Summary
The poem is a poignant depiction of King Shuddhodhan's
emotional turmoil and despair following the departure of his son, Siddhartha
Gautama, to become a spiritual seeker.
The poem culminates in a poignant expression of the king's deep sorrow and his longing for his son's return. His despair is a powerful reflection of the human condition, highlighting the universal themes of loss, grief, and the search for meaning in life.
The Poem
King of
Kapilavastu,
O Mahasammat!
Shuddhodhan stood speechless, struck deep,
shattered.
The swift current of time suddenly ceased—
He gazed upon the empty hall, the barren bed.
The lamps’ final flames flickered,
Still burning, like unblinking eyes filled with
tears.
The charred wicks,
Spewing smoke, tugging at the strands of hair,
Lay nearly lifeless in exhaustion.
In the chamber,
Untouched, limp flowers,
And bouquets scattered.
From the open doors, the walls, the windows, and
pillars,
Hung strands of flowers,
Swaying silently.
Within them,
The entire tale of sorrow,
A silent sob struck like a thunderbolt.
The night—
How tormented, terrified,
Bound by every stinging thread of pain—
Had passed.
Each line etched on his face, now visible,
Carved in the silent depths of grief.
Indescribable pain.
Numbed consciousness.
Eyes wide, torn open,
Breaths harsh, cutting deep into the heart.
Hair disheveled and dry,
His face pale, yellow, drained of blood,
lifeless.
A cursed, tormented, wounded, unsatisfied soul,
Shuddhodhan trembled,
Like a restless spirit.
Eyes, vacant, aloof,
Burning like a fire in a desert of sand—
Amidst the forest of desires and ambitions,
Frightened birds of longing, frantic, their wings
spread wide,
Cried out for mercy, fleeing aimlessly.
They opened each closed door,
Peered into every open one,
Until they reached,
Where behind trees, vines, bushes, and walls,
Stood youthful beauties, offerings of charm.
Adorned in strange, delicate robes, flower garlands,
and golden ornaments,
They hid—
Terrified, trembling, deeply ashamed.
King Shuddhodhan, overcome with distress,
Burned with anguish,
His eyes, bloodshot and piercing,
Fixed suddenly on them—
Their bodies radiant,
Decorated with flowers and gold.
And he thundered!
In a venomous, biting voice,
"Why? For what reason, now?
Why are you all dressed like this, here?"
Shame! These saffron and sandalwood perfumes,
This excruciating, lethal allure,
The taut bowstring of the flower-bearer,
Ready to strike, leaving no target unscathed.
The infallible shield of protection,
The serpent of desire now hisses, torn and
ravaged,
Youth’s faint flush, like a blooming lotus,
Yet, not those rhythmic footsteps of grace.
Clothed in fine, delicate silks,
This fragrance, this mingling of nectar, this lovely,
wondrous creation,
Eyes drenched, flooded with dark-blue nectar of
longing.
An unbroken, limitless wave of beauty,
Smooth as a lotus stalk, draped in delicate
flowers,
Graceful.
A golden, flame-like, shimmering form.
The jeweled waistbands slipping,
Golden-hued, elephant-gaited, heart-stealing, doe-eyed
maiden!
Eyebrows drawn—
Her navel, deep, like the churned ocean of
beauty,
Rhythmic with the pulse of the five elements, pierced
by five arrows!
All desire, centered, silent,
Extracting the endless nectar of enchantment.
Shaken, dazed, weighed down by love’s burden,
Gods, demons, heavenly beings, and kinnars—
All mesmerized, bewildered.
A cup of nectar swayed in their hands,
Ready to grasp, rushing in haste.
I have adorned the stage,
With music, strange instruments, and
A peerless, enchanting maiden.
Whose lotus-petal eyes, from root to tip,
Half-closed, intoxicated with sleep,
Held in their drowsy gaze,
Dreams of intoxication.
Where every color could be lost,
And all colors of Anang,
Those inexplicable, unique hues, would appear.
From the black depths of her kajal-lined eyes,
A thousand waves of color radiated,
Tinged with hues,
The nectars of flowers, the very essence of the
blooming garden.
From heavy, lowered eyelids,
The laden vines learned to bow.
The depth of those silent eyes spoke untold
words,
Shaking the soul to its core, stirring its innermost
fire.
Those seemingly innocent, serene eyes—
But within them, no nectar—
They held the burning poison of devastating
destruction.
A play of countless hues,
Drowning every inch, every limb.
Their devotion, unbroken,
Like a drop from the youthful, nectar-laden cloud of
beauty—
The mind, satisfied to its depths, captivated,
enchanted.
I gathered from all corners,
This enticing illusion of desire.
Thirst!
An insatiable, profound thirst—
Not for a moment quenched.
From nail to head, filled with supple grace and
intoxication,
A softness like fresh butter, unable to contain
itself.
Graceful, rippling,
Beauty swaying like a garland of lightning,
Overflowing with pride, radiating charm.
Time itself, like a restless bee,
Fearless, carefree,
Savoring the essence of beauty’s nectar.
Enraptured, mesmerized, astonished—
It drank deeply.
Completely fulfilled, to the core,
By this unmatched beauty.
Even that could not stop—
The meager, fragile boat of youth.
Unable to contain the overwhelming tide of
intoxication,
The sky-rubbing ocean of beauty bound it in its
embrace,
Only to be cursed, shamed,
By this deceptive enchantment.
Futile, futile!
This nectar is wasted.
Oh, ill-fated one,
Shuddhodhan—
When it was destined,
This cruel, self-destructive fate.
Your lips touched only the deadly venom.
Why did you yearn for the nectar,
When the fruit-laden tree was out of reach?
What you grasped instead were the thorny bushes—
The deadly acacia, the menacing cactus.
Everywhere,
The poisonous black serpents of despair hissed.
And you—
Fair, charming, captivating beauty—
Made of nothing but tenderness and grace.
At the very touch of your feet,
The earth would blush red,
Like a dew-laden branch of the many-petaled tree,
Bending under the weight of its flowers, rising again
in pride.
All this beauty, grace, and charm,
Gathered in one place,
Like the clear, milk-white full moon of autumn,
Spreading its serene, joyful light across the night
sky.
What shall I call this now?
It remains but a moonlight in the wilderness,
That found no clear, reflective mirror.
It flows like a waterfall—
Free, still, silently fading,
In front of which even the ocean’s rising waves are
shamed.
So bare,
It became a satire unto itself,
Like wood—helpless, lost in confusion.
Why have your infallible arrows now fallen still?
Why have you become—
Like dewdrops spread over thorny cacti,
A mist clouding the swelling tides of youth,
A deer without the essence of musk?
Merely a sacrifice,
Burning on the pyre of longing’s flame,
When there is no moon.
Oh, moon-seeker,
Why do you stand here, disfigured by your own
absurdity?
The ever-flowering spring, intoxicating, vibrant in
its woodland grandeur,
Each moment changing, the beauty of new forms
emerging.
Your anklets, chiming with melody,
Adorning your graceful, swift feet,
Whose very touch makes even the fresh petals quiver in
delight.
Swaying, like the bent vines,
Your hair cascading in dark, coiled waves,
Your face glowing, adorned in the luster of blue-black
nectar—
They call it a moon-like face.
Oh, night’s worshipper,
It merely waxes and wanes,
Flooded each moment with the nectar of life.
With every blink,
There is a feverish, maddening allure.
There is a vast difference between the two—
To a connoisseur of beauty,
This form,
It weighs on the scale of the eyes,
Its mesmerizing beauty judged intently.
It is a delightful gift of creation,
An unfailing strike from the bow of love.
Yet it has now become dull, lifeless, devoid of any
pull,
So pitiful.
Where has that nectar-filled form gone,
That the partridge once gazed at in unblinking
devotion?
These beautiful faces,
Blind mirrors,
Upon which the long-sought, cursed reflection rested
not for even a moment.
Why do you stand now, like a painted, frozen image,
trembling?
Remove at once these strange, fragrant, delicate
robes.
Beauty, like flames of pomegranate fire,
Piercing the clouds into a thousand shards.
Shame!
Shame upon the wounded pride of womanhood,
Shattering my very soul.
All the shields of protection have been broken.
Pain writhes in solitude.
Your surging beauty—
This enchantment—
It is mocking me mercilessly.
Filling the arrows with cruel emptiness,
The bowstring drawn,
Yet unable to break the resolve, the vow of
renunciation.
This cursed, tainted youth,
Rejected, scorned.
Here’s your passage translated into English free
verse:
Granted,
He stood, firm and unyielding, like a mountain,
But where was the proud, radiant defiance
Of youth’s triumphant, blinding arrogance?
Why do you stand now,
Like a stone statue?
Why did you not spread, like flower garlands,
Upon his path?
Why did you not, like saffron pollen crumbling in your
locks,
Swiftly bind him,
The treasure of my soul?
Why not? Why not?
Why did the moon not hide,
While the forest of lilies bloomed,
The mad fragrance filling the garden's endless
bounty?
Go, leave my sight,
Cleanse your body of these perfumes,
Abandon the silken robes,
Clothe yourself in rough garments.
Cut these locks,
Let them fall to the earth, writhing like
serpents.
You are no longer worthy of royal chambers.
All weapons now lie broken,
Answer me, why?
Why have all responses fallen mute,
Frustrated and crushed,
Leaving only this deep sorrow?
Why has an unexpected thunderbolt struck the garden of
paradise?
Woman—
Where now is that invincible, unparalleled
beauty,
That unmatched grace, charm, and elegance?
Why was the body unable to evoke it?
Why was there no pure awakening of mind’s
strength?
How can I believe it?
In body and in mind,
You have accepted your defeat.
Where did the unspoken, untouched reflection go,
That changed every moment in the mirror of the
heart?
The unfailing enchantment, the endless harvest of
nectar—
That beauty,
Which remained unanswered.
Man could neither measure nor gaze deep into these
lotus eyes,
Nor could he fathom the swelling tide of fascination
within his heart.
Why now do you wander,
Among arrows of flowers, isolated and empty,
When this vital, life-giving enchantment fails?
This intoxication,
This cup of beauty brimming with ambrosia,
Spilling yet forever untouched.
Go,
Hide in a cavern,
Or bow upon the temple steps,
Offer humbly before the gods.
This palace,
Lake, garden, grove, and hall of colors—
Now merely waves of a poison-laden drink.
The unseen's merciless thunderbolt strikes,
Heart torn asunder,
Relentless fate,
A wounded, broken spirit,
Endures endlessly, night and day.
No dawn for this dark abyss.
When has man’s pride ever accepted
The wounded soul of woman?
Woman, whole within herself.
Man, shattered in his own arrogance,
Donning the victory garland
Placed upon his lofty neck by her hand.
Yet even in his triumph, he’s defeated.
That irresistible, colorful allure—
Those languid, delicate lotus feet
With anklets chiming soft,
Where was the fault? Why?
The hypnotic waves suddenly silenced.
It becomes unbearable,
The heart forcibly torn apart,
Splintered and scattered,
The hall of colors now shattered.
Some maddened elephant,
A furious beast,
Has entered and torn down the grove of plantains.
Here,
In someone’s hand is a veena, a flute, a drum,
Drenched in pleasure,
The enchanting bloom of beauty swaying—
Each limb alive,
Swaying in rhythm, in harmony with sound.
Half-reclined, lazily,
Locks of hair falling in waves,
Veiling half the face,
As if, while gazing at the full moon,
A dark cloud
Yearns to touch it,
Losing its sense of self.
The same dance hall,
Now silent, voiceless,
Bare and still—
Only a maddened sorrow,
A burning, unspeakable anguish,
Roams within.
Even the lotus,
In its delicate petals,
Captures the bee in captivity,
That relentless nectar-thirsty creature.
Tenderness and emotion,
It cannot suddenly break free.
Frightened by the softness of each petal,
But when has it ever escaped?
You,
Have not even a fraction of that allure.
So don’t call it beauty.
What failed to reflect
The man's heart,
Shattering it in two.
Woman—
Perfect in every form,
Is the sole, unshakable,
Flawless answer
To man’s sharpest question.
A piercing, cutting question,
That silences
All replies.
Go now, leave at once.
I cannot bear this cruel mockery.
My body trembles,
But my heart suffers far more.
Suddenly, my gaze fell upon him—
The servant, abandoned, destitute Chhandak,
Standing, head bowed, disheartened.
And at the sight of him,
Pierced as if by an arrow,
I, Shuddhodhan, roared in pain,
Like a wounded lion,
A terrible cry tearing through my heart.
"Where is your master?
How have you come alone?
Carrying my son’s royal attire,
His golden ornaments,
The precious pearls, the jeweled diadem,
His sandals—
Has he donned the ochre robes?
Has he renounced all pleasures?
He will walk barefoot
Upon the thorny paths of the forest?
No, Chhandak, no!
Why didn’t you bring him back?
All here are struck,
Crushed by the pain of separation.
Why couldn’t you convince him?"
Chhandak, hands clasped,
Voice trembling, humbly replied:
"Master,
I did all I could,
As a servant bound to his duty,
I spoke all that my meager intellect could
muster,
I tried to make my lord understand.
I am cursed, master,
For he did not accept me by his side.
Kanthak, far more blessed than I,
Understanding the pain of separation,
Wept before our lord and died,
Ascending to heaven.
I am not just a servant,
But also a slave to time,
Even time has rejected me."
Shuddhodhan spoke:
"Oh! The unbearable pain,
A wound deep within—
A self-destruction of hope.
I stand here,
In this withering autumn,
Burning in the flames of sorrow’s storm,
This forest of thorns.
Where is the wild fire
That does not turn me to ash at once?
Why has my heart not turned to stone,
Why has it not hardened,
To become a living rock?
What remains for these eyes to see?
Before my eyes,
My life’s essence roams,
In the ochre robes, a beggar’s garb.
There would be some solace,
A kind of peace,
If,
Like Maha Maya Gautami,
He had left this world,
If Siddharth, too,
Had departed from me.
I would have sewn together
The countless shards of my shattered heart,
Pierced by the arrows of separation.
I would have drowned my son in tears,
Remembering him through days and nights,
Through the endless pricks of thorns.
But he is alive,
How can I forget that?
He is mine,
Yet not mine—
He belongs to another.
How can I endure this unbearable grief?"
My torn heart—
Its fragments trembling with pain,
He crushes them relentlessly, drifting far away.
The suffering heart—
Can only ache,
It cannot speak a word.
Ah! My dreams,
Now play a cruel game of Holi with hot blood.
Lady Fortune,
Once stood there, holding vermilion in her hands—
But it never graced my forehead.
From her hands,
Drop by drop,
It drips like beads of blood,
Eagerly consumed
By unfeeling, ever-thirsting fate.
In that chamber—
Who knows in what state Gopa lies now—
Struck by lightning, pale as a withered lotus
bud.
Cast into the ocean of despair by fate,
Isolated, unsupported,
Her eyelids shut like closed lotus petals,
Her lips frozen, trapped in stone.
The relentless wheel of time
Has shattered her,
Into hundreds of pieces.
Each breath,
Nurtures the unbearable story of her pain.
The merciless wind of destiny
Has uprooted her from the core.
She lies on her bed, lifeless,
In the shadow of withered autumn leaves.
Each blossoming flower
Is bitten and hissed upon
By the serpent of despair.
She is nothing but a garland of wounded breaths.
Not a single ray of light remains,
Only dense darkness surrounds her—
A future heavy with unbearable blackness.
What remains now to say?
From the unseen, only the burden of unanswered sorrow
is given.
Torn away from the shore,
The boat spins in the middle of a whirlpool.
The sky groans under the weight of raging waves,
Which encircle it forever—
The waves, like walls, form a necklace all
around.
Directionless.
Pathless.
Extremely weak and forlorn.
Fate, trapped between earth and sky.
Oh, gods! What have you done?
Why did you imprison
This pure, innocent heart in a shell of
suffering,
Raising it in agony, all its life?
Why?
At the horizon of union,
A forest of shooting stars burns.
The silent longing of the jasmine's wounded
heart—
Why does a lotus bloom on a muddy bed?
Why do the eyes of dreams overflow,
With ceaseless streams of tears, ever trickling
down?
Why does the mountain god's waterfalls, crashing
torrents,
Roar with endless lamentation?
Why,
In the churning of the ocean for nectar,
Does the uninvited poison,
Erupt into unbearable flames of destruction?
Why is every definition of joy
But a shadow of sorrow?
Why does the fading dawn,
Turn into the tear-stained treasure
Of the evening's veil?
Why? Why? Why?
Why is there only sorrow,
Everywhere, in everything?
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