Chapter 24 : Angulimaal

 

Summary

In the opening passage of the chapter "Angulimaal" from "Amriteya Buddha," the narrative sets the stage with a dire situation: The Lord, during the rainy season, is staying at Jetavana, Anathapindika's park in Shravasti. He learns of widespread fear and suffering in the region of Kaushal due to a ruthless bandit. This bandit, notorious for his cruelty, causes widespread chaos and death. He indiscriminately kills people, regardless of their age or status, and creates a necklace of severed fingers from his victims. His terror is so severe that he has become a major concern for the people and the king of Kosala. Despite warnings from the people about the bandit's danger and their pleas for him to stay away, the Lord sets out toward the Jalini forest where the bandit resides. The journey through the forest is eerie and silent, amplifying the tension. As the Lord walks through the desolate forest, Angulimaal, the bandit, notices him and commands him to stop. The Lord continues his path undeterred, showing no fear or hesitation despite the bandit's threats and the grim atmosphere of the forest.

This passage introduces the central conflict involving the bandit Angulimaal and sets up the dramatic encounter with the Lord, highlighting the Lord's bravery and determination.

In the chapter "Angulimaal," the narrative unfolds with the protagonist, Angulimaal, grappling with deep inner turmoil and spiritual confusion. The exchanges between him and the Buddha are pivotal:

Angulimaal reflects on his life, questioning the nature of self and the burden of his actions. He is troubled by his past deeds and the relentless inner strife. He acknowledges the dual nature of his existence, torn between his destructive past and a desire for spiritual awakening.

The Buddha advises Angulimaal to transcend his past grievances and internal conflicts. He emphasizes that enduring patience and non-violence are the keys to overcoming the afflictions of the mind. The Buddha teaches that true freedom comes from within, not from external validation or material success.

Angulimaal is encouraged to observe his own mind and understand the essence of his being. He learns that personal transformation requires self-awareness and the ability to manage one’s thoughts and desires. The Buddha's teachings guide him toward a path of self-realization, detachment from ego, and embracing compassion.

The narrative concludes with Angulimaal’s profound realization. He recognizes the futility of vengeance and violence, choosing instead to embrace the Buddha’s teachings. He experiences a spiritual rebirth, shedding his former self and adopting a life of peace and compassion.

The chapter portrays Angulimaal's journey from a life of crime and inner chaos to one of enlightenment and peace, guided by the profound wisdom of the Buddha.

 

The Poem

 

The Lord

In his wanderings, 

Was spending the year 

In Shravasti, 

At Jetavana, Anathapindika's park.

 

He arose, pained to hear: 

Men and women of Kaushal were terrified and distressed. 

The people's lives in Kaushal were in disarray, afflicted.

 

A vicious, cruel bandit 

Was spreading terror throughout the city. 

He made no distinction: 

Child, youth, elder, man, or woman. 

Day or night, whenever he found someone, 

He asked nothing, said nothing. 

He simply took their lives.

 

He had piled up corpses in Kaushal. 

Cutting off the fingers of the dead, 

He made a garland. 

Wearing it around his neck, 

He spread terror everywhere.

 

At present, 

He dwells in the vast, dense 

Jalini forest near Shravasti.

 

The Lord set out toward the Jalini woods. 

The people tried to stop him. 

"Lord! The bandit is blind to reason. 

He has no knowledge of right and wrong. 

He will not behave appropriately even with you, Lord. 

He will fearlessly advance to take your life.

 

King Prasenajit of Kosala 

Is searching for that ruthless one 

With his own military might. 

So please stay here, Lord. 

Do not be eager to go there."

 

The Lord silently lifted his alms bowl in his hand. 

Along the way, all kept telling him cruel tales of the bandit, 

Hoping the Lord would still turn back somehow. 

But the Lord kept moving silently 

Towards that great forest 

Where Angulimala was dwelling. 

The darkness of the night, 

The sweetness of the day, 

Was being colored with a crimson hue. 

The Jalini forest stood silent, thorny, and grim. 

Even frightened birds and flying creatures were hidden somewhere. 

There was no movement, not the slightest sound. 

Only the rustling of leaves under footsteps, 

Or the murmur of waterfalls.

 

Walking in his own rhythm, 

The Lord heard a harsh, stern, yet human roar: 

"Monk! O Monk! Stop!" 

The Lord's pace remained swift. 

No obstacle or hindrance on the path.

 

The bandit, panting, shouted— 

"Where are you going so hastily? 

Why is your gait so unhindered, so eager? 

Did you not hear my command? 

Is there not even a hint of fear in your mind?"

 

The Lord spoke in a calm, grave, soft, gentle voice— 

"I am still. 

I am motionless."

 

Angulimala said— 

"You! Constantly moving. 

Why do you speak in vain?"

 

On his radiant, gracious, joyful face, 

A slight smile appeared. 

The Lord turned slightly to look at him. 

Fearless, an unblemished full moon became luminous, 

Illuminating every crevice of the deep forest.

 

The bandit spoke in a harsh voice— 

"You! Non-violent. Truth-speaker. Arhat. 

Don't speak untruths, needlessly."

 

The Lord said—"Angulimala! 

I am stable, immovable. 

A gentle sandalwood breeze. 

You, impatient, arrogant, fierce storm. 

You alone are confused, tired, burning inside and out. 

Constantly watching your own self-immolation. 

Extremely mobile, unstable, fickle. 

Every moment, every instant, 

Your life-journey-moment is eroding, 

Pitiable, poor, distressed, agitated.

In the calm ocean, a terrible fire. 

In the dark blue sky, a garland of burning meteors. 

Night. 

Dark new moon. 

In every writhing turn,

only sharp thorns found piercing. 

Day. 

Ah! 

A groan. 

A skull brimming with red blood, dirty, overflowing.

 

What? Is this the life you're living? 

Only oppression upon oppression. 

Bandit! We are worlds apart!"

 

I! 

I am unperturbed. 

I am free from the notion of punishment. 

Unwavering, motionless, windless, without impulse, 

I am established in myself. 

I am detached from restraint.

 

You. 

Entangled in a web of impulses, 

Utterly unrestrained. 

You. 

Bowed and tired by the weight of your own impurities. 

Thus your pace is slow.

 

I. 

Like a stainless flower, unburdened, 

My movement is swift and free.

 

You. 

Why are you thus afflicted with the unbearable burdens of misdeeds? 

Why don't you shed this weight and see for once? 

Are you truly stable?

 

Had you come to this world 

With this sword, this deerskin, 

And this finger-garland? 

Only. 

Your karma will accompany you. 

Understand its essence. 

Karma. 

Be it good or evil. 

Its reaction must certainly be endured.

 

Why then, in this offering of yours, 

Only a collection of thorns and spikes? 

Your bag is filled with precious stones of knowledge. 

Your face, once radiant, is now dusty, dull, 

And devoid of luster. 

Inscribed on your radiant forehead, 

The pure vermilion of knowledge. 

You cannot bear, in any way, 

This heavy, useless burden of sin, 

This dreadful self-destruction.

 

Look. 

At the pure, enlightened, unblemished inner self. 

At the self-illuminated, self-luminous, intense image. 

This tarnished mirror, becoming desireless and unperturbed. 

Make it clean, clear, sparkling.

 

Not only you. 

Let the entire universe reflect in it, 

Pure and pristine. 

The intense light that illuminates the mind-lake. 

Do not make it smoke-covered. 

Dark and restless.

 

Why are you roaming disoriented, directionless, 

In this dull cycle of coming and going?  

In this uneven, complex, inaccessible, thorny forest, 

Look, 

In the dense darkness enveloped by gloom, 

Your wisdom lies exhausted, 

Slack, near-death, 

Taking broken, tired breaths. 

It's writhing, 

Hoping somehow 

A single ray of truth's light might come from somewhere, 

Easily filling it with new enthusiasm. 

In this suffocating darkness, 

Life is gasping for breath. 

The upward journey of life, 

But it lies on the ground, 

Not at all capable of moving forward.

 

You. 

The all-round learned scholar of Taxila. 

Never questioned their own mind, 

How did you 

Welcome this goddess of learning? 

Neck-deep in the ocean of knowledge, 

Not with pearls of wisdom, 

But with rubbish shells and oysters, 

You filled your handful, in your own way.

 

On this swaying, boundless shore, 

In the balance of knowledge, 

You're constantly weighing piles of sand. 

The milk-white illuminated mind-space, 

Radiant with the light of truth, 

Repeatedly extending an invitation.

 

Take an unrestrained swim in this ocean of beauty. 

Why are you giving the blessing of Saraswati, 

A dark shroud of death? 

From under the pile of ash, 

Extract the jewel of knowledge, 

Radiating brilliant light.

 

Angulimala. 

Don't be so despondent. 

A person, 

By birth, caste, family pride, or upbringing, 

Never becomes high or low. 

These 

Are society's ostentatious, selfish, 

Artificial bonds. 

Don't be unaware of your own dignity. 

Young man! 

Recognize yourself for a moment."

 

Angulimala looked toward the Lord

with sorrowful, repentance-filled, pitiful eyes, 

A dark cloud of pain enveloped 

His suffering, tear-soaked face. 

In the ripples of that pitiful compassion, 

Drowning one by one in the corners of his tear-filled eyes, 

Were hardness, brutality, and a deep disregard for the world. 

There was a cooling, burning, suffering, distressed anger. 

As if, suddenly, the violent storm, 

Uprooting trees, would cease, 

The relentless, deadly, arrogant assault. 

As if the ocean, 

Proud, filled with tumultuous tides, 

Rushing towards the sky, 

Owner of rivers, sounds, and mists, 

A giver of countless jewels, 

Overly arrogant, 

Would stop. 

Angulimala, 

Immersed in a stunned, inactive, dark flame, 

Was silent. 

He stood still. 

His weapons fell from his hand, unsupported. 

Like a felled tree, 

His head bowed, 

Before the Lord's feet. 

He, 

Scorched by the sun, downtrodden, dirty, colorless, 

With tears flowing continuously.

 A withered, wilted flower. 

Utterly rejected, uselessly neglected, 

His face bathed in tears.

Distressed, agitated, 

He stared fixedly at the Lord.

 

He spoke, 

With a voice choked with tears and compassion. 

"Lord! 

This is my defeat. 

I, 

Fallen on the earth, 

Self-immolated within. 

A lifeless corpse, 

Every question faces upwards like 

Fierce blazing flames, 

Asking 

The sky, the earth, the horizon: 

Why? 

This. 

The curse and torment! 

The mocking laughter of fate! 

Only, directed at me! 

My offering of pure fragrance and goodness, 

A thousand vessels blossomed. 

Pure, enlightened, adorned in silver, 

Knowledge, the river of wisdom. 

The ritual of knowledge, 

Always fulfilled, 

With noble joy, 

Filled with desires, 

And ever-sustained within my heart. 

It is that supreme, holy, 

Clear, and pure river. 

 

Suddenly, making me dishonored, scorned, 

Angry, agitated, distressed, speechless. 

Abruptly,

it started flowing rapidly in the opposite direction. 

Because,

mistaking the adorned attendant for my promised bride, 

I, Shaunabhadra, 

Placed the victory garland 

Around the neck of the daughter of darkness, a servant. 

 

This unseen structure, 

Caught in a dilemma, 

Riding the horse of unrighteousness— 

I, 

Straying from the path, 

Bound by no limits, 

Dark and restless,  

Ending in wrath, ferocious, 

My wounded pride, burdened with arrogance, 

I, driven by destiny, mocked by fate, 

Prince Shaunabhadra! 

I sought to touch 

The unreachable, the immense, unfathomable sky. 

A shadow, profound darkness, utterly powerless, 

Vanished—the true, the false, the wisdom, the discernment. 

Unyielding is my journey, 

Memory no longer remains. 

Whatever came before me, 

All destroyed, ruined. 

Within, deep within, I am— 

Utterly wretched, tormented, 

Crushed by the blows of fate, fallen, 

Absorbing everything within. 

I am—profoundly desolate, 

Alone, unquiet. 

 

Crashing against mountains and rocks, 

Through valleys and uplands, 

Filling deep rivers and streams, 

An unstoppable, ever-flowing flood, fiercely surging, 

Gnawing with its waves at the trembling, moist banks, 

It advances, 

Through the natural, beautiful forests,

brimming with splendor and charm, a hive of delights. 

I am vast, expansive— 

Untamed, intense, boundless, ruthless, fearless. 

I am the Brahmaputra! A surge of immense energy, 

I, the mighty and graceful Lohit, have arisen. 

 

I, 

Struck by the cruel blows of fate, 

Devoured by Rahu, a dimmed sun, fallen, 

A mere, insignificant being, 

Enduring immense inner pain. 

Everywhere, wildfires blaze, 

The heart too, turbulent, craves 

A cool nectar that soothes. 

I search for the ambrosial drink, 

A ceaseless flow of elixir, a remover of all suffering— 

Where is that great tree, 

Whose cool shade 

Can calm this burning body? 

Where is that wish-fulfilling tree, 

That divine cow, Kamadhenu? 

I am that scorched, cursed moon, 

Who, hidden in the dark sky of slander, weeps, distressed and restless, 

Seeking refuge, wretched and forlorn, 

I come into the shelter of your blessed, loving, dense shade. 

 

O Lord! 

Your sacred, pure, tender, and cool refuge is ever desired. 

In this harsh world, I am utterly neglected. 

Never, not even once, 

Has a single ray of light 

Entered this lonely hut. 

Never has a drop of affection's dew 

Cooled the scorched courtyard of my heart. 

 

O Lord! My inner strength— 

It is always serene and unwavering. 

It builds a strong, protective wall, 

Providing deep affection and solace. 

Embracing the fearful, shaken, and suffering, 

It kicks away the cruel world with scorn. 

But here, even my essence has dimmed and become weak. 

Behold—helpless, troubled, and restless— 

My own shadow. 

Alas! Frightened by my own hideous, distorted, monstrous form, 

I am deeply terrified. 

This is my horrifying, dreadful, fierce existence. 

Whenever its reflection has appeared in the world's mirror, 

It has been rejected repeatedly, 

With utmost disdain and hatred, 

Angrily cast aside. 

Under the unbearable weight of itself, this 

Worn-out, filthy, weary, restless, and rejected body is breaking down. 

 

For a moment, in the cool shade 

Of this evergreen Tamala and Varuna tree, 

Let these burning, broken, faltering breaths 

Find some calm. 

Let the bird of my soul, weary from ages of flight, 

Find its identity 

Among these branches and thickets. 

I, struck by unseen blows, 

Deprived of fortune and joy, 

Rejected everywhere, stripped of knowledge, brilliance, and light. 

Shunned by wealth, people, society, and honor. 

Upon whom fate strikes with mighty force— 

Dragged, bound to destiny's harsh chain, 

Head bowed, pulled along. 

If suddenly a family member, a dear friend, 

Appears before me, 

They turn away, avoid the path, 

Shielding their eyes, they hurry on. 

This strange, hostile feeling of deep familiarity turned unfamiliar, 

Etches a harsh, piercing, agonizing scar on the heart, 

Leaving it deeply wounded and torn. 

Like a sharp thorn of the acacia, in the empty, barren courtyard of the mind, 

Relentlessly falling, it fills it entirely. 

 

They say, fate is the arbiter. 

Both poison and nectar lie with it. 

To some, it grants the shield of ambrosia, 

To others, it brings the cruel poison of calamity. 

This is the ritual of offerings. 

Does it know? 

Whether it will cast unseen 

Blossoms of grand blessings, 

Or a fire of curses and suffering. 

In the same place, at the same time, under the same conditions, 

One may receive the crown of fortune, 

While another suffers from ill omens. 

Some laugh and say, 

"Ah, fortune!" 

Others, with cold sighs and tear-filled eyes, lament, 

"Alas, wretched fate! A grievous blow." 

Where is the green grass of a hundred strands? 

In worship and reverence, 

Becomes a sacred bell at the deity’s feet, 

Bringing liberation. 

Elsewhere, it is trampled underfoot, 

Day after day, moment by moment. 

 

O Lord, 

I am one among these. 

Yet, fate did not spare me, 

And the desired sanctity of a twice-born was not bestowed upon me. 

Fate could have adorned me with a crown of glory. 

I, a descendant of the Bhrigu lineage, 

The son of the royal priest of Kosala, 

Could have upheld my family's traditions. 

But, shunned by the pinnacle of honor, 

I fell prostrate on the ground. 

Struck by fate’s blows, 

All knowledge and praise scattered, 

Pierced by a thousand arrows of harsh ridicule. 

Fallen, tormented, agitated. 

I cried out— 

Helpless, unsupported, unanchored. 

Why? Why? Why? 

What deeds brought upon me this dreadful curse, 

Without delay? 

 

I am 

That burning curse, 

Which 

Has never been quelled. 

I am 

The countless stars in disarray, 

Restless, a chaotic cluster, 

That wanders erratically in its orbit. 

A symbol of ill omen, 

To whom everyone points and says— 

Alas! Misfortune, inevitable calamity. 

The harsh, angry gaze of the Supreme Controller, 

Brings unrest and grants planetary gifts, seeking liberation. 

 

I, 

Burning within and without, 

A tortured, distorted, restless soul, 

Scorched by the dark, smoky fire of comets, 

Suffering, scorned, cursed, and perpetually ignored, 

Terror-stricken, damned, unacknowledged. 

Wandering, lost in the waves of divine dispassion, 

Without the bridge of fate. 

Why do I burn to the core, for what purpose? 

I, amidst the fierce flames of time, 

Wander, agitated and confused. 

I am 

A mass of countless blazing comets, 

Colliding, grinding, and burning. 

Cries for relief are met with 

A snare of fate's tangled web. 

A single drop of rain, a release, 

I am a thirsty soul, eternally unsatisfied. 

No, I am not made by 

The roaring, tumultuous, endless natural sea. 

It is formed from my own heat, breaths, sighs,

and unbroken streams of tears. 

These vast arms of ego beat in all directions. 

This is me. 

Only me. 

 

O Lord, 

I was a sacred chant, 

Invoked by the gods, 

Pure and worthy of worship, 

But I lost my way. 

On the radiant blessings of self-luminous light, 

Fell the dark shadows of burning curses. 

 

I call them Brahmins, 

Who are born from this— 

“The calm, valiant, and wise, 

Conquering all ignorance, untouched, pure in intellect— 

That is what I call a Brahmin.” 

Apart from this, there is no true existence of Brahmanhood. 

Thus, non-violent. 

 

The non-violence that arose in the king's mind, 

Having seen it and carried it out, 

In a life shattered, torn apart with grief, 

Adorned with the pearls of realization, 

Becoming like a deep, dark enchantment, 

A fragrance of blindness, overwhelming. 

The nectar of knowledge lies still, 

Overflowing from the cup of self-awareness, 

Gradually becoming a radiant sun, spreading rays of light. 

 

With light, 

With newly blooming flowers, 

With the sweet chirping of birds, 

Nature fills every nook and cranny, 

Body and soul with its green foliage. 

 

The night, 

Yearns for light. 

The dawn, 

Thirsts for illumination. 

Why, then, in your mind, does the stubborn,

dense darkness of night 

Keep hovering incessantly? 

Remove it swiftly. 

Do not say that all your doors are blocked. 

If questions torment you with their voices, 

Then surely, somewhere, their answers are safely kept. 

 

Your cruel, brutal stubbornness stands stunned,

bewildered, like a stone. 

With both arms outstretched, it calls out 

To that pure, tender, eager love: 

Even now, awaken! 

Come, rise, and see— 

How your heart waits with longing 

To receive compassion, kindness, and noble awareness. 

Look at your own empty mind's courtyard, 

Deserted by the false warriors, 

Who have abandoned this battlefield of darkness. 

In the ruined, shattered graveyard of unrighteousness, 

Under the sky of wisdom, the eternal lamp of truth burns alone. 

Only your mind is its witness. 

Come, rise, rise higher. 

 

Hearing all this silently, 

The young man cried out in a voice full of sorrow, 

Agonized, distressed, his body trembling in fear. 

 

He spoke with a tear-filled, choked voice— 

"Lord! Lord! Fountain of compassion, 

Forever untouched by harshness. 

Who will rise, O Lord? 

Me? 

I, who hold no value, not even a grain. 

Broken on the path, my inner light's vessel shattered, 

Each broken piece sobs, one by one. 

The oppressed remain oppressed. 

Kicks— 

Are meant only for being kicked. 

Only diamonds can become crowns. 

Coal— 

Who would call coal a sibling of a diamond? 

It lies in the earth's fiery, burning volcanic furnace, 

Covered in an icy shroud, silently suffering, forcibly burning. 

Tossed upon the boiling waves of lava, 

Constantly shaken by earthquakes, 

In dark caves, under the blackened night, 

They yearn for just one ray of dawn. 

And if, somehow, their tortured outcry comes out into the world, 

They become stones, lying in the path, kicked around." 

 

Even before birth, fate is 

Written by the iron pen of ill fortune, 

The destiny decreed by fate— 

Bound in the web of deeds, 

Always remained unknown. 

Do not ask me to rise, Lord. 

Where would the dust of my feet go if I were to rise? 

Would it become a speck in the eye or vanish away? 

Therefore, I remain forever devoted at Your holy feet, 

This is my ultimate sacred pilgrimage, my eternal rest. 

From some unknown directions, 

Weary, exhausted, and lost, this bird of life, 

Has come to rest in Your cool, fragrant, delightful shade. 

Defeated and lost for countless lifetimes, 

It longed for the sandalwood dust of Your feet. 

 I. 

The Lord's bought slave of countless past lives. 

Seeking final refuge at Your holy feet. 

Let these helpless, baseless tears burn like lamps 

Near Your soft, tender soles. 

Let me hide my head at Your feet. 

I am the dust at Your holy feet. 

Just let me receive this consoling assurance: 

I am not guilty, Lord. 

I became prey to vile conspiracies. 

I— 

A bird for eye-piercing, 

At whom everyone's arrow was aimed. 

 

The Lord spoke in a compassionate voice: 

Youth! 

Don’t touch my feet, being so distressed and restless. 

In everyone is reflected, echoed, the same mind's mirror. 

Some are exceedingly bright, radiant, and shimmering. 

Some are dusty, dull, and dim. 

But you, I, and everyone else are all the same, 

Merely the legacy of the Great Time. 

 

Look at the radiant, immortal self-form. 

Don't be filled with feelings of inferiority. 

You are not less than anyone. 

You are fully capable in body and mind. 

You, by the name of Ahinsak, 

Are wise by your own scholarship. 

You know well 

The demarcated boundary of dharma and adharma. 

Any firm resolve-vow 

Is not directed by anyone's inspiration or orders. 

Its inherent, true call within 

Strikes at everything with an axe. 

From within the earth, never has 

A blazing sun burst forth, tearing darkness. 

The constantly moving chariot-wheel of time 

Has never broken, anywhere, at any moment, in any way. 

The ocean— 

Never bowing to the shores, 

Has become a beggar of rivers. 

Steadfast, 

Unwavering principles, 

Never falter. 

What the wisdom of discerning water from milk says, 

They listen only to that. 

Truth is always impartial. 

It is a harsh critic, 

Clear judge, speaker of truth. 

It never, ever, remains in any other alternative. 

To date, 

Truth has never misled anyone. 

On the path of truth, it has always given light. 

 

The youth said in a voice filled with remorse: 

 

"Lord! 

The unwavering steady needle of the balancing scale, 

Though it may be well-positioned straight, 

It is impartial and always capable 

Only towards inanimate, unconscious objects. 

But the mind, changing every moment, wavering, surging, 

Filled with impulse and passion— 

Sometimes rage, sometimes agitation, 

Sometimes depression, sorrow, grief. 

How can it ever be balanced? 

Who can stop it? 

Emotions, torn apart by impacts and counter-impacts, 

Invaded, restless, disturbed. 

No scale has been made 

That can measure reactive changes. 

The mind, surrounded by time, 

Circumstances, inner conflicts— 

When has it ever been able to connect with discernment? 

This discernment too, at some moment, 

Gets mortally wounded, 

Falls into the dark shadow of transformation. 

To catch that incomprehensible, 

Untouched, unknown moment, 

To fathom it, or to conquer it, 

Is extremely difficult. 

 

When has discernment ever been vocal? 

In the crowded throng of desires and temptations, 

Its voice is lost. 

If this discernment had remained fierce, strong, sharp, 

How many doubts, how many evil alliances, 

Would have been completely destroyed. 

When has any youth ever known this? 

The hovering of the inauspicious comet of Dakshina in disguise, 

And the coming of complex, burning curses 

Hidden in the guise of blessings. 

 

I, a student of learning at Takshashila, 

A knower of Brahman with complete knowledge— 

After gaining knowledge, 

I too had to give guru Dakshina. 

 

A guru does not merely bid farewell. 

He bestows his own soul’s fragrance in his blessings, 

Which becomes an infallible shield of protection

for the disciple's entire life journey. 

The path becomes easy, shaded by the nectar-laden clouds. 

 

It's not that every path is thorny. 

Every breath, tired and restless. 

A deep burning pervades the life force. 

Life parched. 

The reviving power weakened. 

Extremely poor. Burning coals scattered on the path ahead. 

The mind becomes paralyzed. 

Feet trembling. 

The vast, cloudless sky's grotesque, poisonous smile. 

Time is merciless. 

Forcibly compelling one to walk, 

on the sharp edges of a double-edged sword. 

 

Lord. 

The bond of a Guru and disciple 

is not just like that of a father and son. 

It is something more— 

heir to the sacred fire of Nachiketa. 

Greater than mother and father, 

the Guru is revered. 

 

He fills each disciple 

with the elixir of knowledge, 

makes them alive, vibrant, 

illuminated with the light of the self. 

A disciple— 

the very reflection 

of the Guru's profound, powerful presence, 

alive with the life-giving knowledge of the Guru, 

radiating brilliance. 

 

He is not only a giver of knowledge, 

he is the maker of destiny, 

the controller, the decider, the guide 

of the disciple’s birth, deeds, and future. 

 

Before sending him 

into this deep and vast ocean of existence, 

he prepares the clay vessel of the disciple’s being— 

carefully, inside and out, 

making it strong, tested, 

and then, lets it flow 

in this ocean of emotions. 

 

Standing on the shore, vigilant, 

he watches, 

the journey he has directed, 

never abandoning his righteousness, 

never inspiring deeds unworthy of honor. 

 

The Guru, 

is the path of upward ascent 

towards self-inquiry— 

it is he who sees, first of all, 

the dawn of knowledge 

on the horizon of the disciple's understanding. 

At the time of farewell, 

he offers at the Guru's feet— 

the sacred rice and vermilion, 

the disciple bows, marking his forehead 

with the red hue of blessings. 

 

Into the disciple’s breath, 

he blows the mantra of noble intent. 

He is but a conduit— 

for the methods of self-realization. 

He never falters in empowering the disciple 

with words of well-being. 

 

Whether it is a disciple or a son, 

he never implants baseless doubts, 

nor, without direct evidence, 

does he accuse them 

of others' false allegations. 

He does not weave 

a trap of unjust, unexpected conspiracies. 

If a Guru encourages such vile acts, 

he is no true Guru— 

he is a scavenger, tearing at the remains 

of ideals and faiths. 

An unforgivable wretch, cruel and abhorrent, 

who has committed a heinous theft 

of sacred, time-honored beliefs. 

 

Never has any Guru, 

asked for such an unheard-of, inauspicious, unprecedented 

Guru dakshina. 

Killing a human and demanding their fingers 

has never been desired by anyone till today. 

In the deep pyre of these murders, 

all faiths and good tendencies were burnt to ashes. 

In the destroyed, dust-covered ruins of my own ideals, 

I, tearing my hair with both hands, wept,

searched for the self-fragrance I had brought, 

I found it burning like a death-lamp. 

Amidst those ruins, wailing, 

I, 

fell face down, helpless. 

 

I am that seed of the burning barren earth, 

which, as soon as sown, from deep inner heat, 

burnt even before sprouting. 

Within it lay dreaming the entire creation, 

which didn't receive the life-giving cool rain. 

 

I, 

a rain-laden blue cloud, wildly swaying, 

whose tender, fresh limbs burned, 

whose mind's waves turned numb and cold. 

The fierce flames of curses consumed me to ashes. 

On the remaining skeletal remains, 

a ferocious dance of dark tendencies rages on, 

like a relentless, terrifying dance of a demon. 

 

This inner lyre, 

broken, disarrayed, shattered;

its strings quiver, torn apart, trembling in agony. 

In the waves of space, tossed and lost, 

the anguished melodies wandered aimlessly, 

never finding the mind’s lyre again, 

nor a reply to the sorrowful, forlorn lament of the heart's song. 

 

Scorched by the flames of despair and agony, 

never before heard such a sorrowful wail. 

In the darkened, empty courtyard, 

I have clung to my own filthy, black shadow, weeping countless times. 

This lonely, mute life has become an unbearable burden. 

 

I, 

from here, bow down at my Guru's holy feet, 

offer my humble salutations a hundredfold. 

May no disciple ever face such self-destruction, 

nor lose their peace and inner calm. 

 

No matter how fallen a human may be, 

somewhere, a spark of goodwill always remains. 

On the sharp thorns of the cactus, 

a tender dew drop still sits. 

Even in a pile of ash and dust, 

a tiny spark remains alive. 

 

O Lord, 

no one is ever completely evil; 

some part of earned good deeds hides somewhere within. 

Noble thoughts, drowned in the filth of impurity, 

condemn self-destruction, 

and self-made deceit. 

Constant, unending renunciation. 

 

Behind these murders too, 

I had only one aim. 

Never, 

did the greed for any ornament, garment,

or pearls ensnare me even slightly. 

But now this blood-red sword 

asks me a question: 

Those whose lives you took— 

were you entitled to do so? 

After abandoning this tendency, 

will they be revived? 

Will those who were their family and loved ones get them back? 

Will lamps light again in the homes 

that were darkened? 

If not— 

then when life could not be given, 

why take their breath away? 

This emptiness of life— 

that no one else can fill, 

as it was, unique to its own, 

another cannot become it, even if they wish. 

 

This grave sin, this lifelong loss, 

for which there is no other remedy. 

I am that despised, rejected seeker of nectar, 

whom even a beggar leaves behind. 

I am that thirsty fragment of a raincloud, 

deceived on the horizon of knowledge. 

 

I am the young fawn 

leaping over the green grass, 

whom death ensnared in its trap. 

A birth shadowed by curses— 

from the moment of birth, 

a radiant glow spread over 

all the weapons in the armory. 

 

The astrologers proclaimed— 

Ah, the betrayal of fate. 

"This one, in the future, 

shall be a criminal, a bandit." 

Destiny laughed, merciless, 

enraged with jealousy. 

Indeed, fate's decree became true— 

A Brahmin scholar, 

misusing sacred texts in a heinous, 

savage way— 

Never before had anyone 

heard or seen such a thing. 

 

In the glare of the armories, face covered, 

I had to hide in this dense darkness. 

And, in the endless, relentless flames of curses, 

I had to burn alone, continuously. 

I, a brilliant, sharp student. 

Whose arguments are indisputable, 

that same "I," now in this state, 

tainted, wretched, dim, devoid of knowledge. 

Drowning deep in the ocean of wisdom, 

yet, like a thirsty, parched fish. 

On the burning lips of the pacifist, 

the sharp blows of a thousand hoods of pain. 

On trembling lips, the poison of agony spread. 

 

He spoke—O Lord! 

I yearned for cool water, 

Like a lost, weary, thirsting cloud. 

I wandered, mountains, ravines, barren sands, desolate forests. 

On the burning feet of the cloudless sky, bent, bowed, restless, 

bound like an anklet, lying still. 

 

Where are the clusters of nectar? 

Where is the cool, moist, water-laden monsoon cloud? 

Only, only me— 

a scorching, blazing, whirling storm. 

And the cloudless, charred, silent blue sky. 

 

This is what these burning breaths received— 

This violence. 

Merely a shadow of a small fragment— 

of all that is unsolicited, unexpected, unwanted, 

that I have found. 

 

Listening patiently to Angulimala's rambling, 

the Lord spoke, in a deep, gentle voice, 

filled with inner affectionate joy— 

"No, young one, 

no. 

 

The scriptures, radiant with light, 

were not created for this reason— 

that a certain exceptional person was born, 

and with their wondrous brilliance, 

light spread everywhere. 

The future is entirely different. 

It is unaffected by the past or the present. 

 

The past— 

it was once the present. 

And the present is what man lives in, 

right before him. 

 

The future— 

it never arrives as the future; 

it, too, comes only as the present. 

 

So, look only at the present, 

and live it with truth and meaning, fully. 

Never dwell in fantasies of the future." 

 

This is a mirage. 

It appears close to being attained, 

but it is never truly grasped. 

Only the present is the true reality. 

 

Prophecies, 

to a distressed, restless, and pain-stricken mind, 

offer only a mirage-like coolness, 

a false shadow. 

 

This is an inactive assurance, a baseless consolation, 

that provides mere false sympathy to the one fallen on the ground. 

It just brushes off the dust from their wounds. 

 

A person is made by their own strength and actions. 

It is true that circumstances, 

discomforts, and inadequacies 

also contribute and cause obstacles. 

 

But firm determination does not consider other options. 

It extracts a "yes" from all the "no's." 

 

Every obstacle becomes a new method, 

opening new paths of experience. 

If the destination is not reached, 

one never thinks that this is the destined fate. 

 

Unceasing, focused effort, 

an indescribable inner satisfaction and fulfillment— 

the complete achievement is for the joy of the soul alone. 

 

You— 

be situated only in the present. 

Move beyond the interval of past and future. 

Be active and alert toward the present. 

It's not necessary that today's criminal 

remains a criminal tomorrow, too, 

and that the number of crimes keeps increasing. 

Self-loathing, remorse, inner burning— 

all impurities are reduced to ash. 

No one is born a criminal. 

A flower blooming on its stem 

beholds the first light of dawn. 

What does it know? 

In what place, what circumstances, 

where it will be respected or disrespected. 

 

Youth! 

Don't contemplate birth or prophecies. 

Just practice truth and non-violence. 

This is the ladder, climbing which gradually 

you will crush all distortions. 

 

Angulimala startled again, terrified— "Lord! 

Truth! 

Long ago, I forgot its form and color. 

When did I lose it? Where did I err? 

Now it's difficult even to recognize it. 

These two syllables, in truth, are truly indestructible. 

This extremely sharp, bitter word, 

when it touches honey-desiring lips— 

not just the lips, 

the entire body-mind, to the innermost core, burns. 

This waves its own intoxicating deadly poison. 

Every terrified, trembling moment is frightened by it. 

How small, 

yet how vast, extensive, rare, and wild is its journey— 

extremely complex and slippery. 

It's a very narrow, breath-stopping blind alley. 

The timid bird of life, 

pierced by the arrow of challenge, 

searches for ground every moment, 

disturbed, frustrated by non-attainment." 

 

Truth! 

This one word— 

piercing through body and soul, 

like a poisoned arrow. 

Even if thousands of lifetimes to come 

are pierced, like Bhishma on his bed of arrows— 

but one single drop, 

ignites, 

bringing a spark of life, even for a fraction of a moment. 

 

That! 

The intensely blazing, life-consuming venom of truth— 

how can it be swallowed, 

how can it pass down the throat? 

 

O Lord! 

The entire world, pierced deep within by the fire of truth, 

is merely touched by a fleeting glimpse of truth or 

by its brief, sharp contact. 

 

Becoming human, 

shedding the burden of attachment, 

becomes a being of the higher realms. 

Saints, sages, seers, and enlightened ones— 

indomitable, unbreakable, unyielding, 

firm in their pursuit of truth, 

enduring the unbearable, fierce, relentless flame. 

 

This living flame, 

adorning Lord Shiva, 

wearing the garland of skulls, 

the eternal bride of Shiva. 

The endless, immortal tale of sorrowful separation across lifetimes, 

nurtured in the heart. 

 

I, the unfortunate one, 

wretched, fallen, wearing the ill-omened,

disgraceful garland of Angulimala around my neck, 

drenched in sin, 

weary of body, mind, and life. 

 

Yet, even then, 

if ever a cool breeze, scented with the essence of truth, 

touched my burning body and mind, 

a breeze fragrant with the sandalwood winds. 

 

Petty, merchant-like, filled with pride and arrogance, 

quick to profit and loss from virtue and sin, 

rituals are being performed with perpetual falsehoods, 

in the grand, high temples of ideals, 

where the bells and gongs continuously ring. 

 

In the deep, poisonous, suffocating air of base, cruel self-interest, 

where can truth find a breath? 

Who, as a householder, merchant, or ruler, 

can truly live with ease, embracing this? 

 

The trade of falsehoods, 

the exchange of illusions— 

humanity is persistently entrenched in it, 

maintaining its identity. 

Those who remain apart 

become marginalized, 

or are forever socially neglected, 

are never invited by worldly conventions. 

 

Today, 

on the foundation of untruth, 

man stands strong and mighty. 

Untruth and ego— 

these are the pillars of support.  

If they crumble somewhere, 

man will fall unsupported. 

 

It is the name of form. 

It is the insatiable desire for life. 

Who will renounce this, Lord? 

Formless, nameless, unknown— 

who would ever bow to anyone? 

 

A lifeless, motionless, effortless life 

without ego— 

for what purpose, 

why? 

How, by whom, will life be driven? 

Ego is the spark of life. 

It is the living, vibrant axis of existence. 

 

Fame, creation, procreation, 

the center of universal attraction, 

a gift from that invisible controller. 

Who says I am not? 

I am everywhere. 

I am, and I am not. 

What is this? 

Is it not a luminous, arrogant proclamation? 

 

And this blue sky stretched overhead, 

carrying the essential faith of the five elements— 

it is merely hollow, just dust. 

Yet, to keep its ego safe, 

for the sake of unbroken existence, 

it takes deep, proud breaths of wind 

forty-nine times. 

 

Time paints the seasons, 

the sun and moon drink from flooded chalices, as if greatly thirsty, 

hanging upside down on the strength of pillars in ten directions, 

merely dangling like a helpless Trishanku— 

it is but one jerk of the great time, 

still it dwells in the dreams of constellations. 

 

Bathing neck-deep in autumn nights, 

trapped in tendencies, 

filled with a stiff ego, 

it keeps burning in the meteor forest of hopes. 

In the countless comet-whip lashes, 

continuously tormented and afflicted, 

the ego does not detach or separate. 

 

And the Earth! 

She is so poor and pitiful, 

always the victim of misdeeds, 

who has only received 

constant internal burning and torment. 

Crushed, suppressed, and silenced by everyone— 

she too has not abandoned her pitiable, disguised ego. 

Her garments torn to shreds, 

she keeps making pitiful cries. 

In her too is the mere ego-filled pulsating heartbeat 

of her own indestructibility. 

She appears helpless, 

a proud, stiff arrogance. 

 

And this— 

the sky-rubbing, untamed force 

called the Ocean, the Jewel of Waters— 

leaping high with surging waves, 

drunk, wild, filled with pride and arrogance, 

creating a chaos of roaring tumult. 

 

In the clasp of its waves, 

it gulps down rivers, 

drinking them in deep, brimming drafts, 

with an insatiable thirst. 

Shores and banks keep retreating, 

sands of the coast hide away, 

yet it clamors for more and more— 

gnawing them with thick, greedy lips, 

absorbing them, expanding further. 

 

The Lord said— 

"The untruth you are pointing to, 

it is a detached stage of mental tendencies. 

This inertia— 

it is not just untruth, it is false. 

It is an illusion. 

Whatever you have done or said so far— 

they are all 

disguised forms 

of your fierce, complex ego. 

 

The uprooting of unreal tendencies, 

self-created, 

ascending the steps of truth— 

this is attainable only through truth and non-violence. 

These two infallible weapons— 

all attractions are shattered and disarmed. 

 

Therefore, 

renounce your ego. 

Truth alone will accompany you in this. 

Truth— 

freeing from all weaknesses, 

it fills with inner strength. 

In the dazzle of eternal light of knowledge, 

the palaces of ego— 

shattered, dust-covered, ruined, 

they fall to pieces. 

In the clear, graceful sky of the mind, 

pure thoughts 

find a clean, white, immaculate abode. 

 

This dark, restless pride of ego 

will destroy itself." 

 

The non-violent one looked at the Lord, astonished, 

a faint smile of pain appeared.

 

The Ahimsak looked at the Lord in wonder. 

A faint smile of pain appeared. 

“I”—He spoke— 

“This constant, mind-formed, alternative distinction, 

The life force of all worlds— 

Is this not our long-desired identity? 

The ‘I’ is the very foundation of life. 

 

It descends into life, taking on diverse forms— 

The righteous ‘I,’ 

the compassionate ‘I,’ 

the humble ‘I,’ 

the wealthy ‘I,’ 

the brave ‘I,’ 

the timid ‘I.’ 

According to its inclination, every being 

dons a unique garb of ‘I.’ 

Smiling once more, He said— 

This renunciation too is the radiant ‘I’ of selfhood. 

 

O Lord, 

Only Vishnu is the void, 

without attributes. 

So, who would abandon this foundation of ‘I’?” 

 

A faint smile of compassion appeared 

on the serene face of the Lord. 

He spoke, full of comforting empathy— 

"O descendant of Bhargava, O twice-born, 

What you have uttered, this disconnected rambling, 

is the disarray of your sky-filled, troubled mind, 

a state of unbalanced, mental derangement. 

 

In this gloomy darkness of despair, 

you wander, stumbling about, 

every path blocked, every open door shut. 

Like a caged bird, you keep flying, colliding, 

finding no open passage of light. 

That 'I,' 

a vile, contemptible sense of self, 

a selfish, self-centered, dense emotion— 

destiny is ruthlessly collecting from you 

its dues, accumulated over many births. 

 

Come, rise up. 

Come with me. 

Be restrained, composed. 

Be unbound. 

Free and weightless. 

No longer should you be 

dedicated to these vile, corrupt feelings. 

Through restraint and control, 

the mental inclinations become weak and powerless. 

A human is never restless or disturbed. 

Control and calm— 

the infallible remedy for all afflictions. 

Angulimala, quell the urge for revenge."

 

For a moment, he gazed at the Lord. 

Then, filled with great doubt, he spoke—"Lord, 

there is a vast difference 

between control and suppression. 

Suppressed mental inclinations create a barren, infertile mind. 

Clear of thorns and easy to traverse— 

what suffering do they know, 

those who have reduced their desires to ashes, 

who are devoid of cravings and attachments? 

What do they know of the churning of the mind, the torment, 

the overwhelming storm that shakes one to the core, 

making one forget even their own mind? 

Such unbearable extremes— 

what would they know of such experiences? 

Have they ever seen, amid the venomous laughter, 

their own crushed, humble defeat? 

Where inclinations— 

are neither calm nor subdued, 

but instead are firm, loud, and brilliant, 

and to endure them in silence, continuously, 

without letting even a hint be known— 

it is an arduous, insurmountable, brutal, soul-piercing task." 

 

Those humans, 

entangled in thorny mental inclinations, 

tears turned to stone, lying unmoved— 

a heart scorched by pain, 

where within, towards others, 

evergreen vines of jealousy flourish continuously, 

and the flames of unending rivalry burn bright. 

Despair, 

a dense, dark abyss, 

in the lightning strikes of agony, how could one find 

even a moment of peace? 

All of this, alive, vibrant, throbbing— 

yet lips unmoving, teeth clenched in silence— 

not a single word of protest ever voiced. 

To bear these inclinations suppressed— 

is far more difficult, Lord. 

One might easily walk on cold ashes, 

cover every distance ahead, 

but sipping poison with every breath, 

stitching a tattered cloak with sighs— 

it is arduous to tread the rare, rough path, 

to take even a single step. 

Only he who bears it knows, 

living a life as hard as stone. 

These mental disturbances— 

they do not aim for the defeat of the self; 

they are processes of establishing one's existence, 

the very essence of defining one’s identity. 

These painful wounds 

never allow even a moment's rest. 

 

Smiling, the Lord said—"O Man, 

the world— 

ego, envy, jealousy, rivalry— 

these vile impurities of the self— 

they too dissolve, 

like raindrops falling on the still surface of water, 

forming concentric circles, creating their own boundaries of ego, 

but in the stillness of water, they naturally submerge. 

If one conquers their inclinations today, 

certainly, the first act is to destroy 

all desires and attachments. 

A calm, untainted mental field— 

is it easily attained? 

Never! 

It is easier to break stones, 

easier even to stop a river’s flow. 

But the mind! 

Its constant transformations, moment by moment— 

to grasp them is impossible. 

One who becomes a monk 

is like the Earth—enduring, 

like the wind—pure and mobile, 

and like the Ganges—deep and virtuous. 

 

O Man! 

Have you ever, in utterly solitary, quiet moments, 

deeply, profoundly observed your own inner self? 

Have you ever, even by mistake, 

allowed yourself 

any forgotten moment? 

Man is his own Guru, 

his own redeemer. 

He alone carries the burden of his own self. 

The human mind— 

a clear, undeniable, direct mirror. 

It shows— 

how far one has descended below, 

how far one has climbed above, 

or if stuck in between, caught in dualities. 

The heart, without doubt or hesitation, speaks the truth, 

gives a straightforward decision. 

Therefore— 

be your own lamp. 

Look within. 

In this dark, restless, despondent forest of thorns, 

how alone, helpless, and frail you sit, 

compelled, weakened, and feeble. 

As is one’s mental state, 

so does one’s nature mold itself. 

Downward-facing, lowly thoughts lead to decline, 

while upward-facing noble thoughts rise and ascend. 

A person continuously makes it rise or fall."

 

This. 

The human mind. 

These two options. 

Which one does it choose? 

Will it accept 

the churning of nectar or self-destruction? 

Both are within its power.

 

So, non-violent one, come with me. 

Rest in Jetavana. 

The young man took a deep breath. 

The Lord gave him faith in life. 

He spoke—“Even the Lord 

had given Krisa Gautami guru-dakshina 

a bright, priceless pearl necklace. 

What kind of guru-dakshina is this, Lord? 

For which I was bound?”

 

The Lord laughed. “Forget it, young man. 

Revenge. Retaliation. 

Is brutal heinousness. 

Humans bound by these 

always fall lower. 

Abandon these here. 

Now you are in my shadow. 

Renouncing give and take, you've come far.

 

This opposition-free, revenge-free, inner pain, 

concentrated deep, not limited, 

becomes extensive, heart-rending, unlimited. 

Man, in his own pulsating, churning, living agony, 

becomes absorbed, engaged in diagnosing and relieving world pain.”

 

“Look— 

the ashram is now before you. 

Today, stay among the ascetics; 

tomorrow at dawn, go for alms, 

wearing the saffron robes and carrying the alms bowl. 

As you walk, the townspeople will see you; 

they will hurl insults at you, 

or strike you without mercy. 

Stay silent, do not retaliate, 

do not strike back. 

This patience of the mind, 

this ability to endure blows, 

will make you calm, detached, 

free from ego and malice. 

The path ahead will gradually unfold.”

 

Following the Lord's instructions, 

Angulimala went to the city— 

in saffron robes, with an alms bowl. 

This alone was all that remained 

of his renounced, withdrawn world. 

After spending the entire day, 

he returned in the afternoon, 

standing silently, eyes focused 

steadily upon the Lord.

 

The Lord was in deep meditation under a dense tree. 

Suddenly, His eyes opened. 

He saw the non-violent one standing before Him, 

his robes torn, a stream of warm blood flowing from his head, 

the alms bowl broken, 

flooded with red blood, 

even the earth blood-soaked. 

Body wounded, lacerated, blood-stained, 

he stood unperturbed like a statue— 

calm, ego-shattered.

 

Suddenly, the Lord saw in him 

the shadow of a wounded swan in the royal garden— 

the same swan struck by an arrow, 

a distressed bird, 

that had once again come to His shade. 

Today, he was no longer the hunter, 

no longer the bandit. 

 

He was like a swan collecting pearls of wisdom. 

No longer Angulimala, the fierce and cruel. 

Today, he had become a hunter of his own destiny, 

falling at the Lord's feet, spreading both his wings. 

His body, mind, and soul deeply wounded, 

desperately seeking eternal refuge— 

eternal refuge— 

a piercing arrow lodged deep within his heart, 

longing for the cooling balm, so earnestly desired. 

The Lord's teachings, 

the only longing, 

many such suffering, scorched, and tormented beings 

were listening to the Lord's nectar-like words. 

The eternal wisdom, the cool light of truth, 

the unbroken abode of liberation from the cycle of rebirths. 

From countless births, the constant effort— 

to attain the radiant, pure, and vast sky of knowledge. 

Eternal peace, unbroken, firm faith. 

The bird of the mind was ready 

to soar in the sky of wisdom, 

joyfully.