Summary
The
poem describes a poignant scene in Kapilavastu, where young Rahul, the son of
Siddhartha (who later became Buddha), walks through the royal garden with
Shariputra. Rahul, innocent and curious, longs to meet his father, Siddhartha,
who had left him as a baby. When Rahul finally sees his father, he is
captivated by his radiant presence, forgetting everything his mother, Gopa, had
told him.
The Poem
In Kapilavastu's
royal garden,
Rahul
was walking,
Holding
Shariputra's hand,
Asking
childlike questions in abundance.
Lively,
nimble feet,
Innocent
pearl-like sharp intellect,
Radiant
eyes,
Observing
everything around.
Green
dew-laden fresh grass,
His
feet, touching the dew-covered blades,
Would
shiver with each step.
Leaping
like a newborn fawn,
He
asked, "What will Father give me?
Will
he joyfully accept me,
Embrace
me like other fathers do?
I want
to go near Father,
I have
so much to tell him."
Seeing
the Tathagata's magnificent radiance,
He
stood still for a moment, as if painted.
All
that Gopa had explained,
Was
forgotten in an instant.
He
said, "How cooling
Is the
Lord's shadow."
The
Lord raised his eyes to look at the child.
The
one he had left seven days old,
Was
now before him,
A
milky-white streak of full moon's glow,
A
freshly bloomed immaculate lotus.
A pure
form of enchantment.
He had
been named, upon hearing of his birth,
Rahu!
This
was that Rahul.
Rising
from his seat,
He
commanded,
"Ordain
him."
Still
he stood, amazed and smiling,
A
slight laugh on his open coral lips.
From
the full moon chalice,
Endless
pearls spilled and scattered.
He,
Soft,
tender, delicate as fresh butter.
The
anxious, pure affection
From
Gopa's loving heart.
Moggallana
took his hand.
Suddenly,
he asked again,
"What
will Father give me?"
Shariputra
replied,
"Father
can only ordain you,
What
else can he give?
This
is the only wealth he has,
Strive
to attain it."
For a
moment, he looked up
At
Shariputra.
His
fragrant, well-arranged dark locks
Waved
in the morning breeze.
To
pick mind-pearls,
A
newborn royal swan had flown in.
At
the Lord's feet, bowed with folded hands,
Seven-year-old
Rahul.
In the
great self-luminescence,
A
smooth, cool ray was being
Absorbed,
assimilated.
The
Lord signaled to Moggallana,
Who
cut Rahul's flowing dark hair.
These
were the same locks
That
mother would hold in her palms
With
unbroken green grass,
During
the sacred thread ceremony.
Today,
they
Without
ritual or mantras,
Were
falling to the ground, cut by cut.
No
priests were invited.
No
ceremony at all.
This
was separation! The final separation!
Renouncing
was
The
future helmsman.
The
last descendant.
Abandoning
all love, comfort, and worldly life.
The
final chapter of the Shakya clan
Was
being closed.
Dense
silence prevailed.
Destiny,
turned mute, was watching.
No,
nowhere any objection.
Hearing
this news,
Alas!
Alas!
Gopa's
Anguished
heart cried out helplessly.
All
the ornaments, decorations,
Priceless
gold-studded royal attire,
Which
she had lovingly adorned him with,
Invincible
enchantment.
That
lovely form couldn't bind
The
father,
Instead,
all those royal adornments lay on the ground,
As if
humiliated, engaged in cruel self-exploitation.
Where
were the armlets,
where
the bangles, where the necklace,
The
golden waistband studded with pearl clusters
Tied
around the waist.
They
lay scattered on the earth.
When
Shuddhodana learned
That Rahul
too had been ordained,
He
stood frozen where he was,
As if
struck by a thunderbolt.
He
cried out, placing both hands on his chest.
When
misfortune comes in its fierce form,
Who
indeed stands by one's side.
In the
lit lamp of tearful eyes,
Rahul
descended as a seven-colored ray.
Seeing
him, this life
Kept
drawing breaths and moving on.
But
those rainbows of hopes,
Each
color,
Broke
and dissolved in the cloud of despair.
Standing
like a skeleton, colorless and faded
Was
the rainbow of hopes.
Piercing
like countless sharp thorns,
It was
giving the mind terrible anguish.
Oh
fate!
In
this dry, burning sandy forest,
Throwing
flames,
May
fierce winds always blow.
Never,
From
the swaying dark clouds of pain,
Bend
and sway to rain the juicy dense clouds
Embracing
rainbows.
Or,
the abandoned, neglected,
Scorned
barren earth.
Only
cactus and acacia thorns fall here.
For a
moment, Shuddhodana sighed and paused.
Perhaps
he was under the illusion of hearing it.
Nand
went.
There's
no reason
For
the child Rahul to be ordained too.
Anxious,
with swift steps,
He
went towards the Nyagrodha garden.
As
soon as he arrived, his eyes fell upon
The
dispassionate ones, Nand
and
Rahul,
Wearing
saffron robes, the monk's attire.
In his
wide-open eyes welled up deep sorrow.
Stunned,
the king kept looking.
What
crime deserved this terrible punishment,
Without
beginning or end?
A
storm rose in his heart.
Before
his eyes, the sky turned dark.
Body
trembling. Unsteady feet.
His
heart uprooted in the fierce gale.
As if
in a daze,
He
stood before the Lord.
Like a
ghost haunting a crematorium,
Dusty,
disheveled, and distraught.
Turning
once to look from where he stood,
His
gaze halted.
Where
the cut dark circular locks lay.
Where
ornaments and clothes were scattered.
He
spoke,
Extremely
pained but angry:
"Siddhartha!
That
day I felt utterly helpless,
The
day you left this home
Without
any notice.
Recognizing
it as fate's blow,
My
anguished heart wept.
No one
was as unfortunate as I.
But.
Today.
Today.
You have left me lifeless.
You
have mercilessly uprooted
My
glorious family tradition.
This
was my legacy.
My
inheritance.
The
last charioteer of the family chariot.
Father,
Doesn't
marry his son so that,
The
grandson becomes his son's child.
He is
merely the thread of
His identity
and unbroken life cycle.
You've
created a deviation,
Established
an interruption.
This
centuries-old history
Will
end right here.
Now,
there will be no one to offer oblations.
No one
to offer water and sesame seeds to ancestors.
All
the departed souls in heaven
Will
remain thirsty and hungry.
Without
sacrifices, without offerings,
All
will remain as non-Aryans.
Why
didn't you take my permission?
I. His
grandfather.
Am the
guardian of my descendant."
This
birth.
Is a
social property,
No
individual has sole right over it.
Look
how delicate this tender one is.
A
newly bloomed lotus
Smiling
in the lake of parental affection.
This
unexpected, terrible fate's blow.
Renunciation.
Cruel,
scorched by summer's heat.
A
thunderbolt strike.
Seven-year-old,
yesterday's gentle golden boy,
Lovely
form.
Newly
sprouted wings,
Restless,
moving shoulders.
Unable
to take flight.
These
difficult, harsh, formidable rough saffron robes.
How
will he bear this profound, unbearable weight?
You've
struck me.
Unknowingly,
with an axe.
This
ageless, immortal, constantly aching wound.
When
the future asks someday,
Who
will tell.
Where
was my village?
You
paid no attention at all.
This
bright, shining example of our lineage.
Creating
waves in the waters of affection,
Playing
in the rainbow of imaginations.
Sometimes
at home, sometimes outside, sometimes in mother's loving embrace.
This
was all
The
world of childhood play, curiosity, and wonder.
This
carefree, innocent, naive childhood.
A
clear mirror reflecting the entire world.
You've
shattered it to pieces.
Giving
the cruel, harsh, thunderbolt-like
Blow
of renunciation.
Look!
How young he is.
This
renunciation is harsh, merciless.
He
hasn't yet.
Let go
of his mother's loving embrace.
Sleeping
in sweet dreams,
He
hasn't yet awakened.
In
childish playfulness, even his uttered words
Are
somewhat lazy.
Drenched
in maternal honey,
His
stumbling steps are still unsteady.
Even
softer than frost, he gets disturbed.
He
walks proudly on tiptoes on moist grass.
This palace.
Its
essence,
Resonating
with his sweet babbling.
Seeing
him,
All
are lost and confused in him alone.
The
day you left.
It was
as if time itself had stopped.
The
blood flowing in our veins
Had
become weary.
Nand
left.
We
bore that too,
understanding
it as divine intervention.
But.
Look.
This worn-out body.
This
damp white hair.
In
this old age
This
indescribable, endless pain.
Even
the flesh is leaving these bones.
In
every panting breath,
The
heart is burning like an oven.
In
every dry, shriveled vein,
The
blood is neither hot nor cold.
The
pain that in your separation
Ran
like hot molten lead in them.
Seeped
like thorns.
Now.
Has
frozen like a glacier.
Pain.
Has
lodged like thorns.
Nothing
is moving.
Both
are unbroken and eternal.
What wasn't
meant to be seen.
I've
seen it all.
My
throat.
Is
drying from inner burning.
Like a
dry, juiceless yellow leaf of autumn,
In the
terrible storm of the mind,
Taking
kicks and blows,
Directionless,
utterly wretched,
I am
wandering.
Siddhartha!
The old
age you tried to eliminate.
Look
at it.
How
helpless, unsupported,
Lonely
and painful it is.
Its
sufferings,
You've
increased, not decreased.
In
this void.
This
ghost-soul. What will it do,
Siddhartha!
What
will it do.
If.
There
had been another day for death.
Then
perhaps.
It Is
standing right here today.
These
are not life's,
But
death's sentinels.
Answer
one question.
Is
renunciation the only cessation?
For
one who has renounced desires for this
And is
determined and dedicated,
Only
for them is this rule befitting.
Otherwise.
The forcefully swaying desires.
Like
monsoon's swift rivers.
What
will
These
alms bowls, robes, saffron garments do.
Look
in front.
Forcibly
renounced, Nand
Even
now in his empty eyes,
Fills
despair, darkness, smoke-throwing
How
restless he is, in his mind.
This
is a thunderbolt strike.
One
who hasn't become detached in mind,
How
can he be a renunciate.
Mere
willpower,
Brings
detachment.
This
entire creation
Can
never become a crematorium.
In
nature's disciplined laws,
Chaos doesn't
come.
Nature
doesn't know stagnation.
Artificiality
will bring obstruction.
Human.
Nothing
in itself.
He is
merely a part of nature.
If its
laws are broken,
It
will surely resist.
Even
if desired, no power
Can
stop it.
These.
Renounced
shaven-headed.
Monks.
Nature-disturbed.
Sitting
in meditation under the trees' shade.
Are
they all healthy in body and mind?
This
inaction.
The
country's security is headed for destruction.
When
the country will need it.
No
king, no politician, no system,
And no
discipline will remain.
From
aggressive enemies,
The
land will be defeated and crushed.
Therefore,
before
Ordaining
anyone
Know
the guardians, their protectors
And
their willpower.
Take
permission.
A
one-sided ideology
Will
only bring imbalance.
Time
which moves ceaselessly,
It too
has two constant aspects.
It too
manages its own kingdom.
Solar
cycle, stars, seasons, eras, years, solstices,
it
brings all together.
Thus,
not just inner nature,
Outer
nature is also required.
Only
through the balance of both combined
Is the
path secure.
Unbalanced
thought or rule,
Can
never attain
The
desired goal,
Which
is constantly expected from humans.
On the
time-scale of the imperishable and perishable
Life's
weight is placed.
On the
unwavering needle
Its
eye is fixed.
It's
proving true on proper balance.
In
mud, the pure lotus and
In
oyster, the pearl's luster.
Diamond
in coal,
Moon-lamp
lit in night.
Time-hawk
too flew with its
Black
and white wings.
Never
was there an eternal night or
Eternal
day.
Where
did the bodiless go.
Mithila's
king Janaka,
Who
despite living in opulence
Remained
utterly detached.
Think
about this.
Siddhartha!
A bird
with one wing.
Could
never take flight.
Today!
From
creation you've cut
My
lush, ready field.
For
this impracticality of yours,
To
time,
An
answer will have to be given.
Churning
both nectar and poison,
Life's
truth will have to be extracted.
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