Summary
The poem "Dancer Chanda" from
the epic Amriteya Buddha revolves around the life, emotions, and inner
transformation of Chanda, a dancer, who undergoes a profound spiritual
awakening. At the outset, Chanda appears deeply engrossed in her worldly life,
entrapped by the allure of her art, beauty, and the transient pleasures that
accompany it. She dances, both in the literal and metaphorical sense, embodying
art and sensuality, mesmerizing those who witness her graceful movements.
However, as the poem unfolds, Chanda's inner turmoil surfaces, and she begins to question the meaning and purpose of her existence. Through vivid imagery, the poem captures her emotional struggles, the pangs of detachment from the ephemeral pleasures she once cherished, and the realization of life’s deeper truths. She starts to perceive the impermanence of worldly desires, recognizing the futility of seeking happiness in fleeting moments of fame and adoration.
The Poem
A profound stillness spread,
In the court of Magadha.
Upon the throne, the voice
Of King Bimbisara,
Echoed—furious.
In the center of the hall,
The dancer, Chanda, stood silent.
At once,
A death sentence was declared.
She stood,
Frozen, like a statue—
Breath heaving, chest trembling,
Wide eyes stared,
Unblinking.
Her long, wild, flowing black hair,
Seemed like serpents,
Swaying,
Hungry for venom.
Her once-ordered attire, now scattered
in disarray.
From her trembling neck,
A precious pearl necklace slipped,
Her flowered braid, woven with
care,
Fell apart,
And the anklet upon her feet,
Lay still in silence.
Bent down, her lotus-like eyes
Glistened, helpless,
Tears trembled,
At the edge.
Her face bore the countless lines of
agony,
Silent cries,
Speaking volumes in the stillness.
Suddenly, she raised her head.
In her clear, open eyes—
Two blazing torches
Flared,
Fierce,
Brilliant,
Radiant.
The court trembled,
Before her gaze.
Within her eyes—
Two burning lamps,
Like waves crashing against the ocean’s
shore,
Cracked into hundreds of shards,
Flashing with light.
Tears,
Gleamed upon her lashes,
Like two pearls shining bright.
Suddenly, in a storm of emotion,
Her wounded anger surged.
Her lips, red with strain,
Trembled under the weight of her
fury.
With fearless eyes,
She looked around—
At the entire, filled court.
And then,
She took a deep breath.
She smiled subtly, then spoke—
“With deep gratitude and joy, I
thank
This entire assembly.
A fitting, worthy reward,
Has been given
To the connoisseur of art.
My salutations to the learned
scholars.
I have received
A crown of thorns.
Undoubtedly, my single-minded
penance
Has brought me
My destined wish.
If it were otherwise,
If there were any flaw
In my devotion,
Any fault in my worship,
The blow would have fallen upon me.
But art—
Art has always received
This kind of gift.
Her world
Is one of untold hardship.
To string tears into thorns,
To smile amid the electric pangs,
To hide a storming heart
Under the dark clouds of fate—
This is what nature has given art.
Art,
Trapped in the shell of pain,
Is a pearl of suffering,
Beaten by the tears of experience.
It is the undying cry
Of the fiery waves within,
The silent offering
Of endless, noble desires.
It is the tender heartbeat
Of those who understand its
essence,
A gentle yet piercing vibration
Of deep sensitivity.
Like the unnoticed decay
Of a solitary star,
Rising and setting alone,
This is the fate
Given by destiny.
Art is the embrace,
Silent yet profound,
Of wisdom and emotion,
A mutual offering
Of heart to heart.
So, why the delay?
Here I stand,
Ready to offer my life,
As a floral tribute
At the feet of art.
At the feet of victory,
My anklets of devotion,
Will bind themselves.
Perhaps the untold agony
Of countless lifetimes,
That has clung, unanswered,
To those feet,
Will find, at last,
A tender response to its flowing
pain.
An artist—
Long ago,
Has already crossed the borders
Of birth and death.
The seeker of truth—
With wings outstretched,
Flies beyond the bounds of life and
death.
His heart,
Savoring the nectar
Of truth,
Immerses itself
In the honeyed essence of life.
Birth and death
Walk beside him,
As constant companions.
Whenever he wishes,
With serene detachment,
He embraces them both.
The secrets of life and death,
Lay open before him.
So, why the delay?
Let this dust return to dust.
The bird of life,
A prisoner of time,
Let it spread its joyous wings
And fly away.
Her forehead was aglow,
Her neck stretched high,
Blue eyes—
Clear, calm, and deep,
Yet in that serene ocean,
A storm of unparalleled pain.
Dark clouds of sorrow
Quivered with flashes of lightning.
In her blue, gold-studded,
Delicate robe,
Her breath was heavy with emotion,
Her graceful, supple form—
Like a lotus emerging
From the water,
Radiant, delicate,
And pure.
She stood,
Her gaze fixed unblinking
Upon Bimbisara,
Her hands joined in prayer,
Asking for only one reward—
The gift of death.
Suddenly, there was an uproar,
The royal assembly scattered,
The courtiers stepped aside.
With his followers,
The Lord,
Accompanied by monks,
Had suddenly entered
The royal court.
When I first beheld Chanda—
She stood in the center of the
courtyard,
Like lightning, struck from a
cloud,
Or moonlight, severed from the
moon,
Leaving it dim.
Or perhaps, like Rati, cursed,
Turning to stone at the sight
Of the scorched pride of Kamadeva.
There she stood—
A living, breathing statue
Of pain, compassion, scorn, and
neglect,
Her body adorned with dance
ornaments,
But her natural grace and beauty,
Drowned in tears.
The anklets on her feet
Had fallen to the ground.
Her sash, loose,
Hung from her slender waist.
Before her stood the Lord—
In robes of saffron,
A begging bowl in hand,
His radiant presence
Shone with brilliant light,
Like a golden lotus blooming
In a deep blue pond.
The pure grace of virtue
Spread throughout the space,
And everything,
In its form and nature,
Was spellbound.
All eyes gazed at the Master,
Lost in a trance.
Consciousness slipped away,
The mind wandered,
The body forgot its place,
And none were aware
Of anything around them.
Suddenly, a deep, soft, gentle
voice
Resounded—
“I have come from afar,
And I am terribly thirsty
From the journey.”
Startled, the assembly awoke,
Everyone rushed at once
To bring whatever they could,
Golden cups,
Golden pitchers filled with water.
Men and women alike
Stood ready.
But—
“I seek a different kind of
satisfaction.
I will quench my thirst,
But not with the water you bring.”
He continued,
“The girl,
Who stands silent and forlorn—
From her,
I shall drink.”
Chanda was startled,
Her entire being trembled,
Like a delicate vine,
Suddenly shaken,
Releasing the dew
Of the night’s collected tears,
All at once,
In an endless stream.
Her face,
Drenched with tears,
Resembled the moon
Sinking into the ocean’s depths.
She bowed her head,
Brought her hands together,
And with a voice heavy with sorrow,
She spoke—
“Lord!
No matter how many pots
Are submerged in the water,
They can never contain the entire
sea.
The ocean,
With its crashing waves,
Rises to the sky,
But can it ever hold
The moon in its arms?
Lord!
Beauty is meaningless,
Grace is in vain,
For there is only one truth—
I,
An untouchable girl,
Fallen into the poisonous flame,
Even amid the overflowing nectar.
I,
A low-born outcast,
Only these unstoppable tears,
They can wash your sacred feet,
Lord!
Shall I spread my long, dark, silken
hair
At your feet,
Make them soft cushions for your
steps?
Shall I gently lift,
With these eyelids,
The thorns that pierced your feet,
The dust that settled upon your
sandals?
That, at least,
Is my right.
The vessel of my life
Has always remained empty,
Though the sky poured so much
water,
Though the ocean waves
Leapt and surged,
No shore, no boundary was found.
In silence,
All hearts filled with their own
grief,
Yet no one—
Not a single soul—
Ever called to me.
Every shore, a stone,
Every waterfall, merciless.
How could I ever find
That pure, holy water?
How could I ever quench this
thirst?
How could I ever become the Ganga?
How could I ever find
The depth,
The profound emotion
Of Anshuja’s flowing grace?
How could I kindle
The light of wisdom
Beneath your sacred lotus feet?
How could I find my voice,
And speak the words of Saraswati’s
love?
The streams,
The rivers,
Flow freely,
Without obstruction.
Yet here I stand, helpless.
Where shall I find
That water?
For centuries,
The doors have remained shut.
How could I ever fill my vessel?”
Lord!
I am but a low-born woman, trampled by
fate,
Defeated for ages by the twice-born, by
the high castes.
This, O Lord, is my yearning,
And my broken, silent endurance.
How can I claim, in a mere moment,
The rights forbidden for centuries?
Through the service of Your holy
feet,
How could this cursed life find
success?
From this anguished, tormented
existence,
How could I hope for release?
I, the unfortunate one—
Where shall I find the fortune
To dip my empty hands
Into this overflowing ocean of
compassion and grace?
Like the dust beneath Your feet,
Let me scatter along Your path.
Where You stand,
How can these trembling steps
Reach that exalted seat?
Lord! Dust is dust,
When does it ever gain the dignity of
sandalwood?
Everyone tramples upon it,
Even the sharp thorn of the falling
leaves
Rests upon it.
Every time, crushed, rejected,
It sinks deep into the heart of the
earth,
Filling its inner abyss with pain.
Yet, she remains.
This neglected earth,
Swallowing the darkest night with hollow
eyes,
Still dreams of blossoming lotuses in
her sleep.
Against harsh winds,
Rain, heat, and cold,
Her body trembles, scorched, and
frozen.
Yet she—
Silently, silently sobs.
This earth,
Endured countless cycles of creation and
destruction.
She, too, was crushed time and
again,
Burnt in the funeral pyres of broken
desires.
Her ashes blown away,
Scattered in the winds,
A spark burning in the sky.
And when she fell into the sea,
She dissolved like salt,
Only to be rejected by the waves.
Not earth, not wind, not sky—
Who has ever embraced her with
love?
Even after being broken and remade,
She could never become
The sacred vermilion on a noble
forehead.
I am that neglected, tormented
dust,
Trampled by every class,
Pierced by every season’s harsh
cruelty.
Yet I remain unmoved,
At the same place,
Where the pyres of the high and low
Burned together in unison.
Who knows what merit from past
lives
Has filled my humble garment with bright
blessings,
Falling like sparks of fiery
curses,
It has grown heavy.
I, utterly wretched, a woman of the
lowest caste—
Why,
Has the tree of artistic skill
Sprung up in this barren wilderness of
mine?
Why has it been shaken,
Baptized in the flood of passion?
I received this punishment,
Unexpected, unknown.
Lord,
Even a drop of Swati rain
Is honored only when it falls in the
right place.
If it falls into the hood of a
snake,
It turns into deadly poison.
I became neither an elephant pearl
Nor the essence of camphor or
sandalwood.
I became venom,
A raging flame, filled with fire.
This art—
Perhaps somewhere it is nectar,
But how could I have known
That for me,
It would come bound in the chains of
life-ending conditions?
To be bound to any art,
Is to be sold into its grip with every
breath for life.
Body, mind, and soul scorched,
tormented,
The fire has reached the depths of my
being.
How could this fire ever be
quenched?
The births and deaths gone by,
The present and the future,
All come, hands folded, heads
bowed,
Entering this fire.
Who can understand
This constant, unbearable silence?
Pierced by this sharp arrow,
The one who is wounded
Cannot speak of how deep this pain
runs—
The agony that never rests,
The unrelenting sting of countless
needles.
An entranced mind, lost in a forest of
thoughts,
Overwhelmed by the fragrance that
lingers, blind, suffocated.
O Lord!
I, a lowly, downtrodden woman of the
Shudra caste,
Defeated for ages by the high-born
Brahmins.
This, O Lord, is my yearning,
And my grim endurance.
How can I, in an instant, attain
The forbidden right denied to me for
centuries?
How could this wretched life ever find
success
Through the sacred service of your holy
feet?
How could I find liberation
From this fearful, sorrow-filled cycle
of life and death?
I, the unfortunate one—
Where would I find the fortune
To dip my empty hands
In this overflowing ocean of your love's
nectar?
Like dust, I long to spread upon your
path.
Yet, how can these stumbling steps
Ever reach the lofty throne
Where you sit, O Lord?
Dust remains dust—
When has it ever gained the grace of
sandalwood?
Everyone tramples over it,
Even the sharp thorns of autumn settle
upon it.
Each time, crushed and humiliated,
The earth swells with pain to its
deepest core.
And still, it remains neglected,
Filling its eyes with deep
darkness,
Yet dreaming of lotus blossoms
Even in the pitch-black night.
Harsh winds blow,
Cold, heat, and rain beat down upon
it.
Its body burns and shivers,
Yet it remains silent,
Weeping quietly to itself.
This earth—
Time and again it has seen destruction
and creation.
Time and again it has been trampled
underfoot.
How many times have the flames of desire
been reduced to ashes,
Only for the wind to scatter them—
And when it fell into the ocean,
It dissolved as salt and stone
At the ocean’s deepest depths,
Even the waves rejected it.
Neither the earth, nor the sky, nor the
wind
Has ever truly embraced it with love.
Even in creation and destruction,
It never became the sacred mark upon a
noble forehead.
I, too, am that same neglected,
tormented dust.
Every class has kicked me aside,
Every season has pierced me with its
sharp edges,
And still, I remain unmoved,
Standing where high and low alike
Burn their funeral pyres together.
Perhaps from some past life's
accumulated merit,
Blessings began to fill my lap,
Falling and falling,
But mingling with the burning
embers
Of ever-approaching curses.
I, so destitute, of the lowest
birth—
How could the towering tree of art
Flourish in this barren desert of
sand?
Why did I become restless,
Immersed in the flood of art,
Only to receive an unexpected, unknown
punishment?
O Lord,
Even a drop of rain from the Swati
star
Is honored only when it falls in the
right place—
In the serpent's mouth, it becomes
deadly poison.
I became neither a pearl from an
elephant's tear
Nor a fragrant camphor from a banana
tree.
I became venom, filled with poison's
blazing fury.
This art—
Perhaps somewhere it is nectar,
But I had no idea it would come to
me
Bound by deadly terms.
To be bound to any art
Is to be sold to it,
Body, mind, and life, breath by
breath.
The fire has reached deep into my
soul—
How could this flame ever be
extinguished?
As long as birth and death
continue,
This present and future, too,
Will come bowing before it,
Heads lowered in reverence.
Who could ever understand
This constant, unbearable silence?
The one who is pierced by this sharp
arrow
Can never express
How deep the pain is,
How relentless,
How the ache never ceases,
Like countless needles that prick the
heart without end.
In the enchanted forest of the
mind,
Overcome by fragrance,
The soul wanders, helpless,
Mad with yearning.
This deep concentration—
I never had any awareness of the
world.
This worldliness—how could it have ever
touched me?
I have always remained unaware of social
norms.
I climbed the steps of art
And went far beyond.
Now it is not the anklet,
But this voice, these words,
That drive me mad.
These unspoken echoes,
Resounding in my heart,
Could not be bound by any chains.
Anklets, brushes, and pens—
These are merely graceful artistic
mediums
In search of the ultimate truth.
O Lord,
You are full of compassion, full of
mercy—
An ocean of millions of virtues.
In awe, I bow before your feet.
This vast, brilliant, all-encompassing
light
Shines endlessly and continuously.
Be it a cottage or a palace,
All are equally illuminated.
Light knows no distinction.
Yet,
The boundless wealth and pride of
palaces,
And the suffocating, deep darkness of
huts—
Both are clearly revealed by this
light.
Their exact, unbiased nature
Is laid bare.
Therefore,
O Lord,
Whether it be light or darkness,
Joy or sorrow,
Both are ground under the crushing feet
of fate.
The blows of fate fall hardest
On those already powerless,
Already helpless in their
inability.
O Lord,
Shall I quench your thirst,
Neglecting all the dignitaries standing
before me,
And, considering myself most
important,
Nurturing an unbearable arrogance
within,
Tangle the trembling thread of my
life
In the thorny thickets of pride?
No!
Renunciation—
The gift of inner peace—
No!
Let me remain as I am.
Do not force me to water
This barren land.
With folded hands and closed eyes,
She spoke silently within herself:
I am bound to the feet of the
Veena-wielding goddess,
In Shiva's celestial anklet.
You dwell in the endless forests of
emptiness.
A search, a meditation—
The means may be different,
But everything, Lord,
Is reflected clearly
In the mirror of the mind.
With a smile, he said:
The lamp that burns anywhere
Is a symbol of truth and witness.
But,
Any art
Is merely
A form of self-expression—
It is an endless, unsatisfied
hunger,
A way to beautify both body and
mind,
An expression of the deep, blind
ego.
The height of self-centered
concentration,
A medium of personal expression,
A form of indulgence.
Where, then,
Is the radiant selflessness in
that?
True knowledge
Can never be bound by words,
Or confined to any form, shape, or
script.
The bright light of knowledge,
Like an immense, boundless ocean of
waves,
Moves freely, unhindered.
The seers have only plunged
Into this ocean of realization.
Para and Pashyanti—the higher levels of
speech—
Are the language of yogis alone.
All other beings are unaware of
them—
They are exceptions to this rule.
In the fire of knowledge, all emotions
are reduced to ashes.
The light of truth stands steady,
unwavering.
In the cycle of time,
The eternal and the transient have never
been alike.
Both undergo decay.
In nature, every moment is filled with
constant change.
Therefore,
Do not compare any human emotion
To renunciation.
Self-expression
Is not a tool—
In the mirror of countless drops of
water,
It only sees itself.
This is a mirage,
a deception,
a self-delusion.
Far from the truth, it is only
in the blazing flames of desire,
like an enchanted moth,
falling into the fire, forced to
burn.
Longing,
cravings—
how could they ever lead to true
discipline?
Self-acceptance
never approves
the destruction of complex desires.
Self-discipline—
unattached, desireless,
single-minded,
focused on seeking the truth—
so where is the place for the petty ego
here?
Give me water,
give it quickly,
do not delay any further.
I have set out on my journey,
and on the way, who knows how many
anguished and tormented souls I will
meet,
telling me of their sorrows.
Even now,
like a vine trembling in the storm,
stood Chanda, frozen and bowed,
holding the golden water vessel in both
hands,
her lips quivering,
tears in her eyes,
pain lines furrowing her face,
drawn and sharp.
At times, she glanced at the
courtiers,
at the assembly crowded with
people,
and then at herself—
lost in a dream, confused,
she couldn’t understand
if she was still rooted in place
or if her steps were advancing
towards the Lord to offer the
water,
spellbound, moving like a machine.
The water trickling down—
she was unaware of where it fell.
After drinking the water,
granting them all his blessing of
fearlessness,
the Lord swiftly departed.
Chanda remained standing,
holding the water vessel,
awaiting the royal command.
With a shy smile, Bimbisara said—
“Neglecting us all,
those who honored you—
now, no command can be given
for your sake.
You may go wherever you wish,
I have no objection.”
By then, Dhananjaya, the merchant’s son,
had been silently observing the
assembly.
He looked at Chanda,
astonished and captivated.
Chanda—
like a tempestuous storm of the
sea,
like an unstoppable, untamed monsoon
river,
immediately, with rapid strides,
rushed out of the royal court.
Behind her, taking long strides,
with murmured, pleading words,
the merchant’s son Dhananjaya
followed.
“For this celebration,
we both were declared the finest
dancers,
why not abide by the customs here?
Why should we remain apart now?
The tradition that has endured in
Magadha—
why not joyfully accept it,
and bind ourselves in marriage?”
Chanda turned and looked.
Her tear-filled eyes,
inflamed with anger,
swirled like dark clouds,
heavy with rain,
and lightning crackled at once.
The merchant’s son stood stunned,
watching the clouds and lightning
clash in a sudden fury.
The storm of her wrath
gathered at the edge of her eyes,
seven colors of anger shining in her
tears.
From head to toe,
she trembled with unbearable rage,
every limb quivering.
On her lips,
a pained, venomous, bitter smile—
a call to the impending storm.
She spoke, her voice sharp and
bitter—
“Merchant’s son!
When I was sentenced to death,
cursed for being of low birth,
in that instant,
your steps, advancing alongside
mine,
never paused for a moment.
You quickly retreated,
swiftly, suddenly, in fear.
Where was your courage then?
Why did you not, in front of
everyone,
take my hand and say—
'Let these endless tears cease
now.’”
Art!
It is a gift.
Blind, mute, deaf, stubborn.
It neither sees, speaks, nor
listens,
and it never strays from its path.
This nectar—
it recognizes no high or low.
It knows no distinction of
emotions.
It showers equally upon all,
those whom it chooses.
Like the unceasing downpour of moonlit
nectar,
where the unopened buds of the heart’s
river bloom, bathed in purity.
Only they receive it,
who are devoted, steadfast seekers.
It is like Arjuna’s piercing of the
fish’s eye,
like the immovable Dhruva star,
like the eternally thirsty chataka bird
awaiting the Swati drop.
It is attained by those
who have performed the sacrifice of
knowledge.
Its melody echoes in the veena of
pain.
No art
is attained effortlessly.
It comes only after the trials of
lifetimes,
and passes the test of the furnace of
penance.
Forget about grasping it—
even your company is unbearable to
me.
What have you understood?
I,
who respect the royal decree,
never.
The nectar and poison that emerged from
the ocean—
these are but two opposing forms of the
same element.
One, life-giving, the other,
lethal.
You!
Even now, within you resides
the despicable, vile power of
deception.
Suddenly, you’ve found
this rare wealth of pride-filled
fortune
in the tattered, worn-out folds of your
existence,
and now,
with this honey-coated language,
you come to steal it.
Always, the noblest things
are the birthright of the elite,
and we—the rejected, discarded,
unwanted—
we bow our heads, folded hands, poor
beggars, humbled.
Dhananjaya, in a pleading voice,
said—
“But you just said,
Art knows no discrimination.”
Chanda replied—
“I did.
To those whose doors are open and
pure,
who are fearless, unafraid, and free
from conflict,
always kind-hearted,
noble, simple, unshaken,
whose thoughts are pure and clear.
But not for you—
you, who carry within you
the venomous pride of high birth.
You,
bitten by the serpents of caste
arrogance,
your society
will never accept me.
This meal, too rich to digest,
will only bring misfortune.
To bind with me and then be bound by
society—
is that even possible?
I,
among the Shudras, am the lowest
Shudra.
If I walk through the streets of the
higher castes,
the paths, doors, and gates are washed
after I pass.
If anyone sees me in the morning,
Brahmins perform rituals for planetary
peace,
giving offerings to ward off
inauspiciousness.
Even my shadow
eclipses the full moon of the noble
clan’s glory,
like Rahu devouring it.
I am
the untouchable.
A Shudra,
of low birth.
Forbidden from the Vedic
sacrifices,
and if I dare listen to the Vedic mantras,
the punishment is hot oil poured into my
ears.”
The body—
whether mine or yours—
is but food for the burning pyre.
Do not gaze upon it,
like a new jasmine bloom,
bathed in silver light, swaying.
This alluring, radiant form,
is not a fully blossomed lotus,
bedewed with frost and touched by dawn’s
red hue.
Though it may appear adorned
with the intoxicated glow of beauty's
morning,
for lifetimes, for centuries, it has
been inhaling
the bitter smoke of the pyre,
blackened by the soot of death.
These—
these eyes,
are not darkened by dreams,
but by the unbearable redness of
flames
rising from the funeral fire.
This body,
whether laid upon the pyre, or burned
within it,
from the sacred woods or
from the glowing embers of the
deceased,
we are but sustenance for those hovering
between life and death.
This body—
formed from that pyre,
from that ash,
from that same water, earth, and
grain,
which it has been consuming for
centuries—
it was born out of those funerary
rites.
Each pore is nourished by that
sacrificial fire.
Within this body—
not the fragrance of noble sandalwood,
saffron, or sacred vermillion,
but the stench of burnt corpses
lingers.
This form yearns eternally for the feast
of the outcast’s pyre.
In it flows the blood
of unfulfilled desires, of restless
spirits
who met with sudden, untimely
death.
This body—
a bridge between the living and the
dead,
it is nearly impossible, unbearably
difficult,
to fully comprehend or accept.
Humans—
all are human.
Yet how you have oppressed, exploited,
and crushed us,
pushing us down to the lowest
level.
And even then, you were not
satisfied.
You sent us, alive,
to the land of the dead.
Art—
it is an unbounded ocean.
It knows no limits.
Talent—
it is the new dawn of wisdom,
born from unending pain.
Whoever is struck by this arrow,
there is no remedy for them.
Dhananjaya spoke softly—
“Do not be angry, do not blame me.
I will take you away somewhere
else.
I will leave this society and go far
away.”
Chanda was startled—
“Such a great sacrifice!
When did your heart of stone, hardened
by centuries, become so generous?
Will you,
one day,
walk with me
through social gatherings?
Will you endure the downcast eyes filled
with scorn,
the twisted expressions,
the biting, silent sarcasm of
smiles,
the harsh conversations of disdain
exchanged without words,
and the blinding pride of the upper
class?
Will you endure it all, silently?
Perhaps the centuries of cruelty have
taught you
to bear everything in silence.
But not me—
I cannot.
I cannot endure this with passive
tolerance.
I—
I do not desire this world.
I do not seek its gratitude.
I know well—
beneath the seemingly tender, gentle
gazes
of the upper class,
burns intense, deep disdain.
There is unbearable neglect.
In my solitary hut of penance,
streams of silent tears flow
endlessly.
Within, a still, steady flame flickers
in the void,
illuminating the pain of hundreds of
sorrows.
Even in my humble worship,
my deities are resplendent.
They, too, are honored with fragrant
incense and sandalwood.
Their ablution is performed with the
water from these hands.
In my worship, they look on,
unblinking,
and the silent exchanges between my
heart and theirs
flow without end, unrestricted.
In my humble abode,
they descend in grace.
The world of worship comes alive,
filled with sacred devotion,
vibrant and pure."
Form.
Formless.
Unified.
A mesmerizing surge of sensation.
But, those same divine idols—
When they step into your sacred
chambers,
How distant, how unfamiliar they
become.
Stamped by the authority of religion, of
society,
They are claimed by a single creed.
Surrounded by rituals,
Entrapped in caste-bound
traditions.
In the deafening din of bells and
chants,
The voice of the deity is lost—
But the priest's voice grows loud and
proud.
The feet of the gods are chained in
golden fetters.
Their words, muffled, remain trapped
within their lips.
Where my soul’s thread entwined,
Where the anklets chimed,
There—
The ultimate truth.
The essence of life.
A radiant, divine light blossomed,
A thousand-petaled lotus blooming in the
cosmic sky.
With every quiver of its petals,
The dance of creation unfolds.
Galaxies, worlds, and universes,
Scatter like countless dew-drops.
As the feet press,
The great cremation ground trembles,
Ashes scatter,
All identity, all memory, vanishes.
Wherever the ash falls,
It touches my feet here.
Flames engulf the earth,
The breath of nature sighs
In the shadow of burning flames.
This—
This world itself is a burning
pyre.
The sun, the moon, the stars, the
constellations—
All are its fuel.
In the vast cauldron of time,
The eternal cook, Mahakaal, prepares the
endless feast,
Devouring all life, all beings.
All who stand here,
Are bound by the slender thread of time.
He—
The ultimate truth.
The essence of the cosmic womb, the
hidden mystery.
The Brahman.
Destroyer, creator, dancer of the
Tandava.
The one who takes and gives life.
On his eternal single-stringed
instrument,
Only the sound of the primordial 'Om'
plays.
He—
The dancer.
The creator.
The eternal, unseen ruler of all.
He, the ultimate mystery of art,
The eldest, the eternal,
Yet the unborn—
Still, he is the firstborn of
creation.
Our work is one and the same.
He—
Burns the living corpses in the fire of
time,
As they turn into water, air, space,
fire, stone.
He—
Gives fire to time.
I give fire to the pyre.
Both of us share the same color, the
same caste.
Though he is the ruler of all,
And I, the outcast.
This forced curse,
It is society that has created this
divide.
He is the ruler—
The silent witness.
He merely cast a single breath,
Into the consciousness of the
universe.
But he remains detached.
His work is so clear.
He—
Time, the eternal, the timeless, the
fierce.
He watches—
His eternal dance in the mirror of the
universe,
As creation and destruction
intertwine.
He drinks the nectar of time’s dew,
In an unbroken stream.
This is—
The call of time.
Whether it be the great cremation
ground,
Or nature adorned in her vibrant
attire,
Both are one and the same to him.
He never created caste or division.
What I received is society’s selfish,
vile punishment.
Society gave me this merciless, biased
exclusion,
Constantly silencing our burning
questions,
With relentless oppression.
We, crushed, oppressed, bruised,
trampled,
Lie helpless on the earth,
Enduring the cruel lashes.
These high-born, sweet-tongued, venomous
words,
Filled with cultured speech,
Infuse unbearable torment in every cell
of life.
Your arrogant, falsely humble
actions,
Serve only your own self-love.
I feel nothing but profound disgust for
all of you.
Your poisonous pride,
When it touches the body,
Like a slimy, wet, squirming
serpent,
It ignites within me an insufferable
loathing.
Yet, you remain intoxicated by your own
arrogance.
Who knows how much,
The water has risen above your
head?
The wounds remain unhealed, no shade
found,
Yet, for others in that same place—
Awards, gifts, and respectful honors
abound.
Time brings its ceaseless rhythm,
But to the lower class, it brings
only
Rejected food, cruel, harsh words,
And an unbearable life of scarcity.
A desert of heated thorns,
Forever tread by those cast aside.
This endless cycle of exploitation,
Never broken.
In the hands of society,
The scales of judgment always
tipped,
Towards the side where profits are
rife.
But an artist—
Is no merchant,
Nor a master of calculations.
They stumble in small reckonings,
Falling in the vast maze of
equations,
Unable to stay upright,
Entrapped, entangled.
Before them, life sways like a flowing
honey-stream,
And they, with open hands,
Give freely, without restraint.
Their pain—an ocean without shores.
Clouds of despair hover over the horizon
of their eyes,
Weeping, their tears,
Burn endlessly, illuminating the
darkened doorways
Of the soul’s depth.
Amidst the blackness of sorrow,
A lightning bolt flashes.
There is no rest for them.
They see not this world,
But live in a single, wandering note of
a lost song.
The deeper the wound within,
The more tender and vibrant their voice
becomes.
A tireless devotion,
Unaware of the incense’s gentle smoke
rising,
Forever circling unknown feet, kissing
them ceaselessly.
A soul, wandering for ages,
A rainbird always seeking its home.
Its wings exhausted, alone in its
flight,
Halted at the evening horizon,
Its cry, echoing in pain.
Filling its heart with unbearable
anguish,
Shattered into pieces by its
suffering.
No moment,
No tomorrow,
Only unrest,
In this crowded life,
Trapped in its own thorn-filled,
desolate solitude.
One fleeting glance from the merchant’s
son,
He took a deep breath and said—
"The bamboo grove is near.
Your heart is heavy with sorrow,
Close by, the resting place of the
faithful is found.
Would you,
Abandon these enchanting anklets,
And go there?
Surely you will find peace,
And resolution for your heart's inner
struggles."
Chanda, her eyes filled,
With an overwhelmed heart and choking
voice,
In a tone of pain, spoke—
"Peace! Heart’s peace!
No place can offer its cure.
Where it pierced through the depths of
my chest,
There my body, my mind, my life,
Burnt to ash.
Why should I go to Venuvan? Or
Vrindavan?
No ointment can soothe the fire
burning
Within my very being.
No release from these unyielding
thorns,
Pricking day and night.
I know well,
These enchanting forms of deities,
temples, avatars,
Mere consolations for nursing
The divine controller.
But only ‘Not this, not this’ —
The formless, the formed—
These aching touches, waves of
colors,
These otherworldly, wondrous
shapes.
Helpless, seeking refuge,
Wandering among them, searching for
solace.
Every descent,
A mere reflection, an accepted
expression
Of human imagination.
Everyone knows,
'All salutations to the gods,
Reach none but Keshava.’"
I do not oppose
any religion, society, or thought.
Where I am centered,
there is no obstruction.
These despicable, vile social
conspiracies
have no logical response.
Unlike you, blessed by gods, society,
religion, and state,
we—the unfortunate—have no such fate.
Where is the worship of gods, the
offering of flowers, the ecstasy of joy?
And where are we—silently watching, eyes
filled with tears.
Nowhere to be found, the soothing cool
clouds
that ceaselessly pour their divine
nectar.
But by the time they reach me,
they turn either to embers,
or fall as stones.
What flows as sweet nectar
on the flute of your heart,
here spills as deadly poison.
One standard for all,
yet no resolution, no balance.
Even medicine,
its effects change according to human
nature and emotions.
A problem’s solution
cannot be one for all.
Questions remain incomplete;
answers stay mute, crippled.
No answer has ever stood
with the oppressed, the suffering, the
downtrodden.
This anklet,
this tinkling sound,
the resonance of the thousand-petaled
lotus,
unfolding in the pure waters of the
mind,
gleaming, bathed in light.
Each petal, trembling with divine
vibrations,
emerges on the horizon of the
heart,
the dawn of wisdom rising,
filled with sacred light,
the tide of nectar overflowing,
embracing the joy of dawn.
Unshakable unity, inseparable
oneness—
where body and soul become one.
Wherever this soul resides,
until now,
unknown, unseen.
Yet in that empty world,
this anklet remains.
Like the flute of the mind,
who breathed life into it?
This eternal sound,
this unceasing echo.
Whether breath stops or life ebbs
away,
now it is only compulsion.
Do you not see, every night,
in the silent, soundless sky,
when all beings—living and
non-living—fall into sleep?
In the deep night, the lonely
night,
like a madwoman,
she dances in the vast blue
heavens,
wearing the anklet of stars.
Her feet, ceaseless, unwearied,
move to the rhythm of nature’s
song,
until they bleed, torn apart,
like pearls, shattered stars.
Yet the dance does not stop.
Covering her face with a dark veil,
lifting it just a little,
with tear-filled eyes,
the moon watches her in silence.
Tears, drop by drop, fall.
Standing mute,
Dhananjaya speaks in a broken
voice—
"You,
say what you will.
The Lord did not speak this.
This is but self-expression,
the charming delusion
of reflecting and responding to
oneself.
It is self-deception,
to be drawn, like a moth to a
flame,
burning in the fire of
desire."
Chanda replies, her voice grave—
"Emotions, weighed by thought,
are mirrors of different
perspectives,
depending on where one surrenders.
Renunciation
is free from desire.
Even in this solitary focus,
all doors remain closed.
Entry is forbidden.
Oneness
is never pierced by desire.
One aim,
one emotion is the goal.
Those who have touched truth,
their thoughts remain impartial.
But He—
the vast one, the controller of
all—
how fervent is His expression!
The sun, the moon, the worlds,
the visible and the unseen, the
universes,
bow in silence, watching Him.
He resides in everything—
the inert and the conscious,
destroying, creating, merging,
in the dance of life.
Mountains, valleys, wilderness,
groves,
the stirring sea.
The crown of the Himalayas, the
thousand-colored spectrum—
in all of these.
Attached, detached, contained,
released—
is this not His essence?
Radiating through all,
filling everything with His natural
waves of emotion.
Why then, on the thousand-headed
serpent-bed of desires,
amidst the ocean of His thoughts,
in the milky-white sea,
does He sleep forever?
Why?
The universe, His mirror.
Why?
For whom is this self-revelation?
Whether desires exist or do not,
He moves through all."
She turned and spoke—
"Son of the Merchant,
Thank you.
You have endured my senseless
rambling
in vain.
It would be better
if you give me a moment of
solitude."
For a while, he gazed at her, then
spoke—
"Only one answer is needed,
just to one question.
I will return swiftly once I hear
it.
This art, this beauty—
will it remain unanswered?
Both, desired by the hearts of the
people."
Chanda lifted her eyes,
a faint smile appeared.
She spoke—
"I speak not of others,
I speak of myself.
This body, this mind, this life—
a sacrificial offering, a
fire-yajna.
I am the oblation, the incense, the
smoke, the sandalwood.
The heart’s garden,
blossoming with fragrant joy,
thrills with his gentle touch.
Limited truths, bound by beauty,
yet offered to the infinite.
The anklet fills itself with
melody.
Grace grows,
ever more radiant.
These are not bound to fleeting
time,
but long for the eternal.
Thus, son of the Merchant,
within these anklets
beats the heart of the universe.
A resonance,
an eternal beauty
bathed in the endless rain of nectar and
honey.
In their shadow, both—
this timeless beauty,
which time cannot burn,
and these indestructible anklets,
that forever fill with everlasting
sound.
Remember this well.
They are his medium.
Both on their own, utterly
powerless."
As Chanda fell silent,
Dhananjaya turned to leave.
The place was desolate, deserted.
His heart was weary,
pained, distracted, restless.
Like a bird, worn from travel,
sitting upon the branches of life’s
tree,
picking, bit by bit,
each thorn that pierced the rim of
existence.
Tears flowed freely,
as he looked through tear-filled
eyes
at the world around him.
Taking a deep breath,
she whispered to herself—
"Ah! What a blow I’ve taken,
fallen to the ground,
helpless, overturned.
This once proud, uplifted brow,
has been marked with a dark
stain."
With centuries of bitter, venomous
laughter,
it landed on her forehead,
like a burning coal,
grinning mockingly.
This...
this was me.
This was the only gift I received.
Nothing more.
In silence, I remained—
helpless.
What strength did I have
in my stillness?
My eternal companions—
crushed desires, flowing tears.
These eyes, filled with sorrow,
poured out unbearable pain.
Whenever they were wounded,
they wept alone.
How many resting places
did memories find upon the path?
All of them—exposed, alone, burnt,
scarred.
Never did they find
the cooling, shadowed leaves
of a comforting shelter.
Upon this thirsty, barren earth,
a small bell
sounded from somewhere.
Utterly sorrowful.
Its resonance, filled with pain.
In the warp and weft of melody, rhythm,
and tune,
I too filled it with the colors of my
tears.
Who knows how many lifetimes of
sleep,
lying somewhere,
gave rise to fresh, aching laments
within my soul’s flute.
The body lay here,
but the mind,
it wandered through all the worlds.
I saw—
countless fragments, shattered like
stone,
scattered across this storm-torn
world.
Amidst disheveled hair,
tattered garments,
covering her face with both hands,
Nature herself wept,
sighing like a pauper,
lamenting the punishment she had
received,
from whom, and why,
remained unknown.
I saw—
the aftermath of destruction,
broken, torn remnants.
Still, they trembled,
silent, sobbing.
Terrified by some unforeseen
horror,
shaken, pained, and bewildered.
Time, with heavy feet,
had trampled them.
Looking upon its footprints,
Nature stood,
fearful, doubting.
Shiva’s dance had ended,
but Nature trembled,
quivering with fear.
In the universal instrument,
the strings of sorrow
resounded with a piercing, poignant
tone.
Consciousness, dormant and wounded,
stirs gently, turning slowly.
Rising softly, she looks around with
tear-filled eyes,
seeing everything shattered,
broken.
Each piece writhes in anguish.
Tender hands lift the fragments,
caress them with love,
trying again to join them whole,
relentlessly pursuing, consumed by
care.
Yet once broken, it never truly
mends.
Reconstruction is constant,
but the mind—when?
How does it endure this separation from
love?
What is this helpless, anguished
pain
of wanting to reclaim what is lost?
In the sparse, forlorn valleys of
sorrow,
the mind wanders, tired, destitute,
disheartened.
Where to go?
Whom to tell?
This distressed mind, broken,
has endured so much,
has borne it all.
Symbols offering comfort,
inviting consolation,
seem distant, elusive.
What awaits,
no matter where it goes—
whether a symbol of worship
or the sacred grounds of penance,
whether the ocean’s mighty waves
or the soft ripples of the river—
in the mind, a singular echo
lingers.
Where all sensitivity rests
immovable,
no wave of emotion can stir it
anymore.
It is bound to that thread of
breath,
to the One who gave
this pure white cloth of life.
I shall lie, like tender grass,
beneath those sacred feet,
becoming like sandalwood, adorning
Him.
Reason grows weary,
while faith smiles on,
the nectar flows, overflowing.
All forms, formless causes—
mere expressions of that singular
truth.
He is
both destruction and creation,
the doer, the taker, the maker
in myriad forms,
pervading everything
yet remaining unknown.
He.
This painful, devastating blow—
nothing could stop it.
Unstoppable, it moves through all,
infusing everything
with suffering.
The wretched, desperate cry of
pain—
but who has truly seen the pain?
What we see is only the reaction.
That is all.
He.
The supreme ruler.
He.
My refuge—
a quiet, sheltered, shaded place,
filled with tender affection.
In His feet burns
this pure, unblemished light of my
soul.
My unshakable, firm faith
of lifetimes upon lifetimes.
I,
fearless in His shadow.
He,
though unseen,
has been there in countless forms,
yet always, ever so kind.
Even today,
though wounded by this blow,
a new dawn of knowledge has
emerged.
Inspiration, like the morning
light,
has descended into the courtyard of my
mind.
I,
the suffering outcast,
have offered every breath to Him.
In the river of my heart,
the melody of His flute echoes.
Enchanted, drawn in,
I swayed,
my tiny bell rang.
Immersed in the nectar of
experience,
this anklet found
a vast ocean of poison swirling below
it.
Yet it danced on every wave.
Drinking deeply from the cup of autumn’s
moon,
filled with poison,
intoxicated,
it danced like a peacock,
in the storm-laden sky of emotions,
swaying like a light without flame.
This entire world—
in my dance, it too participates.
Art—
only art—
at its sacred, holy feet,
burns,
from birth to death.
Life bows.
The heart,
from its depths,
quenches the fire of pain with
venom.
Utterly alone,
I stand fearless and still.
This soul, thirsting and restless
through endless lifetimes,
seeks only truth, deep and unfathomable.
A light without flame,
in the clouded sky of the mind,
a sacrificial fire—
the soul’s radiant, pure flame.
Under that vast, gracious expanse,
this little lamp burns alone,
a tiny speck dissolving in the great
ocean,
nourished by the unending tears of
experience.
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