Summary
The poem "The Prediction" revolves around a
pivotal prophecy concerning the life of Prince Siddhartha, who would later
become the Buddha. It begins with the king, Shuddhodhana, and his queen, Maya,
who anxiously await the birth of their child. Their happiness is overshadowed
by a prophecy from Kala Deval, a sage who predicts two potential futures for
the newborn: if he remains in the worldly life, he will become a great
universal monarch (Chakravartin); if he renounces the material world, he will
attain enlightenment and become the Buddha.
The Poem
Before the king
could give his command,
Arrived on his own,
The royal priest, Kaladeval.
And as he came, he asked,
"Oh, Majesty!
Hearing the auspicious news, I have come at once.
Is it true?
Has the palace been blessed
By the birth of a new, eternal flame
To shine upon the royal lineage?
Has the lineage, flowing like a river of life,
Found its next vibrant link,
Woven anew?
Has the nest, waiting in thirst and longing,
Been filled with the chirping
Of a newborn bird?
Have the thirsty eyes brimmed with nectar's essence,
And
Has the cuckoo's song graced the ears
With its sweet melody?
O King!
Has every branch of the blossoming mango tree
Been weighed down with the joy of ripened fruits?"
With folded hands and a gentle smile,
The king spoke—
"Revered One!
Indeed, every word you say is true.
No one has found a moment's rest.
The newborn child,
Until he is cradled in the swing,
Is passed from one to another,
Held in countless arms.
He laughs in his dreams,
Startles in his sleep.
The women of the royal family,
In the rhythm of their heartbeats,
In the shower of endless kisses,
They rock him, caress him, hold him close,
As they move around.
At the chamber's door, in the blazing fire,
Agarwood incense offerings burn.
Charms and rituals, with sacred chants,
And a golden necklace,
Adorn the child's neck."
Hearing all this, nodding his head in approval,
The ascetic spoke—
"Will I be honored
With a glimpse of that divine being?
Will these weary eyes
Be blessed by that rare radiance?"
With a smile, Shuddhodana replied—
"Why not? Why not!"
By royal command,
Two attendants brought the child.
Shining like molten gold,
Dazzling to behold,
Like the rising sun from a golden vessel,
In the blue sky,
Like the full moon in the clear Ganges night.
Wrapped in a pale yellow cloth,
Radiant like a golden hundred-petaled lotus.
Holding the child in his arms,
Kaladeval gazed intently.
With both hands, he lifted the child up,
And the child laughed with a joyful face.
His moon-like face,
Filled with blossoming beauty and grace.
The ascetic gazed at the newborn,
smiling with delight—
But in the very next moment,
His face grew somber and distressed.
Suddenly, his brows furrowed,
His eyes turned toward the sky.
Then his eyelids lowered again.
In silence, without a blink,
he stared at the child.
Seeing him filled with deep sorrow,
The king, alarmed, asked—
"Lord! Is there any cause for concern?"
The ascetic remained silent.
His gaze roamed everywhere,
Then settled on the water pot placed beside him,
And, calming himself,
He looked at the staff nearby.
Suddenly, he became lost in thought.
A slight mist appeared in his eyes.
Anxiously, Shuddhodana asked—
"Revered one! Why are you so deep in thought?
I am becoming extremely restless and troubled."
In a calm and serious tone,
the ascetic replied—
"Your Majesty! No, O King!
Do not be distressed.
But then! Why did you laugh
And then become filled with tears and sorrow?"
Kaladeval said—
"I wept over my misfortune,
For I shall be deprived of a rare fortune.
This joy is not destined for me,
The joy that will soon make you, Majesty, rejoice.
This great soul,
Who has descended here—
If he remains bound to the life of a householder,
Then,
He shall be a mighty emperor."
Overwhelmed with restlessness,
The king anxiously asked—
“If not this, then what?”
Taking a deep breath,
Kaladeval replied—
“If he renounces the world,
He will become
A Buddha.
For on the tender limbs
Of this newborn,
Thirty-two auspicious marks are inscribed.
In both paths,
He shall achieve eternal glory and fame.
What lies within the folds of destiny?
It grants,
A golden crown or the saffron robes.
He shall rule the entire earth,
Or, in detachment, wander the forest."
Kaladeval,
Taking the newborn in his cupped hands,
Lifted him to his forehead.
As he bowed his head in reverence,
Tears filled his eyes.
Whatever form the future may bring,
He contemplated,
Took a deep breath,
And rose from his seat.
Slowly, gradually,
Four days passed in this way.
Today was
The fifth day.
The royal courtyard
Was thoroughly cleaned and made fragrant.
Flowers of the four castes,
Turmeric, sacred grass, puffed rice,
uncooked grains, and ghee lamps.
An artistic and colorful canopy,
With banana tree pillars decorated,
Adorned with garlands of Ashoka and mango leaves.
The sacrificial altar was filled with offerings—
Spoons, ghee, curd, and sacred food items in abundance.
One hundred and eight Vedic scholars,
The Brahmins, were invited.
Among them,
eight were the revered seers,
the Devajna.
The newborn child
Was covered in soft, new yellow silk garments.
On his bright and wide, radiant forehead,
A tilak of saffron, vermillion, and rice grains
adorned,
His lips tinged with a red hue.
His soft, delicate little feet
Were decorated with vermillion.
Around his neck, a garland of golden pearls,
At his waist, a black silk girdle with golden pearls
And tiny bells,
On his feet, golden anklets jingled.
The infant,
Rested on a large golden platter,
On cushions of soft cotton wool.
Today was the naming ceremony.
The entire royal palace
Was bustling with joyful excitement.
Various delicious dishes,
Including a sweet pudding made of dried fruits,
Were served to honor the Brahmins.
Pleased in every way, the Brahmins,
In unison,
Blessed the newborn.
At the auspicious moment,
under the favorable star,
and at the right time,
With the sound of the conch and Vedic mantras,
The name was declared—
“Siddhartha,”
The one who fulfills desires,
Resolute and steadfast,
A realized soul.
The Brahmins,
once again in a united voice,
Repeated the previously declared prophecy.
The king,
with folded hands and a humble demeanor,
Looked at the eight revered seers.
Seven Brahmins, in firm voices,
Raised two fingers to make their point—
If,
He becomes a king,
A householder,
Then surely,
He will be a universal emperor.
But if he renounces the world,
He will become
A Buddha—
Enlightened, without deception.
The eighth Brahmin was young,
Insightful and sharp-minded.
Slowly, he stood up and approached.
Observing the great signs on the newborn,
Closely examining,
He smiled gently.
He raised only one finger.
"O King!
This radiant sun!
Is not the dawn of your royal palace.
This—
Is the light of the deep forest caves,
The sun rising on the peaks of snowy mountains,
The royal swan of Lake Manasarovar,
Not confined within limits,
But boundless.
His reign
Shall be over the infinite.
He—
Will be the emperor of the transcendent realm.
All divine forces will bow down to him.
He will be supreme,
without hindrance,
without fear,
Resplendent in the highest luminous glory.
My prediction
Is beyond dispute.
He will only be
A Buddha—
The one who opens the gates,
To the extraordinary seven realms of knowledge.
There, he shall be established,
The eternal glory of this lineage, Ashoka."
What Queen Mahamaya had once desired,
Today,
She found it fulfilled completely.
In her arms,
It was not merely a child,
But the very presence of the Buddha.
This joy—
Incomprehensible,
Overflowing beyond the mind and eyes.
The queen
Became
Trembling, agitated, sighing, restless,
With intense waves of emotion,
Her eyes brimming with joyful tears.
Yet, overwhelmed by the emotions,
For reasons unknown,
A deep inner turmoil arose.
Her chest began to throb,
Her mind became uneasy.
Clutching her heart, the queen
Lay down on the bed.
Adorned in golden-stitched new garments,
Every limb adorned with splendid jewelry,
She embodied
The radiant, tender dignity of motherhood.
The queen,
Enveloped in affectionate, sweet,
Tender love.
Sometimes in the fluidity of her eyes,
Sometimes in the awakened dreams of the day,
She wandered in a trance,
In a garden of enchanting thoughts.
Suddenly, her gaze fell upon
The child, with delicate, radiant form,
Laughing amidst the abundance of young girls.
She spoke to herself—
"My longed-for desire,
I,
Destitute,
Day and night,
Amazed and astonished.
Oh, fortune!
In my mind’s cottage,
The shade of the wish-fulfilling tree,
Ah!
In the sandy forest,
The king of flavors smiles joyfully.
This joy,
To which my heart is constantly drawn.
So always, divine.
Let it be.
This is my living mirror.
In it, I am wholly surrendered.
But why, my heart,
Does it remain restless,
Even amidst joy?
Why does this golden-hued, resplendent
Ocean of happiness,
Gradually become
A drink of sorrow’s poison,
Enveloped in despair,
Becoming darker and darker?
The mind,
Is even frightened by extreme joy.
What?
Is happiness and sorrow
Interdependent, mutually bound?
Why do my eager arms,
Yearning to hold the child,
Fall limp and fall away?
Why does the evening of delight
Fill with burning sighs?
What unseen fear
Makes the heart writhe in pain?
I do not understand.
Why is the mind experiencing
The bitter venom of the saffron robe?
Why do eager arms spread wide,
Summoning some great, unknown sorrow?"
Heart!
Trembling like a lotus leaf.
Is there some hidden, unpleasant summons,
A devious fate arriving?
Why does the fragrant, blooming mango tree
Today seem tormented, suffering like a poisoned being?
In the turmoil of the mind,
Two days passed somehow.
At seven days old,
The child in her arms,
As she held him to her heart,
A shiver ran through her entire body.
In a breaking voice, the queen said—
"Sumana, take the child away,
I am feeling extremely weak.
Bring me a cooling drink."
Servants, daughters-in-law, and attendants rushed.
With half-closed eyes,
Her consciousness fading.
The queen forced herself to look at the child once
more.
Breathing grew erratic.
A plaintive, sorrowful cry broke out.
She said—"Ah, God! What is this?
The one I desired,
Asked for,
And worshipped.
He,
The prepared offering,
Will remain untouched."
What irony!
What mockery!
Why did I become a mother?
Why did this resplendent, auspicious star
Appear in my life, drunk on its own glory?
Just a glimpse.
That was all life was.
Motherhood.
It was merely the preface of a story.
No,
Childlike play.
No,
The nimble antics of youth.
I did not witness the coronation.
And this!
Endless, piercing pain.
What is happening to life’s end?
Ah.
I.
No, I am not.
This suffocating pain.
Why did I become a mother?
When
The overflowing cup of nectar spills,
No,
The parched lips feel it.
Who will listen?
The first uttered sweet, gentle words.
Leaving the mother, whose heart will resonate deeply?
This joy—
This joy is not mine.
This milk-filled breast,
This newborn chamber—
Will it only become
A question mark of emptiness?
This child,
Who has not yet recognized
The mother’s heartbeat,
Whose ears have not heard
The footsteps of the mother.
Whose milk-filled face
And the rising love of the mother
Have not embraced each other.
This child,
Will remain unrecognized,
Devoid of maternal presence.
Flashes of lightning raced
Across the half-distracted screen of knowledge.
The queen
Screamed,
Cried out in anguish.
Her entire body tensed, drenched in sweat.
Her golden complexion turned dark.
Breath came in stormy gusts,
Her body became insensible.
The child, lying nearby,
Sucking his thumb, was in deep slumber.
His fate
Unresolved.
The queen,
In an instant, became weak, lifeless.
A burning lamp.
Here, casting smoke,
She was distressed, attaining Nirvana.
Void.
Vanishing into the void.
Only
The great deluge
Is not just an outer phenomenon,
Of the elements of nature.
It also separates
The subtle vibrations
Of cosmic consciousness.
Inner consciousness.
Both are similar in essence.
Faint, unsettled, veiled in smoke,
Radiating through every atom.
The inertia of void, shrouded in ice,
Envelops
All external and internal nature.
This is the final outcome.
In the realm of the deceased Mahamaya,
The thumb-sucking child,
Like one lying on a banyan leaf,
Rested undisturbed.
All relatives were anxious and distressed.
He,
The supreme,
Imperturbable, unshaken,
Under those divine feet,
The river of time
Flowed on.
How stern and grave is time.
Impartially absorbing
All the changes of events,
It progresses unperturbed.
No matter how deep the wound,
It remains flat,
Leaving no mark.
It neither pauses nor falters.
Blind, deaf,
Swift-moving.
Only its own dark shadow
Falls upon it.
It is its own mirror.
Unique and indifferent,
Its own model.
Observing in itself
The turning of each moment,
The shivers of nature's distress.
The child Siddhartha,
In the loving, protective shadow
Of his stepmother, Prajapati,
Grew in the mother's embrace,
Playing in the arms of royal maidens,
Sweet as the cuckoo’s voice,
Nectarous and intoxicating.
Time,
Slipping swiftly over the breaths like quicksilver,
Silent, in speech,
Indicated the signs of age.
Gradually, it moved on.
Unnoticed.
Slowly, the prince passed
Eleven milestones.
Everywhere he roamed, amazed, joyous, and elated.
Seeing him,
There seemed no limit to the joy
Of his family and kin.
On an auspicious, well-chosen moment,
The date of the festival of the plow
Was declared.
In India, a land of agriculture,
The first plow remains in the king's hand.
A symbol of prosperity and fragrance,
On a day auspicious for any household,
The king decreed—
The prince will also go to the field,
To witness this traditional festival,
And experience a new fascination.
On this auspicious day,
From the early morning,
The townspeople gathered.
Today,
The sun, like a golden plate,
Sprinkled vibrant colors of powder.
Nature’s dancer, draped in emerald flowers,
Her icy jewel-studded veil
Swayed in the gentle breeze.
There was a competition
Between the earth and the sky.
Which was more adorned?
Which had more charm and beauty?
Bright lines of light spread their wings,
Wearing
The sky, clear as sapphire,
Around its vast, exuberant chest,
A necklace of pearls.
Lakes, wells, rivers,
Stood amazed and enchanted,
Gazing unblinkingly.
The earth was adorned.
It became a rainbow,
A garland of jasmine buds.
The vibrant beauty of the lush trees,
With seven-colored rays glittering
In the adornment of Kamini and Krishna’s locks.
Swaying,
Adorned with flowers and bright with pollen,
Long, gem-bearing serpents.
Eager for the offerings,
A cup of full nectar with a moonlit face.
Eyes intoxicated,
The moon’s charm, tireless.
In its opening,
Flashes of lively, playful light.
Lotuses, soft, abundant,
With their golden, tender threads
Of Mallika, Karveer, and Shephalika.
Nature’s boundary adorned with crimson markings.
The horizon played Holi.
In Kapilavastu, a multi-colored golden dawn,
The sun arrived today.
The sunrise in Kapilavastu,
Majestic, honored, and auspicious.
The city was beautifully adorned,
Arches draped in sandalwood.
The royal road, streets, squares, markets, and fairs,
Overflowed with garlands and fragrant blooms.
Temples were abuzz with worship and offerings,
The clamor of bells and gongs filled the air.
The sound of conch shells, chants, and Vedic verses
Echoed through the sacred precincts.
Queen Maha Prajapati,
Engaged in the worship,
Applied kumkum, saffron, rice, and curd
To the auspicious brow of Prince Siddhartha.
The prince,
Adorned in every regal garment,
Was making his first public appearance.
Today, he would accompany
King Shuddhodana,
The esteemed head of the Ikshvaku dynasty,
To the fields.
Filled with immense excitement,
The prince would follow the king.
A hundred and eight foremost Brahmins,
Adorned in golden ornaments and yellow silk,
Would accompany him.
Their sacred threads adorned with ceremonial mantras.
The king’s plow was made of gold,
And his plowshare was also golden.
The king’s hands would grasp
The jeweled golden plow, adorned with pearls.
First, the chief priest would drive the plow,
Followed by all the Brahmins in procession.
The fields were packed
With the people of Kapilavastu, men and women alike.
Men, adorned with flower garlands,
Women, richly adorned in various ways,
All gathered to witness the festival.
For the prince,
This was a new and delightful spectacle,
A joyous celebration for all.
As the plow entered the king’s hands,
The fields were covered with golden coins.
At the auspicious moment,
The proclamation of the sun's glory was made.
The king advanced with the plow,
Accompanied by the royal plow, in motion.
Following him,
A thousand plow-bearers moved forward.
Women began to sing auspicious hymns in unison,
Scattering blessings of laja, flowers, turmeric, and darbha
grass
As they went.
Before the first departure,
The Brahmins were collectively honored,
Their necks adorned with protective threads,
Sacred threads entwined in the plow.
Holy basil water was sprinkled,
The earth was being plowed,
Lines upon lines were deeply inscribed.
It is a rule—
Any new creation
Requires
Intense and profound contemplation,
Internal exploration,
Countless destructions,
And then
The emergence of a new creation.
The prince,
Under the dense, dark foliage
Of a Jamun tree in the field,
Rested within a golden canopy,
On a milk-white bed.
The attending maidservants,
Leaving him alone,
Joined the festivities.
Alone,
The solitary prince,
Amidst the din outside
And the stir within.
All was calm and still
In the prince's heart.
The young prince,
Silent and detached,
Sat in lotus posture,
Deep in meditation.
The maidservants noticed,
And hurriedly went to inform.
Seeing the sight within the canopy,
They trembled.
Panicked,
They ran,
Informing the king.
The king, rushing,
Arrived and beheld in awe,
The divine and unparalleled sight!
A radiant, rectangular light
From the half-closed
Lotus-like eyes.
Unmoving, serene,
An extraordinary divine light.
The child yogi,
Detached and serene,
A royal sage,
In deep meditation,
Shining with supreme radiance.
Everyone bowed their heads,
Offering respectful salutations.
Astonished,
This miraculous and unattainable posture.
A divine soul had descended,
One that had never before graced this earth.
The king,
bewildered and uncertain of what to do,
remembered the prophecy of Kala Deval.
In astonishment and anguish,
his eyes turned skyward.
Ah!
What have I thought?
What will happen?
Will the words of the young Kala Deval prove true?
Ah! Fate!
Relentless, cruel, and harsh!
What have you decreed?
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