is an unshakable,
inevitable truth.
The one who remains
vigilant to the difference between truth and falsehood,
Never tries to grasp
moonlight reflected on water.
Speechless and
unblinking,
Ananda turned and
looked at the Lord.
With his head bowed at
His feet,
He let out a cry of
agony, overwhelmed with pain.
Grasping the holy feet
with both hands, he said,
‘Lord! I am not the
dispassionate Arhat.
I am, to the core,
deeply wounded.
My impurities are not
yet diminished.
I know nothing,
I am utterly helpless
and humble.
O Lord, my
teacher!
How can I understand
how time has passed?
My only connection is
with these sacred feet,
This is my present, my
future, my past.
In this holy dust of
Your feet,
I have lived and
passed through time.
My countless cycles of
birth and death,
Have been marked by
this surrender at Your feet.’"
"I have known
only these sacred, holy lotus feet.
Beyond them, I
recognize no other meaning.
This is my eternal,
blessed peace, my highest, most secure refuge—
I do not seek the
immortal state.
This is my beginning
and end, my birth and death.
In them lies my
priceless surrender.
This is my world of
self, free from grief,
Enlightenment, wisdom,
liberation—Nirvana's release.
I have accepted these
feet
As the swift mantra,
the infallible blessing.
Only these feet,
An endless, unbroken
flow of the nectar of knowledge.
I have made them my
eternal vow,
My everlasting,
unwavering refuge.
These, my eternal
shelter, my giver of peace,
The sacred summit, the
highest place of pilgrimage.
O Lord! My Lord!
Radiant Sun of
Knowledge,
Dwelling in the
immortal abode of Nirvana,
I am but a shadow,
following Your light,
And my mind is lost
within it.
O my Lord,
Embodiment of
compassion,
This attachment will
not break.
Filled with mercy, the
Lord bent down,
Grasped both of
Ananda’s hands,
Raised his head, and
gazed into his tear-filled, pained eyes.
He spoke—'Be patient,
Ananda.
Your impurities will
be diminished.
Long ago, at Gridhakuta,
in one of my teachings,
I told you—
Recite and reflect
upon the "Ganapati Hridaya."
The white form,
the white surroundings
of Ganesha,
Embodiment of wisdom
and Nirvana—
Your impurities will
fade.
Do not despair so
deeply.'
'Lord!
How can I be free from
the sorrow of endless dreams?
How can one pass
beyond attachment and grief?
This torment has come
countless times.
Each time it strikes a
mortal blow,
Every arrival an
unavoidable, relentless pain.
Each time in a new
form,
And the suffering,
unmistakable.
Its nature is
unfathomable.'
'Before I came
here,
Even the majestic
Mahaprajapati Gautami said the same.
She was completely
guided and surrendered to the holy feet.
Her life was nearing
its end, her impurities gone.
She asked for her
final farewell on her life's journey.
I saw Rahula too,
departing, free from all desire.
And the venerable,
graceful mother of Rahula,
I beheld her,
astounded by her unparalleled, indomitable radiance.'"
"As you bid them
farewell, you said—
'Now, I too am nearing
eighty years.'
Yet, they remained
unmoved, still,
Neither stirring nor
speaking,
Nor turning back to
look at you.
With utmost calm,
composed, steady,
In a gentle voice,
they spoke—
'All my desires are
now at peace.
My arrival here
Is but to express my
gratitude to the Lord.
He alone was my
teacher, my guide, my master.
I have come to offer
my thanks to Him.
Today marks the final
date of my life’s journey.
I have completed
seventy-eight years.
This is my last
night.
The end of my worldly
play.'
I listened in silence
to her words.
Ah, how one, fully
renounced, behaves so!
She spoke, serene and
unaffected—
"I,
Am my own refuge.
Untroubled, detached,
free of doubt.
Beneath the flame of
my self-illuminating lamp,
All material, like
moths, burns entirely.
Name, form,
consciousness, recognition, knowledge—
I am beyond
these,
An endless, boundless,
radiant flow of light,
Memory, forgetfulness,
rebirth, recurrence—
I have transcended
all,
Beyond the grasp of
impermanence.”
Raising her head, she
gazed steadily at the empty horizon,
Her face aglow with
the full radiance,
As if the blue pearls
of stars had emerged at dawn.
Her eyes, slightly
drawn at the edges,
Did not seek a
farewell, nor utter a prayer.
No dark furrows of
worry marred her bright, white forehead.
She did not turn, not
even to glance
At the holy feet one
last time.
As if all the
agitated, trembling waves of feeling
Had merged into the
ocean of desolation—
Extinguished,
motionless,
Like figures etched in
stone,
Impressions left on
the heart by pain.
In that emptiness,
firmly rooted, fearless, without support,
She stood upon her own
feet, sustained by none.
But as for me!
Even now, O Lord, I
remain the same—
Tears flow
ceaselessly, endlessly stirred, never still.
I stand alone,
watching the great Shakya dynasty,
Its blazing, eternal
sun of glory,
An unbroken heritage,
forever honored—
And yet, now, its
final link.
No heir remains of
that lineage.
The lone, flickering
flame of that ancient house,
Its extinction
approaches.
My heart, afflicted
with sorrow, feels weak and forlorn.
How much more of this
suffering can I bear?
How can I remain like
wood, silent and unfeeling?"
O Great Vinayak,
Supreme among Elephants!
O Revered by the
World!
Let us not speak of
separation.
This weary, misled
soul, troubled through countless births,
Like a bird of life,
lost,
wandering in the
desolate, rare woods,
Has come to your
refuge.
Your radiant image,
full of light,
Has descended in the
sky of my mind,
Like a lightning flash,
resounding in every particle of life.
This soul, a parched
pied cuckoo,
Tired from falling and
stumbling along unknown paths for ages,
Now lies prostrate at
your holy feet.
This is an unbroken,
unprecedented surrender.
You, full of tender
affection,
Bathed in the
nourishing rains of compassion,
Heart and soul
thrilled,
Like a temple of
sandalwood and cool breezes.
May this divine abode,
this lush bower of sweetness,
Not be shattered.
Where would the
anguished priest go,
Restless and
impatient?
A helpless, trembling
heart—
This thunderbolt
strike!
I know it is
true—
But a bitter
truth.
I have not yet made
peace with it.
I will bear it all,
but only at these holy feet.
This is my reward, my
boon for births uncounted—
The gift of
fearlessness.
This is my joy, my
ultimate purpose,
The fruition of my
scorched life.
Without this, life is
lifeless, meaningless.
All its significance
would sink
Into a dark
abyss.
This cloudless,
solitary, still sky of the mind—
O Lord,
In it, the breath of
life stirs the winds of vitality.
This lifeless living
corpse,
Futile, all the grand
and simple joys of life,
The celebrations of
existence.
The mind, intoxicated
by its own fragrance,
Burns with an
insatiable desire for something precious.
The past, spent in
splendor, was better,
Filled with worldly
delights.
The pain in my heart
was dull.
This present life, I
thought, was everything—
There was nothing beyond
it.
I had forgotten, lost
in its allure.
The play of material
joys was mesmerizing.
But O Lord, your
vision!
It is like an ancient
prayer,
Now manifest in your
form.
All the dormant
questions within me have awoken.
Ah! Here is the
answer,
For which my soul has
yearned through the ages.
Yet today—
Hearing it all, you
laugh, Lord of Bliss!
Even now, today, you
remain deluded by attachment!
This pull, this blind
attachment, this separation—
It is the violent
upheaval of nature.
The eternal rebels
against the transient.
Liberation, the
synonym of eternal peace,
Cannot ever contradict
it.
The mortal, perishable
has no alternative,
No other choice.
This, the void
moment,
The eternal
observation of life,
Of countless births
and deaths entwined.
Today, the anklet tied
to its feet,
This string that once
bound, breaks apart.
An elusive
moment,
A moment of auspicious
stillness,
The shattered
being,
Its scattered
particles now disintegrated.
Today, abandoning all
impressions,
I am balancing emotion
and creation.
Immersed in
spirituality,
I tear apart the
shield of self-birth.
As the Lord spoke
these words,
The infinite
trembled,
A thousand meteors
fell from the sky,
An unheard, unseen
upheaval in nature’s laws.
The forty-nine winds
roared,
Nature’s fury
unleashed.
The cosmos was thrown
into turmoil,
A violent tempest
churned the sky, water, and earth.
In his anguish, Ānanda
cried,
Clutching the feet of
the Lord,
Madly, desperately
rubbing his forehead against them.
In the Chāpāla
Chaitya,
The Lord relinquished
his vital force.
He moved towards the
path of the Great Forest,
Instructing Ānanda to
gather the monks from Vaishali,
And bring them along
to the Great Forest."
In the monastery of
his last abode, seated on his seat,
He inspired the monks
to remain devoted to Dharma.
"Monks! Be
vigilant, mindful.
Created things are
perishable,
Yet, the transience
that answers the truth,
Is not less but
stronger still.
Even the triumphant
banners of glory,
Fall crushed and
trampled.
When the noon of
material indulgence rises,
The blazing sun,
Flinging its arms of
rays towards the sea of setting,
Cries out as it
sinks.
Destroyed and reduced
to dust,
The sky-piercing
palaces and mansions crumble.
This is the law of
transience."
Impermanence, weeping,
writes its sorrowful tale,
In the tear-soaked,
wet folds of the world's garment,
With sighs and
breaths.
The outer and inner
consciousness,
All reactive
corruptions,
Both are drawn
into
The gaping jaws of
time, like venomous snakes,
Pulled by its breath,
they dissolve away.
Everything is
destroyed, obliterated.
What remains is the
void, the great cremation ground,
Only liberation and
Nirvana endure.
For every monk,
Whose desires are
stilled,
Ultimately, their
supreme welfare is found here.
Remember.
The thing you call
"mind," the essence you cherish,
And claim as your own,
filling you with ego—
Even that, in its
ultimate state,
Is a construct, a
physical matter.
It is merely a
gathering of diverse elements,
Constantly changing,
deteriorating with every moment.
I am fully
prepared,
Eager to depart at any
instant.
All subtle movements
and desires within me are now extinct, at peace.
My time is
complete.
What needed to be
done, I have done.
Three months from
now,
My parinirvana is
certain.
You, the monks,
Be composed, virtuous,
free from negligence, mindful, wise.
Fulfill your
resolutions with dedication,
Preserve the
consciousness.
This is my
message.
Do not waste your
valuable lives in vain.
This is my teaching,
my spiritual guidance,
So that eternal
welfare may be attained.
In the early morning,
the Lord, adorned with his robe,
Holding the begging
bowl, stepped out.
He cast a full gaze
during the offering,
And said,
"Ānanda!
Vaishali—inner vision,
the fragrance of life,
Is enriched by the
spiritual essence. The river of knowledge,
The wave of
immortality flows through it.
Joyously and fully
nourished,
These forest paths,
branches, and groves,
The city, the
mansions, the palaces, the homes, the people’s lives—
This Great Forest, the
Shal Grove, have been my solitary contemplation.
In each of its breaths
is my unshakable teaching, unwavering trust.
Etched and painted on
every step,
Each moment carries my
thoughts, reflections, conclusions, and meditations.
This is my living,
spoken message,
An open teaching, with
nothing left unsaid.
As many as there are
metal urns,
My teachings flow like
the nectar of immortality,
An unrestrained
cessation,
A serene
radiance."
When she groaned in
pain,
In weakness and
sickness,
A necklace of gems
formed around her neck.
All night long, I
stayed awake,
Wishing her well with
all my heart,
My tender emotions
intertwined with this moment.
I built my Buddhist
Sangha
In Vaishali, upon the
Tantric foundation of the Licchavi clan.
Vaishali, full of
dignity—
Graceful, peaceful,
exalted, a symbol of supreme consciousness.
Today, I am leaving
it.
This is my final
farewell to Vaishali.
I cannot contain my
affection for her.
Even as I depart, I
remember her fondly.
Ānanda, you have been
my dear disciple, my devoted servant.
You possess the utmost
patience, the greatest humility.
It is rightly
said—
You are my Karṇa.
You have heard and
remembered countless teachings.
I wonder what more I
can give you,
Or what I can take
from you.
Time and again, we
have engaged in religious teachings, in questions and answers.
From me alone,
You have received
eighty-two thousand discourses on Dharma,
And from the other
disciples, you have heard two thousand more.
You are the one who
has absorbed the most,
In terms of
philosophy, science, and knowledge.
Indeed, it is rightly
said—
Whenever there is a
true teacher and a true disciple,
It always becomes
Like Dharma-rāja and
Nachiketa.
Such a teacher is
rare,
Such a disciple is
even rarer.
In a worthy vessel,
the nectar flows endlessly,
The giver never tires,
nor does the receiver grow weary.
This is the true light
of the Sangha,
The doorway to
immortality,
Where the gates open
wide.
Even today, I say the
same to you—
This is the infinite
acceptance.
Here, no, there is no
cycle of birth and death.
Hidden within the calm
ocean is a deceptive, terrifying whirlpool.
Until this
water-maelstrom is destroyed,
Mortality will
continue to pierce the soul with its bitter sting.
Who desires it?
This unceasing,
relentless coming and going,
With no moment of
pause, no rest to be found?
The great
cessation,
The liberation, the
cessation of desire, emptiness, freedom from all attachments.
Look! In this world,
there is only suffering.
Even in the guise of
happiness, it is but the play of sorrow.
In the milk-white,
unblemished moonlight of life,
Who has smeared the
black ink of suffering everywhere?
No pure light
remains,
Everything has been
stained,
Dampened by tears and
circled by the heat of sorrowful sighs.
Ānanda,
Life!
A vessel brimming with
grief,
Overflowing with
sorrow.
Hatred, violence,
rivalry, and desires—
Endlessly fueled by
the flames of craving.
Human beings endure
this unbearable suffering, helpless.
Pain, longing,
lack—
The ruthless game of
craving.
Even as they know
everything,
Humans, blinded by
this burning agony,
Aware of the simple
path,
Yet, through
negligence,
Continue to endure the
false allure and ceaseless inertia.
If they remain
grounded,
Filled with the
eightfold path,
Strengthened by the
Five Precepts,
How could any thief
infiltrate,
If the East is
fortified with unbreakable defense?
I have made this
complex Dharma
Simple and
accessible,
Relying solely on
self-restraint.
The Lord saw
That Ānanda was deeply
troubled.
Ānanda!
For this body, made of
the five elements,
Do not grieve.
The Tathāgata never
truly enters Nirvana.
They forever walk
upon
The land of
Nirvana,
Where there is no
birth, no death,
No destruction, no
rebirth, no breath.
There, neither being
nor non-being exists,
Nor do past, future,
or present.
That place is
imperishable, beyond time.
I, in this way,
Bow my disciples
toward Dharma,
Whether through the
cycle of birth or through Nirvana—
Both are just skillful
means,
An act,
As I am beyond the
transitory forms of the five elements.
I am eternal and
everlasting.
It is merely to ease
the grief, sorrow, and pain,
To lift the burden of
anguish.
Time and again, I
descend to this earth,
In some form or
another.
My purpose is one
alone—
To establish, by any
means,
Happiness, peace,
friendship, unity,
Universal love, and
truth in this world.
To destroy false
tendencies.
I am always here,
Ānanda,
Never coming or
going.
This Nirvana is but an
announcement.
All those who have
always sought the truth,
Those enlightened
ones, the Buddhas—
They all meet, they
are all present,
In one place.
They know well,
That which is unborn,
imperishable, eternal,
It never dies.
They have all
observed
This pure, unchanging
truth.
The Tathāgata
Does not die.
His Nirvana is but a
teaching
For those blind with
delusion.
Even now, those
distressed by the pain of separation,
Who have renounced
their desires,
Who have stepped upon
the land of Nirvana—
Their thirst is
utterly quenched.
How can seeds that
have been roasted
Ever sprout
again?
In that eternal
coolness,
Where is the awakening
of the world, or the heat of passion?
So, Ānanda,
Be unaffected,
Be eternally in
motion.
Since time
immemorial,
I too, for the sake of
the nectar of knowledge,
Have been revolving in
this endless cycle.
This process of
development is unbroken and indestructible.
Humanity’s constant
ascent is upward.
The thirst for
knowledge, the pursuit of completeness, is infinite.
It is boundless.
It is
incomprehensible, indescribable—
Only a profound
experience.
The eternal never
radiates or decays, Ānanda.
It is only the tangled
knots of ignorance that break apart.
These are profoundly
mysterious.
With deep
concentration and focus, untangle them.
Taking a deep breath
once again, the Lord spoke—
This body of elements
continues to illuminate according to its nature,
But where is its true
abode?
The gross external
consciousness grows weary and sluggish,
While the subtle
remains detached from all of it.
Even the energy of
this body-form is becoming sullied and tired.
Ānanda,
I shall rest here for
a while
And then proceed
toward the quiet village.
Ānanda!
What I am saying to
you now—
Do not consider it the
ultimate truth or an unchallengeable doctrine.
I am merely the
distillation,
The result of my time,
my circumstances,
My reflection,
contemplation, and deliberation.
What I have realized
from
The churning and
friction of experience,
That knowledge alone I
have known to be true
And shared with
you.
But what I say
today
May well become
irrelevant tomorrow.
Just as I
shattered
The blind faith and
stagnation,
Likewise,
With struggle, new
successful ideas may arise.
Dharma—
What we call it—
Is the result of the
churning of political, social, and religious ideas—
The good ideas or
conclusions that emerge.
Humans are but
The refined or
reflected embodiment of time.
They need only proper
guidance.
As the conversation
progressed, midway,
Ānanda, in a worried
voice, spoke—
Lord!
How can I dare to
ask?
The ten unanswered
questions that you deemed pointless,
Are they truly of no
value?
The Lord turned and
gazed calmly,
Saying— Ānanda!
Long ago, in my
teachings,
I mentioned the three
vehicles (Yānas).
And now, once again, I
shall explain.
Those ten
questions—about God, the soul, death, and the afterlife,
Or others like
them—
What will the ignorant
achieve by pondering them?
First, let a person
uplift their own self,
And they will
naturally see the truth, self-illumined.
After attaining full
enlightenment beneath the Bodhi tree,
Indra, the king of the
gods, had come,
And spoke of Brahma,
the creator of the entire universe.
If both these exist in
truth,
Then certainly,
somewhere, they must dwell—
As rulers, creators,
and progenitors of the universe.
But how can those
whose feet are stuck in the mire
Ascend to the peak of
the Himalayan crown?
Questions that are
beyond resolution and solution—
Why does humanity
needlessly dwell on them?
Become pure and
clear,
And all higher truths
will naturally embrace you.
All silent questions
will become vocal,
Their veiled layers
will unfold.
Time—it determines the
fate of all things.
At its signal, all
four directions move accordingly.
The feet that have
been firmly planted on stone for ages—
Even they are not
suddenly uprooted.
And the deep,
unfathomable ocean does not
Suddenly become a
forest of sands.
Only time is
certain,
Everything else is
directed by it.
The eternal never
dies.
That which decays
Is given new
garments,
As the result of its
actions.
Between life and death
is an endless slumber,
Here is the eternal
rest.
Filled with desires
and tendencies,
He remains unaware,
oblivious.
In the pure mirror,
all secrets are unveiled.
Ānanda! That is why I
have said—
Why should man
entangle himself in questions
That can never be
comprehended?
Why waste his
time?
Instead, let him first
free himself of his entanglements.
The formless, the
form-filled, the resplendent light—
They will come from
the mind’s sky.
Only a mind firmly
dedicated to the truth
Will witness
them.
Ānanda saw that after
a long journey,
They had reached the
place
Between Vaishali and
Kushinagar.
There stood Ānanda
Stupa, their next resting place.
They paused and saw
the monks waiting.
The Lord gave them
teachings too,
Explaining the essence
of the Great Land.
Afterward, they
proceeded to Pāvāpurī.
In the dense, cool
shade of Chunda the blacksmith’s mango grove,
The Lord was
resting.
When Chunda heard
that
The Lord was staying
in his mango grove,
He bowed before the
Tathāgata,
And invited him for
the next day’s meal.
It was here that the Lord
Received his final
transition,
The last fateful meal.
Chunda had humbly
offered a very hot, dry, and alkaline dish—
The tuber of yam,
known as *sooranakand*.
Though it was
well-prepared and flavorful,
The Lord, already
unwell and frail from ongoing dysentery,
Suffered greatly from
the meal.
In that fire, the ghee
sacrifice had been made.
The pain was
unbearable, an intense and deep torment.
The Lord spoke—
"Ānanda, the
rhythm of life is breaking.
Come, Ānanda,
Let us journey to
Kushinagar."
After walking some
distance, the Lord grew exhausted and weary.
He said, "I will
sit in the shade of this tree.
Spread the robe here
for me.
I am extremely weak
and will rest for a while."
His throat parched
with thirst,
He spoke in a faint
voice—
"Ānanda, I am
thirsty."
Ānanda responded
eagerly—
"Bhante! Nearby
is the Kukuttha river,
I will quickly fetch
water."
After drinking the
water and quenching his thirst,
The Lord, somewhat
rejuvenated,
Rested in the cool
shade of the tree.
At that very
moment,
A disciple of Ālāra
Kālāma
Was passing by,
traveling from Kushinagar to Pāvāpurī.
Upon seeing the Lord
there,
He bowed his head and,
with folded hands,
Prostrated himself at
the Lord’s feet.
"Lord! Seeing you
has brought them to mind.
I am exposed,
Without the protective
shelter of a great being over me.
Thus, Lord, I bow
humbly at your feet.
I offer myself at your
lotus feet with folded hands,
My head bowed
repeatedly in reverence.
Lord, accept this
unworthy devotee."
He bowed with
humility,
Circumambulating the
Lord in reverence,
And with utmost
respect, offered two crimson garments.
The Lord said,
"Cover me with one,
And offer the other to
Ānanda."
The crimson silk
cloth, draped around the Lord,
Appeared like the red
*roli* powder,
Bright on the forehead
of the eastern sky at dawn.
The radiance from the
Tathāgata’s every limb was so brilliant,
Like the rising sun
encircled by a web of red rays.
Ānanda spoke—
"Lord!
Your complexion is so
radiant, shining brightly,
Like the blazing sun
at Arunachal's peak."
The Tathāgata
replied—
"When I first
attained full enlightenment,
My complexion too,
became extraordinarily radiant.
In the same way,
It will become bright
and radiant again
When I enter complete
nirvana."
"Ānanda!
The disturbances of
external nature do not cause any hindrance
In the boundless peace
of renunciation.
For materiality cannot
affect it.
All consciousness,
internal and external,
Is entirely governed
by it."
For a moment, the Lord
paused in silence and then, suddenly,
He raised His gaze to
the clear, silver-washed sky.
There, a flawless full
moon shone brightly,
Like a radiant silver
disc.
The Lord spoke,
"Today is Vaishākha Pūrṇimā.
Its glory has touched
both the beginning and the end.
How, like a pure
sapphire in the blue chalice of the sky,
The spotless moon
floats, blooming like a thousand-petaled lotus
In the waves of the celestial
nectar.
The ten directions,
the rivers, lakes, and streams, the deserted forests,
The mango trees,
everything is bathed in the cool, milky moonlight.
That night too, the
moonlight was just as serene.
The forest of Lumbini
swayed in the breeze.
My feet had touched
the seven lotuses.
In that deserted
forest,
I had descended.
That too was Vaishākha
Pūrṇimā.
And today,
Eighty years of life
have completed their journey.
This night! It is my
final night.
In the fourth watch,
at the break of dawn,
In the Shāla groves of
Kushinagar,
Under the shadow of
the twin trees,
I will make
My great
departure."
Ānanda listened to
everything in silence.
One, a detached, calm
observer, watching the play of the cosmos,
The other, a recipient
of its reactive consequences,
Was silently
mourning.
He wept within,
As time, with its
venomous, relentless pace,
Was making its cruel
balance,
Collecting every rare
drop of nectar it could find.
The Lord spoke,
"Ānanda!
Let us go to the banks
of the Kukuttha river.
I will take a
bath.
After bathing and
meditating,
The Lord, lying on his
robe,
Said, 'Ānanda! In the
future,
Do not, under any
circumstance,
Blame Chunda.
In the shade of the
mango tree, weary and weak, He spoke softly,
'Ānanda! Sujātā’s
milk-rice and Chunda’s final offering—
Both are of immense
significance.
From one, I attained
supreme enlightenment.
And from the
other,
I am entering
Mahāparinirvāṇa.'"
"Ānanda,
I have rested
now.
This is my final
wish.
With each moment, time
awaits me.
Come, Ānanda, let us
go.
To where the
Hiranyavatī River flows,
To the flowering,
verdant Shāla groves,
On that shore, beneath
the shade of the twin Shāla trees,
I will take my final
rest.
In this illusion, the
spell of creation,
In silence, Ānanda
crossed
The Hiranyavatī River
with the Lord.
In a tired voice, the
Lord spoke, 'Ānanda!
This place is
fitting,
In the shadow of these
shining Shāla trees,
Lay down a bed, facing
north-south.
Both at birth and at
the end,
These Shāla trees have
witnessed my presence.
In the quiet
grove,
Under these very
trees,
The Lord
descended.
The Shāla trees!
It was beneath their
shade that the sage Sankalayana
Gained a vision of the
Divine.
In the shelter of
these Shāla trees,
The Lord
descended,
Recalling the
Supreme,
The beginning and end,
the endless wandering of lives.
All came
together,
Circling,
Chanting the Lord’s
praise,
Bowing in
reverence.
These most sacred
trees,
Whoever passes under
their shade
Or understands their
essence,
Is known as a
Shāligram.
'Shālena Vriksha
Visheshana Gamyate Jnayate, Sa Shāligramah.'
This Shāligram,
The symbolic void of
Vishnu,
A representation of
Vishnu.
The Lord too was
signaling His own divine essence.
The Peepal—the Bodhi
tree,
The Shāla—at birth and
Mahāparinirvāṇa,
The Banyan—the supreme
Niranjan, the destroyer of the three sufferings,
The abode during the
Great Deluge, resting on the Banyan leaf, Vishnu.
Their proximity, their
shade,
Was extended by the
Lord.
The cosmic friendship,
the compassion for humanity’s welfare.
These three
trees,
Since time immemorial,
have touched the essence of life.
They indicate the
Lord's transcendence.
Today, this—
The most
heart-wrenching and tragic separation,
In the shade of these
Shāla trees,
The Lord takes His
final rest,
A profound gathering
of boundless compassion."
"Today,
This is the final
night.
A dreadful night,
As destiny prepares to
exact its difficult toll.
The breath of life is
at risk of fading.
With utmost reverence
and devotion, Ānanda prepared the bed,
For the last time.
A bed that shall never
again be made,
In any way, by
anyone.
The sky cannot humbly
present it.
The earth,
trembling,
Unable to face the
moment.
The silent ocean
stands still,
Frozen in place.
This is not the bed of
a thousand serpent hoods,
But the one who drank
the world's entire poison,
Now lies here in
silent slumber.
Ānanda, overwhelmed
with silent sorrow,
Stared unblinkingly at
the Lord.
Tears burned in his
eyes.
His voice, choked,
became frozen in his throat.
His awareness,
lifeless, like wood,
Mechanically followed
the Lord's instructions.
In the shadow of the
twin Shāla trees,
With head to the north
and feet to the south,
The Lord lay on His
right side,
In the lion's
pose.
Upavāna fanned
gently,
While Ānanda, silent,
rested his head at the Lord’s feet.
He was like the sea
sensing an impending storm,
A silent sky,
A silent earth,
Silent wilderness,
silent breeze.
All creation, silent
and still.
Yet within
everything,
There was an unspoken
dialogue,
An exchange of mute,
reciprocal understanding.
No outward
lamentations,
But eyes red with
sorrow,
A motionless
face,
Expressions deeply
imbued with emotion.
Countless moments
passed,
The immense weight of
time relentlessly pressed on,
A helpless, tormented
heart.
On Ānanda’s still,
expressionless face,
Countless lines of
anguish etched in silence.
The past
reappeared,
Strong and vocal like
a shadow play.
In each line, the
throbbing pulse of a painful history.
A silent heart,
Unable to say what was
passing through it.
The Lord saw him,
Deeply agitated
within, yet outwardly,
Ānanda appeared as
still as stone."
The Lord spoke:
"Ānanda!
Impermanent is
culture, impermanent is nature,
Impermanent is every
mortal life.
Transmigration,
departure, transformation—
A mere collection of
the five elements.
Those who depart never
halt,
But the deep
footprints they leave,
Imprinted on the sands
of time,
They too never fade
away.
The sensitive observer
gazes upon them,
And the empty bowl
fills with messages.
Those messengers will
forever be your inspiration.
The memories of the
past will speak,
They will point the
way, offering the right guidance.
The dwelling of the
great souls,
Their used belongings,
their efforts—
They become memory
tokens, memorials.
In them, their deeds,
teachings, and noble thoughts
Are clearly
inscribed.
It is not the
person,
But their deeds that
make them great.
There is one law for
all—finality.
Neither objects nor
places are of significance,
They gain
reverence
Through cherished
memories, teachings, and great deeds.
That place becomes
sacred or a pilgrimage site,
Filled with the spirit
of sacrifice, altruism, and service.
Lives dedicated to the
welfare of others,
Certainly, the masses
will bow to them.
To keep their memory
intact,
Their places,
belongings, scriptures, or thoughts
Become treasures,
worthy of being seen and preserved.
O sons of devoted
families!
Kapilavastu, Lumbini,
Bodh Gaya,
Rishipattan,
Kushinagar, Vaishali, Griddhakūta—
There, the teachings
and memories are indestructible.
In these sacred and
venerable forests and paths, one must certainly wander.
They are praiseworthy,
worthy of veneration.
In them resides the
upward movement of humanity's life force,
And under the vast
shade of the banyan tree of these memories,
Those thirsty for
knowledge will quench their thirst with nectar.
Ānanda then asked:
'Lord!
The nuns of the Saṅgha,
What should be our
duty towards them?'
Be restrained with
them, mindful, unseen, silent."
Ānanda, his voice
choked, asked again, "Lord!
After the Parinirvāṇa,
How shall the final
rites be performed?"
The Lord paused for a
moment and spoke:
"Ānanda!
Do not worry about the
body.
Be restrained and
mindful,
Strive for it,
Be diligent,
self-controlled, unheedful of distractions, and remain ever-vigilant.
Reflect on what I have
said.
It is not the person,
but their deeds that live on.
My Dharma, or my
message,
Will spread to the
north, vast and far-reaching,
And for ages, it will
inspire the minds of the people.
There will be many who
will discern it with wisdom.
But Ānanda, about my sacred
body—
How will it be honored
and sanctified one last time?"
The Lord
continued:
"Ānanda! This
great empire of my Dharma—
Among the noble,
generous, humble, and obedient,
My dear disciple
was
Śāriputra, the
commander of my Dharma.
Perform the final
rites
In the same way as is
done
For an emperor who
rules the world."
Hearing this,
overwhelmed with emotion,
Ānanda rushed
outside,
Like a torrential
river in the monsoon,
Unleashing his sorrow
in a flood of tears.
Gripping the door of
the vihāra,
He stood helpless,
weeping profusely,
His spirit utterly
crushed.
Noticing his
absence,
The Lord asked:
"Where is Ānanda?
Tell him, the Teacher
is thinking of him.
Everyone is here—why
does he remain apart from me?"
Seeing Ānanda, his
face washed with tears,
Distressed with deep
internal pain,
He came near and stood
silently,
Like a statue, trying
to hide his sorrow.
The Lord then
said:
"Ānanda! Do not
grieve.
That which is born
must die, it is impermanent.
Every birth brings
with it the seal of death.
There is no other
alternative.
No bond can break this
law.
In the world of
emotions, or in the realm of meditation,
Or in the sky of the
body,
Where can the soul
go?
How can the subtle bear
the weight of the gross?
This eternal
separation—
Birth is a seal of
separation,
It is not a
union,
But a fleeting moment
of forgotten parting,
In that emptiness
where all marks disappear."
"So Ānanda,
In this cycle of
separation and union,
Do not seek
union."
Ānanda spoke:
"This
insignificant, wild, and desolate place,
A neglected branch of
a town—
Why did you choose
this location,
When other revered
cities are there?"
The Lord replied:
"No, Ānanda, it
is not so.
Kushāvatī, in ancient
times,
Was the capital of the
great Chakravarti Emperor Mahāsudarśana.
He was the conqueror
of all directions, the possessor of seven treasures.
Here, ten sounds would
resonate continuously:
The trumpeting of
elephants,
The neighing of
horses, the rolling of chariots,
The notes of the
veena, the songs, the rhythmic beats,
The sound of drums,
the melodies of musical instruments,
The refined, sweet
invitations of hospitality—
These sounds echoed
day and night.
This city, once even
more prosperous
Than the divine city
of Alakāpuri,
Has now faded into
history.
Ānanda, send word
quickly
To the Mallas of
Kusīnagara,
There is no time
left."
During those days in
Kusīnagara,
Subhadra, the
wandering ascetic, resided there.
He harbored doubts
about his faith
And sought the Lord's
resolution.
When he heard that the
Tathāgata was making his final journey,
He came to Ānanda and
said,
"Please grant me
some time to approach the Lord."
The moment of
emptiness had arrived,
Time itself seemed to
pierce through the void.
It was impossible to
receive the Lord's proximity.
Subhadra pleaded
eagerly,
While Ānanda denied
him in courteous restraint.
Hearing their conversation,
The Lord spoke:
"Ānanda, let him come.
Allow him to resolve
his doubts.
He is a seeker of true
knowledge."
Subhadra approached
and bowed his head in reverence.
He said, "Time is
short,
And these burning
questions plague my mind."
He asked:
"Lord,
The Brahmins, the
followers of different sects,
The teachers of
different philosophies—
The Jinas, the
Tīrthankaras, the ancient Kāśyapas,
Makkhali, Gosāla, Ajit
Kesakambala, Pakudha Kaccāyana, Sanjaya,
The son of Velattha,
Niganṭha Nātaputta, and the Shramanas—
All proclaim with firm
conviction
That their teachings
alone are the true Dharma,
And that others are
futile, false, and meaningless."
The Lord said:
"Do not get
entangled in what others proclaim.
The Dharma—simple,
clear, and true,
Felt, inspired,
tested, and realized—
Is the one that
penetrates the depths of the heart.
Discernment, like
separating milk from water,
Will bring forth the
evident truth.
Those thoughts alone
are worthy and filled with essence.
The teachings that
lack
Celibacy, discipline,
mindfulness, wisdom,
Humility, knowledge,
and the test of experience—
Such teachings are to
be wholly abandoned.
Mere rituals,
sacrifices, and superficial rites
Do not lead to
self-upliftment.
It is the sacrifice of
knowledge,
Irrigated by the water
of devotion,
That is the true,
desired knowledge.
All impurities burn
away in this.
Discernment,
reasoning, and wisdom
Illuminate the path
filled with darkness.
Devotion breaks open
the blocked gates,
Unlocking the sealed
doors.
The nectar-like
state,
Freedom's infinite
ocean of light, lies ahead.
The Dharma that does
not still the mind's impulses,
That does not guide
the truth-seeker
Through the four
levels of meditation,
That does not uphold
the Four Noble Truths,
That does not
long
For the nectar-like
drops of wisdom
From the swāti star of
knowledge—
That does not lead to
the end of the five aggregates,
Nor the cessation of
the five upādānas,
That does not follow
the Eightfold Path,
And does not recognize
the two extremes—
How can such a
Shramana
Quell the burning
life-vehicle of desires?
With folded hands,
Subhadda humbly prayed,
'Lord, ordain me,
Grant me the higher
ordination.'
The Lord said:
'Subhadda, it will
take a long time
Before this attainment
is realized.
Even if your life is
spent in its entirety,
You will surely cross
the ocean of knowledge.
You, at the feet of
the holy Lord,
Are now declared my
last disciple.'
Gazing at Ānanda
nearby,
The Lord said:
'Ānanda,
These teachings of
mine
Will remain your
guides and motivators.
They will answer and
calm
The remaining days of
your life.
No teacher is anyone’s
master;
The true master
Is one's own pure,
enlightened, and resolute mind.
Even I, till my last
breath,
Have been guided by
myself
And have renounced by
my own will.
This teacher is
without any defilement,
The supreme, peaceful,
enlightened one,
The ashes of desires
turned into the great cremation ground—
Through this, nirvāṇa
is attained.
This is the pure
realization of truth,
The mind devoid of all
cravings,
Detached and free from
sorrow.'"
Once again a question
was asked:
“If anyone has any
doubt,
Let them ask
fearlessly.”
But all remained
silent, still.
In that supreme,
dazzling radiance,
In the vast and
infinite ocean of light,
All questions,
answers, ideas, doubts,
Had dissolved, without
trace, into the void,
Merged into a formless
oblivion.
Breaking the deep
silence,
He gazed around and
said:
“This is my final
message—
‘Come now, monks,
I bid you, all
conditioned things
Are subject to
decay.
Strive on with
diligence.’”
What has been created
is always perishable.
Be diligent, without
heedlessness.
Conditioned phenomena
are worthless and fleeting.
Remain restrained,
disciplined, and mindful.
Detachment comes
without favor or disfavor.
Desires do not
afflict;
Like the dew on a
lotus leaf,
Remain untouched
always.
This world is not
yours,
But you are for the
world.
Like the fire kindled
from the friction of two sticks,
Burn pure and bright,
free from blemish.
The Lord's
teachings,
Amidst the elements of
the five aggregates,
Resounded, lit
up,
These were His
eternal, final words.
An unspeaking
silence,
A profound
stillness.
Even the act of
breathing felt like a burdensome disturbance.
In the supreme void,
the great incarnation,
The Lord entered into
silent meditation.
All divine colors
radiated forth,
Like the supreme light
in the ocean of illumination,
Golden lotus petals
shining forth.
Vast and intense was
the light.
The Lord,
Impassive, unmoving,
serene,
Dissolution and
creation united.
In the great being,
all rested,
Waves of light
rippled.
The first meditative
state, the foundation of meditation,
Glowed deeply within
His body.
The second meditative
state below His feet,
Danced with brilliant
waves of radiant light.
In the third state,
all memory and knowledge were forgotten,
Above and below,
everywhere there was only light.
Creation became
formless, devoid of self.
The fourth meditative
state, the final state,
Unspoken, unexpressed,
indescribable, beyond measure.
Neither perception nor
non-perception,
The mind transcended
into cessation.
The earth trembled,
meteor showers fell from the sky,
Even time itself was
disturbed.
In deep silence,
Ānanda softly uttered,
“Venerable
Aniruddha,
The Lord has entered
Parinirvāṇa.”
All wild beasts
renounced food and water,
Stood still and silent
under the trees' shade.
The swan hid its beak
against its chest,
Eyes closed, it lay
motionless.
The fish restrained
their playful movements in the water.
The birds in branches,
shrubs, and between leaves
Flew into the sky,
screaming, wings fluttering wildly.
Earth trembled,
shaking under quakes and floods.
Its heart seemed to
burst with turmoil.
Land, water, and sky
shook violently.
The silent forest
echoed with sorrowful, pitiful cries.
The ocean, churned by
rebellious waves,
Seethed, storming,
boiling in wrath.
None remained aware of
themselves.
Even today, it was the
full moon of Vaishakh.
The vermilion washed
off,
The moonlight appeared
pale and cold like white lotus leaves.
The garland of stars
broke apart, falling away.
Time, wielding the
glowing staff of meteoric showers,
Looked upon all,
grieved and overwhelmed with sorrow.
The moonlight, in its
unadorned white garb,
Seemed frozen in
place, as if lifeless.
Everything was silent,
prepared for the final rites,
Which were being
performed according to ritual.
Thus passed seven
days,
With all sunk in deep
grief, helplessly mourning.
Mahākāśyapa knew
nothing of it.
He, along with five
monks,
Was coming from
Pāvāpurī to Kushinagar.
They rested under the
shade of a tree.
They saw an Ājīvika
carrying a bouquet of Mandar flowers,
Walking from
Kushinagar towards Pāvāpurī.
Mahākāśyapa asked,
“Ājīvika!
Is my revered teacher
in good health?”
The Ājīvika
replied,
“It has been seven
days since
He entered Parinirvāṇa.
These flowers are from
the divine Mandar trees,
Which rained upon Him
all night.
Carrying this
handful,
I am heading towards
Pāvāpurī.”
Mahākāśyapa and the
monks immediately hurried on.
Atop the stupa,
The Lord’s sandalwood
funeral pyre was prepared.
All the kings had
adorned the Lord's feet
With precious gold
ornaments and jewels.
Vandhul's wife,
Mallika,
Placed a grand garland
of nine crores upon the Lord's feet.
The pyre became
adorned with heaps of precious gems.
Mahākāśyapa circled
the pyre three times,
Then, placing his robe
upon his shoulder,
He humbly uncovered
the sacred feet.
Those holy feet,
Emerged from the pyre
on their own.
Mahākāśyapa placed his
head upon those feet
And prayed with deep
emotion.
As his worship
concluded,
The pyre spontaneously
ignited,
With towering flames
rising high.
The sky! It began to
cry, enveloped by clouds.
The earth wept.
The heavens wept.
A chorus of voices
filled with sorrow,
The once-burning
world, now cooled by this lament.
Yet, once again, it
did not grant any respite.
The fierce storm of
rain,
Extinguished the
burning pyre.
Nature! Silent,
steadfast, unmoving,
Within its folds lies
written
The eternal, blazing,
final question:
Why, in the end, does
everything fall prey to time?
The great Time itself,
impassive, devours,
Creation, destruction,
and rebirth,
The endless cycle of
birth and death.
Time’s unbroken,
detached flow continues.
Beings—whether grand
or small—
Are all swept away in
this current.
The fish swallows
them,
Hidden within the
ocean of time’s waters,
In the unceasing cycle
of death.
Mahākāśyapa was deep
in thought:
Life is but a fleeting
moment in the flow of time.
This final
separation,
Nature’s anguish.
One by one, the sealed
gates of death open,
And the mysteries of
life’s intricate verses unravel.
From this material
world to the eternal one,
A clear, untroubled
path is revealed.
What the mind could
not comprehend throughout life,
Becomes plainly
written in a moment.
Seeing this, one
becomes aware,
How ignorant humanity
is!
The sacred mantras
that the mind struggles with,
Each letter takes
form, luminous and clear,
Rising up, revealing
the secret signs.
Today,
I feel the same
way.
This life, this body
is but an obstacle,
A perpetual
hindrance.
Beyond these, there
surely is
A place, untouched and
free.
A realm where
universal consciousness
Has no rule or
sway.
There, all sensations
and knowledge dissolve,
Leaving only supreme
awareness, supreme light.
An eternal, infinite
flow of energy.
These divine
manifestations,
Rising like small
ripples or immense waves.
Knowledge descends and
settles,
In brilliant, radiant,
intense illumination.
Flowing endlessly, the
river of wisdom resonates,
Carrying the vessels
of knowledge,
Setting eternal
records before disappearing.
Deep lines of waves
remain on the surface of time,
The teachings are
etched, unshaken.
Their body of fame, an
undying glow,
Bathed in the horizon
of knowledge, pure light scatters.
This is the gift.
Only death can offer
this,
And in doing so,
Bear witness to
unbroken eras.
The vast, elevated,
eternal, and immortal
Arya Dharma,
Honored in all ages,
despite the changing times.
It remains forever
ancient and ever new.
No matter the rises
and falls,
The disruptions in
practices, thoughts, customs, and attire,
It absorbs all,
Remaining continuous
and everlasting.
A single heartbeat,
the pulse of life.
The dissection of
thoughts,
The ebb and flow of
analyses,
Resound like anklets
in the rhythmic jingling
Of this Hindu
culture.
This culture, majestic
and radiant,
Quenched equally
With the nectar of
philosophy and spirituality.
This eternal
stream,
Ceaselessly
flows,
Carrying forth the
blazing dawn of the ancient East,
Absorbing everything
that comes its way.
On this unbroken
horizon of knowledge,
All the suns and
moons,
Are like crown jewels
on its crest.
It is an unyielding
force against ignorance.
Under its dense, cool
shade of wisdom and vitality,
All debates and
arguments vanish,
And all thoughts are
silenced.
Indian culture!
Spiritual purity
unmatched,
This vast banyan tree,
nurturing the nectar of knowledge.
On every leaf and
branch,
Each religion, each
idea,
Is nourished by the
same source.
All faiths and
thoughts are respected and celebrated.
For every avatar that
has come,
Divine manifestations
will continue to appear,
Again and again.
This is the
motherland, the birthplace,
Glorious, resplendent,
more sacred than heaven itself.
Touching the dust of
her holy feet,
One becomes renowned,
celebrated.
Here, in this very
land,
Kausalya, Yashoda, and
Mahamaya cradled
These divine
incarnations in their laps.
Even now, this
motherland watches the path,
As the eternal cycle
of existence continues.
These extraordinary
incarnations will come again,
And the mother will
cradle them in her arms,
Feeding them the
essence of philosophy, religion, and knowledge.
Her lap is always
full,
She, the supremely
dignified one, beyond sorrow.
They call her
"Indu Desh,"
A vessel of
nectar.
Her fame, like
moonlight, spreads in all directions,
Eternal, ever-radiant,
and limitless.
Every full moon,
honored and significant,
Enriched with the
splendor of unique events.
Saraswati herself
incarnated,
Carrying the nectar of
spirituality,
Amidst a backdrop pure
as milk, radiant and dazzling.
Her unparalleled
beauty, grace, and wisdom are boundless.
She, the constant
giver, imparts a message of unique self-elevation.
Her forehead is vast,
bright, and noble,
Illuminated like the
dawn’s first light.
Her hair, dark and
vast as the cosmos,
Crowned with
snow,
Emitting a thousand
rays, an endless stream of nectar.
Adorned with colorful
garlands, her neck wrapped in a conch-shell necklace,
Her forehead gleams
with waves of seven colors.
Saraswati, born of the
Ganges,
Glistening with
clusters of rubies, sapphires, diamonds, and pearls,
Her lap overflowed
with dancing waves.
Even now, her
surroundings echo with the chants of sacred mantras,
Perfumed with incense,
sandalwood, and offerings.
Remembering the past,
she shivers with joy,
Her body and soul
flowing gently with deep grace.
Oh, glorious one!
You, who reside in
three worlds,
Whoever seeks refuge
in you,
Need not look for
another path.
The sun, moon, and
stars offer you their worship,
Holding a celestial
blue dish in their hands.
Again and again, the
sea washes your feet,
Bowing
repeatedly.
Mother! A thousand,
thousand salutations. The three worlds bow to you.
The sun, moon, stars,
and constellations
Circle around you
endlessly,
In reverence, praise,
adoration, and homage.
You! The crown jewel
of Indian spiritual philosophy,
A radiant sun.
Mother!
No matter how many
births and deaths I endure,
You alone
Are my ultimate
refuge, my final shelter.
From birth to the end
of time, eternally chosen.
Mother!
Accept this
offering.
Tears of devotion,
bathed in reverence,
Colored by various
melodies,
Overflowing with
emotion, trembling,
Silent garlands of
smooth flowers, wordless, yet filled to the brim, relentless.
Your feet, adorned
with red lacquer and pearl-studded anklets,
Radiating peace,
bestowing fearlessness.
Your auspicious, pure,
and delicate lotus-like feet,
Touched by the dust of
your path,
Scattering like
pearls,
Countless and
swirling,
Across the skies, the
earth, the sun, the moon, and all the stars.
Your feet, as they
brush against the ground,
Send waves across all
directions, limitless and infinite.
You alone,
Today, tomorrow, the
ultimate and eternal refuge.
Motherland, the mother
who gave birth.
Countless, endless,
From birth to
death,
Your blessed
feet,
I bow my head in
reverence.
