Chapter 11 : Gopa

Summary

 The poem "Gopa" explores the poignant journey of Princess Gopa (Yashodhara), the wife of Prince Siddhartha (who later became Lord Buddha). It delves into the complex emotions, inner turmoil, and the profound philosophical realizations she undergoes after Siddhartha renounces the world in his quest for enlightenment.

 Gopa is portrayed not just as a grieving wife but as a figure embodying the eternal feminine principle—an individual deeply intertwined with the themes of love, longing, sacrifice, and spiritual awakening. Throughout the poem, her emotional landscape transitions from sorrow and abandonment to an acceptance of the higher truth of existence.

 The poem opens with Gopa’s anguish and disbelief at Siddhartha’s sudden departure. Her sorrow is immense, not only because of the physical separation but also because of the deep emotional void it leaves behind. Gopa’s pain is likened to that of a lover, a mother, and a devotee—each role intensifying her sense of loss.

 Gopa questions her devotion, love, and unwavering loyalty to Siddhartha, feeling unreciprocated in her boundless affection. The poem poignantly reflects on the tension between human attachments and the quest for higher ideals. Gopa’s internal struggle is symbolic of the conflict between earthly love and spiritual pursuit.

In her sorrow, Gopa engages in an imagined dialogue with Siddhartha, questioning whether he is aware of her pain. She wonders if his divine pursuit of enlightenment has blinded him to her suffering. This dialogue represents a broader philosophical inquiry into the nature of detachment, divine oversight, and human longing.

 As the poem progresses, Gopa’s sorrow transforms into a deeper understanding of Siddhartha’s path. She realizes that his quest is not just a personal journey but a universal one. This acceptance doesn’t erase her pain but elevates it to a higher spiritual plane. She comes to see her own suffering as part of a larger cosmic order, aligning herself with Siddhartha’s renunciation.

 The imagery of darkness and light is prevalent throughout the poem. Gopa’s emotional turmoil is depicted as an endless dark night, filled with thorns and unlit paths. The occasional glimmers of light signify moments of spiritual insight, symbolizing her gradual awakening to the truth of Siddhartha’s mission.

 Gopa emerges as an embodiment of the eternal feminine principle—compassionate, self-sacrificing, and enduring. Her suffering is depicted not merely as personal but as representative of the larger sorrows of womankind. In her pain, Gopa symbolizes the eternal sorrow and strength of every woman who endures loss and separation.

 The poem culminates in Gopa’s ultimate realization that true happiness is unattainable through desire and attachment. She understands that only by transcending earthly longing can one attain peace. This epiphany mirrors the essence of Siddhartha’s teachings and aligns her spiritually with his path.

The poem "Gopa" is a lyrical and philosophical exploration of love, loss, and transcendence. It portrays Gopa as a deeply empathetic character whose journey from grief to spiritual awakening is a powerful testament to the endurance of the human spirit. Through her story, the poem emphasizes the universal themes of renunciation, the impermanence of worldly attachments, and the quest for eternal truth. Gopa’s suffering becomes a vehicle for self-discovery, transforming her from a mourning wife into a symbol of spiritual fortitude and inner light.

The Poem

 

The black clouds of despair, 

Heavy, dense, and deep, surge forth, 

Soaking the fragile horizon of the heart. 

Hundreds of stinging flashes 

Strike relentlessly, 

Unceasing blows that fill the soul. 

Now they pour, now they pour— 

Every moment, trembling, quivering. 

Every meaning of life, 

Shattered, scattered, senseless, in vain. 

Yet still, in some anguished, impatient wait, 

Restless, ever unsettled. 

This shadow of sorrow 

Casts a veil over the soul, 

Stupefied, numb—depression, 

A paradoxical gift. 

Which lies hidden, deeply rooted, 

Wrapped in the dark veil of grief. 

The sky— 

Since when has it stood speechless, silent? 

Torn apart, unable to recover, 

The burden of water-laden clouds, 

A wounded chest, 

Half-bowed, bent low, 

Breathing heavy in the scorched winds. 

 

And here, 

Assailed by the blows of the tides that clash against the sky, 

The vast ocean, too, 

Confused, helpless, utterly pained, 

Beats its head in frustration amidst unreachable waves, 

Raising cries of anguish. 

Lonely, defenseless, solitary, 

The black nights— 

Filled with the smoke of burning sighs, 

Deep, gasping breaths. 

Wandering aimlessly everywhere, 

Like a madwoman, lost in confusion. 

Not even by mistake, 

Did a single bright ray peek through. 

The bottomless sea of her eyes, 

Dazzling, casting webs of tears, 

Where did it not surge? Where did it not falter? 

This endlessly moving, ever-glowing sun, 

Even it, worn out on its path, tired, unrested, 

Spitting blood from its mouth, 

Falling, stumbling, groaning, it came, 

Into the tender, gentle, motherly, open arms of dusk. 

The tormented, suffering flame of day, 

Lost all its vibrant colors of joy. 

Struck by unexpected, untimely, unbearable blows,  

Disturbed, wounded, maddened. 

Gopa— 

She, too, was just as forlorn, indifferent, pained, 

Restless, troubled, lost in ceaseless thoughts of the past, 

Wandering in silent agony, 

Caught in the swirling, unspoken, piercing pain, 

That shook her to the core. 

Each blossoming, flourishing, sturdy leaf of hope, 

Torn apart, destroyed, 

Her tender, youthful, fresh body shattered. 

A storm raged, 

Unshaken, unconflicted, unrestrained, blind, 

In the utterly empty, silent courtyard of her heart. 

Every fragment burned, scorched, 

In the endless, blazing heat of day and night. 

 

Even today, 

Her mind— 

Anxious, trembling. 

Why, she did not know. 

A storm gathered, full and looming, 

In the clear, unclouded sky of her heart. 

In the empty, desolate windows of her eyes, 

Monsoon and Bhado clouds swelled, 

Dark, heavy, and brimming with water. 

The thick, maddened black clouds came swirling. 

And then, drenched in the deadly poison of pain, 

Pierced by the thousand stings of memory, 

Her stormy, restless heart’s sky, 

Flashed like the opening eyes of destiny. 

Gopa— 

Unadorned, dressed in saffron robes, with downcast face, 

Disheartened, she was. 

A wilted lotus bud, pale and dusted with saffron. 

Like a lone, unwavering flame burning in an ascetic’s hut, 

Amidst the silence, untouched by the wind. 

Her moon-like face, radiant, 

Wrapped in a web of sorrow’s rays, 

Glowing with the light of penance, 

Absorbed in deep contemplation.

 

Today— 

Amidst the knots of pain, 

Some unknown knot began to unravel. 

Softly, gently, 

It spoke to itself, 

Unclear, faint words. 

Swaying on the waves of sorrow, 

The past, once again, alive and vocal, 

Knocked at her restless heart’s door, 

Becoming the answering mirror 

Of her tear-filled, half-closed eyes. 

And there it stood, 

Looking straight into her eyes, 

Speaking— 

All that was once fragrant, 

Gone, like the fleeting breaths of intoxicating moments. 

Yashodhara trembled, 

At herself. 

At her own heart. 

At the moments she had lived. 

Today— 

What closed page would this open? 

What treasure chest, unlocked, 

Would it weigh against the gifts of tenderness? 

All of them, 

Drenched to the brim in Gopa’s endless tears, 

Will once more tear open 

The stitched seams of her wounded, slumbering heart. 

Layer by layer, the buried pain, 

Awakening, will turn and groan. 

And the mist-laden storm by the riverbank, 

Like the fragile, wave-battered, suffering boat— 

This sorrow-stricken youth 

Will have to endure. 

This moment, 

That has come, alone and empty, 

Her heart has always borne alone. 

Today— 

In the sad, dim courtyard of her eyes, 

In the heavy downpour of rain-filled memories, 

Returned— 

The vibrant, vivid past. 

Like a musk-deer filled with intoxicating musk, 

Her innocent, playful maidenhood, 

When she had come, invited to the Kapilavastu festival of ornament distribution, 

From Devadaha, accompanied by her friends.

 

In the beautiful royal garden, separated and alone, 

Like a wandering doe, 

She roamed, bewildered, amazed, 

Through the flower-laden, fragrant grove. 

Like a carefree bird flitting here and there, 

Dazzled by the forest's splendor and charm, 

Her astonished eyes, as if dipped in sweet nectar, 

Fluttered like restless bee wings. 

The spring breeze, fragrant and soft, 

Like the gentle, sweet touch of dreamy whispers. 

The blossoming, youthful vines, 

Heavy with new life, bowed, swayed, and danced, 

Admiring her radiant, incomparable purity—her maidenhood. 

The blooming flowers, filled with sweetness and fragrance, 

Languidly basked in their own essence. 

Her delicate, pale, lotus-like feet, 

Adorned with red lacquer, pearls, and golden anklets, 

Tinkling softly, stepping gently on the newly sprouted grass, 

Which quivered beneath her touch. 

The buds of the Ashoka tree trembled, 

Longing for the chance to be touched 

By her carefree feet. 

And she— 

She bloomed, 

Her body filled with fresh joy. 

She watched, 

As the waves of pleasure flowed from the king of the forest’s offerings. 

The queen swan of the woodland, 

Pure and radiant, cool and soft as moonlight, 

A milky, gentle stream descending from the heavens. 

Even she did not know why— 

Her body trembled, 

Filled with the fragrance of the spring's blooming sweetness. 

 

Life— 

In the autumn night of youth, 

Bloomed like a fragrant flower, 

Swaying with intoxicating scent. 

The very essence of joy, 

Where, at some unknown bend, 

She remained alone. 

All the cherished dreams and thoughts of her heart, 

Left her, 

Departed without her knowing. 

Countless intoxicating dreams, 

Nurtured by strange and wondrous flowers, 

Suddenly showered down 

Upon the untouched courtyard of her heart. 

Her mind quivered, soaked, 

Drenched in that smooth flood of feelings, 

Even she could not bear it. 

On the slumbering strings of her heart, 

Which strings resonated, 

The sounds, invisible, took no form. 

An echo resounded— 

Unseen, unknown, 

Yet sharp and piercing.

 

The mind, 

Spellbound, astonished— 

What land had he come from, 

That even in the deepest immersion, 

Remained ever unfamiliar? 

In what soft, intoxicating moonlight 

Did the mind’s serene river begin to flow? 

The mind— 

Quivering, trembling, wet and soaked, 

Drowned in its own desires— 

The strange, lotus-like patterns of yearning. 

It held close, cherished, an untouched flute, 

Yet whose unknown hands had touched it? 

Who had breathed life into those dormant melodies? 

Why? 

The mind’s river, calm yet brimming, 

Suddenly stirred, trembled, 

Shaken, astonished, overwhelmed, 

It clung in fear to its shores. 

At last, after endless waves crashed and broke, 

It was torn apart, bruised, 

Wounded at its core, 

Clutching empty, broken vessels of blossoms, 

It groaned in anguish. 

All—unknown, unsung— 

Words, names, forms—all unfamiliar. 

Who was it that the mind awaited with such eager anticipation? 

He came— 

That unknown guest. 

The mind— 

Untied forgotten knots of past recognition. 

This unspoken echo, 

Sweet, unsaid words, 

The trembling, startled mind accepted something, 

But the eyes could not recognize it. 

Who poured this shy intoxication, 

This blind enchantment? 

The intoxicating essence of the three worlds, 

Seeped into the mind’s sky. 

In a moment of deepest immersion, 

Youth— 

In its unconscious state, bid farewell. 

In what untouched moments, 

Did this new ceremony arrive? 

Saffron, vermilion, and fragrant colors, 

Whirled around. 

The forest of sandalwood turned into a grove of delight in her mind. 

On the azure horizon of her eyes, 

A rainbow of seven hues smiled, entrancing and enchanting. 

The silver pond of the mind, bathed in moonlight, 

Each leaf trembled, bewitched, 

The dream-lotus swayed in the wind. 

In the dawn of early youth, 

The saffron pollen of blossoming desires, 

Was scattered into the air like fragrant hues. 

The mind’s sky— 

Swelled with a tide of colors. 

She— 

The radiant princess of Devadaha, 

A maiden of celestial beauty, 

A moon with all sixteen phases, 

As sixteen springs arrived 

In the courtyard of her youth, 

Her beauty glowed in full moonlight. 

Unaware of her own grace and glory, 

She wandered, 

Adorned in priceless, jewel-encrusted ornaments, 

Her limbs shining with strange, wondrous splendor. 

A rainbow-hued veil draped around her body, 

Fluttering lightly. 

The lower part of her attire, dyed in the red of pomegranate blossoms, 

Adorned with the glow of blazing flames. 

In the dark monsoon clouds, 

Where the seven-colored arch of lightning 

Flickered and broke into a hundred fragments, 

She feared even a flower petal might prick her tender body. 

Unmatched, unparalleled beauty. 

Her robes shimmered, sparkled, 

Like the stars in the blue autumn sky, 

Illuminated and radiant.

 

She, 

Unparalleled, extraordinary, celestial beauty— 

A new maiden, radiant in her graceful splendor, 

Like a dream-drenched lotus in moonlight. 

Her body adorned with the golden dust of saffron and musk, 

Her face luminous, painted with delicate, leaf-like grace. 

Her form swayed, bathed in waves of nectar, 

Like a royal swan, pure, serene, 

Her pearl-like radiance—calm, gentle, untouched. 

Her own fragrance filled her, 

Astonished, bewildered, like the musk-deer, 

When— 

Unexpectedly, without warning, the frost descended. 

The delicate water-born blossoms 

Were pierced and pained by icy spears. 

Her tender, beautiful body, 

Once filled with honeyed, intoxicating joy, 

Now withered. 

The leaves, once fresh and bright, darkened— 

Her once perfect form now lost its luster. 

Like a lacquered palace engulfed in sudden flames, 

Enclosed by burning tongues of fire, 

The soothing fragrance of her heart’s joy 

Was reduced to ash. 

What had happened, suddenly? 

No sound, no hint, 

As though— 

In the midst of a warm conversation, 

One turns silent, 

Realizing— 

He was just here. 

Now he is no more. 

This thunderbolt— 

The sorrow of life and death, 

So heavy to bear. 

Search— 

Frenzied, desperate— 

Where is the breath? Where the heartbeat? 

Where the light that once danced in those eyes? 

No matter what effort is made, 

All is futile, meaningless— 

Filled with pain. 

The boat whose rope has been severed 

Is surrendered to the current of time. 

When did it belong to the shores again? 

Such was my happiness— 

Dead, joyless, 

No trace left. 

It had just begun, 

The grand beginning, 

Yet even its prologue remained unseen. 

In an instant, the curtain fell. 

The waiting, thirsty eyes— 

Like a bird lost in the dark despair of night, 

Its wings exhausted, searching desperately for its path. 

This joyous festival of the eyes, 

Suddenly halted, turned to stone. 

In the blink of an eye, those lush, intoxicating moments 

Passed by, 

Leaving the chest heaving with gasps and sighs. 

Forever filled with dense clouds of sorrow. 

Someone said it truly— 

The entire universe 

Exists within this small body and mind. 

This burning in the heart, 

The endless, unbroken rain of tears. 

Memories, filled with the sting of pain, 

Flashing with each jolt of suffering. 

In the lake of separation, 

Life melts away, like water-born blossoms. 

The spring of intoxication in the eyes, 

Suddenly scorched by the flames of an unasked autumn. 

The tender shoots and fragrant buds, 

Once at the door, 

Were taken away— 

Shaken, twisted, 

Each bud torn from its stem. 

Nature, forever youthful, 

Now worn, aged, stripped bare, 

Left sobbing in the arms of tears. 

What happened? 

The heart, struck by lightning, 

Could say nothing.

 

Yashodhara, 

Drowned in sorrow, desolate— 

Lying silently on the earth. 

Half-closed eyes, 

Restless, tormented, bewildered, 

Each moment a storm of turmoil, 

Her hands, once open wide, 

Had long surrendered their rest. 

From the corners of her eyes, 

An endless stream of tears fell, 

Soaking the scattered locks of her dark hair. 

Her mind, 

So helpless, agitated, impatient— 

The sharp axe of sorrow 

Unceasingly tore at her heart. 

Her eyes, 

Bathed in the red hue of grief, 

On the edge of her eyelids, 

In the midnight darkness, 

The luminous shadow of Gautama descended, 

Like a full moon. 

The chaste bird of separation, 

Silently watched, unblinking, 

Searching in the mute language of her eyes 

For a new, unsaid meaning to her pain. 

This untold song, 

Could not find its voice. 

Her lips, 

Unable to speak. 

Her words, 

Folded into nothingness, 

This burden of emotion 

Too heavy to bear. 

Like a tender vine struck by a thunderbolt, 

Her consciousness returned, 

Awakened by the deep sighs 

Rising from within. 

She saw— 

Before her, 

What had descended from the horizon of her heart 

Into her eyes. 

The pond of her stirred heart— 

Though it tried to embrace the waves, 

Remained ever thirsty, unsatisfied. 

In the stillness of the night, 

Without a word, 

He had left— 

Breaking his silence, and gone. 

Now, what remained 

To be said? 

His feet did not tremble, 

His heart did not quake. 

He trampled over all the offerings, 

All the sacred designs, 

And erased everything— 

Leaving behind a vast, empty void. 

Now, 

In this immense, boundless solitude, 

No words rise. 

All is shattered, broken, 

Scattered, 

Dull and lifeless. 

How could one understand it— 

A curse or a blessing? 

If there had been the slightest tenderness of love, 

Why was this bitter separation bestowed? 

Why? 

The fresh, full vessel of rainwater, 

Suddenly burned, 

Its moist, delicate essence scorched. 

Left behind was the long-waiting, 

Forever thirsty, 

Tormented chatak bird—confused. 

Never did the black, stormy nights 

Behold the moon’s face. 

Never, 

In the dark hues of Krishna’s night, 

Did the full moon bloom. 

Cruel destiny— 

It rendered her utterly helpless. 

Even in her agonizing memories, 

She had no power. 

Whether the doors of her forsaken heart 

Opened or remained shut, 

All came and went without care, 

Without permission, 

They roamed, wild, reckless, 

And free.

 

The mind, 

Helpless, watched— 

How desolate it had become. 

Its once lush garden, laid to waste. 

A fierce, unstoppable storm, 

Of piercing icy winds, 

Had risen with unparalleled force. 

What broke? What was destroyed? 

The mind, wooden and numb, 

Could not grasp even a fragment of it. 

An unrestrained flood of tears 

Swelled and surged, 

Overwhelming the mind. 

Pain, coiled and trembling, 

Collapsed upon the earth— 

Writhing through the body and soul, 

With flashes of torment. 

The mind burned, 

The body burned, 

And a fire rose— 

A deep thirst, 

Repeating again and again, 

But the thirst never quenched. 

Far and wide, 

The endless expanse of eyes stretched, 

A vast, burning desert of isolation. 

A thirsty doe— 

Wounded, restless, tormented, 

Lost and confused. 

She became imprisoned, 

Trapped by the illusionary mirage, 

Deceived into believing 

It was within reach. 

The mind’s luminous waters— 

In silence, they continued to wash, 

Those pure, sacred, golden lotus feet, 

With an unceasing flow of tears. 

Binding them 

In the delicate embrace of her arms, 

She poured her entire tale of sorrow, 

Her whole burden of grief, 

And with her forehead pressed to them, 

She found her last refuge, 

Her final sanctuary. 

Silent words, 

Questions without sound— 

Yet they spoke 

With the frantic beats of her heart. 

The wealth of her life, 

Her inner garden— 

Now desolate. 

This isolated, ascetic hut, 

Offered no peace, 

As her grief tore her 

Into a thousand pieces. 

My Lord, 

Not through my own breath, 

But through yours, O Lord, 

I was alive. 

This separation—how painful, 

Each moment, 

Worse than the most impenetrable walls 

Of the strongest fortress. 

A burning wind swept through— 

The once green, blossoming, fragrant courtyard 

Of my heart, 

Now filled only with the blows 

Of dark, agitated despair. 

Extinguished, 

Was the once-glowing lamp of joy— 

Utterly alone, 

With no one near, 

Only pain, 

As my constant guest. 

It roamed through the house, inside and out, 

In the dense darkness. 

How could I forget? 

That first meeting, 

When it brought the sweet rain of nectar. 

I, 

A bewildered, enchanted doe, 

Suddenly found myself 

Before the Lord, 

As if drawn from a blossoming garden. 

 

It was, 

The traditional ornament distribution ceremony 

Of Kapilavastu. 

This festival, 

For me, 

Was a first, and truly new. 

O Arya! 

Like the golden-charioted sun rising in the east, 

Or the full moon spreading its web of silver rays— 

Or perhaps, Varun, the lord of the oceans, 

Emerging from the waves, 

Bearing a golden vessel. 

He stood there, 

Incomparable, otherworldly, 

Smiling serenely. 

Scattering the radiant glow 

Of fresh, blooming jasmine. 

I saw him, in that moment. 

He— 

That magnificent presence, unparalleled. 

Resplendent, a grand figure, 

The embodiment of serene simplicity and grace. 

With open hands, 

He distributed the golden ornaments. 

The young royal maidens, 

Noble daughters of illustrious families, 

With bowed heads and shy smiles, 

Their hearts filled with newfound joy, 

Gracefully received the countless jewels. 

The gentle, sweet sounds of amusement, 

Filled the air with delightful melody. 

The scent of maidenhood, 

Pure and fragrant, 

Bathed the entire atmosphere in sacred sweetness. 

Until now, I— 

Had not yet freed myself 

From the spell of this enchantment. 

Surrounded by the celebration of beauty 

And the flowing river of grace in my mind, 

I was overcome. 

Innocent maidenhood, 

Untouched, wild like musk, 

With a mysterious allure 

That swayed like waves— 

Leaves unfurling under a silvery moon. 

Fragrant, eager ketaki flowers, 

Yearned to touch 

The golden edges of the rainbowed sky. 

My steps, clumsy and carefree, 

The jingling anklets sounding softly, 

Wherever they led— 

Through forest and grove, 

They fell somewhere, and somewhere else— 

Directionless. 

Inwardly and outwardly, 

Restless, unsettled. 

A destination unknown, a path unclear. 

Youth, 

With its hidden, potent charm, 

Awoke, 

And the entire world seemed intoxicated. 

The mind, 

Like the flowing Yamuna, 

Shimmered with the moonlight of imagination. 

Time, 

Like blossoming, nodding kadamba leaves, 

Resounded with the slumbering flute’s melody. 

A stillness filled my astonished heart, 

Everywhere I looked, I found wonder— 

Lost in a dream. 

And there I was, 

Making my way through the cheerful crowd, 

The laughter and chatter of the maidens, 

Breaking through the throng. 

I don’t know— 

What my eyes beheld, 

How or why it all unfolded. 

My heart, 

Overwhelmed with emotion, 

Could not comprehend it. 

In this stirring, 

This inner churning, 

Words and voices broke free from their bonds. 

Only— 

The eyes remained to feel it all. 

 

As he gazed at me, 

His smile bloomed, radiant, 

A string of pearls flashing in his teeth. 

He turned and looked towards the chariot, 

Then laughed softly— 

A gentle, curious smile, 

Full of calm amusement. 

Spreading both arms wide, 

He showed me his empty hands, 

And with a smile, he said, 

“Everything I had, 

Is now gone. 

All that was mine 

Has been given away.” 

Stunned, I looked— 

A sharp blow struck my heart. 

The radiance of his joyful face, 

Suddenly dimmed, 

Pained. 

My mind! It had never occurred to me— 

Could I leave too, 

With empty hands? 

Suppressing the surge of my heart, 

I spoke with utmost humility. 

My voice, timid and shy, 

The words, faint and halting— 

“Then, 

There will be nothing for me here?” 

Suddenly a thought flashed— 

After leaving Devadaha, 

Would no memory remain? 

Adorned with jewelry, 

My silent friends' eyes, 

Would they not speak volumes? 

This uninvited wound of insult— 

In my eyes, 

My self-respect, 

Eager and ablaze, 

Surged forth. 

I raised my head and looked at him intently. 

Then said again— 

“I am the princess of Devadaha, 

I cannot return 

Utterly empty and bereft.” 

The lord looked at me, 

With simple, soulful charm, 

How effortlessly he delved deep into my heart. 

He summoned the ornaments 

And gave generously, 

How tender is the lord, 

My heart knew that day. 

Handful after handful, 

A constant downpour of jewels— 

My scarf, overflowing, 

They fell to the ground. 

This amusement— 

The giver’s hands, 

Never paused. 

My heart trembled in fear— 

Would this growing heap 

Not block his path? 

Anxiously, I said, 

“How can I bear 

So much?” 

These heavy ornaments— 

On my delicate frame— 

How could I carry such a burden? 

As I spoke, my voice grew thick, 

Words faltered, quivering, 

Lips trembling, 

And in my eyes, tears rose, 

Reflecting his serene image.

 

With a smile, the Lord said— 

“My adornments, 

As much as I give, 

It pleases my heart. 

Why should anyone be left empty? 

Their body and soul shall be filled.” 

As he spoke, he gazed at me and smiled, 

His bright, wide eyes, 

Effortlessly brimming with tender affection. 

In his gaze, morning descended, 

Like blooming, immaculate lotus flowers. 

Seated on the throne of his own mastery, 

The man, 

Was joyfully and freely bestowing gifts 

Upon nature, 

Radiating unbroken primal dignity. 

The sky— 

The man. 

The earth— 

The woman. 

Both humbly bowed, hands folded, 

Grateful for the endless gifts, 

An unbroken chain, 

A dizzying procession. 

My heart, 

My very life, 

Was wholly offered to him. 

To this day, 

It is unknown— 

Who was more grateful— 

The man or the woman, nature herself. 

This vast, endless enchantment. 

All the moments that passed, 

Were perfumed 

With an indescribable, silent intoxication. 

Imprisoned in the fragrance of memory, 

Suddenly, a light appeared 

Between us, 

A shared, tender sensation. 

A river of thoughts, 

Flowing like pure, white milk. 

Handful after handful of pearls, 

Scattering across the earth, 

The sky— 

A sacred, luminous glow, 

Expanding everywhere. 

What was this trance-like absorption, 

This forgetting of self? 

I do not know. 

I trembled to my core, 

Bereft of any awareness. 

All was void— 

I, speechless, 

Stood there frozen, 

As if turned to wood. 

Those silent moments, 

What all did they speak 

To my soul? 

The courtyard of my heart was drenched. 

My restless mind, 

Unseen sorrow, 

Tears trembled in my eyes. 

A strange fog enveloped me— 

Body, soul, and vision, 

In the clear blue sky of my mind, 

A deep, dark, rain-heavy cloud gathered. 

My steps grew heavy, 

And slowly, sorrow descended 

On the horizon of my eyes. 

Even in that moment— 

Of overwhelming joy, 

It was pain 

That performed the anointing. 

Happiness and sorrow stood before me, 

But their shadows— 

Were both equally dark. 

There was no brightness 

In the reflection of joy, 

Nor any deep darkness 

In the shadow of sorrow. 

In the empty cups of happiness and sorrow, 

Only a swirling, churned restlessness remained.

 

That day, it became clear— 

This stirring of the soul, 

Which we call, 

Happiness or sorrow, 

Is but one single, 

Life-giving stream. 

Two faces 

Of the same truth, 

One bright, 

One dark. 

Both, 

Impart deep, unfailing pain 

In the heart. 

Joy— 

An invitation to sorrow, 

Leading us to some unfathomable depth. 

Happiness, 

Merely its cruel, mocking play. 

Happiness— 

Joyfully, 

Prepares the ground, 

Decorates it beautifully 

For sorrow's arrival. 

And sorrow! 

With ruthless feet, 

Tramples that beauty 

Without mercy. 

Otherwise, 

Why would these moments of ecstasy 

Be so devastating? 

Woven into them, 

How many unknown lifetimes— 

Birth and death, 

Loom ahead, 

Standing as deceivers, 

Unerring destroyers. 

This innocent wonder, 

How strange it is— 

This delight, 

This enchantment— 

There is nothing here. 

Only— 

A deep, profound, heavy blow. 

I— 

Lost in my own fragrance, 

Like a wounded doe, 

Dazed, 

I stood there, forgetting everything, 

Spellbound, rooted to the spot. 

The dust rose— 

The chariot moved on. 

A whirlwind stirred within me, 

Swirling in the space between stillness and motion, 

In the unconscious atoms of my being, 

A pulse of intoxication surged. 

 

Why? 

At the peak of joy’s bright, surging waves, 

Does the relentless, unyielding 

Ice of grief fall, 

Unforgiving. 

Why? 

The silver-bathed, dream-lotus of my eyes, 

Drowns in a lake of tears. 

Why does its reflection on the water, 

Tell a tale of sorrow, 

Threaded through with silence, 

As cold, frozen tears 

Sob quietly? 

At the half-closed door of youth, 

Unbidden, 

This radiant, intoxicating essence of life, 

These two moments of brilliant intoxication— 

On the lotus of my heart, 

Pure, enlightened, awakened, 

Like a golden embryo, 

Gleamed with piercing brightness. 

It was the summit of life— 

Constantly present, 

As vital as breath itself.

 

Life, 

Utterly void— 

No dusk! No dawn! 

The burdened memories, 

Took everything away, 

Bound tightly in their folds. 

Every moment that passed— 

Unbearable, difficult, empty. 

A trembling heart, 

How much more can it endure? 

Each day, alone, 

Into the desolate lake of my mind, 

Dusk descends gently, step by step. 

The heart, utterly shaken to its core, 

Shivers— 

What new web of sorrow 

Is she weaving again today, 

Utterly pitiless? 

An empty heart, 

An empty courtyard, 

With wide-open windows, 

Only to receive 

The invitations of despair. 

This heart— 

Full yet fearful, 

Always trembling, always afraid, 

Endlessly, 

In the Ganga of my mind, 

That full moon bloomed. 

Thirsty, unblinking eyes kept gazing, 

While the heart, like a sorrowful bird, 

Picked at the sparks of longing. 

Drenched in that nectar of beauty, 

Spellbound, enchanted, 

But forever thirsty. 

The unstoppable flood of blind intoxication— 

My heart forgot 

The boundaries of limits. 

On that path, the lamps of tears burn, 

That path of longing, never returned, 

Never came close. 

Pierced by thorns, those unforgettable, elusive moments, 

In which even the five elements vanished. 

Only two souls, like lamps, 

Burned there. 

Even time itself, 

And the moments of life, 

Were consumed by that flood of oneness. 

In the downpour of that intoxicating pull, 

Two love-swans swam, 

Lost in their union. 

But— 

In the intensity of deep love, 

All that is weak crumbles, 

All societal relations and boundaries, 

Their intricate, artificial doubts, 

Collapse into dust. 

One light, 

One satisfaction, 

An unbound stream like the great Ganga. 

Bathed in it, all become one— 

Breaking the chains of inequality. 

This— 

This sublime, generous feeling, 

That descends from the individual to the collective, 

Against the backdrop of that great ideal— 

The world as one family. 

Woman— 

Her tenderness, beauty, grace, 

The dignity of her eternal charm. 

The slender, youthful, nectar-filled Annapurna. 

If illuminated by the knowledge of her duty, 

Naturally, she dedicates herself to her lord’s purpose. 

She— 

The beloved of her lover, 

The dearest, the mistress of the home, the other half, 

The one adorned with love and joy, 

The unwavering companion in both happiness and sorrow. 

She, the pure, flowing Ganga to her children, 

Nourishing their growth with wisdom, 

Her speech radiant with knowledge. 

She walks in the shadow of her husband’s feet. 

That Lakshmi, the bringer of joy, 

Husband and wife, 

Man and nature,  (Purus-Prakriti)

Their union carries the world forward.

 

Why is it, 

That today she faces 

An unwanted deprivation of life’s values? 

Gopa, 

Now a mere mockery of womanhood, 

Cries out— 

Her soul swirling in inner conflicts and deep anguish, 

She pondered in silence. 

On the horizon of dark despair, 

A weary bird, 

Seeking its nest, 

The soul’s path, a tired traveler, 

Circling hopelessly, 

Fell to the earth in despair, 

Struggling, 

Its wings broken, 

With cries of helpless pain. 

No leafy branch to shelter it, 

No soft shade to cradle it. 

Above, the sky burned mercilessly, 

Below, the parched earth scorched its feet. 

The pain that pierced its burdened chest, 

Endlessly, like a thorn, 

That very pain 

Became its final breath. 

What is this heart— 

The same path that took my lord away, 

Every evening, 

I light the lamp upon that path, 

Imploring the road, 

As it led him away, 

To bring him back to me once more. 

The heart’s string remains bound, 

Always, to those unseen roads. 

Oh, ill-fated destiny! 

When did it strike? 

The venomous serpent, with flaming breath, 

The terrible form of Takshak, 

In its fury, 

Reduced the joyful, blossoming tree, 

With fragrant flowers and green leaves, 

To ashes. 

Only dust remains. 

And sharp, piercing thorns. 

Life— 

Simply

A mistake, 

A mistake. 

Caught in the whirlwinds of sorrow, 

Each moment crushed in confusion, 

The heart weighed down 

Like an iron wheel, 

Spinning endlessly in unbreakable resolve. 

Breaking through every dilemma, 

The brilliant light of wisdom shines. 

Always, in the empty sky of my mind, 

A radiant, resonant voice echoes. 

‘Gopa! 

Cut the threads of attachment! 

Be free! 

Restrain the impulses of your heart, 

And find contentment. 

Mere feelings of inferiority— 

Rise above them! 

What worth do these fleeting desires hold? 

They endlessly mix poison 

Into the nectar of life. 

Earthly pleasures, 

Moments of brief beauty, 

Are nothing but the blind well 

Of a stagnant mind. 

This fleeting impermanence, 

It torments in countless ways, 

And lures one away from eternal joy 

With false promises of small temptations.’

 

Another’s joy, 

One’s own joy, 

The one who understands this, 

Is the one who truly grasps 

The reality, the meaning, the noble sentiments of life— 

Only they realize its essence completely. 

The ‘self!’ 

It is this very notion 

That has crafted the transient and endless world, 

Strengthening the eternal cycle 

Of birth and rebirth. 

Beholding its pure existence 

In the light of permanence, 

It meets the venomous, distorted smiles 

With calm eyes, 

And unshaken, speaks— 

Who said—You are eternal, 

And I, ephemeral? 

We are both the steps 

Of Mahakaal, the eternal Time, 

Forever in motion since eternity. 

You— 

Monotonous, dreary, filled with weariness. 

And I— 

Ever new, ever-changing, 

Pouring the nectar of life with each moment. 

 

Oh soul! Choose what you will— 

Sit in the sands, 

Or wander in this fragrant garden. 

The allure of the ‘self,’ 

The spellbound sky of the mind— 

These folded lotus petals, 

A cage, 

And the imprisoned mind, 

The poor, fluttering bee. 

A dew drop— 

Damp and fresh, 

Adorning the lotus leaf like a pearl, 

Shimmering, radiating, 

Gleaming and sparkling, 

Touching each stem, each cool flower, 

Soothing their deep heat, 

Clinging to their core, 

Dancing in the web of rays, 

Known as the pearl of dew. 

Yet, 

Another drop, resting on the earth, 

Proudly protecting its own self, 

Lost in the delusion of safeguarding its essence, 

Fades into the dust. 

Neither speech chose it, 

Nor did the earth preserve it. 

This is the fate of the ego-centered, self-absorbed pride.

 

Thus, Gopa, 

Not your tears, 

But look upon the helpless, unending flow of tears 

In the world’s suffering. 

Measure the sorrows of others 

With your own pain. 

Questioning every thought, 

Reflecting, contemplating, 

Endlessly swaying in the inner conflicts, 

Unable to find any balance, 

Writhing in anguish, 

Falling into the agony of the soul’s burning. 

She speaks— 

In a voice drenched in compassion,  

Choked with tears, 

Uttering faintly, 

‘Ah, God! Knowledge remains, 

But all flows away in the river of tears. 

The thorn that hasn’t pierced you— 

It’s easy to explain 

How to avoid or endure it. 

But the hands that were wounded, 

They rise up in pain. 

All this— 

Just empty words. 

The one who hasn’t felt the wound 

Can never understand 

The stinging blow of suffering. 

These— 

Rootless, 

Foundationless, 

Sky-high ideals— 

Those whose feet have never touched 

The thorn-filled, scorched earth, 

They embrace them with joy, 

And crown themselves 

With these lofty principles.’

 

Those, 

Who are beyond attachment and detachment, 

Fulfilled in their desires, 

Or those ascetics, who have renounced all, 

Dwelling in the formlessness, 

Untouched by the five elements, 

Divine, 

Their celestial brilliance unmatched. 

The world is theirs. 

Serene they are—O Lord! 

They no longer belong to this world, 

All desires, long turned to ash. 

But the heart, 

Burning day and night, unceasingly, 

A constant, raging flame, a sacrificial fire— 

In that, these principles, ideals, and teachings of attachment and detachment 

Flow like an unbroken stream of ghee.

 

The one, 

Thirsting for a single drop of water, 

Whose lips crack and parch— 

What connection can they have 

With that pure cloud 

Which bursts somewhere, or brings floods? 

Despair, darkness, endless unrest— 

In this distressed heart, 

How could it know where to find solace, 

Here or beyond? 

Everywhere, endless, boundless waves— 

On the radiant forehead of the East, 

Rises the circular, young sun, 

Wounded, blood-stained, crimson, 

Dragging itself up, 

Slowly ascending from the horizon. 

The scorching sky, 

The sorrowful heart. 

And it too— 

Casting away the basket of hopes, burning, burning, 

Ever burning, 

Tricked by fate, 

Pierced through and through 

By the sharp rays of light. 

In the end, 

It was crucified on the noon’s scorching spear of suffering. 

It fell, bleeding, gasping, 

Lying there, 

Draped in the bright garment of death, 

Lifeless, breathless. 

Evening gathered it into her lap, weeping. 

Watching, dazed and stricken— 

Lost from sorrow, wandering in search of joy, 

On the sparse, treacherous, fearful, rugged path of life. 

Helpless, beaten, 

Falling, stumbling, stuck, drowning, 

Once again, 

Into the unbroken, eternal stream of suffering. 

Only suffering! 

Suffering is the only eternal truth. 

It is the great ocean of destruction. 

Flying the banner of dark, blue-black despair, 

The fiery ocean of suffering screams in agony, 

Swallowing the sky, directionless, disappearing. 

Absorbing within its gaping mouth, 

The sun, the moon, the stars, the cosmos, the earth— 

Roaring in every direction, 

Revealing the total dissolution of all. 

In the vast, boundless, surging waves of this immense sorrow, 

There was only one— 

A child, lying on a banyan leaf, 

Sucking his thumb, 

His tender, lotus-like, newly-bloomed red feet 

Swinging as if lost in thought. 

Destruction. Then creation. 

From one to many,

(Ecumenedivity, Bahusyam) 

The One becoming many. 

Creating reflections of himself 

In his own mirrored image. 

In the dead, inert universe, 

Once again, a new awakening adorns, 

The returning cycle of strange, colorful ornaments. 

An invitation to joy. 

A call to sorrow, 

And in the eager, thirsty eyes, awaiting happiness, 

Once again, 

The dark, dense monsoon clouds of sorrow gather. 

Light! Light! Yet, calling for light, 

The black, ink-dark night encircles. 

 

Happiness. 

What they call it— 

It was but an illusory mirage, 

One that lured and killed. 

Burnt. 

Each moment, every atom of life, 

This self-immolation— 

Eternal, everlasting. 

The earth, 

Scorched, turned to stone. 

Its deep crevices, 

Wounded, destructive, 

Filled with burning scars of volcanic fires. 

The sky, 

Surrounded by flames like smoldering embers, 

Restless, writhing, 

Raising cries, scattering ashes, 

Endlessly burning in torment. 

When was it ever calm? 

Neither body nor mind found rest. 

Falsehood. 

Desire remained— 

For joy. 

But that longing was never fulfilled. 

The heart burned, never cooled. 

Heaven itself— 

While calling it Heaven, 

Filled with the skeletons of stars. 

Hope’s meteors, 

Like burning firebrands, 

Forever collide, 

Like restless, thirsty spirits, they clash, 

Creating a desperate outcry. 

Weary, they spew useless smoke, 

Wandering aimlessly in the forest of hopes, 

Falling to earth, burning, fading, 

Turning to stone. 

They leave behind, only— 

The visible evidence of suffering, 

Making history of pain. 

And the sky, 

Utterly despairing, 

Beats its head, 

Wandering like a cursed, mad spirit, 

Among the skeletal remains of shattered hopes, 

Sitting alone, weeping 

In the vast cremation ground of despair. 

Washing its face with tears. 

Day! 

In the burning furnace of the sun, 

It burns— 

Night, the demoness, 

Pours intoxicating drink into the moon's cup, 

Alluring, enchanting in vain— 

And only intensifies the thirst 

Of the one who is forever thirsty. 

Dim, pale, lifeless, utterly wretched, 

Burning from within and without. 

Everything appears dark— 

Drenched by the inky blackness of despair. 

Meteor showers, 

Hailstones, lightning bolts, 

Strike the heavens, 

Endlessly, silently endured. 

And— 

Its reflection in the mirror of reply, 

The roaring, tempestuous ocean, 

Filling its parched, burning heart 

With its deafening sound, 

Like one eternally thirsting— 

It gazed at the rising moon, 

The setting sun— 

But never once did it find 

Even a single, indelible ray of light. 

It never saw its dry lips 

Touch the overflowing cup of the moon's nectar. 

Unfulfilled, restless, anxious heart, 

The seven-colored rays of hope 

Merely danced on its surface, 

And all joy, all colors of ecstasy, 

Faded away. 

 

Only the unbroken, 

Deep, piercing streak of darkness, ever-enduring, 

That witnessed the burning fog within his heart. 

Thus, joy— 

A mere imagined fantasy, 

A mirage born from blind illusion. 

A process of the mind’s perception— 

That which slithers like a serpent, 

With its black hood of desire, 

An expression of pain. 

Its bright scales, 

The superficial sheen of joy— 

But a crafted illusion. 

Yet, a serpent is still a serpent— 

Its venom lies within, 

Whether in joy or in sorrow, 

Both merely breaths, 

In different forms. 

So who has ever seen joy? 

That symbol of purity, radiance, ultimate peace, and rest— 

Who has truly attained such joy? 

This spoken-of, eternal, immortal bliss— 

The sovereign lord of joy alone! 

Why then, 

Does one choose sorrow instead of joy? 

Vishnu, Rama, Krishna! 

Though bright in form, they still embrace the hue of darkness. 

When did the golden embryo turn black? 

When did the blazing midday sun grow dim? 

Deities, symbols of purity, 

Why do they not remain in their true nature? 

Shiva— 

The very Lord, 

Whose body shines like camphor, 

Auspicious, full of blessing, consciousness incarnate. 

Why did he drink the deadly poison, the venomous Halahal? 

His luminous form turned deep blue, 

Even as nectar overflowed on his crown— 

He discarded it, 

To embrace the burning poison. 

Why? 

Why choose sorrow? 

They were all— 

Truth, consciousness, and bliss— 

The refuge of the helpless. 

And he— 

Maheshwara! 

Radiant with light, 

By whom the entire universe is governed. 

Why,  

Did he rest upon the thousand-headed serpent, 

Uninterrupted in his slumber, 

Though surrounded by the venomous hoods, 

The poisonous flames constantly spouting, 

Every moment drenched with venom. 

Even the courtyard of his heart’s palace 

Burns, scorched with endless sighs, 

Relentlessly smoldering, 

Within that inner furnace, who knows— 

What truth, 

Like molten gold, burns, melts, and shines bright? 

I have seen, 

The silent abode of Madhavi, 

And the helpless, sorrowful wail of the ocean. 

Crushed under the unceasing, unstoppable march 

Of time’s relentless chariot. 

The lines drawn upon the earth, 

By its grinding wheels, 

Are the eternal scars of suffering. 

The dust raised by its slow pace 

Has formed a fog— 

A veil of despair, of impenetrable darkness. 

Time has never thrown the colored powder of joy, 

Upon the horizon of the mind. 

When the thick clouds gather and the blow strikes, 

It rains incessantly, without pause. 

The dawn, pierced with thorns, 

And the night, filled with sighs, 

Both, at their meeting, 

Are overwhelmed by tears, filled to the brim with weeping stars. 

Pain— 

It has always been pain, 

Which comes to deceive from every direction. 

So, what is this joy they speak of? 

Perhaps only the detached, 

Unmoved ones, 

Who have attained the first stage of enlightenment, 

Who have no awareness of relativity, no feeling, 

Whose hearts do not beat, whose emotions do not stir, 

Without any pulse of desire. 

What will such lifeless, near-dead ones do with joy? 

What will they do with that rain-bringing statue, 

Which no longer responds, no longer feels? 

 

This heart! 

Drenched in fragrance, in intoxicating allure, 

Blindly immersed, self-surrendered, 

How will it fathom the ultimate satisfaction? 

A mirror that reflects nothing, 

That blind mirror— 

It has become its own mockery. 

Sorrow! 

This eternal, unbroken, inner bliss. 

It is the essence of feeling, 

Growing with every heartbeat. 

So soft, so tender, 

Surrounded by sighs, drenched in tears, 

And yet, it trembles endlessly. 

In the casket of pain, 

In the fiery heat of the heart, 

The tear-drops, night and day, 

Nourish it, ripen it— 

A pure remedy. 

That alone is the unblemished truth. 

There— 

On the bright, blazing horizon of wisdom, 

Rises a radiant, spotless star, 

A pearl of white and blue. 

In this intense light, 

When elevated emotions 

Arrive at a balance, 

And— 

That eternal, infinite light 

Touches the soul, 

Then recognize yourself. 

Draw gently—so tenderly— 

The strings of the pain-stricken lyre, 

From its unstruck melody, 

Let the beaten and unbeaten notes merge. 

As the thousand folds of dream-laden knowledge 

Slowly unfurl, 

Each petal— 

Steady, pure, and unmoving— 

Reveals the ultimate truth. 

The transient— 

It is this, 

The recognition of suffering souls. 

Pain— 

Unwavering, unending, fearless, incomparable— 

A blessing. 

Yet, the restless soul 

Longs for eternal refuge. 

When did the soul leave its home? 

Time knows not. 

The knot tied in its robe— 

So intricate, so tough, 

It has not loosened. 

In parting— 

What message was received? 

Even that memory has faded. 

Coming and going, 

Returning, 

The ceaseless struggle to cross the boundless sea of existence. 

The weary soul, a traveler of countless lives, 

Has received only this: 

Never once did it find the cool shade 

Of a dense, dark tree. 

Never once did it find a resting place along the way. 

In this endless journey, 

The tired, confused traveler 

Moves without pause. 

And those encountered on the way— 

They too merely opened their bundles of sorrow. 

 

Although they all— 

Restless, impatient, and anxious, 

Breathed in the pain of despair. 

Still! They only spoke of joy. 

But their lips were dry, parched, and thirsty. Their feet, wounded. 

Their eyes, ever wet with tears. 

In the pursuit of elusive happiness, 

Their entire life—  

Empty, 

Drained, 

Wasted. 

Climbing the ladder of suffering, 

All their life’s essence was spent. 

That happiness, 

Which stems from sorrow, 

Is— 

A crippled joy. 

What, indeed, is such joy? 

It needs the constant crutch of suffering. 

And wherever their feet firmly landed, 

It was still on the vast earth of sorrow. 

Pain alone is the eternal, pure truth. 

Joy— 

An illusion, fleeting, false. 

In the swift currents of sharp aches, 

In the lightning surge, 

Is born the deep, entranced, blissful self. 

An endless, ceaseless creation, 

This silent, self-sacrificial offering— 

Reflected, 

In every still and moving particle. 

A living, vibrant, life-giving pulse. 

The pure, clear mirror of the mind— 

In its own pain, it fathomed 

The world's suffering. 

The world belongs to it, 

And it belongs to the world. 

How could it— 

Claim anyone or anything as its own? 

Gathering the thorns from the rare, stony path, 

Making it smoother for those who follow, 

They— 

Walked on, scattering flowers along the way. 

For the welfare of many, for the happiness of many. 

Those who, with body and soul, 

Willingly surrendered to pain. 

Whenever the earth was crushed, burdened by suffering, 

In some form or another, 

Great souls descended. 

In the realization of great deeds, they faced the trial by fire. 

As often as Janaka's daughter, Sita, gave her trial by fire, 

It was the unwavering measure of Rama’s ideals, 

His unshaken resolve. 

It wasn’t just Sita's test, 

But also Rama's. 

Even the supreme man, 

Silently endured that deep, searing flame. 

His heart— 

The blazing altar of ideals, 

Where Sita stood, pure and unsullied. 

He—Narayana, Lord Rama— 

Was he ever truly happy? 

No peace or rest ever came to his heart. 

Fourteen years of exile, 

A belief in the end of that term. 

Yet, he imposed upon himself 

An exile of his own making. 

Weeks, months, years passed within it, effortlessly. 

This— 

A timeless, solitary exile of the mind.

 

This punishment— 

Endless, to be endured alone, 

A boundless ocean of separation, 

A scorching desert of burning sighs. 

A mind pierced by the thorns of memory, 

Tormented, ceaselessly. 

A blistering sky, void of clouds. 

A scorched, barren earth. 

Amidst all this,  

Through a forest thick with thorny brambles, 

Somewhere in the distance, 

A solitary figure walks, 

Bathed in tears— 

A pure lotus, 

Its body weary, pale, trembling, 

Its moon-like face, drained of light, 

Draped in faded grass, 

Weak, utterly forlorn, 

Unadorned. 

In her tear-streaked path of memories, 

He watched her, unblinking, 

In the silent, wakeful nights. 

That slender, tender maiden, 

With a mind as vast as the ocean of nectar, 

The living embodiment of pain, 

Her story—unspoken, indescribable— 

A tale of silent grandeur. 

She, 

The lonely one, exiled in the forest. 

Unsupported, 

Bearing the unbearable burden of inner flames and pain. 

This eternal sorrow, unconscious yet tumultuous, 

She— 

Once stood at the blazing altar of their union, 

Now, 

Burning in the untamable waves of the heart’s fire. 

In each circumambulation of the sacred fire, 

With each knot of the binding thread, 

A vow was made— 

To bear this weight until death. 

The torment of seven lifetimes, 

Stinging like the thousand hoods of a serpent. 

For Rama— 

Where was the comfort of his promises? 

Where was the protection of Vaidehi? 

Only you— 

Her creator, her destroyer, her fated master. 

Today, 

She wanders alone in the wilderness, 

Yet— 

In the quiet, secluded kingdom of her heart, 

There she sat, 

Janaka’s daughter, 

Drenched endlessly in silent tears. 

Her duty, her karmic sacrifice, 

Her flame of devotion blazed on— 

She continued her silent walk, 

Lighting her thorn-filled path 

With the lamps of her tears. 

How mighty, 

The flow of time, 

Breaking the great, hard stones of obstacles, 

Fearlessly forging its path. 

Creator of eras, 

Shaper of epochs, 

Shri Rama— 

With Vaidehi, his eternal companion, 

Both cast in opposite directions, 

Swept away by time's relentless tide. 

Two banks of the same river, 

Never to meet. 

Only by losing themselves in the ocean, 

Could they forever remain, 

Like two birds, gazing at the moon of duty, 

Ever watching, 

From the parallel shores they lived on. 

This eternal separation, 

Their souls—restless, aching till the end. 

Their sacrifice, 

Self-inflicted torment, 

An endless suffering. 

How will the world ever forget? 

For the sake of a higher cause, selflessly, 

They chose to lie on the bed of arrows.

 

With a deep sigh, 

Gopa spoke: 

A life bewildered, unsettled, 

All faith shattered. 

The mind’s assurances, in vain, 

Could not quell the ocean of sorrow. 

In the sea of the mind, 

Countless thoughts rise, 

Only to bubble up and vanish, 

Merging back into the depths. 

This unbearable pain— 

It offers no solace. 

In the sharp flashes of aching memories, 

His image appears, 

Like a full moon, 

In the sky of tear-streaked blue eyes, 

Dark clouds gather, rolling in waves. 

Though they pour and pour, 

The thirst of the heart’s parched courtyard 

Is never soothed. 

And the restless heart keeps pleading— 

Rain! Rain down, 

O dark, heavy, laden clouds! 

Each atom burns with an unbearable heat, 

Life— 

Is the lament of empty autumns. 

One never knows 

When the day fades, 

When evening brings its aching. 

Night! 

What deadly poison 

Fills the moon’s chalice, 

Coursing through each vein? 

The heart is filled with unspoken, 

Unbearable, restless agony. 

Even nature’s enchantment 

Does not ease the gloom. 

How many times have I seen— 

Its colorful enticements, 

Like the heart’s monsoon lightning, 

Blue-black lotus-like clouds, 

Tender, golden, smooth as lotus stems, 

Interwoven, 

The dark, rain-soaked clouds 

Pouring down, 

Each drop, a life-giving balm. 

Yet, with restless, unblinking, thirsty eyes, 

I keep watching, 

Like the parched bird seeking lightning. 

Even now, nature stretches, stirring. 

What thoughts arise within it? 

The starry, unsettled black sky trembles, 

Filled with swirling bitterness, 

Its breaths, hot and shallow. 

Silent, bowed, 

It listens to no one, 

Lost in its own lament. 

Sharp stars shimmer, 

Tears brimming, 

And this, the night, 

In its dreamy, languid state, 

Blossoms with endless grace. 

Autumn night—so delicate, slender, 

Washed in the moon’s alluring glow, 

Its wild, curling, knotted black hair, 

Crowned with pearls, 

Like the restless, serpent-girded, 

Poison-drenched waves of nectar-thirst, 

Dark and fearsome, 

Immersed to the depths. 

The celestial river flows— 

Lightning radiance scattered, 

Newly blossomed frost garlands. 

Tender, blue lotuses, freshly bloomed, 

Sway in the breeze, 

Touched by the fragrant Malaya winds. 

Dark, rain-soaked locks, 

Droplets of pearl-like dew, 

Dripping softly, 

Drinking deep of nature’s nectar.

 

Thirsting soul, 

The trees, the leaves, the petals, the flowers— 

Connoisseurs of the essence of Palash and Flame of the Forest, 

Lips dry, trembling with parched thirst. 

This beauty, boundless, 

An unreachable ocean of grace. 

The night— 

Intoxicating, drenched in a sensual, lush splendor, 

Has wandered through the late hours, 

Carrying the fragrance of sandalwood, vetiver, lotus stems, 

And the heady scent of ketaki blossoms, 

Cool, wild forests and groves. 

Bound, blind with desire, 

The tender, graceful figure sways, 

Slender, curvaceous, gliding softly. 

Like a young maiden adorned in sapphire jewels, 

Her breath fragrant, 

Beneath the clear blue sky. 

Unveiling, one by one, 

The hidden verses of beauty and charm. 

She ponders, adorned like the love god’s bow, 

Fearless, unrestrained, 

Wearing a dazzling, gem-studded radiance— 

The shimmering mantle of stars, 

A dark sky like the deer-skin cloak of ascetics. 

Her slender waist, well-proportioned body, 

Eyes intoxicated, raining nectar, 

Her garland of flowers, jeweled girdle, 

Her anklets ringing as she dances, 

Her bracelets chiming, 

Playing the lute, 

Bending, swaying, 

She becomes— 

The dark, wild, carefree maiden, 

A forest-dwelling musk deer, 

A huntress. 

The sound of the lute echoes. 

The wind, sky, and earth are all enthralled. 

She casts her enchantment, 

With a spell of seduction, 

The intoxicating night, 

An irresistible temptress, 

Born of the deepest enchantment. 

Sitting before her, 

The moon, 

Lost in love’s play, enthralled, 

Lifts its head, gazing unblinking, 

Becoming the coiled serpent, Takshak, 

A half-circle of illusion! 

Spitting venomous flames, 

Spewing fierce fire. 

Poisoned, writhing, consumed with agony, 

The blue, clear sky trembles, 

Its proud, massive chest heaving, 

Pierced by the sharp stars. 

With its fiery breath, 

With its burning venom, 

The serpent, bearing the moon-jewel, 

Scorched it black.

 

The lute, 

Its sweet melody, 

The soft jingling of tiny bells, 

Entrancing, enraptured—the moon! 

Drawn like a flower’s taut string, 

Aiming, fixed, the flower-tipped arrow. 

The crimson-black eyes, 

Overflowing with the intoxicating ocean of gaze. 

Immersed, the five arrows strike— 

Wounding, weakening the moon, 

That pearl-blue radiance. 

The splendor of beauty, 

Grace in motion, heady with pride, unstoppable. 

From head to toe, 

Her every movement flows, intoxicated with passion. 

Her glowing beauty, like a fierce, intoxicating wine. 

Nectar has maddened poison, 

For the first time, venom bowed before the nectar’s power, 

Surrendered its weapon. 

Captured, the moon, 

Loses its senses, 

Bound in the unbreakable snare of the serpent. 

Defeated! Defeated! 

An inescapable, relentless prison. 

The lute plays, 

Scattering stardust from her palms. 

She advances— 

The night, majestic as an elephant, 

The wild huntress. 

He follows, 

With no other choice, 

Forcibly bound, like a puppet by the spell’s command. 

The helpless moon, 

Tied in the irresistible pull, 

Locked in her embrace, 

She took him along. 

Even Nature could not resist, 

No barrier was acknowledged, 

She fully achieved her desires, 

Body and soul, completely devoted. 

And my heart—lonely, forsaken, 

Forever cursed. 

Somewhere, the moon. 

Somewhere, the chakori bird. 

Oh, wretched me— 

I am defeated by myself. 

Now this, 

Helpless weeping in the wilderness, 

Stirs only endless turmoil within my heart. 

These burned, scorched limbs, 

Cannot find the cool relief of sandalwood balm. 

The wounds inflicted— 

Their deep, grievous cuts, 

Shall never heal. 

Like a deer pierced by arrows, 

Wandering through the dark forests of memories, 

Even there, hot winds blow, 

The sandalwood trees are burning. 

The dark, swollen clouds are burning too. 

Where to go? 

To whom shall I show 

This torn, burning agony inside? 

I remain, helpless, alone, consumed by the fire. 

Ah! I once heard 

That my beauty— 

So infallible, unmatched, 

How did it break, shatter into pieces? 

Such deep pride had filled me. 

Fate arrived, unexpectedly, and struck me down. 

That day I understood— 

This beauty— 

How it cruelly turned into a hideous curse. 

It’s true— 

The greater the pride, 

The harsher the torment that follows. 

Otherwise, how could this enchanting, enduring beauty, 

Have crumbled so completely, shattered into fragments? 

It gave me an endless, unrelenting pain, 

This self-churning, this inner turmoil.

 

How much can I think? 

Helpless, bound by this life, 

This endless, ceaseless lament that gnaws at me. 

Any words of solace now feel 

Like mere illusions, 

Deceitful promises— 

Salt rubbed into my burning wounds. 

They strike my hidden scars with cruelty. 

My heart, like a snake without its gem, 

Wanders restlessly, seeking the jewel everywhere— 

So desperate, 

Like a fish gasping for water, 

Struggling to breathe, on the verge of death. 

This is the eternal thirst of a parched papiha bird, 

But where is the Swati raindrop now? 

An endless night of separation, like the chakavi bird, 

There is no morning sunbeam for its union. 

The chakori picks up embers— 

A delusion of the moon, 

But not the moon she longs for. 

The Swati cloud is gone, burned away. 

Now, in the tangled mesh of sighs and ash, 

The soul’s restless wandering persists. 

Dense darkness, 

Unyielding, filled with suffering. 

Life is a barren desert, 

Scattered with thorns, 

A desolate wilderness. 

Every moment burns. 

Where now is the strength of patience? 

The turbulent ocean of despair, 

Reaching, yearning to touch the moon, 

This is the futile, desperate, hopeless cry. 

Māndavī, 

The young princess of Saket, 

Bride of Bharat— 

Surely she too suffered the pain of separation, 

Yet, in time, Bharat welcomed her back with joy. 

Lakshmana also returned 

To his empty home and his waiting Urmila. 

But one remained— 

Sita, 

Pure as the sacred wind, 

Whom cruel fate had defeated. 

She never found the shadow of her husband again. 

In the hundred-petaled flame of longing, 

She burned, her golden form, a tender blossom. 

It seems, like Janak’s daughter, 

That the wicked stars have cast 

Their harsh, crooked gaze upon me as well. 

An endless rain of fire from this separation burns me. 

The path on which 

He left me, 

That road, 

Never again became one of reunion. 

The path he took, leaving me behind— 

The dust of his feet still remains, 

Safely kept in this jewel-studded golden chest.

 

When, 

My heart, unanchored, finds no solace, 

It is the dust of his feet 

That graces my forehead, honored, like sacred sandalwood— 

A cooling balm for my pain-scorched chest. 

In each tiny grain 

Beats the living pulse 

Of his journey into the forest. 

This anguish speaks of his forest exile, 

Of the deep, dark ravines, 

Of the thorny, desolate groves. 

Sharp thorns, 

Surely they must have pierced 

Those soft lotus-like feet, 

And even here, 

The memory of that pain 

Brings sobs to my lips, 

Sorrow-filled dust clings to me. 

Even the slightest dust particle 

That touched his weary feet 

Had the power to ease their exhaustion, 

Reassuring and filled with joy, 

My heart, fully surrendered, 

Beat in rhythm with his steps. 

In the tender, soft light of autumn, 

Beneath the cool shade 

Of his half-closed lotus eyes, 

My mind blossomed, 

In full bloom, perfumed with fresh hopes, 

Like a fragrant garden of dreams. 

It was a garden of boundless happiness, 

Of trust and serenity— 

A joyous, carefree celebration. 

That— 

Body, mind, and life, 

Were like flowers offered at his feet, 

Surrendered completely in utter darkness, 

Full and unyielding. 

But where did I falter? 

Why? 

What caused the breaking of my mind’s delicate anklet? 

In that dreamy intoxication, 

I did not sense 

The slightest hint of his movements. 

Whenever my heart grew anxious, 

He would smile softly, 

Gently calming me with his touch.  

Yet, sometimes, in the dead of night, 

I would wake to find him, 

Silent, seated on the bed, deep in thought. 

His half-closed blue eyes 

Seemed lost in the far horizon, 

Dark clouds of sorrow 

Swirling around in the distance. 

His eyes fixed, gazing into the void, 

As if searching 

For something, somewhere. 

In the darkness, two burning lamps of sorrow, 

Searching in vain. 

What was he seeking? 

What grief haunted his heart? 

His hands lay folded over his chest, 

Rising and falling with deep, heavy sighs, 

The weight of unknown pain on his shoulders. 

I would turn toward him, 

My eyes, 

Searching his like the moon gazes upon the yearning chakor bird. 

I would bend down, look into his eyes, 

My own eyes filled with questions. 

I would ask— 

My lord, 

What thoughts occupy your mind? 

Why do you suffer this lonely churning within? 

In his deep, resonant voice, 

He would answer— 

You— 

Go back to sleep, Gopa. 

Do not step into 

The swirling storm within my heart. 

Stay as you are, 

As you’ve always been. 

Do not let the mirage of this inner storm 

Entangle you in its web.

 

This contemplation is not of today. 

Throughout all cycles of nature’s upheaval, 

The return and recurrence of life, 

Through the whirl of birth and death— 

The soul, 

Lonely and solitary, 

Has journeyed, 

Wandering in circles through it all. 

It— 

Never stopped for any reason, 

Not even time's flow could halt its path. 

But why does it run, 

Driven by what? 

Why is it enchanted, entangled in desires? 

To find the answer to this one lonely "why"— 

Why this pain, this unrest, sorrow, nature’s distortion? 

Why does the soul bear this burden, 

Crushed and suppressed? 

Until the desired is achieved, 

Nothing can be revealed. 

The mind— 

Filled with inner conflicts, 

Knot upon knot of tangled thoughts, 

One answer brings forth 

A thousand more questions. 

I wonder— 

Is life just a swarm of questions? 

Questions scattered everywhere, 

With no answers, 

Clear and simple, shining plainly. 

I laugh. 

Questions, 

Innocent heart! A mere garden of the mind, 

Where soft, sweet tunes of the flute hum. 

Thorns, 

Of arguments, of questions, 

Lie in the dry desert of reasoning. 

At midnight, under the moon, 

The trembling sound of the veena in the breeze, 

Lulls in half-slumber, 

The tinkling anklets of ragas. 

The slow wind from the Malaya mountains, 

Touching the dazed buds, 

Near the sweet, cooling drink of nectar. 

This is the goal, the joy, the grace of life— 

Why entangle the mind, 

Why suffer in vain?

 

Why? 

We are entangled in birth, death, sorrow, and pain. 

Why not remain, 

Silent and calm, 

As everything else is? 

Sweet, bitter, pungent— 

The flavors of life. 

But— 

Is there a joy beyond these pleasures? 

Where the soft sunlight of loving eyes 

Has become lost. 

What is that, 

The incomparable nectar of life? 

Is it being poured forth somewhere, 

Overflowing with unmatched beauty? 

Why? 

These thirsty eyes, 

Wandering desolate through the sky of my burnt heart. 

What is that unattainable drink 

For which my parched lips tremble? 

Why is consciousness so scattered, 

Lost in confusion?

 

With a deep sigh, 

the Lord spoke: 

“What certainty does life hold, 

caught in the eternal play of fate? 

O Gopa, 

Is this life, nourished by blind attachment, 

nothing more 

than the sum of struggles, 

a fleeting amusement for time? 

When each moment betrays so easily, 

why do humans believe 

life itself to be the ultimate achievement, the end?”

 

I smiled. 

“Lord! 

Eternal or ephemeral— 

what is worthy of trust? 

Why does this sadness weigh so heavily upon you? 

I have only understood this much: 

Nothing is truly ephemeral here. 

Eternity dances, 

its twin feet move with the rhythm of creation and destruction— 

one foot bound 

to the waves of experience, swaying and swaying, 

the other, adorned with red dye, anklets ringing, 

their sound ever-changing, 

step by step altering form, 

bound in melody, rhythm, time, 

one—fixed, immovable, 

the other, like the heavenly Ganga, 

full of intoxicating Amrita, 

talked about far and wide. 

Who, then, can remain still?”

 

“Lord, 

when time itself fills the cup of new joys, 

when emotions rise and fall like waves, 

bathed in this gentle touch, 

it fills, endlessly, 

the cups of youth, age, and death— 

one after another, 

with rules for all to follow. 

Life is simple, 

O Lord. 

Time, weaving its patterns both within and without, 

carves nature’s colorful forms.”

 

I fell silent.

 

The Lord looked at me thoughtfully. 

“Gopa, it is possible— 

with such clarity, 

you could easily rise above all desires. 

Why, then, should such thoughts 

be bound by weakness?”

 

Startled, I hastily replied, 

“No, Lord, no— 

this is but a way of thought. 

One who has felt even a single thorn's prick 

will surely cry in pain.” 

Seeing me so restless, 

the Lord gazed at me deeply.

 

The Lord’s eyes softened, 

filled with tender affection. 

Taking a deep breath, he said: 

“Somewhere, a deep wound has struck, 

marring life’s rarest beauty. 

Why could its youthful grace, 

fragrant and radiant, 

not remain eternal? 

Why this endless cycle of change? 

Why do desires dance, unrestrained, 

caught in the enchanting traps of time? 

When will these soul-bound wings 

break free, 

and end their mournful cries? 

 

Pain, nothing but pain— 

it is everywhere, 

visible at every turn. 

Relief from these outcomes 

is constantly awaited. 

I must embrace not the stirrings of desire, 

but the quiet heart of renunciation— 

what they call the eternal, 

immortal, and timeless. 

I am determined 

to attain that nectarous state. 

My heart, alight with resolve, 

is committed 

to self-reflection, 

to decisions, conclusions, and revisions, 

to the ever-new dawn of knowledge, 

to the awakening of truth. 

Not words, not studies— 

but the trials of experience, 

focused contemplation, 

will guide my way. 

No chains will bind 

my restless feet, 

no restraint can stop me. 

For Nirvana, 

for the welfare of the world, 

I have made my choice.”

 

Stunned, speechless, 

I watched. 

It all seemed so futile— 

no appeal could sway him. 

For who knows how long, 

the burning line had been drawn, 

though I had neither seen nor known it. 

Surely, he was leaving. 

 

Once. 

Just once, 

he could have said something 

before departing. 

At the moment of final farewell, 

these tears, 

as they washed his feet, 

could have spoken— 

perhaps they would have clung to him, 

or maybe, overcome by the pull of attachment, 

he would have faltered, 

his feet caught in the flow 

of my uncontrollable tears, 

unable to take even one more step. 

Or maybe, 

as the veils of intoxicating memories 

unfurled petal by petal, 

marked with a thousand nights of sweetness, 

the mind, 

overwhelmed by the fragrance of past love, 

would have wandered,  

lost in the endless downpour of tears, 

unable to reach its goal. 

 

But no— 

I know well. 

I would never let him go. 

What was mine, 

I would bind to my heart, 

hold it close. 

I would capture 

the fleeting steps of the one departing, 

bind them with my embrace. 

Sealing my heart’s rhythm upon his, 

I would 

bring my life’s treasure 

safely back to my home. 

But no— 

he knew the outcome too well. 

That’s why he didn’t let me realize it. 

He did what he had decided, 

with unwavering resolve. 

Great renunciation, 

sacrifice takes. 

Before the great radiance, 

the small lamp loses its light.

 

Surely, 

the final words of farewell 

would have rendered me still, 

silent, 

with no answer to give. 

A void, a senselessness, 

and a broken faith. 

Even the breath of despair 

wavered, melting into nothingness. 

This heart, 

which had endured beyond all wounds, 

even the cruel, unspoken blows of fate, 

lay shattered on the ground, 

its love gasping for air. 

 

Certainly, with unanswered questions, 

questions that found no response, 

he had to leave in such a way. 

Thus, this silent renunciation was perhaps the nobler path— 

a dazed consciousness, 

a frozen pain, 

a heart broken and feeble. 

My lips, turned to stone, 

could not utter a word. 

All the moments that had passed 

scattered at his feet, 

falling piece by piece. 

 

Wandering, lost and confused, 

those feet would have asked for directions. 

Could even one moment of the past, 

without hesitation or doubt, 

have provided a clear answer? 

The Lord 

had transcended attachment, 

beyond all desires. 

 

I, 

blinded by attachment, 

grieving, 

burning in the flames of unfulfilled desires. 

Within me, 

an echoing, ungraspable, profound wealth, 

a life fully lived, 

yet burdened by pain and the trembling past. 

They never knew, 

that this life 

was breathing only through their breath. 

They were my life’s dearest treasure. 

My heart, 

a mirrored reflection of their feelings, 

my body, mind, and life, 

a complete surrender. 

This, 

my lifelong offering at their sacred feet. 

 

This separation— 

how agonizing, 

how oppressive. 

Each moment, 

agonizing, tormented. 

They, 

even fiercer than the roaring tides of the ocean, 

were the unendurable, crushing blow. 

The Lord, 

he did not know his follower, 

nor did he recognize me. 

Experiences— 

they do not touch every heart with the same tenderness. 

Some they merely skim the surface of, 

while others, 

they pierce through to the very core, 

falling like a burning meteor, 

searing the depths. 

In the unconscious ocean of the mind, 

they freeze like an iceberg, 

forever flowing, 

their pain seeping through every vein. 

 

Moments of grief, 

in their purity, 

become bright, blazing flames of truth. 

A heart purified by suffering, 

radiating with golden light, 

sees the whole world 

reflected in a clear, transparent mirror. 

Only sorrow 

establishes a deep connection 

with the world’s consciousness. 

An awakening, 

a world awakened, 

all sheltered under the shadow of love, 

as the vast light 

becomes the home of the world. 

This is the pain the Lord had known— 

he embraced not the individual, 

but the whole.

 

But I— 

whose existence was entirely tied 

to blind devotion at his sacred feet— 

what could I know 

of the grand significance 

of the noble heart of the great man? 

I had heard 

that memorized knowledge and the innermost wisdom 

are connected, mutually affirmed. 

Yet my experienced knowledge, 

why does it not put an end 

to this overwhelming sorrow? 

 

Narad was right, 

when he spoke to Sanatkumar— 

I, 

a seeker of complete knowledge, 

one who moves everywhere, 

a knower of Brahma— 

why then 

could I not free myself from this grief? 

Doesn’t it mean 

that this sorrow is eternal, 

transcending time? 

It holds within it 

all words, forms, sounds, identities, pride, and tones, 

undeniably. 

From the heart of the Great Time emerges 

all forms and colors, 

only to dissolve back into it. 

What remains 

is a vast, shadowed, 

all-pervading sorrow, 

like a sky filled with blue poison, 

churning with grief. 

 

In the same way, 

my lonely, unending journey within— 

gathering nothing but 

an immense amount of unspoken experiences from this earth. 

Even if, 

by some chance, 

the Lord were to return to this home, 

this eternal wound, this scar, 

would never heal. 

In the flood that swept me away, 

its indomitable force will not be stopped. 

 

My wounded soul, 

forgotten smile, 

this life— 

a cursed blessing— 

how could it 

call out to him in praise or supplication? 

I, 

a broken statue, 

dimmed glory, 

every limb shattered, pained. 

 

Only one anchor in life remains— 

Rahul, my life’s dearest, my purest love. 

My beloved. 

He made me 

both Mahamaya and Mahaprajapati. 

In various forms, 

he came back as Rahul’s hidden father. 

Yet still, this wounded heart 

could not bind itself 

to any form. 

None of them 

could make me forget this deep pain. 

What am I to do 

with this restless mind, 

with this lifeless, mechanical, helpless existence? 

 

I, 

an eternal lover separated, 

a woman bound in the union of separation, 

with sleepless eyes, 

watching the dark, soot-colored nights burn away. 

My lament— 

is it any less 

than the sorrow of that forsaken Rati? 

The union entwined with separation, 

the blessing sought with yearning, 

floats like a golden lotus in the lake of my mind, 

while the curse-filled chalice trembles. 

Here, 

the echo of “No! No!” scrapes against the sky, 

its harsh sound grating upon my ears, 

beating against the sea of despair, 

shaking the sky and the earth alike. 

 

This is— 

my lot, 

my fate, 

the laughter of destiny, 

my shattered, dust-scattered faith. 

Tears fall 

from eyes that have no support, 

flowing ceaselessly down my chest, 

where the mirror of my heart 

has shattered into countless pieces.

 

This— 

the lone, endless soul-traveler's 

broken remnants of memory. 

An eternal, unbroken, blazing flame— 

yet, no ambrosia flows from it. 

Within, a churning storm of conflicts rages, 

a silent boundary breached by turmoil. 

In the smoldering, fog-filled graveyard 

of shattered hopes, 

my crippled, withered identity 

wanders like a ghost. 

With a skull filled with the blood of the heart, 

destiny, like a ghoul, 

dances a grotesque, mocking laugh. 

Helpless resignation— 

why do these living breaths persist, 

bound by some blind attachment, 

dragging heavy, broken, exhausted sighs? 

In this desert forest, bristling with thorns, 

why does the tender, affectionate flower of love  

still bloom? 

 

A woman’s heart— 

as soft as it is intricate— 

a turbulent sea of despair, 

washed ceaselessly by tears, 

yet never freed 

from its bitterness, its sharpness. 

Just as the ocean, weighed down by salty rocks, 

forgets its sweet essence, 

mad, 

roaring with tidal waves, 

stretching out countless restless arms, 

inviting the vessel of nectar-filled moonlight 

to come closer. 

 

But— 

where is it? 

Where is the union of ambrosia and poison? 

It has only ever borne bitterness. 

And like that, I too, 

tormented by the flames within, 

gaze at the moon’s glow, 

trying to understand my heart. 

Who, in this world, is untouched by pain? 

All endure it alone, 

in the desolate corners of their own hearts. 

Who can I ask? 

To whom can I speak? 

When— 

when the Creator shaped woman, 

where was her destiny cast? 

 

Or— 

what they call fate, fortune, time— 

did it cease to exist? 

No longer capable 

of shaping a woman’s future? 

What is a woman, 

burning like wax in the darkness of despair, 

treading silently over the stony path of thorns, 

melting like molten gold 

in the crucible of a seared, suffering heart— 

burning, 

unceasingly burning, 

yet her face remains illuminated 

by a soft, fading radiance. 

 

This moonlight of the wilderness, 

sobbing in frozen tears. 

Who has known 

the torment endured by these suffering breaths? 

This silent, tear-filled statue— 

the embodiment of ideals, 

and their unspoken dignity.

 

Fate— 

forever deceived by destiny, without cause. 

Wherever you touch, 

in every pore, 

a pain that stirs, 

a sharp ache pulsing through every vein. 

This endless sorrow, 

the unbroken, divine inheritance, 

a gift received from past and future lives. 

No beginning, no end— 

this is the conclusion of the soul’s journey. 

The challenge of pain, echoing its fierce call, 

and the overflowing vessel of nectar, 

shattered to pieces. 

Their enchanted, awakened mantras 

scattered somewhere, lifeless and dim. 

This— 

the unconquerable empire of suffering, 

an ocean vast, known as the sea of sorrow. 

Within it, 

pleasure remains hidden in the shell of pain, 

and from time to time, 

it shows brief flashes of light, 

like a pearl’s fleeting glow. 

But what value does it hold? 

 

With just a gust of wind, 

its frail thread of life 

is broken. 

Do not cry out for nectar! 

Do not wound the thirsting soul 

with cruel, sharp blows. 

Parched, 

with a dry, thorn-filled throat and cracked lips, 

it begs— 

enough, 

enough now, 

this is the unbearable moment of desperate waiting. 

The ocean of despair, 

its waves crashing in struggle, 

tries to churn nectar from the depths. 

But the nectar the world desires 

is mere deception, a cruel mirage, 

an invitation to futility. 

It is only endless burning. 

 

Who has ever found true joy? 

Happiness, born of the fire of sorrow, 

grows within its breathless sighs. 

Happiness— 

calling out in restless thirst, 

filling the eyes with anxious tears. 

It tries to embrace the silver moonlight 

with thirsty arms. 

Nurturing this desire in the heart, 

it climbs the desolate, steep steps of life. 

Falling, stumbling, 

wounded and crying out, 

breathing the unbearable sighs of unfulfilled longing. 

Here, only the cruel, merciless fate awaits. 

 

How mad the world is! 

It walks upon the restless, turbulent waves of the sea of sorrow, 

longing to drink deeply 

from the cup filled with moonlit nectar. 

But I have seen— 

only this ever-burning inner flame, 

poor, helpless, desperate, 

drinking endlessly, 

cup after cup, 

only its own tears. 

The flame, 

washed with these teardrops, 

burns even brighter. 

It has not lessened, not even slightly. 

This sorrow, restless and mute, 

refuses to speak— 

the mind, silent, melancholic, 

lips pressed together, 

sealing its sighs with unspoken pain. 

I looked upon it through the sharp gaze of time.

 

The vines of dreams, torn and shattered, 

wounded, 

falling, broken and crushed. 

The garden of bliss 

filled with sighs and groans, 

soaked in fresh, red-hot blood. 

Like the gusts of a storm, 

the pain swirled within, 

twisting and wrenching every string 

of the heart’s broken, shattered lute. 

 

The vast blue ocean of sorrow, 

surrounded by the fiery flames of anguish, 

rose up, 

the waves of thirst endlessly surging, 

absorbing the waters of the sea, 

yet the whirlpools remained 

forever empty. 

Wave after wave rushed forth, 

seeking to be filled, 

yet in their stubbornness, 

they swayed their heads, 

shaking delicate sprouts and trembling leaves, 

their parched lips cracking. 

 

Ages passed, 

telling the unending tale of thirst. 

Even the ocean, forever thirsty, 

was seen, 

drinking from the cup of the moon’s nectar, 

rolling across the blue courtyard of the sky. 

Yet still— 

oh thirst! oh thirst! 

it cried out, 

screaming as it scraped against the heavens. 

 

When was that moment 

when sorrow sent its invitation? 

This deceiving wanderer, 

through countless births, 

firmly planted its unshakable foot 

in the empty courtyard of the mind. 

In the chest of the heart, 

it nurtured the venomous, blazing serpent of pain, 

hissing without end. 

That venom, frenzied, 

with gaping jaws, 

swelled and surged. 

Imprisoned by fate, 

this helpless life, 

surrounded by memories on the horizon of the mind, 

became a dense mass of dark clouds. 

The heart's ocean, 

stirred and troubled, 

lay still, in the vast vacuum of despair, 

an endless, motionless void. 

 

The heart drifted away, 

like a helpless piece of wood, 

carrying the tattered garment of countless stars. 

Beneath the sad, bowed sky, 

it searched for a way to cover 

this burning, wounded heart. 

Helpless. 

It could not even become 

a shroud for death. 

And the earth! 

Her body and soul, 

burned completely in the forest of meteors, 

her heart pierced by a thousand thorns— 

even she 

could not bear this unbearable weight. 

They both cast me aside. 

Where do I belong? 

 

Neither the sky, 

nor the earth, 

accepted me. 

At the horizon where the two meet, 

the garden of dreams 

burned brightly. 

People say— 

no matter how deep the wound, 

time, with its gentle hands, 

slowly, slowly heals, 

filling every deep scar. 

It is the perfect remedy, 

taking away all pain. 

But this, 

this piercing, soul-penetrating blow— 

it listens to no reason. 

Like an etched image on a stone, 

it only grows clearer, 

sharper with every touch. 

The heart, weary and defeated, 

gasps for breath, 

silently enduring 

what it cannot control. 

Even fate is cruel to me— 

it has pulled its hands away as well. 

 

Now, 

this sorrow, sharpened by the whetstone of time, 

moment by moment, 

grows ever more unbearable, 

its piercing sting sinking deeper into the heart, 

like the strike of a thunderbolt. 

How silent, lonely, and desolate this life feels, 

lamenting like the dry, yellow leaves of autumn. 

 

Now, this solitary heart 

finds comfort 

only in its own shadow. 

No one else, 

in these empty, painful hours, 

has ever come near. 

In the dead of night, 

on the moonlit paths near the lotus ponds, 

it alone remains, quietly breathing, deeply sensitive. 

Only it listens, silently and without end, 

to this tale of separation. 

 

Otherwise, 

these unbearable, black nights of pain— 

dense and shadowy, 

layered with the frozen weight of despair, 

burnt away by tears, 

scattered with sighs. 

Eyes, turned to stone, 

remain mute, 

unable to see any path forward. 

Even this body, 

no longer feels like its own. 

Bound by the cords of breath, 

it seems to be repaying some unknown debt 

from a past life. 

In the deserted ruins of memories, 

the life-breath wanders aimlessly, 

piercing the body and mind 

like countless thorns. 

 

The heart, 

spread out like a vast, barren desert, 

waits. 

For what patience, what joy, what future, 

can this life now welcome? 

When, one by one, 

the thousand thirsty petals of longing 

gaze at the few drops of nectar trickling down, 

but in the middle of that flow, 

they find only the relentless, 

dripping poison of the fatal Halahala. 

They dissolve into tiny bubbles, 

overwhelmed by the mad ocean,  

its vast lips gnawing at the edges, 

a sea unbound by any limits. 

 

What has become of it? 

Neither nectar remains, 

nor poison. 

Both have merged into one. 

Deep, eternal pain, 

piercing through from one end to the other. 

This too, is an incomprehensible creation of the three worlds. 

What a deadly wound it is! 

The heart, 

awareness, 

sensitivity— 

knowledge, beauty, recognition— 

all of them, 

before this, 

are like children, unaware and naive. 

Not even for a moment 

do they remain in their own awareness. 

Total oblivion has swallowed them whole. 

 

Gopa— 

only 

the unfathomable, untouchable, 

unyielding, and unspeakable 

ocean of sorrow stretches on, 

from shore to shore. 

You, the Lord of compassion, 

the giver of universal love, 

you are aware of everyone's suffering. 

Yet this one sorrow 

has remained utterly unknown to you.

 

When, you, 

Transparent, direct, perceiver of all, 

Endowed with divine sight— 

How did you miss this moment? 

Your mercy shines on all, 

Why then, 

Was this bowed head left uncovered, 

Perpetually exposed, 

To unbroken darkness and relentless fate? 

Here, 

Only silent, aloof cruelty reigns. 

Toward whom? 

The one 

Who surrendered at your feet, losing herself— 

 

Gopa, 

In those sacred grains of dust, 

Which became her eternal refuge. 

Even the dust clinging to your feet, 

Sometimes forgets itself, 

In excessive love, 

Turning into a thorn. 

And as that thorn pricks, 

My eyes lower in pain, 

Wondering— 

What speck caused this hurt? 

Why did it not stay on the ground? 

Am I, 

Not even worthy of being that dust? 

Gopa— 

Was I never in your thoughts?

 

Ah, ill-fated! 

Even clouds tire of thundering, 

Even the roaring sea quiets down, 

But this heart, fate never grew kind to it. 

In this courtyard, 

The monsoon never arrived, 

The blazing heat never calmed, 

The clear blue sky was never seen.

 

This restless heart, 

Forever engaged— 

Is this now the endless life, 

After gathering all the poison from the churning of the ocean, 

Has the Creator formed a woman’s heart? 

The definition of a woman’s sorrow— 

An indelible despair, 

A mad mind, 

Which searches without knowing, 

Where it has lost, 

Those fragrant, intoxicating evenings. 

Each passing moment, 

Now arrives as an insurmountable mountain. 

And this— 

This unconquerable dark night, 

Veiling its hidden, unseen leaves, 

Shall never again, 

See the sun’s rays crown its head. 

No bud will ever bloom here again, 

No colors will ever fill them. 

In this thick, dark forest of desolation, 

Even the mirage has vanished, 

And the tear-filled eyes are numb. 

Even the night of destruction, 

Seems frightened by this abyss of despair, 

And this silent, immeasurable ocean. 

Now, 

Nature's very essence trembles, 

As the fire of annihilation rises— 

What moment is this, 

That marks the time of ultimate dissolution?

 

Every moment— 

Every instant— 

Whose life is unraveling? 

Whose tears— 

Have become an unstoppable sea? 

Whose shattered heart, 

In the desolate garden of broken hopes— 

What is this unexpected, mysterious hour? 

As the irresistible, untamable storm surges forth, 

And countless stars, 

And constellations fall from the heavens. 

The celestial river too, 

Is churning with turmoil— 

Dreadful. 

This is the great cremation ground, 

And what strange dust is swirling through it? 

Here’s the translation of the passage into English free verse with appropriate paragraphing:

 

---

 

Why? 

The dwellers of the cosmos— 

Falling, collapsing, 

Who has summoned them 

To this sacrifice? 

Night— 

You too, are a woman. 

From the tenderness of your heart, 

And the indifferent cruelty of the world, 

You suffer, utterly defeated. 

Sometimes united, sometimes separated, 

Within you, too, the flute of sorrow plays. 

In the shadows of memories' dark, blossoming groves, 

The silent Yamuna of your mind flows softly. 

Even your swaying veil 

Has been soaked with tears. 

The silent, inner torment— 

Is an eternal wealth. 

I have tied it within your veil. 

With tear-filled eyes, 

With trembling, quivering heartbeat, ask— 

Is this 

The essence of a woman’s life?

 

A profound, outspoken grief. 

Eyes— 

An unceasing stream, 

Every breath carries a sting, 

Every particle is filled with pain. 

Never, 

Even by mistake, speak of 

The insignificant joy. 

That, 

Bound by time, space, and limits, 

Is like a divine gift, 

It is laid down as a helpless, 

Crippled captive. 

Neither time nor distance, 

Nor the breath of life, 

Can ever free this treasure. 

It is an unattainable, celestial bloom. 

Look—far, far across—above and below, boundless— 

The blue ocean of sorrow stretches endlessly, 

Carrying with it the burden of lack, 

Unattained, unfulfilled, laden with pain. 

All have been engulfed in it, one by one. 

The proud, adorned crowns of joy— 

Trampled, surrendered, 

Dulled, in its embrace. 

This is the unspoken, bitter ocean of grief, 

Scraping the sky. 

Who here, 

Even remembers themselves?

 

Gopa— 

You too, 

Gather all your awareness, desires, and longings, 

And become, yourself, the sacrificial offering. 

Be a gift to it. 

This is the selfless sacrifice, 

The austerity, 

Remember this. 

Austerity— 

Profound absorption, focused, unwavering, 

Devotion, 

Action without reward, 

Desire— 

Is a descent into ruin. 

Achievements— 

The end of all action. 

The ultimate pause— 

Perfection— 

Is a dead life. 

It is the cycle of birth and rebirth, 

The return. 

Here’s the concluding passage translated into English free verse with paragraphing:

 

---

 

**Incompleteness.** 

The unbroken, unwavering activity of ceaseless action. 

A beauty that enchants the eye, 

Ever-changing, moment by moment, 

Bringing forth newness, 

Alive, 

A vibrant, life-giving grace, 

A captivating charm. 

This pulse, the sprouting of consciousness— 

It is the manifestation of sorrow. 

 

As the lips touch the fatal nectar, 

Awakening the fusion of the finite and the infinite, 

This immersion, this clarity of thought, 

Introspection is the true nectar, 

Self-exploration is the way. 

All else—false, unreal. 

 

Only this, 

Pure, virtuous, eternal, purified through penance— 

That is bliss, the true season of joy. 

Like a radiant flame shining in the black, inky sea of sorrow, 

A constant burning— 

The moment of union has arrived. 

The eternal, the infinite, the unyielding, 

Great light, filled with inner radiance. 

The golden embryo of light, 

The abode of eternal joy— 

This is the landscape where pain and bliss meet, 

Boundless and infinite joy unfolds. 

 

In various forms, the spotless, untarnished self-light, 

Takes on different hues, 

Creating pathways through its dense wisdom. 

The paths are many, 

But truth—there is only one. 

In the light of sorrow, 

Behold it with unwavering eyes— 

The infinite is within you. 

You, 

Upon the thousand-headed bed of your desires, 

It rests— 

Immortal, eternal, timeless, 

The embodiment of bliss. 

 

Happiness, like the alluring fruit of the vine, 

Ever distant, a fleeting mirage. 

In this endless search for joy— 

Has anyone’s thirst ever been quenched? 

Unfulfilled desires, 

Why should they ever be fulfilled? 

On this ground of illusion, 

The roots of the blossoming vine are firmly planted. 

A night, filled with impenetrable darkness, 

Tears have not lit their lamps. 

These thorny, desolate paths— 

No foot has tread upon them. 

In the harsh, indifferent, unfeeling valleys of life, 

Yearning vines, 

Struggling, 

On the hot stones of unfulfilled longing. 

 

The heart, terrified and frozen, 

The feet halted, 

The overflowing urns of hope, 

Fell and shattered. 

The scattered fragments, 

Have never been pieced together again. 

 

In the mist of sorrow-laden waves, 

An ocean of tear-soaked emotions— 

One who crosses through them, 

Reaches the heart’s quiet grove, 

In the cool shade of the ushir grass, 

Where sorrow has sunk deep. 

All dreams have crumbled. 

There, with unwavering dedication to penance and experience, 

He has crossed the wild ravines of unbearable sorrow. 

 

And there he sees— 

The cool shade of the sky, filled with the serene joy of the mind. 

It is there— 

The Mansarovar of the ascetic soul. 

There, the thousand-petaled lotus of self-light blooms, 

Resounding with the primal sound, 

All sorrows dispelled. 

A clear, simple, unobstructed path appears. 

 

This path— 

Beyond knowledge, beyond devotion, beyond ritual. 

All is futile. 

This is the only desire, 

The ultimate aim, 

The supreme blessedness. 

Only the experience of pain through penance, 

Burning away all impurities— 

Revealing a bright, indestructible truth. 

The flame of reality, 

The waves of the mind's ocean rise upward— 

Gradually, self-purification, 

Elevation, 

And the revelation of truth.