Summary
The poem begins with a sense of longing and anticipation, depicting an environment filled with desolation and yearning. Forests, palaces, and people alike seem to be in a state of emptiness, waiting for the return of something sacred. The central figure, possibly a disciple named Odayi, expresses the collective grief and longing of the people, who have been waiting for the Lord's return to Kapilavastu. The imagery of nature—restless paths, desolate groves, and the unbearable passage of time—serves as a reflection of their emotional state.
The Poem
In this scorching world,
only pain exists,
life, every fleeting
moment,
turns into
supreme joy,
a fragrant
delight
when it encounters the
heart,
resonating,
responding—
like some deep,
emotive
mirror of the mind.
Flowing through the
ages,
a silent stream—
the inner
Saraswati,
patiently
coursing,
always moving
within,
never receding.
Inwardly, the body and
mind,
cloaked in parched,
blistering sand,
never rising,
never surfacing,
the waves of thought
remain trapped.
Tears, agitated,
never spill from the
eyes,
wiped away in
haste,
for they have never
received
that loving, forgotten
moment
filled with assurance
and warmth.
Invincible,
unknowable,
beyond
comprehension,
the agony of
existence.
This is an unspoken,
relentless,
inexpressible
tale—
somewhere in
reality,
unyielding,
continuously
churning,
merely reactions
on the stage of the
universe,
the silent play
of an unvoiced drama.
Now, silence reigns
deep,
these fervent
faces,
some sharp,
shatter the husks of
words,
a powerful,
unstoppable flood,
growing moist,
crashing,
swirling,
immersing every
heartbeat,
be it rooted or
aware.
Within all, a vital
energy flows,
a profound
observation,
the eager heart of
nature,
a constant quest.
The inquisitive mind
wonders,
even in the lifeless
and the sentient, there is curiosity—
an inner
reflection.
Why, for whom,
is this entire
creation ordained?
Why does its
heartbeat,
so sensitive,
strive for
progress?
Every atom spins in a
circular dance,
absorbed in
meditation,
seeking the ultimate
hidden truth.
Life, bewildered and
amazed,
pierced by deep,
unanswerable questions,
runs through dense
forests and groves,
like a musk deer—
its frantic search
driven by scent.
What it seeks
is ever within,
yet it searches
elsewhere,
observing itself,
separated—
hills, valleys,
oceans, riverbanks,
sometimes cities,
sometimes groves.
No sign appears.
Where is the light
that dispels the darkness of ignorance?
Where is that hidden
abode?
Life and death,
the cycle of
rebirth—
whose death?
Who takes life
again?
These eternal
questions—
whose cause,
whose escape,
whose collection?
Why, time and
again,
this insistence on
returning?
Two young
Brahmins,
wandering in search of
answers,
Shariputra of
Upatishya and Maudgalyayana of Kolita,
both from the village
near Rajgrih,
stood amidst the
crowded flow of the festival at the mountain peak,
watching the
celebrations,
the joy, the surge of
festivity.
They spoke to one
another—
“Ah! These fleeting
moments of excitement,
this overflowing
joy—
they do not touch the
soul,
they drift on the
surface,
leaving sadness
behind.
Thorns of sorrow grow
sharper,
piercing deep.
The world,
burning red like
embers,
presses against the
eyelids.
This bewitching
charm—
like the Shalmali
flower,
its petals open,
its bright fibers
float in the wind.
Life, too, is
futile,
an empty
declaration
echoing through the
mind's sky.
Heavy clouds gather in
the sky,
breaking apart and
pouring down
on dry, deserted
courtyards.
The soaked, trembling
wings
of the peacock cry
out—
'Swati, Swati!'
in its lonely,
anguished desolation.
Life is thirsty,
empty,
still without proper
guidance.
Doubt, argument,
endless debates—
the mind trapped in
the storm,
helpless
self-purification,
a futile
analysis.
Life—
still, motionless as
before,
and the thirst for
knowledge remains unquenched.
Sanjay’s quest,
like an empty vessel
making noise,
his scholarship
hollow.
He walks
blindfolded.
Suddenly, while
wandering,
glancing here and
there,
Shariputra’s eyes fell
upon
a pure figure walking
by.
A surge of energy ran
through him
like lightning.
He saw—
a serene, radiant
ascetic,
and followed him
silently.
Finding the right
moment,
he spoke, humbly—
“Bhante!
I have been
wandering,
searching with this
restless mind
for answers to all my
questions.
Seeing your
magnificent presence,
I am certain,
you have attained the
long-sought nectar—
this discipline,
this order,
the radiant glow of
self-enlightenment.
Ayushman,
please tell me,
who are you,
Master?
What is your blessed
name?"
Ashvajit replied:
"I am
one of the five monks
from Rishi Patan.
I am known as
Ashvajit.
My master,
the one who guides my
actions,
is the prince of the Shakya
clan,
who renounced his home
in Kapilavastu.
He attained supreme
enlightenment
on the banks of the
Niranjana River,
under the Bodhi
tree
on a full moon in
Vaisakh.
Now he is called
Buddha.
I have taken refuge in
him."
Shariputra asked—
"What is his
teaching?"
Ashvajit recited:
'All things arise from
a cause;
the cause has been
taught,
and the cessation of
that cause,
thus speaks the Great
Sage.'
There is
suffering.
There are causes of
suffering.
There is a path to end
suffering.
Whatever religions or
philosophies exist,
undoubtedly, they all
search for
the root of
suffering,
seeking only
the quest for ultimate
peace,
the longing for
eternal liberation—
whether cultivated or
uncultivated,
within all minds,
the same web of life
spins.
What is the means to
liberation?
Action, deeds,
conclusions.
Just as
a potter,
on his wheel,
shapes—
from good to better,
from better to best—
so too, in the wheel
of creation,
life constantly
evolves.
Inward and outward
growth—
it strives,
ever forward,
unceasingly moving
ahead.
Even the Lord
guides the path,
shows the way.
The nectar, sought for
ages,
is said to be
found
within the cave of
knowledge.
Through restraint,
celibacy, discipline—
purify the mind
completely,
bind it.
The path is easy,
the truth, quite
simple—
there is no grand
illusion of worldly pomp.
Merely subdue
desires,
eliminate
hindrances.
What is called eternal
or immortal
is right before
you.
Upatishya Shariputra
spoke—
“Ah! This teaching,
truly marvelous!
In Sanjay’s
ashram,
wandering
aimlessly,
this life,
was wasted,
empty,
chasing after
nothing.
But here is tested,
proven wisdom—
within it lies peace, supreme
welfare.”
Shariputra accepted
Ashvajit
as his first
guru.
Wherever Ashvajit
might be,
in that direction,
until death,
he resolved to bow his
head,
recognizing it as his
highest duty.
Shariputra, with his
friend Maudgalyayana,
went to Gridhakuta,
where the Lord was
giving teachings to the monks.
From afar, the Lord
saw
both approaching.
He said to the
monks,
“These two coming this
way,
are the foremost pair
of disciples,
a blessed duo."
With bowed heads,
they received ordination
and entered the
order.
In time, they became
highly renowned Arhats,
known as the Lord’s
right and left hands.
One day, Shariputra
asked,
“Lord!
I’ve heard you say
many times—
‘Knowledge, elusive,
unfathomable, boundless.’
What is this
knowledge?”
The Tathagata
replied:
“Shariputra!
What do you call
knowledge?
Do you know
yourself?
This quest,
has been ongoing from
the beginning of time,
an unbroken
chain—
it is ageless,
deathless.
For the search for
truth,
the constant
inspiration,
arises from awakened
noble tendencies.
When this deep longing
is stirred,
the search for
knowledge begins—
the radiant light of
wisdom.
It’s the glowing dawn
on the horizon of spirituality,
the soothing glow of
inner peace.
The nectar flows
from the peak of
consciousness.
This is
knowledge,
carving its own
path,
its own bright,
blazing light.
A tranquil, untainted
mind—
this is its
abode.
Knowledge—
subtle, beyond
logic,
most difficult to
attain.
All those versed in
Brahman,
the scholars,
see its light
nearby,
yet it keeps slipping
further away.
They exclaim in
despair—
'It was just
here,
and now,
where has it gone?'
To attain this, I too
have resolved:
'I will follow as the
wise ones say,
I will endure,
amidst the turbulence
of this worldly existence,
and uphold this sacred
life.'
“अहं पि एवं
सामुदाचरिष्ये
यथा वदंतिविदु लोकनायक ।
अहं पि संक्षोभि इमष्मि,
वारुणे उत्पन्न सत्वान काषाय अध्ये ।।“
।। १२४ ।। (उपाय कौशल्य परिवर्त्त)
Donning this arduous
robe of saffron,
he descended into this
very realm—
to quench the thirst
for knowledge.
The great men,
at times,
illuminate the path of
righteousness,
with a divine
vision.
Their birth occurs
rarely,
in rare moments,
in rare places.
_"Sometimes,
somehow, somewhere,
these great souls
appear in the world,
born with infinite
vision,
and lead us to witness
the unseen truths."_
—(Upaya Kaushalya
Parivarta)
“ कदाचि कहिचि कथंचि
लोक उत्पाद मभान्ति पुरुषर्षभाणाम ।
उत्पद्दचा लोकि अनंत चक्षुष
कदाचिदेता दृशुमर्देशयु: ।।“
।।१३५ ।।(उपाय कौशल्य परिवर्त्त)
Shariputra—
this Dharma
is the very embodiment
of truth.
The truth is never
hidden
from the
infinite-seeing eyes of a seeker.
Those who have
realized it
say,
clearly, decisively,
fearlessly—
it resides within the
cave of the heart.
Some say,
it rests in the
Sahasrara,
others claim,
it is but the size of
a thumb.
Someone has
experienced it as
the bright,
indomitable, boundless
flow of eternal,
supreme power.
I say—
it lies in unwavering
celibacy,
in pure thoughts,
in steadfast, loving,
and affectionate conduct,
in the tears, sighs of
the world,
in the emotions of
universal love, non-violence, compassion, and friendship.
Renounce, free from
ill will,
and love all with an
open heart.
For such a one, the
two doors stand open—
the doors of
immortality.
Shariputra—
the ocean of infinite
knowledge, the eternal Dharma,
its essence is
unfathomable,
immeasurable.
Within it lies the
past and future unseen,
the pulse of
thoughts,
the mystery of
life,
its ultimate
truth.
This Dharma of mine is
nothing new,
nothing
different—
it is the
purification, the refinement,
the renewal of the
eternal Dharma.
It is scientific
enlightenment
in a new form,
presented simply,
explained through
reasoned analysis,
intellectual
discourse.
I have made it
clear—
I have condemned the
false debates, the sacrifices,
the pompous rituals,
the blind traditions,
the entanglements of
rituals.
This is the essence of
all religious philosophies.
It is an open
invitation—
this Dharma of
mine
is a direct
conversation with oneself.
I have cut
through
the difficult,
painful, thorn-filled,
complicated webs of
the Brahmins,
clearing a pure, wide
path
for the seekers of
truth.
It is an unforgivable
folly
to attempt an
unauthorized entry
onto the ground of
knowledge.
I have removed
the false religious
terror,
stopped the bargaining
for ascension to heaven,
taken the religious
authority,
the monopoly, from the
Brahmins.
The caste-based
divisions and the incomprehensible,
unreachable
Dharma—
they were rooted in
their selfish interests.
I have broken
down
the narrow tower of
exclusivity.
Now this vast
courtyard is open wide—
anyone can practice
religion,
engage in
discussion,
exchange
thoughts.
Here, all are
welcome,
all are invited.
Just as water, when it
rains,
fills every
corner,
regardless of uneven
ground, level plains, sands, or fertile lands,
its stream flows
continuously, unbroken—
so too is my Dharma
vehicle.
It is open for
all,
equally.
Only intellectual
capacity,
the ability to grasp
thoughts,
forms the three
branches,
and those with greater
spiritual merit
attain their rightful
place,
though the vessels
appear to be three,
the nectar of
knowledge flows equally into each.
Here, sixty-two
unverified, illogical religions,
remain stubborn,
clinging to mere
hearsay,
without engaging in
analysis,
without inquiry.
Whatever was once
said,
they insist,
remains valid even
now.
Have they not
experienced
the influence of
geography, history,
politics,
society?
Have the masses not
seen
the rise and fall of
time?
Yet they stand,
holding high the banner of religion,
claiming their
faith—unchanging, eternal—
remains the greatest
of all.
But I,
I do not say so.
I say,
come and see—
test it with
evidence.
Be your own
light.
Do not remain
blind,
do not walk holding
someone else’s staff.
Only boundless
compassion,
the feeling of
universal friendship—
flood everyone with
the waters of your love.
This is the
foundation
of true, verifiable
Dharma.
I am the Arhat,
liberated from the
world,
the perfectly
enlightened Tathagata.
Those who are
drowning, those who stand on the shore,
and those about to
cross over—
in my hands lie the
oars, the rudder.
Whether they are
stranded in midstream or nearing the shore,
I carry them all
across
in the boat of
Dharma.
One by one,
I show them the simple
path,
leading them to
complete liberation.
I guide them,
revealing their
destined village.
This—pure
knowledge,
the nectar of
liberation,
the essence of
renunciation,
the eternal,
unwavering truth.
The pure Dharma of
truth
grants the true
knowledge of the self,
in which one
finds
one's own clear
identity.
Since time
immemorial,
this proclamation has
echoed—
resounding in water,
earth, and the blue expanse of sky.
In every sphere,
stirring,
swirling,
binding countless
worlds—
the first syllable
alone—
a single sound:
“Oum.”
The seers of mantras,
the scholars, the knower of Brahman,
those who have
attained infinite vision,
say it’s just this
sound.
Within it lies all
creation and destruction,
nature,
universal awakening,
science,
and consciousness.
This sound—
the recognition of
truth,
the call to
realization.
Driven by this primal
sound
as the force of
attraction,
the enchanting world
of words is woven.
But,
recognize only the
sound.
Shariputra,
the sound of the mind,
the sound of
knowledge,
the sound of
renunciation.
That,
is the only essence,
the eternal,
nectar of life.
Do not make it
harsh,
bitter, or
broken—
this eternal,
unuttered,
indestructible sound.
Abandon,
ignorance,
tendencies,
and coverings of
delusion.
The soul
ascends,
continuously
rising,
gradually
traversing
the realms of
meditation.
First, it enters
its own thoughts,
discernment, and affection,
the dwellings of
joy.
As it moves
forward,
it steps into the
second realm of meditation,
where reason and
debate fade away,
and only affection and
joy remain.
In the third
stage,
it finds itself
awaiting only joy and
discernment.
The fourth realm of
meditation—
unthinkable, wondrous,
unheard, silent.
Both external and
internal consciousness—
void of thought, all
tendencies
reduced to ashes in
the great cremation ground.
An immense,
indescribable, unfathomable light—
from this light,
the entire world is
reflected,
countless suns,
moons,
sparkling stars
smiling down.
Ah, Tathagata!
Shariputra,
this is the ultimate
truth
from which
everything is
illuminated,
supremely enlightened.
Shariputra spoke—
“Lord,
how many hermitages
have I wandered through,
before arriving at your
holy feet.
How many times have I
heard of the cycle of rebirth,
of the soul’s
escape,
of the endless
wandering of the being.
Lord, speak
plainly—
what is all
this?”
A smile appeared on
the Lord’s face.
He swiftly asked—
“Tell me,
has anyone ever
seen
the soul or the
being?
Those who speak of
it—
do they know its
abode?”
This much I know—
on the woven threads
of existence,
etched are the shapes
of craving.
Craving,
the deceptive guise of
an unfulfilled soul.
The soul,
tormented by
desires,
sinks again and
again
into the dark well of
rebirth.
To quench its
thirst,
it drowns endlessly in
unquenchable hunger.
Therefore,
Shariputra,
do not choose
impermanence, choose immortality.
Do not analyze the
soul, the being,
for that only
increases confusion.
Step away.
Do not be the flame,
fallen into the fire of desires.
I—
I remain impartial,
merely a witness.
You are the
enjoyer.
I am renounced,
you are bound by
tendencies.
Why are you caught in
the labyrinth,
having abandoned the
simple path?
Observe what you
see.
As for the soul,
on this matter,
I say nothing.
Experience
self-awareness, O human,
it remains centered
and intertwined within itself,
far from
refinement,
filled with tendencies
and cravings,
drunk on ego and
pride.
Where, then, is the
true search for truth?
The Katha Upanishad
says:
hidden in the cave of
the heart
is a tiny flame,
the size of a
thumb.
Have you ever
reflected on this saying
or paid it any
mind,
or did you accept it
as
an irrefutable,
cosmic, divine truth?
When—
ascending from the
realms of meditation,
the human rises
upward,
he reaches that
plane
where only light
ripples.
That tiny space of a
thumb
fills itself with its
own light.
This is the only—
true, eternal
light,
the fearless call
of that immortal
state.
Only those free from
distractions hear it.
What they call the
soul—
it is but a stream of
consciousness (neutrinos ?),
a descent of the
mind-sky,
a discernment between
truth and falsehood.
The soul is the
essential collection
of experiences from
birth to birth,
always giving clear
and impartial answers.
This is the seventh
plane of meditation,
where there is only
infinite light,
profound silence.
Shariputra,
remove the dense
darkness of tendencies,
and it will emerge by
itself—
giving answers to all
questions,
pure, unveiled,
burning brightly
within itself.
It shines, fearless
and clear,
absorbing form and
formlessness alike,
an eternal flame,
steadfast in truth,
radiant with ageless,
deathless light,
a dwelling of
immovable truth.
This is but—
an unheard, unseen,
indescribable experience.
Here,
gross consciousness is
still, the senses mute.
The festival of
words
meets only its own
downfall.
This is but—
an unthinkable,
immutable experience.
A fleeting
glimpse,
seen only by
those
who seek the
truth.
Those who constantly
observe within,
they may sometimes
catch
this elusive
moment.
Otherwise,
the material
remedies—
sacrifices, rituals,
offerings, and the like—
are merely
the cries of the
born-blind.
How can they ask—
what are color,
form,
or light?
Filling their
hands,
these priests
quench their thirst
with mirages.
Into the
heart-knowledge flame of wisdom,
they pour the vessels
of desire.
Knowledge—
some of it,
action—some of
it.
Man, tangled and
wrestling
in the darkness of
doubt,
his insight
dulled,
his wisdom
constrained.
Shariputra!
Only the mind,
only the mind—
analyze it
deeply.
In the churning of the
nectar,
from the same
ocean,
both nectar and poison
emerged.
Why not just one?
Ponder and understand
this.
The ocean of human life,
where tendencies and
renunciations swirl—
if the mind stands
firm,
like the peak of Mount
Sumeru,
with resolute
determination,
it will churn out
both—clearly visible.
What is auspicious and
eternally benevolent,
that nectar-like
state,
it will embrace.
Thus, by calming the
tendencies,
do not be misled
by what lies beyond
sight.
This tree before
you,
these vessels in your
hands—
I recognize them
all.
But what is untouched
by senses,
that remains unknown
to me.
Look at what is near
you—
the world is deeply
afflicted,
bound by blind
attachment,
thirsting with
cravings,
ablaze in the flames
of passion.
With love, compassion,
and mercy,
we must extinguish
these fires.
Yet it is
arduous—
to rise above the five
aggregates,
the five clinging
elements, and the six paths.
This is a ceaseless
struggle,
and I am ever
ready,
determined, with
joy,
to offer aid.
The Tathagata—
all-knowing in every
way.
Compassion,
friendship, and mercy—
practicing them is
difficult indeed.
This—
is the voice of the
Tathagata's soul:
“Friendship as
strength, patience as grace, the robe of simplicity.
Emptiness as the seat,
these are my words of truth.”
(24th verse of the
Turning of the Dharma Wheel)
“मैत्रीबल चलयनं
क्षान्ति, सौरत्य, चीवरम ।
शून्यता चासन, मह्य मंत्र स्थित्वाहि देशयत ।।
।।24।।(धर्ममाण परिवर्त्त)
Friendship is my true
abode,
this worn-out
garment,
this covering—
what they call
a robe,
it is but
the vast canopy of
immense peace and boundless love.
Under its shade
radiate countless
suns, moons, stars,
and the deep blue sky.
This is—
eternal compassion and
love,
an unthinkable,
indescribable heart.
This robe,
is not just a
garment—
within it are wrapped
the afflicted, the distressed, the suffering, the grieving souls.
Always working for
their welfare,
forever.
This Arhat,
focused and unwavering
in meditation,
free from all
conflict,
dwells on a land of
detachment—
immense serenity,
untainted, unshaken
emptiness.
This is—
the Dharma Throne
of the Tathagata, the
king of Dharma.
Shariputra,
yoga or
renunciation,
are attained only
through the middle
path’s embodiment—
the resolution of both
extremes,
moderate eating,
moderate sleep,
quenching the flames
of passion,
restraint from bodily
hardship and intellectual strife.
This is my
Dharma,
known as
‘Ehipassiko.’ (This Past)
In this—
there is no
groundless, meaningless debate.
I—
do not fill my robe
with unseen flowers
from a fruitless
udumbara tree.
The Tathagata speaks
of what is evident,
pragmatic, practical,
substantial, and meaningful,
making it clear and
accessible.
I do not grope in the
dark,
but firmly speak
of what is known
through experience.
Shariputra,
man has always
struggled,
wrestling with
Dharma.
For him, it is hard to
tread the simple path—
more difficult
still,
to adopt love and
compassion for all.
He—
can easily cast a
stone in disdain,
but to lift the
fallen,
to soothe their
wounds,
that, he cannot.
The tongue,
swift as
lightning,
lashes with venom when
it delivers harsh words.
But only sweet
words—
those that pour
nectar
into the lives of the
afflicted and oppressed—
they weigh down his
tongue,
heavy and
immovable.
For this, one must
break the ego.
With truth,
non-violence, and compassion,
one must unite the
mind and heart.
These are—
the successive steps
of meditation.
The chains bound to it
are cut.
With these words, the
Lord dissolved the assembly.
Shariputra, bowing in
reverence,
circled the Lord and
took his leave.
He stood outside,
solitary.
Suddenly, his gaze
fell upon a tree.
Beneath it,
sat a monk,
eyes tightly shut in
deep sorrow.
Shariputra approached
him and asked,
“Are you returning
from the city?”
The monk nodded in
silence,
his eyes brimming with
tears.
He drew a deep, cold
breath.
Shariputra
inquired,
“Have you indeed
forsaken faith in life?
Why do you bear this
agony,
this fire that
scorches within,
flames of passion that
rise without effort?
You sought alms,
but instead,
you went to gaze
upon
the beauty of the
courtesan, Syria.”
The monk replied in a
pained voice,
“What can I do about
this deadly flame?
I did not ask for
this—
bound hand and
foot,
helplessly
thrown,
into the raging fire
of passion.
No teaching has
quenched my awareness.
The flood of blind
attachment
has swept away all
knowledge and wisdom.
This—
unrelenting deluge of
delusion,
what a complex bondage
it is.
The more I seek to be
free,
the deeper and more
intricate
it becomes.
In this fierce,
swirling storm,
I am blown
astray,
like a kite cut loose
from its string.
In the blazing
meteoric storm,
each part of me is
burning.
Shariputra asked,
“Had you ever seen her
before?”
The monk replied,
“I had only heard of
her fame.”
Shariputra said,
“Then today,
this first sight of
her—
has left you
helpless,
engulfed in this
delusion?”
The monk replied,
“Bhante, this first
encounter—
had I ever foreseen
it,
I would have been
alert,
cautious.
But I fell
suddenly,
into this burning
flame,
as a moth falls into a
lamp.”
Shariputra said,
“Monk, you have
stained
your robe—
this kashaya
garment.
Do you not know
of these five
aggregates—
form, sensation,
perception, mental formations, and consciousness?
Through their
restraint,
the senses burn—
the eyes, ears, touch,
speech, taste, breath.
These five elements,
the twenty-five subtle states,
all born from the five
great elements,
are impermanent.”
This body—
so beautiful,
a wondrous, intricate
creation—
yet,
it is but made of
clay.
From it shines eternal
beauty,
yet its cause and
origin
are utterly
impermanent.
The monk spoke—
“From the eternal
comes the eternal,
from the impermanent,
the impermanent.
This I have
learned.
Why would the eternal enter
the impermanent,
when the eternal
always denies it?”
"O monk,
lost in delusion,
awaken!
Human life
is but a call to
immortality.”
The grief-stricken
monk,
restless and
agitated,
replied:
“I know not of the
eternal or impermanent.
I only see—
the all-consuming
flames of truth,
burning me,
in pain.
The eternal—
has always been a
baseless fantasy.
The impermanent—
a mirage, a deceiving
golden deer,
a fatal illusion.
This poison—
deadly,
consuming,
this weak, helpless
heart,
tormented,
fragile,
must bear it all.
Underneath—
the tinkle of ankle
bells,
the swift, playful
steps,
beneath those
lotus-like feet,
I only wish—
to tear off this
robe,
to lay down a carpet
where her tender feet may tread.
The dust of her
steps—
I would make into
sandal paste,
and her lotus
petals—
would blossom,
in gardens filled with
the fragrance of opening lotuses.
My mind—
like a bee,
dazed and
enchanted,
forgetting,
forgetting life,
forgetting the
vihara,
the chaitya,
the forest.
Every heartbeat
becomes a
thousand-petaled lotus,
echoing with the music
of anklets,
the melodious
steps.
The monk—
hiding his face in his
knees,
sobbed softly,
his tear-soaked
eyes,
filled with
sorrow.
In a choked
voice,
he touched his kashaya
robes,
and said:
“In every thread,
the flames burn—
the thirsty
flames,
they grow,
inside these saffron
robes.
The fire rains
down—
the meteors
shower—
upon these wrapped
garments.
Ah! I am completely
uprooted,
lost and
confused.
Since birth, I’ve been
fallen—
now I stand before
this volcano,
its mouth wide
open,
its unbearable
heat
burns me inside and
out.
How heavy, how
burdensome it is—
each breath
wasted,
in these futile,
fleeting moments.
The sting of this
saffron robe,
grows sharper,
more unbearable.
Where she stands—
there, I shall
remain,
and awake a sacred
fire,
a ceaseless
flame.
In its coolness,
I will find
peace.”
Seeing his
madness,
Shariputra spoke—
“Oh!
What a strange
delusion,
this blindness,
this fleeting inner
turmoil—
like a river,
vast and calm,
deep and
unshaken,
swallowing all the
stones,
that fall,
endlessly,
one by one.
The fiercest
storms—
that tear the
sky,
roaring in all
directions—
they all become
absorbed,
flowing within,
silent and still.
Like dew on lotus
petals,
glistening pearls of
frost,
seven-colored rays
dance,
bathing in laughter
and grace,
adorning the
leaves,
a garland of fluid
beauty.
Nature’s unmatched
gift.
But it does not
last.
Not for a moment.
In the mirror of the
world,
it barely glances at
its beauty—
how fleeting, how
swift, how momentary.
This life, bound by
desires,
is like a sweet
drop
dissolving,
in the fleeting
moments of time.
And yet, you see,
with each passing
moment,
impermanence brings
destruction.
So why—
would you trade the
priceless
for the
worthless?
Why make life so full
of sorrow and pain?
This is all I have to
say.”
This body, a vessel of
clay,
Beautiful, adorned
with intricate patterns,
But, alas, when it
slips from the hand,
Falls to the ground
and shatters into countless fragments.
Each scattered piece,
in its silent agony,
Speaks of its fleeting
existence.
No matter how one
tries,
It can never be
restored to its former self.
Collecting the pieces,
casting them aside—
Wouldn’t one then
cleanse the place?
The monk, in a voice
filled with pain, spoke—
“O Blessed One!
In the courtyards of
both the East and the West,
The blood-soaked
crimson of the setting sun spreads.
Bent beneath the
weight of sorrow,
He presses his wounded
heart,
Returning again to the
East.
Has he ever accepted
defeat?
He continues,
eternally striving,
Crossing mountains,
valleys, and the vast oceans.
Deep despair
lingers,
Unshaken, always
guarding its memories of pain.
One-sided, silent
love—
Piercing deeply,
relentlessly,
It burns and
torments.
It is like the hooded
serpent,
The coiled
Kundalini,
Hidden, yet forever
spewing fire,
Driving one mad,
Nurtured deep in the
furnace of the heart.
I will gather the
smallest fragments of the shattered vessel.
Even the tiniest
speck, I will carefully collect,
Seal them away in a
box.
Day and night,
tormented, restless,
I will wash each
fragment
With unceasing
tears,
Until I polish the
agony of their pain.
In this
ever-thirsting, unfulfilled vessel of mine,
Blinded by illusion,
in awe,
I will quickly fill it
with that moonlit beauty.
In its
reflection,
Drenched in despair,
overwhelmed,
I will read the silent
language of these tear-stained eyes.
Taking a deep breath
of hopelessness,
Sariputra looked up to
the sky.
He thought to
himself—
Those whose shadows
shelter this troubled mind,
They alone will ease
this tormented soul.
They alone will calm
this relentless burning.
Ah!
Infinite, boundless,
supreme and compassionate,
Their mercy extends
far and wide.
They alone are the
unfailing remedy.
They will swiftly
bring healing.
This excruciating
torment,
This unquenched thirst
of the mirage—
They, with their ocean
of love,
Will submerge all this
agony.
This unbearable,
stormy anguish
Shall dissolve
entirely within them.
This blind
infatuation,
Rooted in utter
helplessness,
Has now reached its
silent, immobile end.
Who but them has the
power
To rescue the mighty
elephant,
Sinking deep into the
mire?
But time, the silent
vessel,
No one has yet
deciphered.
Its signs, its
commands—
They call it
destiny.
Without its will, not
even a blade of grass stirs.
In one moment, at one
point in time,
The monk’s deep,
sorrowful distress,
And the news of the
sudden, untimely death of Sariya,
Both reached the
Lord.
The Lord gave an
order—
Sariya’s body should
be preserved in the cremation ground.
This is the humble
defeat of impermanence.
Let those see,
Who within their
hearts,
Carry the violent
storm of conflict
Between good and
evil.
That unparalleled
beauty,
Now even too heavy for
impermanence to bear.
The buzzing bees
fled,
Avoiding her
gaze,
Those who once
traded
A thousand golden
coins
For a single night in
her presence.
The Tathagata spoke to
the king—
Issue a command,
That on this forsaken
earth,
Whoever desires may
lift
The body of this
exceedingly beautiful woman
From the cremation
ground,
By paying a thousand
golden coins.
According to the
Lord’s words,
The king made the
announcement.
The Tathagata had
brought along that monk as well,
Who still had tears in
his eyes.
Seeing Sariya, he was
stirred,
Like a lotus torn
apart by the storm.
His pain-filled eyes
were bloodshot,
Heavy eyelids cast
down.
His trembling
lips,
Like tender, young
banana leaves,
Quivered
incessantly.
Still, tears clung to
the dark lashes,
Veiling a face
stricken with anguished sorrow.
His voice was mute.
He stood there,
Bound by fate, mute,
motionless as wood,
Chained by the
inescapable threads of destiny.
The cremation ground
was devoid of spectators,
The corpse lay
abandoned, utterly forlorn.
The earth was silent,
gazing at the still sky,
The faith in
impermanence, shattered and lost.
A voice spoke into the
void,
Echoing,
reverberating, descending into the depths,
But not a single coin
could halt its fall.
Afternoon was
fading,
The dusk
deepened.
This, the interplay of
time—
The union and
separation—
None could stop
it.
The Lord turned to the
monk.
What was her
worth?
Not even a penny’s
value remained.
This was the same
beauty,
Now merely a
shell.
Not the body,
But the eternal truth
of the five elements.
Only a hindrance.
Behold,
The hideous end of
impermanence.
Recognize the pledge
of truth.
Why does no one
approach her now,
Who once was the
epitome of vitality?
All know,
That spark of
consciousness
Is no longer within
her.
What relation has this
corpse with life?
This body lies
here,
Destined to rot,
Not just the flesh,
even the bones
Shall soon turn to
dust.
Death-bound.
Tied to the signs and
signals of time,
It moves only at its
command.
The flow of time,
Rising, falling,
forming, dissolving like bubbles.
Some are magnificent,
some utterly insignificant,
But for all,
A pyre is
prepared.
No one escapes this
fate.
A handful of
dust—
What power does it
hold?
Embrace the
truth,
Hold no attachment to
this.
These painful
halts—
Always keep them at a
distance.
This once blazing,
dazzling beauty,
Now withered, its
delicate glow faded.
No one seeks it
anymore.
Roam within that
eternal beauty,
In the everlasting
light,
From which the entire
universe—
Infused, enraptured,
illumined,
Radiates with
truth.
Forget this unbearable
heat,
The intoxicating touch
of beguiling impermanence.
See the hollow nature
of impermanence,
Its essence burnt to
the root.
What remains is the
grotesque skeleton,
A cursed
sight—impermanence.
Granted a brief,
transient existence,
But as its time ends,
it rises silently,
Poisoned by time,
enshrouded in deep darkness.
Its enchanting allure
now shattered,
Its beauty scattered
and discarded.
How can one remain
committed to this?
Can a mirage quench
thirst?
A resolute gleam of
truth
Emerged on the face of
the grief-stricken monk,
Standing in
silence.
The Lord's teachings
erased all mental suffering,
His tears dried
up.
He attained the path
of the stream-enterer.
When Gautama returned
from there,
He saw that for five
months now,
In this valley, time
had taken residence,
Roaming the rocky
foothills,
A troubled mind
wandering in desolation.
With a faint smile,
the Lord spoke:
"I am just
returning,
Having shattered
someone’s illusion.
But what about
you?
Why are you so deep in
thought,
So
agitated?"
Time-bearer
replied,
"For five months
now,
I have been pondering continuously,
Whether to remain
silent,
Or say something,
Or simply return.
What I see unfolding
here—
There can be no
deviation in this course.
It will remain as it
is,
Without the slightest
difference.
Nine messengers came
from Kapilavastu,
And all renounced the
world.
I am the tenth
messenger,
Sent by the great King
Mahasammata.
I came with their
trust,
Carrying their
command.
Will I also return
empty-handed,
Or will the Lord come
with me?
Think of the father’s
plight,
How he spends his days
and nights.
Since the full moon of
Vesak,
You completed your
rains retreat at Rishi Patan.
You arrived in Uruvela
by the full moon of Ashwin,
Spent the full moon of
Paush on Gṛdhrakūṭa.
And today, it is the
full moon of Phalgun.
Yet in my heart,
The darkness of
despair deepens,
This cascading
blackness, thick as soot.
Shall I remain like
this?
When I finally meet
the venerable father,
What shall I say to
him?
Almost seven years
have passed
Since you were in deep
meditation,
In the dense forest of
Khidira,
On the banks of the
river Salilvati.
Even Mahaprajapati
Gautami
Once ventured there to
bring you back.
It has now been five
years since then.
Only deep despair
remains.
The life in
Kapilavastu
Has passed in unbroken
melancholy.
The father’s
love,
Seeking control over
the son.
Lord,
Please accept the
invitation from Kapilavastu.
The time is
auspicious. The sky is clear and pure.
The trees are adorned
with new leaves and sprouts.
The ponds and
lakes
Are filled with
blooming lotuses and lilies.
The once-scorching
earth has cooled,
Dressed now in fresh,
delicate greenery,
With herds of
deer,
Roaming joyfully with
sharp horns, innocent eyes.
The jasmine and
madhumalti creepers,
Cling to the
dew-covered trees,
Shivering in the cold
mist.
On the trees, the
lakes, the hills, the caves,
The rocks and the
waterfalls,
The forest moonlight
dances in solitude.
Ah! There is no one to
reflect back
The splendor of this
beauty.
No one left with the
sensitivity
To appreciate this
natural charm, this grace.
The koel sings in
hidden groves,
The lonely chakrang
sits by the riverside,
Echoing the sentiment—
‘True! So true!’
Pure beauty,
Forever untouched and
unsullied.
Who can touch
The moon cradled on
Shiva’s brow?
Who can feel
The unfathomable
depths of the ocean?
Who can scale
The snow-crowned peaks
of the Himalayas?
Indeed, divine beauty
is always untouchable.
Only the eyes that
dive deep into the abyss,
And the heart that
soars to its highest heights,
They alone
understand,
The essence of
beauty,
The undying
youthfulness of nature.
At dawn,
The sun scatters red
hues across the horizon of Kapilavastu,
Holding a golden urn,
searching—
Where are those
lotus-eyed ones?
The ones who brought
solace to grief.
They were the mirror
to my innermost self.
To whom shall I
dedicate this beauty now?
Where are they—
Those soft, tender,
lotus-like feet?"
Lord!
The forest and the
groves feel empty.
Nyagrodharam is
desolate,
The palaces, halls,
courtyards, streets, the city, the gardens—
All lie in
waiting.
Eyes filled with
anticipation, hearts heavy with sorrow.
One question, one
yearning—
How long will these
paths remain deserted?
How long will these
roads remain restless?
Weeks have passed into
weeks,
Months into months,
years into years.
Now, even this void
groans in agony.
There is but one
desire in everyone.
When will the dark
clouds gather
In the scorched
courtyards of our minds?
When will the
hundred-fold lightning
Flash on the stage of
dark monsoon clouds,
And break the anklets
of the storm?
When will the blooms
of hope emerge
From the stagnant
ponds of despair?
When will the
koel,
With closed wings and
eyes shut tight,
Restless with the
scent of mango blossoms,
Cry out in
madness?
Lord, everyone is
waiting.
Their eyes, filled with
tears.
Come, just once, and
see—
How full of love and
longing everyone is!
It is spring.
Both nature and the
earth are in harmony.
The air is neither
cold nor scorching.
The blue sky is
clear,
The forests are
fragrant, lush, and flowering.
This time is
perfect
For a journey.
The Lord spoke:
"Look at the
clear, deep blue sky.
Speak your intent,
Odayi!"
"Lord!
Can the love of those
who gave birth be denied?
When a river, breaking
through the stony chest of mountains,
Flows with great
force—
Does it ever
pause?
Lord,
Natural love is
immense, wondrous.
It exists equally
In creatures of the
sky, the land, and the waters.
The love of a
parent,
A father's
affection.
Now,
It has lost its
patience.
Seven years—
It's not a short time,
Lord."
The Lord said:
"I will go to
Kapilavastu.
Tell the community of
monks to prepare for the journey.
I will gather my
people as well.
Two months from
now,
While on my
travels,
I will go from Rajgrih
to Kapilavastu.
My dear disciples,
Sariputra,
Upatissa, and
Moggallāna,
Will both accompany
me."
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