Chapter 25 Krisha Gautami

 

Summary

 

"Krisha Gautami" is a well-known story from Buddhist texts that often appears in poems. It tells the tale of a young woman named Krisha Gautami, who was struck with grief after her infant son died. Desperate to bring him back to life, she approached the Buddha, seeking help.

The Buddha, seeing her anguish, told her that he could bring her child back if she could find a mustard seed from a household that had not experienced death. Eager, Krisha Gautami visited house after house, but she couldn't find a single home untouched by loss. Slowly, she realized that death was a universal truth and that suffering is part of life.

This story symbolizes the acceptance of death as a natural cycle, the impermanence of life, and the importance of letting go of attachment. The poem likely captures these themes, illustrating Krisha Gautami's transformation from grief to wisdom under the guidance of the Buddha. It serves as a powerful reflection on suffering, impermanence, and the path to enlightenment through understanding life's realities.

In the poem "Krisha Gautami," the poetess intricately weaves the tale of a mother's profound physical and emotional suffering with the deeper spiritual lesson it conveys. Krisha Gautami's grief over the death of her son is portrayed with raw intensity, as she frantically seeks a cure for the impossible — the return of her child to life. The poetess captures the desperation of a mother's love, the haunting weight of death, and the harsh reality of impermanence.

As Krisha Gautami journeys from house to house, asking for a mustard seed from a home untouched by death, the poem evokes a gradual, painful shift in her understanding. The physical and emotional toll of her search is palpable, yet it mirrors her spiritual transformation. The poetess emphasizes the universal nature of suffering, and through this poignant portrayal, she highlights the Buddha's profound lesson: the acceptance of life's transience.

The poem not only chronicles Krisha Gautami's personal agony but also her eventual enlightenment — a realization that releases her from attachment and leads her toward inner peace. The poetess's careful balance of Krisha Gautami's physical pain and her spiritual growth makes the poem a deeply moving exploration of human suffering, mortality, and the path to wisdom.

 

The Poem

 

Grief-stricken, frenzied, mind bewildered, 

Her face as pale as the kunda flowers. 

Stunned, as if struck by lightning in a lotus grove. 

 

Beautiful, soft, delicate like a young vine, 

A youthful maiden, her body, perfectly sculpted— 

Now restless, burning with agony. 

 

Rain of fire, 

Moments unbearable, 

Distraught, fearful, terrified. 

 

Hair, long and disheveled, dry and wild. 

Face drained of color, bloodless, 

Utterly forlorn, etched with sparse lines— 

Endless, etched with the wounds of anguish. 

 

Her upper garment fallen,

the tree bark cloak soaked in tears, 

Trembling in gusts of wind, shaking, 

In her long, thin, bright arms, 

Like shattered dreams, 

Like a broken toy— 

She clutched her only dead child

close to her heart. 

 

Eyes wide, wide open, stretched to the ears, 

Like a wounded bird, pierced by arrows, 

Its wings fluttering in torment. 

 

Sometimes, agitated by the rush of thoughts, 

Or, for a moment, calm. 

Tears flowed in a relentless stream, 

Unending. 

 

There was no knowledge, 

There was no mind. 

The path she walked— 

Known or unknown, 

Aimless, 

A convergence of sorrow. 

 

Where was she going, to whom? 

Sometimes the royal road,

sometimes the lonely forest path, 

Sometimes to someone’s door, 

With broken breaths,

 a ceaseless stream of tears. 

 

If she glimpsed anyone nearby, 

Her anguish would rise in a wail— 

"Do not touch my heart’s treasure, 

The wealth I have gathered through lifetimes. 

It lulls my helpless, trembling desires to sleep. 

Have mercy on it— 

Seeing my frenzied state." 

 

Someone said, 

"In Shravasti, the Lord has arrived. 

He, the ocean of compassion, the merciful, 

Will surely ease your pain. 

However you may find peace— 

He, the supremely kind, 

Will grant you solace." 

 

Touched by the heartbeats of the world’s suffering, 

Familiar with the profound mysteries 

Of existence, distortion, and liberation, 

The Perfectly Enlightened One— 

The ocean of truth, consciousness, and bliss— 

Will surely tend to you with care. 

 

Gautami remained silent, 

Listening, speechless, 

Her whole body trembling, amazed. 

 

The spell of her frozen stupor broke, 

Her consciousness, immobile, melted in compassion. 

Words spilled out—fragmented, broken, scattered, 

Filled with sobbing cries, soaked in tears— 

Resonating with the deep agony of her soul, 

Like the broken strings of a dissonant veena. 

 

Her dormant consciousness weighed down by sorrow, 

Trapped in a whirlwind of suffering, 

She— 

The very image of sorrow— 

Cried out in pain, 

As if a cold, icy breeze struck abandoned, ruined tombs, 

Wounding them. 

 

Gasping, muttering to herself, she spoke softly: 

"Where will I find him,

The most holy one, revered by the world, 

Friend and companion of those in despair? 

Where is he—the dark, cool, rain-bearing cloud, 

The ocean of compassion, truth, consciousness, bliss?" 

 

The person said to her, 

"Go, go, hurry, 

To Jetavana, where the gold dust of Anathapindika is scattered." 

 

As soon as she received the message, 

Her body and mind filled with boundless urgency, 

She dashed toward Jetavana like a storm. 

 

Her dry hair flying across her forehead, 

Her brow etched with endless lines of worry— 

As if a fierce gust had scattered 

All the twigs of a once-beautiful nest. 

 

Overwhelmed with emotion, her chest heaving, 

In her frail arms, her dead son— 

She moved toward Jetavana, 

Lost in thought. 

 

"My Lord will sigh upon my wounds, 

Will heal all my suffering," she pondered. 

The mere thought of His divine presence— 

With that celestial radiance— 

Had made the war elephants of a mighty king tremble. 

Without getting wet, they crossed rivers, 

Their hooves just touching the waves: 

The Ganga, Arvachha, the Blue Nila, the Chandra Bhaga. 

 

With just a flick of His gaze, 

He healed the deep red wounds 

On the knees of a soft maiden, a devotee of the Lord. 

His disciples possessed such power— 

With just a touch, 

The entire farmland of Vishakha's father, Purna, 

Turned into golden fields, brimming with abundance. 

 

He is the remover of all sorrows, 

His compassion is immeasurable, unfathomable. 

 

The curly, coiled hair of a young maiden, 

Once sold to fulfill her need for alms— 

Reappeared upon her head, 

A crown of beauty once more. 

 

They— 

In the northwestern grove of Chakshukarini, within Jetavana Monastery— 

With their sacred, powerful mantras and divine teachings, 

Granted the gift of sight to five hundred blind souls. 

Cured the darkness within and without, 

Healing every part, 

Delivering them swiftly from suffering. 

 

They are the boundless ocean of love, the incomprehensible grandeur. 

Surely, they will also liberate me. 

 

This flame of life, extinguished, 

They will rekindle, 

For they are the divine ones. 

Just as they, in their grace, 

Revived the blind, the destitute, 

By the Chakshukarini lake in Jetavana— 

So too, will my suffering be swiftly eased. 

 

The Supreme Compassionate, the treasure of mercy, 

Will surely grant life to my son. 

Surely, they will bring my child back to life. 

 

Death— 

It has scorched this lush, blooming, fragrant garden of love. 

But He will make it green again, flourishing and full of life. 

 

This small, dear heartbeat, 

That now rests, still and silent, 

He will bring it back to life, 

Throbbing, feeling, moving once more. 

 

These weary, closed eyelids will suddenly open wide, 

And in wonder, gaze at me. 

A reflection of love and reassurance 

Will shine between our eyes. 

 

In the midst of autumn's storms, 

The frightened, weary, sun-scorched bird, 

Hidden among dry leaves, 

Will thrill again upon seeing the dark, dense rainclouds. 

 

Lost in deep contemplation and inner turmoil, 

Gautami arrived— 

At Jetavana, near the Lord. 

At His feet, she offered two tear-filled lamps. 

 

Upon the soft, dew-kissed green grass, 

Beneath the Lord's feet, 

She gently placed her child. 

With a bow of her head, she wept. 

For a moment, she gazed, unblinking, at the Lord. 

 

The forest around was silent, dense— 

In it, this unexpected, heart-wrenching cry of sorrow. 

Nature's indifference became a resounding stillness. 

 

The Lord looked— 

A tender, young green vine, torn and scattered, 

Beaten down by the harsh snowfall, 

Fallen in His scorching heart's courtyard, senseless and distraught. 

His inner sky, restless, afflicted, 

Eyes overflowing with unceasing, oozing pain— 

Those weary, red, compassion-soaked blue lotuses— 

Suddenly turned toward her without a trace of pity. 

 

She had become 

An indescribable embodiment of unknown, untouched sorrow, 

A new, piercing definition of grief. 

In the sea of despair within her eyes, 

A mad, wounded hope flickered. 

Countless, silent, unanswered questions— 

Falling like blazing meteors upon the horizon of blue eyes, 

Voiceless words, formless and faint, seeking a garb of sound. 

Her whole body had turned into a question— 

Yearning for resolution, a remedy. 

Her dry, cracked lips quivered and trembled, 

Hurt by the bursts of her turbulent, fragmented utterances, 

Yearning to speak anything. 

 

There was nothing left to see, look at, or understand. 

Gautami looked at the Tathagata, 

Then at her own lifeless son, 

And with the distilled essence of all her pain, 

She cried out in a heart-wrenching voice—“Lord, 

Touch my son, take away my sorrow, 

O ocean of compassion, 

Shelter of the shelterless. 

Take this unbearable, extreme agony 

At your sacred feet. 

By your touch, 

Thorns turn to flowers, iron becomes gold, 

And even the dust beneath your feet, trampled, 

Becomes divine. 

 

You, 

The dispassionate, 

The Tathagata, 

The teacher of this world, 

Free from all desires, 

Unworldly, unparalleled, miraculous, 

The Arhat. 

This is my most humble, desperate plea— 

This is all I have, my life's savings, 

The fruit of my solitary austerities and penance. 

Lord, 

Who does not know? 

You are the ocean of mercy, 

The reservoir of motherly love and tenderness. 

You could never bring pain to anyone, 

A lover of truth and non-violence, 

One who has renounced all cravings, 

Who has embraced all the world's suffering 

To take away its pain. 

I have come to your sacred, cool feet, 

With unwavering, unshakable faith. 

 

The Lord looked— 

A tender, young green vine, torn and scattered, 

Beaten down by the harsh snowfall, 

Fallen in His scorching heart's courtyard, senseless and distraught. 

His inner sky, restless, afflicted, 

Eyes overflowing with unceasing, oozing pain— 

Those weary, red, compassion-soaked blue lotuses— 

Suddenly turned toward her without a trace of pity. 

 

She had become 

An indescribable embodiment of unknown, untouched sorrow, 

A new, piercing definition of grief. 

In the sea of despair within her eyes, 

A mad, wounded hope flickered. 

Countless, silent, unanswered questions— 

Falling like blazing meteors upon the horizon of blue eyes, 

Voiceless words, formless and faint, seeking a garb of sound. 

Her whole body had turned into a question— 

Yearning for resolution, a remedy. 

Her dry, cracked lips quivered and trembled, 

Hurt by the bursts of her turbulent, fragmented utterances, 

Yearning to speak anything. 

 

There was nothing left to see, look at, or understand. 

Gautami looked at the Tathagata, 

Then at her own lifeless son, 

And with the distilled essence of all her pain, 

She cried out in a heart-wrenching voice—“Lord, 

Touch my son, take away my sorrow, 

O ocean of compassion, 

Shelter of the shelterless. 

Take this unbearable, extreme agony 

At your sacred feet. 

By your touch, 

Thorns turn to flowers, iron becomes gold, 

And even the dust beneath your feet, trampled, 

Becomes divine. 

 

You, 

The dispassionate, 

The Tathagata, 

The teacher of this world, 

Free from all desires, 

Unworldly, unparalleled, miraculous, 

The Arhat. 

This is my most humble, desperate plea— 

This is all I have, my life's savings, 

The fruit of my solitary austerities and penance. 

Lord, 

Who does not know? 

You are the ocean of mercy, 

The reservoir of motherly love and tenderness. 

You could never bring pain to anyone, 

A lover of truth and non-violence, 

One who has renounced all cravings, 

Who has embraced all the world's suffering 

To take away its pain. 

I have come to your sacred, cool feet, 

With unwavering, unshakable faith. 

 

The Lord's pure, transparent, divine vision— 

Pierced through, seeing all of creation, 

Dissolving even the most insurmountable misfortune. 

Compassionate, 

He became slightly merciful. 

 

This, the unspoken, unbearable, profound pain of my inner world, 

Seeing me utterly alone, helpless, 

And this ruthless game of fate with me— 

The flourishing tree of my motherhood, 

Heavy with green, life-giving fruits, 

Burned to ashes 

By the vast, blazing flames of death’s venomous serpent. 

 

Standing desolate, like a restless ghost— 

This eternally famished, agitated yearning of motherhood, 

A skeleton of a mango tree, torn and battered, 

Bereft of leaves, pierced with thorns, 

Burning from the curses of misfortune. 

 

Shaken to the roots by the fierce winds of despair, 

Scorched by the unbearable, blazing blows, 

It cries out in helpless, pitiful agony. 

 

I am a poor, fragile woman, 

The daughter of a pauper, 

Scorched by the flames of curses. 

At the threshold of my in-laws' house, 

When I took my first step, 

I received a poisoned gift— 

A tainted welcome of venomous taunts and insults. 

To my lonely, frightened heart, 

Came a burden of unspeakable pain. 

Lord, 

The cold, unfeeling eyes that burn, 

The stone hearts that remain indifferent— 

Their silent, unspoken, deeply bottled-up neglect— 

Like swallowing cups of deadly poison, 

Churned from the ocean of suffering, 

Always swallowed down in silence. 

 

This son— 

Born under the dark, turbulent sky of despair, 

A cooling, radiant star emerged, bright and pure, 

Its light spreading everywhere. 

His arrival— 

A new awakening of life. 

Before he came, 

My world was barren, without gold, 

Within, day and night, only the stifling smoke of bitter humiliation. 

A swirling storm of disoriented winds— 

Eyes, scorched by pain, turned to stone. 

The streams of tears crashed against them, 

Countless, relentless, piercing like sharp arrows, 

Stabbing the suffering heart for no reason. 

This pain, constant, every day, every moment. 

How could a single wound be drawn out? 

At the slightest touch, the pain always grows deeper, unbearable. 

 

Lord, 

This pain— 

Now, an unmatched, unbearable, unparalleled torment, 

A tumultuous venom drawn from a sea of suffering. 

An unbearable wildfire, 

An unstoppable blaze. 

Every particle of life burns like a glowing ember. 

One glance of your mercy, a shower of divine nectar, 

And the beautiful creation of motherhood would dance once more. 

You, the supremely pure, the eternal peace. 

 

Lord, 

What is pain, what does one endure— 

Only he knows, who, without reason or cause, 

Has been its sufferer for countless lives. 

The depth of pain is not a mere imagination— 

Only one who is scorched, bit by bit, truly knows. 

This pain is multi-colored, varied, a heavy balance, carefully weighed. 

It is unspoken— 

Neither bound in words, nor fully captured in emotions. 

It is vast, immeasurable. 

Words fall short, remain silent, emotions constantly stifled. 

Neither can bear its weight. 

This is a striking lightning bolt— 

Upon whom it falls,  

Only the one struck by thunder can endure it. 

A sharp axe that cuts through, 

Leaving all defenseless. 

 

The mind— 

Restless, distressed, feeling unsafe every moment, 

My long-cherished desire. 

In this storm of pain, neglect, and scorn, 

This toxic, burning, blind gale, 

My life's lamp remains lit. 

 

A flower of fortune, blooming amidst my heart's beat. 

Like a cooling, fresh dark cloud, 

Over the burning sands, 

Pouring down, drop by drop, the elixir of life. 

In my mind, wilted and withered lotus blossoms, troubled by pain, 

Bring them back to bloom, scented and vibrant, a flourishing garden. 

 

My motherhood— 

Discolored by autumn's harsh touch, withered, beaten by sorrow. 

Torment, shaken by the blazing fire, 

Every grain, conscious or unconscious, set aflame. 

My mind, a tumultuous, mad surge. 

My mirror of feelings, cracked and shattered. 

In every scattered shard, 

The sharp sting of pain. 

This quiet, dormant treasure of life, 

Stirring an agonizing churn in the heart. 

 

Oh Lord, this unbearable self-destruction— 

So insignificant, lying at your feet, 

My sky-touching mansion of dreams, 

Now shattered on the ground. 

Dust flies, 

Thorns pierce. 

This endless ocean, 

Without a shore. 

 

Oh Lord! How much pain has fate filled, 

Into this helpless, innocent life of mine? 

The entire ocean of suffering, held within, 

Bringing its burning fires, 

Into my trembling, helpless heartbeats. 

 

Oh Lord, 

Your glory is vast and unfathomable, 

Conscious, ever serene, deep and profound. 

The mind—windless, unwavering, a boundless ocean. 

All desires, like rays of the sun, fade away, 

The enchanting snare of delusion, 

Defeated in every way, distressed. 

Under the radiant horizon of your supreme wisdom, 

The finite meets the infinite. 

The eternally calm, shadowed ocean of the mind— 

Nirvana, 

A thousand lotuses bloom. 

The waves wash over your feet, 

An ocean of divine nectar sways. 

My plea, like a mere droplet of water, 

Cries out in helplessness and sorrow. 

May your compassion turn the barren, burning land of my motherhood, 

Lush and green once more. 

This heartbeat, dearer than life, now halted, 

Yearns for the slightest spark of revival.  

 

Oh Lord! 

All accomplishments, all divine gifts in various forms, 

Lay at your feet a hundred times over. 

You, bright, steadfast, unshakable, 

All joys and pleasures are amazed and awestruck. 

That door of death, which has never opened, 

Whose inner workings are unknown to all, 

Certainly— 

You have unveiled every disguised layer of it. 

How powerful is death— 

You have understood it here, yourself. 

Those unattainable, impenetrable moments of birth and death— 

What remains unknown to the one who knows them? 

He who understands the heartbeat of the universe, the pulse that governs life— 

All mysteries stand uncovered before him. 

Only he, the skilled healer of birth and death, 

Can provide the right cure. 

Surely, my suffering soul 

Will find salvation here. 

 

Oh, ocean of mercy! Source of compassion! 

You are the eternal answer, 

The harbinger of well-being. 

Your divine, gentle, soothing words— 

A cooling balm for the burning heart. 

Your touch— 

A wish-fulfilling tree, a gift of fearlessness. 

Certainly, it will uphold its honor. 

Your dignified, glorious presence— 

Nature, astonished, 

Beholds an extraordinary, indescribable, incomparable creation, 

Crafted by your voice. 

 

Oh Lord! 

You are the self-emancipation, self-acceptance. 

O guide, refuge of the suffering heart, 

Why delay? 

There are no tears left in these tormented eyes, 

Burnt away by the unbearable inner flames of agony. 

Much has been heard of your divine glory, 

A proven, radiant, serene dignity. 

Although, 

So far, your words have not been spoken, 

Yet your face, a clear, transparent mirror, 

Reflects plainly, the living answers to every question. 

 

But these restless souls— 

Longing for deliverance from suffering. 

You stand on the other shore, fearless and undoubting, 

While I am bound here, entangled in complexities, anxious, and restrained. 

The supreme truth you are aware of, 

I am not unaware of it. 

It is only a difference of perspective. 

 

You— 

The serene, unattached, enlightened one. 

Here, desires’ web remains undefeated. 

Every fiber is intertwined with life. 

That ocean of nectar flowing there, 

Fill a handful of it, 

Touch it to these lifeless lips. 

A single ray of that eternal light, 

Fill this dark, sunken heart with it. 

You are the sole beacon of light, 

In the tumultuous sea of my despair, shadowed by darkness. 

My pain is immense. 

 

Death!   

You have seen it. 

Witnessed its movements from very close. 

How ruthless, harsh, and cruel it is! 

It wrings the soft, flower-like body, 

Twisting and twisting, 

And bites into this tiny heartbeat, 

Draining away the essence of life— 

Sucking, squeezing it dry. 

 

Immortality!   

A baseless, fanciful notion. 

Death!   The ultimate truth. 

How relentless, fearless, unyielding, precise it is! 

It is an indelible line etched on stone. 

 

Immortality!   

A mere illusion, a sky-flower, 

An imaginary blossom, a mirage in the desert. 

In this eternal truth, we must burn, always. 

 

Oh Lord!   

You reside far away from all worldly ties. 

Grant the gift of life quickly, 

For this heart is deeply tormented. 

I have seen much sorrow— 

Or should I say, I have known only sorrow? 

Not just my own,

but I have found even the silent sky 

Filled with profound grief. 

In the dialogues of those lonely, silent nights, 

Where I have remained conversant with the unspoken, 

Answering with nature’s silent refusals— 

Even that is not unknown to me. 

In the dark, lonely nights of pouring rain, 

On the cloudy canvas, 

I have seen it bow down humbly, 

Seeking agreement in the stars’ script, 

Pained and distressed. 

And with every strike of lightning, 

I have seen it sigh deeply, 

Wounded by prohibitive decrees. 

But that pain is nothing 

Compared to what I have embraced, utterly and wholly. 

 

If this halted heartbeat of mine 

Cannot be revived, 

Then, Lord! 

You, too, are powerless before me. 

By seeing you, I have realized— 

Even the great Time accepts some command, some restraint. 

Draw now, here, 

The line of truth, non-violence, and compassion— 

A line that Death has never seen. 

Not easy, nor gentle, nor simple, 

 

Death! 

The roaring victory proclamation,

the beating of triumphant drums— 

It is the harsh, dreadful sound that renders the heart insensible, 

A terrifying, formidable force. 

Your radiance is infinite, all-encompassing, 

Its circle never crossed by death. 

Yet it is bound within its own feeble, limited realm. 

 

If this is not so, 

Then do not speak of immortality. 

Here, clearly, death is mighty; 

Immortality, weak and frail. 

Since the creation of the world, 

Caught in this cycle of birth and rebirth, 

The tale of nectar— 

A mere hollow deception. 

 

That which is called "immortal"— 

Why is it, every moment, every second, 

So wary, so vigilant against death? 

Why? 

The churning of poison and nectar— 

Why? 

Why does the  Vishvamohini distribute the nectar-pot’s essence? 

Against whom is this struggle? 

 

Why cannot immortality defeat it? 

Why cannot it capture death in its unbreakable, impenetrable snare? 

Why does death roam free, fearless, unfettered? 

Why has its root never been destroyed? 

Why? 

Seeing it, 

This toxic, mocking smile of transience and mortality. 

But no— 

No, no. 

I do not wish to be entangled in any dispute. 

My sorrow, 

A darkness pervasive and deep, 

Pierces my heart with every blow, every moment— 

An intense, thick gloom. 

This inner self, pierced by a thousand thorns, 

Helpless, prostrate, lying low. 

From which contempt does it curse 

The eternal, the everlasting? 

 

Death!   

How powerful you are. 

Immortality!   

How weak, helpless, and incapable. 

One armed— 

One disarmed. 

The field— 

A flat, empty void. 

Why does immortality not embrace death 

And challenge it boldly, 

Why does it not revive it and, filled with pride, 

Sound the sky-piercing trumpets of victory? 

 

In this vast, scattered expanse, 

Amidst piles of white bones, 

Where is that hidden elixir of life, 

That could merge the eternal with the mortal,

 here and now? 

Where is that broken, forgotten link? 

In vain— 

All in vain. 

 

 

Death!   

Whom have you ever spared? 

Do not speak of heaven or hell, of future or past, 

Of former life, present, or reincarnation. 

All such things are unfounded, meaningless words. 

 

This life! 

From where has it come? 

To where will it go? 

Why did it even come? 

This is merely a bewildering web of words. 

All— 

Are contained in the present. 

It is like a mirror— 

Shattered into countless pieces, 

That can never be put together again. 

 

That unknown melody, 

Whose refrain— 

Is sung by someone, sometimes another. 

Even they do not know— 

Which melody's beginning or end 

They are singing. 

 

Thus, what is apparent before you— 

Why abandon it for the unknown? 

Life!   

Surrounded by the venomous fangs of despair's serpents, 

Wounded and coiled within.

 

Happiness!   

Momentary, while sorrow, misery, and pain know no end. 

This life!   

A stark, bitter irony— 

Lifeless, helpless, perpetually crippled. 

 

Rootless, baseless, empty, hollow sermons, 

Merely a flowery web of words. 

Wounded, torn apart, bleeding— 

Upon the heart, these harsh, blazing, 

Unbearable embers scorch. 

 

Within—constant, unceasing anguish, forlorn, foundationless, scattered. 

These sermons only amplify boundless suffering, 

Like molten lava, my heart scorches, and tears scatter in streams. 

 

O Lord!   

Have mercy, swiftly. 

 

It is easy to be a man, 

He only knows how to acquire, 

For his own being, 

He struggles until his final breath, 

But does not know how to distribute. 

He knows neither surrender nor dissolution. 

 

But it is difficult to be a woman, 

A potent challenge from Nature itself. 

One tender word, one loving glance takes full surrender. 

This path is so arduous and rare, 

Being a woman is not easy. 

 

Life!   

An ocean of piercing, profound, heartbreaking experiences, 

Rippling with poison. 

Motherhood, the pinnacle of churning and exhaustion, 

The nectar that flows easily. 

 

The highest evolution of a woman—motherhood, 

A pride-filled celebration. 

Yet, how it is dethroned, 

When she smiles like the dawn, 

And the rising sun of her child 

Sets prematurely in her own lap. 

 

The barren earth, drenched in the blood of the heart, 

Cries out in agony. 

 

She! The Woman!   

Not truly a woman— 

If she is not fragrant like a flower heavy with fruit, 

If in the serene, joy-filled waves of her pond of maternal love, 

The answer to her joys is not a showering nectar, 

Blossoming with laughter and delight. 

 

 A woman!   

Her complete dignity lies in her motherhood. 

She is not merely an object for fulfilling desires. 

Not the nectar to quench momentary thirsts. 

Not at all a trivial answer to fleeting passions. 

 

She is the primordial power, 

The forerunner of creation— 

The pure, bright Ganga, the forgiving Earth. 

 

All that is virtuous or destroyed, forgivable or unforgivable, 

Is ever absorbed in her. 

She purifies all impurities. 

 

For everyone, she is like the soft autumn moonlight. 

She! The musk, filled with the fragrance of maternal love. 

The sacred resolve of creation. 

 

Without her, creation remains utterly incomplete. 

But! Even the clay idol's 

Sanctification comes from the life-giving nectar of motherhood. 

 

Otherwise, she is merely a thorn-covered, burning sandy desert— 

Or a barren grove, yellowed by autumn, filled with dead branches. 

 

Where emptiness scrapes every branch, whispering desolation. 

No other way exists. 

Such a barren, childless one—like a deceptive mirage in the desert, 

Or a distant, gleaming blind mirror. 

 

Oh Lord! Speak something,   

Weigh this deep sorrow— 

This: 

 

The dawn breaking through the dark tresses of the night, 

And my bruised, crushed, dying heart— 

Can one live without life? 

This mother's comforting hope in a suffering heart, 

The awaited, honored invitation 

For the forever-thirsty, restless autumns. 

 

This intoxicating, enchanting, solitary world of mine— 

Every birth and death— 

How many times have I been defeated here? 

Hundreds and hundreds of times. 

 

This one solitary flower of fortune, beating within my heart— 

My life's pulse. 

In it, my world descends— 

Formless, 

And formed. 

 

Shape and shapelessness— 

Motherhood has seen in this mirror countless times 

Its own image—strange, vivid, multicolored. 

 

This eternal Ashoka tree of the mind— 

Without it, life is like a living stone or a discarded snake skin. 

 

This delightful, captivating theater of flesh— 

Childhood, youth, adolescence—each has, 

Unknowingly, 

Changed so many forms here. 

 

Nameless forms, 

Nameless colors, 

A thousand colors, yet without color— 

This unapproachable wave of pride. 

The mind has painted it in so many ways. 

 

 Oh Lord! Perhaps this is what you would say:   

The five elements are impermanent. 

Indeed, Lord. 

The realm of death takes its own due. 

What is bound, was never truly bound. 

 

Who does this cause pain? 

Whatever it may be. 

The unwavering endurance of this— 

Has never allowed life to be lived. 

Even in death, it persists. 

 

Through every environment, 

A light continues to move— 

Then, the soul, 

Which is the essence of the five elements. 

Why does death cloak it? 

Why is the soul, a fluttering essence, imprisoned 

In the lotus of earthly existence? 

 

If the soul is the eternal truth, 

Then why is it bound 

In the chains of mortality, 

While impermanence revels in its existence? 

Why? 

 

Why is the foundation of eternal existence, 

Built on the pillar of transience? 

Why is this a mere classification 

Of the unseen, the unearthly,  

When it is so insignificant and rejected? 

Why? 

 

Why does the parallel to truth 

Become a false witness? 

Why is darkness the mother of light? 

Why does falsehood remain the shadow of truth? 

Why is the connection between the two 

Always so dense and intricate?

But, O Lord! 

Truth and falsehood, 

Both, in themselves, are absolute truths. 

They grow, balanced by each other, like sun and shadow, 

Illuminated by their ultimate truths, 

Both fierce, blazing, burning bright. 

This is the eternal battle of gods and demons, 

The contemplation, the journey to the nectar realm. 

This eternal motion, indeed, is life. 

 

In reality, the definition of truth and falsehood is a tangled web, 

No one truly knows how much or by what scale they are measured, 

Or how one stands the test of time. 

Everyone has their own interpretation, 

Displayed within the frame of their mind, 

As each comprehends it, so they declare. 

The analysis has always been riddled with doubt. 

 

Here lies my unwavering, burning truth, 

The world of my pain stands before me, 

Alert, articulate, manifest. 

With this, I’ve come to seek refuge at Your feet. 

No sorrow has ever been as vast, 

So profound, so all-encompassing. 

This agony pierces through me, from one end to the other. 

 

Do not despair, 

Do not dishearten me. 

I have come with unwavering, unshakable faith, 

But within, I am deeply frightened. 

The countless arrows of "no," of negativity, 

Destructive and terrifying, 

Pierce my trembling heart shrouded in darkness. 

 

Don’t extinguish, with a single breath, 

This flickering flame of hope, 

Shaken by the gusts of uncertainty. 

In this thick darkness, 

Where, until now, I’ve only seen myself, 

Don’t uproot that steadfast faith, 

That firm assurance I hold within. 

 

Despair envelops the entire world, 

Expanding its small existence, 

Magnifying its being, 

Afflicted, it gazes only at itself, 

Absorbing the whole universe within. 

And yet, solitary, 

Even amidst a crowd teeming with people, 

It remains immersed in itself. 

 

At this moment, O Lord, 

It is just me and my pain, 

Bound to the vast web of time and fate, 

Ensnared in the cruel play of destiny. 

The poison I suddenly consumed, 

In one forceful gulp, 

Is my own past suffering, 

Which I have fully internalized. 

 

It is not someone else's sorrow, 

Not a grief merely seen through the eyes, 

But one I have lived, 

A hundred percent, down to the last letter. 

I have endured it in isolation. 

 

The poison churned from the ocean of nectar, 

Consumed deeply by the left half of Neelkantha, 

Drunk to the brim, 

Honoring the scorching flames of unbearable venom. 

That left side— 

I am the left side of Ardhanarishvara. 

I am a woman. 

Shiva, though— 

He is the Lord of the Moon, 

Bathing in the waves of nectar at every moment. 

How could he know of pain? 

O Lord! 

Man, with his hardened heart, 

Is not nurtured by the depths of emotions and sensitivity. 

The sorrow that passes like a fleeting scene before his eyes, 

A tale not his own, 

Someone else's grief— 

That sorrow, heard or seen, 

Is far less painful, 

Far less unbearable than the one experienced. 

One is reality, 

The other, a mere reflection of it. 

For those who only hear or see, 

How could they truly fathom it? 

 

The sorrows that passed before your eyes, O Lord, 

They surrendered to the Truth, 

And were vanquished in the presence of the Enlightened One. 

But the vision of the eyes, 

And the piercing arrow that strikes deep within, 

Are worlds apart. 

 

Your tested Truth, 

Matured in the vessel of penance, 

Now brimming with the life-giving nectar, 

Sure, infallible, and sweet. 

But my sorrow, 

Saturated in venom, 

Is sharp and beyond comprehension. 

 

Even in Truth, there is difference. 

The heart, shaped by its unique circumstances, 

Accepts only its own version of Truth. 

 

My tormented Truth, 

Wounded, bleeding, defeated, maddened, 

Lies here, torn and writhing in agony.  

Grant me release, 

From this thousand-fanged, venomous flame, 

Release me from the unbearable thirst, 

The longing of the parched papiha, 

The unquenchable yearning of the chakori. 

Grant me eternal peace swiftly. 

I, in my utter helplessness, 

Beg like a pauper. 

Fill my empty, destitute bowl. 

Return my son to me. 

 

That swan, pierced by the arrow, 

Bleeding and near death, 

Found comfort and reassurance in your tender embrace. 

You took away his pain, 

And gave him back the flow of life. 

O Lord, 

Revive my lifeless, helpless, and distressed soul, 

With your life-giving touch, soothe it, 

Take away all its pain. 

This motionless, silent life-essence, 

Breathe into it, 

And let both heartbeats resound once again. 

Let the nectar flow in this dead life. 

I do not seek immortality or permanence; 

What I desire is my long-cherished wish. 

Return my ever-changing, transient life to me. 

 

We have been born countless times, 

And died countless times. 

The future will also come, many times more. 

But what does it matter? 

What is past cannot return. 

Why worry about what is yet to come? 

This present, right here in my grasp, 

Is a burning challenge before me. 

The blind, desperate, and tearful motherly love cries out in anguish. 

 

Settle the account of my life, 

Right here, right now, immediately. 

Forget everything. Forget it all. 

Don’t swing in the dreams of the future. 

What is the point of dwelling on the endless cycle of births and deaths? 

Whatever comes, will come with its own fate. 

The present—only the present— 

This is the clear, distinct truth. 

This is the essence of life, 

The burning daylight of existence. 

 

Let me drink, to the last drop, 

From the overflowing cup of time’s cycle. 

What does it matter what happens in past or future lives? 

There lies impenetrable darkness. 

What’s the point in banging my head 

Against the eternal closed doors? 

Why stay tangled in the unresolved knots, 

Of what has never been untied? 

 

Be it Time or Death itself, 

It’s all just a fearsome imagination. 

It has remained forever silent, unknown. 

Speaking of it here is futile. 

What is before me now, this knot of truth, untangle it. 

I do not seek eternal rest. 

Let me drown, fully immersed, 

In the ever-changing, intoxicating allure of mortality. 

The Eternal and Everlasting— 

A grand crematorium, 

An endless slumber of desires—what for? 

What good is the parched, dry lips of immortality, 

When compared to the intoxicating, sweet nectar of fleeting mortality? 

 

This nature, with its alluring charm, 

Its newly blossomed radiant beauty, 

In the black, moist, rain-bearing clouds, 

Let me soak, deeply and thoroughly. 

We shall remain immersed in every sign it offers. 

This nature— 

Is a mother. 

In her loving, tender embrace, we will wander. 

I am a mother too. 

Light this extinguished flame of maternal love in my sky. 

Return my child to me. 

 

Speak not of immortality, 

Nor of renunciation, nirvana, or research. 

This child of my soul, 

Return to me the heartbeat that is my own. 

What use is barren land, 

Where only golden dust flies? 

This eternal, unknown mistake 

That I have long favored, 

This concept of the five elements— 

It is but a garden of the world. 

Within it lies the ache of past lives, 

The relentless pain of the present, 

And the shadow of the future’s reflection.

 

Here, 

In the vast sky of the mind, 

There’s the cool, loving shadow of a blue rain cloud, 

And the illusion of lightning filled with longing. 

The past and present unite at dusk, 

Welcoming the future. 

In every particle, there is the pulse of life, 

In the resting place of consciousness, 

Dreams of bygone lives rest. 

Let these wandering breaths of the past, 

Mingle with the breaths of now. 

 

The cycle of birth and rebirth is like a strange veil, 

Let any mark we leave upon it, 

Become our identity. 

Who knows which silent string of the mind’s veena will sound, 

Or where it will play. 

Which note will resonate with the tune of pain? 

Forget everything, and let us lose ourselves in it. 

In the surging tide of this motherly love, 

The newborn love has been broken and fallen. 

Don’t let it dissolve into oblivion. 

O Arhat! Detached from desire, 

Beyond attachment, 

The blazing fire of maternal love, so fierce and unbearable— 

Quench it with cooling waters at once. 

 

The agony, from which I sought instant relief, 

That very agony has shattered me, 

Crushed me relentlessly till now. 

Uproot this thorn completely, from its very root. 

Speak. Speak. Open your eyes. 

Do not remain silent. 

Or, at least, tell me this much— 

That all the searching, contemplation, reflection, and meditation, 

Have, till now, remained ignorant of the ultimate truth. 

All of it, unfounded and meaningless. 

Merely— 

A mistake. A delusion. 

Sharp thorns are scattered everywhere. 

Help me understand, 

Why I’ve been repeating the same plea, 

Without any sign of you hearing it.

 

Whose pain are you alleviating? 

In the individual or the collective— 

Whom have you chosen? 

Or is this too nothing more than a mental amusement, 

A trick of the confused mind? 

The questions, eternally gripped by clenched lips, 

Whose voices never open, 

How can anyone answer them freely? 

My mind, locked in this conflict, 

Is paralyzed like wood, 

Weary and drained. 

 

These questions are eternal and silent, 

Burning within themselves, 

Forever smoldering. 

Their answers have never been found, 

Anywhere. 

You too, either say “No” or, 

Rain down “Yes” with droplets of nectar. 

Otherwise, this too is but a web of words, 

An illusion. 

Man, with his endless arguments, has kept wounding himself. 

Since who knows when, 

This frantic race, 

Has led him only to the dry, empty well of logic. 

There is no immortality. 

Nor have I found even a trace of its essence or key. 

All of it— 

A meaningless catastrophe.

 

Life, death, and mortality— 

The eternal truth, nirvana, 

The search for truth—mere illusions. 

Every time a catastrophe, every time a dissolution, 

Again and again, destruction and creation. 

Man, gathering the fragments, performs the austerities of new creation. 

Life itself dies or lives, 

He alone is his own governor, his own creator. 

He belongs to no one, 

And no one belongs to him. 

 

If the soul reflects no one, 

Then where does the art of surrender emerge? 

Why is all this beauty of creation 

Merely an invitation to destruction? 

Why is the fragrant vine adorned 

Only to wear a white shroud? 

Why do breaths continue, if they must eventually cease? 

Why does the grand finale play this cruel game? 

What is the value of life, 

When someone else pulls its strings? 

We come empty and remain empty, always. 

Please help me understand this secret. 

If anything has ever been attained, 

Show it now, reveal it here. 

 

Bring my son back to life. 

Look at my sorrow— 

An endless tale of grief. 

Clinging to this pain, 

I’ll rise from here in despair, 

Wandering aimlessly through desolate, uncertain paths. 

Having borne the immense, boundless suffering, 

Ever soaked in tears of darkness, 

I’ll return with empty hands. 

My face, frozen like wood, 

Will be unable to utter a word. 

At the mere sight of me, 

The doors of my in-laws' home will swiftly close. 

My father’s house too, burdened by my grief, 

Will drown in silent anguish, 

Their eyes forever filled with tears. 

Both places—intolerable. 

The earth and sky, heartless and cruel. 

Even nature, on this barren land, shows no mercy. 

Ultimately, you are my final refuge. 

With all my heart, I have surrendered at your feet. 

Sickness, disease, and death— 

All have come before you, stripped of pretense. 

Take death away from me, 

Far from my mortal vessel. 

Restore my pride and honor, 

Return them to me once more.

My Lord! My Lord! Please don’t remain silent, distant like this. 

My heart, full of milk, burns with the pain inside. 

Let this suffering not spill in vain, 

Nor be extinguished as it smolders within. 

This entire world—whose creation is this? 

I care not to know. 

 

But my truth stands alone, bare, burning. 

Please, quickly quench this flame. 

Do something— 

Make this dead world green again. 

I’ve heard enough of life’s philosophies, 

But they never eased the weeping of a mother's yearning cry. 

Break this bond of death, somehow, 

Or turn me to stone, like Rambha, cursed by Vishwamitra, 

Locked forever with my unfulfilled desires. 

 

Somehow, awaken this sleeping heartbeat. 

This tender, flower-like body— 

How has it wilted at Your feet? 

Lord! Take it, accept it, take it. 

 

Just like a river, 

Bashing her head in loneliness upon barren rocks— 

So too, is this life, utterly empty, 

An echoing void of countless shattered memories, 

Laden with the burdens of pain-filled tombs from unnumbered lives. 

The reverberations of those long-lost pulses, 

Softly caressed by affection, 

Whispering to themselves in quiet contemplation. 

 

I, lost in the melancholy waves of sorrow, 

Am a wandering wind— 

Mute, disoriented, and drifting aimlessly. 

In this tuneless, discordant rhythm, 

Where voices clash within, 

Their silent conversations entangled in unspoken conflicts, 

They circle around, caught in their own whirlwind of dualities. 

 

The black, stinging monsoon of forgotten memories, 

Its heated breath rises, 

And on the horizon of my eyes, storm clouds gather and pour down. 

On the shore, drowned in tears, 

The lotus of hope trembles, 

Bashing its head against the water, 

Crying out in despair.

 

Oh, Compassionate One! Oh, Lord of all! 

The relentless, piercing inner journey of pain—endless, 

How many births' dense suffering has worn down this frail consciousness? 

Lord, 

When the unceasing light of wisdom illuminated and bloomed, 

The countless petals of the lotus of Your eternal births, 

With every layer of past memories— 

Wounded and marked by sorrow’s tale— 

They must have fluttered, trembling, 

Each petal, soaked in pain, quivering and trembling. 

 

Still, weighed down by the unbearable agony of past lives, 

Tear-soaked, moving, restless— 

Your eyes must have witnessed them, 

Their suffering laid bare before You. 

Thousands of stories poised to be told, 

Each one turning towards You, seeking release. 

Yet none could capture the unyielding, unfathomable depths 

Of this relentless inner churning. 

 

Oh Compassionate Lord, 

Bearer of the world's sorrows, 

Serene and supreme! 

The nature of sensation draws from within, 

It knows no end to its draining pull. 

A single, profound wound, 

Shakes the heart to its core. 

Lord, 

It becomes the measure and definition 

Of all other blows, 

A yardstick for every strike, 

Fallen, burning to the ground. 

 

Who can know what it endured? 

Just as I have burned, root and soul, body and mind, 

In endless, unbearable, scorching flames. 

Both inside and out, 

Countless searing blisters, 

My consciousness, numb and lifeless, 

Frozen in shock and suffering. 

 

This pain— 

A mere vibration of experiences, 

Rising and falling. 

As deep as it pierces the heart, 

As sharp as it cuts, 

It remains silent, speechless— 

Formless. 

What can it say? 

Only the one who has suffered its cruel weight knows, 

The one who, in misfortune, 

Has been forced to endure. 

Lord! Do as I desire, 

Offer no more teachings. 

This earth—has merely been a repository for doctrines, 

Yet they have not quenched the soul’s eternal, thirsting anguish. 

These hollow discourses 

Only deepen the weight of profound suffering. 

Teachings—they strike upon stones like thunderbolts, 

But remain as mere sound, 

Devoid of meaning, 

They fail to grasp the essence of pain. 

 

Like the silver moonlight 

That hovers over the dark, pained depths of the black Yamuna, 

Its reflection on the surface— 

But beneath it, one burns, 

Tears streaming endlessly. 

The solitary soul, 

Self-reliant, abandoned. 

Even those tears, after flowing endlessly, have dried, 

And upon what strength can they now be shaped? 

Helpless, they remain, smoldering within the heart, 

Burned by silent, unrelenting sorrow. 

 

The blind storm of suffering 

Has torn apart every limb, never pausing for a moment. 

Once—just once— 

Say yes. 

Or fill my empty veil 

With the piercing thorns of refusal. 

These solitary breaths have always remained 

With whatever came, 

Even those who arrived left, 

Leaving behind mere empty words. 

 

The unchanging one feels no pain, 

For when has the worldly affected him? 

But one who is bound by the sorrows of change— 

Only when his anguish is soothed, 

Does he become a true knower of wisdom. 

That one is an Arhat, transcendent of desires, 

The giver of true inner peace. 

Otherwise, one merely nurtures his ego, 

A mere prideful soul. 

 

Perched upon the edge, 

Speaking of crossing the other side, 

Those words are futile. 

Only the one who plunges deep into the waters, 

Who completely immerses and crosses, 

And in doing so, saves those drowning— 

That one is the supreme soul, beyond all dispute, 

To him, countless salutations. 

The Lord's coral-red, radiant lips quivered, 

Filled with beauty, like blossoming kinshuk flowers, 

As Gautami trembled, deep within her soul. 

Half-closed lotus-like eyes, serene, 

In a dreamlike trance, meditative, 

Blue lotus petals reflected in their gaze, 

A soft, tender, indistinct murmur, 

Released waves of ambrosial bliss. 

His lips parted, 

Revealing pomegranate-like pearls of teeth. 

In a calm, profound voice, He spoke, "Gautami!" 

The still river, caressed by the gentle Malayan breeze, 

Suddenly stirred. 

The grieving, compassionate woman at His feet 

Awoke, sitting in humble reverence, 

Tears cascading down, soaking her in sorrow. 

Her soul, shattered, 

The grandeur of maternal love, crushed into dust. 

With tear-filled eyes, unblinking, 

She gazed at the Lord for a moment, frozen in time. 

The Lord's tranquil eyes, vast and unmoved, 

Radiating serenity, 

Promised eternal solace, 

The release from her curse. 

 

There, the luminous light of wisdom surged, 

A flood of enlightenment. 

Gautami was engulfed, 

Like a frail, dry boat caught in a whirlpool, 

Her consciousness lost, 

Her entire being overwhelmed. 

All her words, all her vigor, 

Had turned into an unbearable burden. 

She laid her head at the Lord's feet, 

Helpless, unsupported, she broke down in tears. 

 

“Gautami!” The Lord said, “Hold your courage. 

Has anyone ever found comfort in suffering? 

You are no exception. 

This is the nature of the transient, the perishable. 

If one must exist in it, 

One must constantly burn, 

In desires and in the absence of fulfillment. 

This soul, wrapped in endless afflictions, 

Is utterly alone. 

Its body, mind, and spirit suffer, 

Just like the pollen trapped within the delicate petals, 

Longing, yearning for release."

 

This world— 

A blaze, a searing mass of embers. 

How can peace and happiness be found, 

Walking through such a raging fire? 

This carnival of impermanence— 

How have you endured it so long? 

I have heard your reasoning, 

But now you are deeply distressed, 

Wounded at your core. 

The platform of thought on which you now sit— 

From there, cast a wider view. 

This fleeting world, filled with dazzling allure, 

Is nothing more than a heap of bones, 

A vast array of skeletons. 

For the sake of nirvana, 

The bones are offered like flowers, 

Carried away by the holy waters of the Ganges. 

In the same way, within the great wheel of life and death, 

The soul is merely a bundle of bones. 

 

Countless lives, 

It carries the weight of its past deeds, 

An accumulation of actions, 

Imprinted by the memories of former existences. 

Bound by the web of karma, 

The soul flows through the current of time, 

Seeking liberation. 

Each life is a test, 

A plea to the ultimate truth. 

Reflection, contemplation, ascension— 

These are the soul’s initiations. 

 

Bound to the five elements, 

Swirling in the filth of sin, 

The soul, forcefully tied, utterly helpless, 

Can only be freed through karma. 

If it remains attached to desires, 

It walks the earth as nothing more than a living corpse. 

What is the purpose of this stubborn insistence on achievement, 

When past lives remain unknown, 

And the future is just as obscure? 

 

When has the soul ever possessed 

An unbroken, eternal existence? 

It is the slave of time, 

Tied with the rope of mortality, 

Carrying the futile burden of impermanence. 

And it knows this well. 

 

What is life? 

It is merely a breath, 

Constantly consumed by the great devourer, time. 

Between each bite, this fleeting life is but a moment. 

The brief interlude between birth and death— 

A mere illusion of enchantment. 

 

The soul is caught in an endless cycle of birth and rebirth, 

A chain with no visible beginning or end, 

A mystery beyond comprehension.

Which link are you clinging to? 

You don't even know that. 

No life is truly yours—each one is but a treasure held by time. 

Like you, the mad Patacara wept in anguish, 

But all was in vain. 

The sun and moon reflected on water— 

When has anyone ever caught hold of their shadows? 

It’s only the illusion that drives all in a chase. 

 

The one you call your child— 

You did not give him life. 

You were merely a vessel for the soul, 

Not its final effort. 

The soul is indivisible, eternal, ageless, deathless, 

An endless and infinite stream of immense power. 

It is neither divided nor distributed, 

Only realized in the depth of wisdom, 

Felt profoundly in the heart. 

 

This is nothing but your ego's anguished cry, 

Blind in its attachment. 

Accept this truth: 

Your love, though seemingly real, 

Is but a deception— 

The same illusion that has played tricks on you 

Across countless lifetimes. 

This is the magical web of desire, 

Tangled around your ego. 

It has deceived you countless times, 

Enchanting the soul, 

Leaving it without the slightest trace of awareness. 

 

Man sees only his own ego in his deeds. 

This web of illusion is his trap, 

Like a young deer ensnared, 

Caught helplessly in the mirage. 

 

Are you really mourning your son? 

No, in this grief, it is your ego that suffers. 

If another’s child had died, 

Would you have cried the same? 

All children are alike. 

So why does your heart break only for this one? 

Why this sorrow, this agony, this torment? 

 

Countless mothers’ arms grow empty every moment, 

While the flow of time, 

The inevitable fate, 

Drinks up their tears, handful by handful. 

Did you feel their pain? 

Did your heart ache for them? 

If not, why does your grief grow only for your own child? 

This is nothing but your ego.

 

In the mirror of flesh, 

Within every particle of life, 

The ego reflects, revealing its many-colored forms. 

Man, nurtured endlessly in this illusion, 

Thrives under the sway of ego. 

Yet the detached, impartial soul is merely a spectator of this carnival, 

Watching as the being, even amidst unbearable pain, 

Remains enchanted, relentlessly bewitched. 

 

This ego— 

Understand its essence. 

It is the mirage of the desert, 

A flickering illusion. 

Now, quenched thirst seems close, 

But the moment one arrives, 

It drifts farther away, 

Leaving the soul restless, deceived, and distraught. 

 

Gautami! 

All actions bound by impermanence are fleeting. 

This world— 

Is nothing but exchange, 

With no loyalty to anyone. 

Man loves only himself, 

Wherever his desires and joys find fulfillment, 

That's where his selfishness extends. 

 

For a moment, Gautami gazed unblinking, 

Fixing her eyes upon the Lord, 

Then spoke: 

"O Lord of birth and deeds! 

Does the river, 

That flows so fiercely, tearing through the heart of the stone, 

Surging with its waves, 

Moving swiftly like a rushing stream— 

Does it drink its own waters? 

Do the trees, heavy with blooms and fruit, 

Ever consume their own harvest?"

 

The Lord spoke: "Gautami, 

The river's sole purpose is to meet the ocean. 

Its flooding currents come when obstacles block its flow. 

The tree, symbolizing ego, 

Sprouts countless seeds, 

Yet it, too, merely projects its ego. 

These seeds reflect 

The many mirrors of its pride. 

In neither of them is there any true surrender. 

 

Man’s lineage, the unbroken chain of inheritance, 

Is but a portrait of his self-identification, 

A relentless quest for his own recognition. 

But whose recognition is this? 

The very one he should strive to know, 

He remains forever ignorant of, 

Blind to that eternal truth. 

 

In anguish, Gautami cried out, 

“Oh! How pointless is this wilderness lament! 

A meaningless torment of the mind,  

A draining of the soul. 

By now, even stone should have melted. 

 

Alas, the one who has always lived in luxury, 

Whose cradle was lined with pearls and coral dust, 

The one who disregarded even golden vessels 

Like discarded leaves— 

How could he ever understand the pain of the destitute? 

How could he ever acknowledge their helplessness? 

 

Life is but an agonizing contradiction, 

A bitter, unquenchable thirst. 

How could one who has withered 

Only in the shadow of others' sorrows 

Ever truly comprehend this? 

 

Ah! Fate! 

Even you, until now, have failed to grasp 

The suffering of another's heart. 

What use is there, 

In saying anything more to such a soul?"

 

This tainted life, 

Has been endlessly consumed, day and night, 

Ceaselessly toiling to gather the daily morsels. 

How weary and worn I have been, 

Falling perpetually into the arms of night. 

Piercing thorns, sharp and relentless, 

Watched over every restless, writhing turn 

In the sleepless, anxious darkness. 

I cannot recall a single night, 

That didn't burn, flicker, and smolder 

In tears and sighs. 

 

And now, the final chapter of all my stories, 

Becomes helpless and resigned. 

The lamp of hope in my dreams, 

Has rolled away, 

Its flame extinguished in a fierce storm. 

Fires raged everywhere, 

There was no soothing shade left, 

Even in the sandalwood-scented groves. 

 

If I return empty-handed, 

Fate having not been kind to me, 

I will once again have to endure, 

Under the scorching flames of contemptuous stares, 

As long as my breath persists. 

In the venomous hisses of thick indifference, 

And the poisonous silence of disdain, 

I must bear the cruel repression. 

How will this unbearable debt ever be repaid? 

How long will these tormented, restless souls suffer in silence? 

 

Ah! This overflowing vessel of sweet nectar, 

O ocean of compassion, 

Why not even a single drop, 

Why have you become so miserly? 

O remover of obstacles, reliever of suffering, 

Just once, just once, hear my humble plea. 

In your radiant, resplendent aura, 

I am but the dust at your sacred feet, 

Bowed countless times in devotion."

 

O ocean of mercy, friend of the humble, 

I, incomparable in my misery, stand before you. 

Behold, your indomitable and radiant self, 

A blazing orb of light and grace. 

This boundless sea of brilliance, 

In which, if I stand, no support is found, 

And if I sink, no shore is seen. 

 

Grant me a bit of shade, 

Allow me a moment's rest, 

Under your vast, sheltering tree of compassion. 

My scorched, restless, and ever-thirsty soul, like a weary bird, 

Has come to your feet, 

Let a few drops of nectar fall. 

Let the thirst of lifetimes be quenched. 

 

You are the Supreme Power, 

Or perhaps, the divine, unworldly being. 

You are the crown of divine strength, 

Let the eternal nectar of your glory flow. 

Allow my restless mind to bathe in it. 

 

O Supreme Consciousness, 

Support for my aching heart, 

I am but the crushed and scattered dust 

At your sacred lotus feet. 

Swiftly remove the sharp thorns piercing my soul. 

 

Indeed, we are all but a forgotten mistake 

In the oblivion of the higher realms. 

But this withered heart of mine, 

This weary, wounded, and defeated soul,  

Locked in the impregnable prison of deep despair, 

Finds in you its only shore. 

 

Where is the distinction between the worldly and the divine? 

Yet, time flows, indifferent, enduring all. 

Be like time. 

O supreme being of boundless compassion. 

 

I am utterly alone, 

Dependent solely on you. 

You are my only master, my giver. 

My heart is bound to your feet, 

Rushing eagerly to your refuge. 

 

You alone are my eternal lord, 

Master of my fate, my birth, and death. 

Let the world say what it will, 

For my heart knows, 

You are the all-knowing, ever-kind one. 

 

You, the Triune Lord, who reigns over the three worlds, 

Seer of all, savior from the tri-fold sorrows, 

Bearer of the trident, 

Cool the body and mind, 

Grant the eternal remedy, 

Bestow the boon of fearlessness. 

O keeper of truth, the steadfast one. 

Lord, consider just once, 

Upon seeing another’s pain, 

You became detached, a serene ascetic, 

Indifferent to the world’s fleeting joys. 

But why remain silent, like stone, 

Toward one who bears his burdens alone? 

 

One poor soul has passed away, 

All his vitality drained. 

Reflect, even for a moment, 

How deep and vast, how rare and difficult, 

Is this agonizing, suffocating journey of suffering. 

How weary this soul, the traveler of life, has become. 

Not even knowing, until now, 

Whether this path is nearing its end, 

Or if much more lies ahead. 

 

These thorn-filled, congested paths, 

Blood-stained, shaking feet, 

Dust-covered blackened evenings, 

And days scorched upon the head like a relentless burden. 

Nights passed, sleepless, staring into the void. 

 

You shed tears for the suffering of others, 

But what do you know of the pain of those 

Born into misery, who grow up immersed in it? 

They too never desired it, 

But upon the heart, ever yearning for joy, 

Dances the merciless rhythm of pain. 

 

This heart knows well the union of the eternal and the ephemeral, 

And that the burdened journey of life is arduous. 

Yet, in the pitch-black eyes of the night, 

The moon descends as its mirror. 

Even life seeks a blossoming garden of hope, 

Where the soul may sail fearlessly 

In the ocean of joy and peace. 

 

O Lord! 

This dispassion, 

Is an untimely tune of detachment. 

From this, the ever-growing, 

Unyielding fire of reality burns with cruel intensity. 

Extinguish it. 

Alas, ill-fated one, 

The deserving of neglect, 

Even the gods do not show mercy to them. 

How have I, without cause, been punished? 

All the meanings of life have been shattered into pieces. 

 

Picking up the broken fragments of these ruins, 

The mind searches for the unanswered, silent questions within them. 

Who can bear the endless sound of the world’s broken lyre, alone? 

From birth, life demands with bowed knees and hands cupped, 

The familiar pulse of nature, ever yearning, 

The soul seeks always with fervent longing, 

A joyous, reciprocal invitation, 

To feel the approval of its deeds. 

What ordinary creature would ever call for emptiness? 

Man, forever social, sensitively communicative, 

And you, unperturbed, withdrawn, 

Renounced from the world, distant, 

Absorbed in deep meditation and contemplation. 

 

Your focus, O Lord,  

Is on a realm far grander and more beautiful than this world. 

In that realm, all doors are open, 

And all doors are shut. 

For beings like me, entry is forbidden. 

Its ladder ascends step by step— 

Meditation, knowledge, reflection, restraint, 

Reasoning, silence, and self-enlightenment. 

There, the self-illuminating eternal consciousness burns, 

Emitting a cool, pure, and serene light, 

Illuminating countless suns. 

But we, the insignificant, 

Have no other options. 

We are always dependent on the moment, 

Constantly in exchange, seeking mutual respect. 

We are not renunciates. 

 

Separation between one human and another brings pain, 

Though everyone knows the immutable truth of mortality, 

Yet, none accept this eternal truth 

When it applies to themselves. 

Every day, the thread of life breaks, 

Forming another link in the chain elsewhere. 

Decay and death persist, 

Yet everyone believes themselves immortal, 

While seeing others as mortal. 

 

Blinded by attachment, 

They shut their eyes in the blinding light of truth, 

Seeking other alternatives, 

Chasing the mirage of worldly temptations, 

Believing the false to be true.

 

 

Lord! 

Understand, I am as deluded as you. 

Any assurance feels like salt on wounds. 

In my cursed, darkened sky, 

There is no light of the stars. 

These scattered stars in the sky 

Have turned into drops of blood of fate and desires. 

Everywhere are scattered crimson drops, 

They speak of the deathly, unfathomable agony 

Of a bird that’s losing hope. 

By day they lie silent, obscured, 

Wrapped in the bright shroud of death; 

By night, they overflow with tears, burning in their own flames. 

The gravity of emotions 

Can never bear the weight of the entire world. 

Grant life to my son. 

As I wander now, 

I will continue to open every door, saying the same. 

You, Lord, are the eternal, supreme, immortal one. 

The immortal, unchanging essence. 

They, without hesitation, cut the complex bonds of death. 

 

**The Lord said—Gautami!** 

Know this much: 

Renounce blind pride and ego. 

The soul, 

Detached and unaffected, 

Is eternally swift, 

Breaking the chains of the cycle of birth and death. 

The soul, 

Without any relation or name, 

Is indeed known to you. 

When the mourning Arjuna saw his son Abhimanyu in the moonlit realm, 

He cried, “Ah, my child!” 

And, crazed, ran to him, 

He was cruel and unfamiliar, saying— 

“Who is this child? Who is this father? I have no relation with anyone.” 

Indeed, the soul is unbound. 

It never acknowledges arguments. 

If it could see its countless past lives, 

It would recognize how it bound itself in various forms 

With its own dear ones across thousands of births. 

Do not delude it with false, meaningless identification 

Of these fleeting moments of ephemeral life.

 

Time is insensitive, eternally moving forward. 

The soul, unborn, never bound by time. 

Do not cry in vain. 

The eternal, unceasing flow of time moves on, steadily and relentlessly. 

Beneath its unyielding, rotating feet of iron, 

The sun, moon, stars, and constellations turn to dust. 

Mighty mountains, seemingly vast, are shattered 

By its tremors, reduced to insignificant fragments. 

Floods rise, landslides occur, 

The once-beautiful, lush, and fragrant groves of nature 

Are destroyed, torn apart. 

Their vibrant, colorful blooms and intricate designs 

Lay in tatters. 

Time follows its own rhythm, 

Heedless of anyone. 

Its motion—blind, reckless, unstoppable. 

Who gets hurt, who becomes estranged, 

It never notices, nor is it ever cautious. 

It has always worked like a machine. 

Gautami, weeping, cried out—"Oh, Lord! Oh, Creator of destiny! 

This life, so thirsty, deeply thirsty to its very core. 

These philosophies of life are like blind mirrors, 

Only fueling self-destruction." 

"O Lord, do not neglect the mortal." 

For both are balanced, mutually complementary. 

They are the mirrors reflecting 

The immortal, 

The voice, 

The breath. 

The mortal is the very expression of the eternal, its tongue. 

Without it, the eternal would be mute, deaf, and crippled. 

Who gives it voice? 

Where lies its supremacy?

 

If no flowers bloom, who would experience the fragrance?

A flower— 

The very cornerstone of fragrance. 

Without it, fragrance is entirely meaningless. 

This detachment, 

Its melodies have faded. 

These fleeting remedies, used up in just a few days, have grown old. 

They no longer hold originality, freshness, or quality. 

From all directions, the heart feels disheartened. 

Time and again, it bows, unsupported, at your feet. 

This burning, restless soul seeks coolness in these sacred feet. 

Therefore, oh Infinite One, do not give me lessons. 

The pain keeps growing, relentless. 

Why, after all this time, do these breaths still linger in this body? 

Whose captives are they? 

Patience, once bound, has long since broken. 

The bird of these wingless, anguished souls flutters helplessly, drowning, now submerged. 

Take it to some shore, extinguish this inner flame. 

The unseen, untouched divine has countless doctrines about it. 

But what lies before me seeks a remedy, hopeless and unattainable. 

I do not need teachings, bless me instead. 

Quickly, fill this empty womb of mine. 

The Lord said—“Gautami, I have heard your heartfelt cry in silence. 

You are not like the common crowd. 

Your words are weighty, profound, and worthy of reflection. 

You are thoughtful, discerning between truth and falsehood, 

A scholar who has offered the sacrificial fire of knowledge. 

You are wise, sharp, and a thinker skilled in reasoning. 

Have you ever looked within, deep into the still, unwavering abyss of your soul? 

In the darkness of your mind, where silently, motionless, unconscious and asleep, 

Lies the radiant, bright spark of wisdom. 

Surely, at some point, you must have caught a glimpse of it on the high horizon of your mind. 

The place where you now stand— 

Surely, there is no room here for petty desires and trivial cravings to play freely. 

So why are you so restless in this way? 

Why does this excruciating pain dwell within you?”

 

Taking a deep sigh, deeply sorrowful, Gautami spoke— 

"O Lord! The flood—blind, relentless, without reason— 

It does not see good or bad. 

It is destructive. 

When it roars, it continues its path of destruction, 

Leaving behind the mark of its cruel play. 

On the shore, the sand's tear-soaked chest sobs. 

All the beauty, all the elegance, shattered, torn, endless, unbroken lamentation. 

An inner churning begins. 

It is utterly destitute, devoid of any grace. 

What remains is only emptiness, a hollow, swirling void. 

Who can offer solace for such a loss? 

The echoing pain ripples through the lines in the sand, 

The shrinking vibration of anguish— 

Who understands it? 

O Lord! The drained, the afflicted, the crushed— 

Their inner pain is so deep. 

Just as neglected, struck by fate, is the life of a human. 

But even in the depths of despair— 

In the silent, secluded, lonely, helpless, pitch-black nights, 

Among the quiet, shimmering stars' silent messages, their mutual empathetic dialogues— 

Occasionally, there is a faint glimpse of distant, dim light. 

On the wave-beaten, grief-stricken, desolate shore of emotions, 

Surrounded by the constantly soaking walls of the heart's cave, 

Somewhere far away, hidden in the dense darkness, 

For ages, without pause, absorbed in profound meditation, 

Unmoving, unshaken, silent, peaceful, 

A sage, a wise one, is in deep contemplation. 

But what can I do? 

From within and from the external activities, 

From the unexpected, unsolicited, unseen, indescribable, unbearable blows, 

My mind is weak, greatly disturbed. 

One thought constantly haunts me— 

The dominance of one force, continuously flowing, 

Through the inert, the conscious, the immortal, and the mortal. 

Then why is immortality so indomitable, eternal, and perpetual? 

And mortality, repeatedly tormented, subjected to change, and cycles of return. 

Wasn't my son made of the same five elements? 

Didn't he carry within him the eternal life force? 

What is the reason? 

Immortality, ageless, unchanging— 

Why, then, has it been consumed by time in such a manner?"

 

"O Lord! Bring him back to life somehow. 

One single bright sheet, 

Half in light, half in shadow. 

Why is one uncovered, 

And the other shrouded in illusion? 

In a closed chest, desires lie imprisoned. 

Who has unleashed the venomous serpent 

Of restless cravings? 

Whose illusionary trap is this? 

We are helpless, caught as prey. 

O Lord! I too have grown weary of this life. 

Do not delay any longer." 

 

The Lord replied, "Gautami, 

You are capable of finding your own solution. 

Go and bring a handful of yellow mustard seeds. 

The unbearable pain will be alleviated immediately. 

But those yellow mustard seeds must come from a house 

Where death has never entered— 

Where no father or mother has ever experienced 

The lifelessness of their dreams cradled in their arms, 

Where eternal joy and vibrant newness 

Continue to dance, full of life. 

The mustard seeds must come from such a house, 

Where no eyes have ever been dampened by the sorrow 

Of separation from a loved one." 

 

Gautami rose instantly, 

Clutching her lifeless son to her chest, 

And hurried away, without delay, 

From door to door, begging and pleading— 

"Give me a handful of yellow mustard seeds! 

Take away my unbearable pain!" 

Hearing her desperate cry, 

The women of each household stood, 

Holding the open doors of their homes, 

Saying, "Do not wail in sorrow. 

Our homes are full of mustard— 

Take as much as you want, 

But do not fill your heart 

With the sighs of grief-stricken despair." 

 

Wiping her tears with her veil, Gautami spoke— 

“I seek mustard seeds only from that house, 

Where death has never entered. 

The women gathered around her, saying— 

‘This world is fleeting. 

A marketplace of impermanence. 

How can such strange things be spoken of 

In this mortal realm? 

From the dawn of creation to the end of time, 

Can there ever be a being born 

That will not meet its inevitable death? 

Could the cycle of time ever falter?’ 

 

Newborns, suddenly turning their faces away, 

Leaving behind these eager arms, these frantic heartbeats. 

The shadow of the husband once sheltering, 

Now reduced to a lifeless, distant figure. 

Every moment, every breath, life slips away. 

Whether the doors are open or closed, 

It enters uninvited, without fear. 

From each household, it takes whom it pleases, 

Without warning, at any time, 

Be it a child, an elder, the strong or weak, 

The rich or poor, powerful or destitute— 

All necks are caught equally in its noose.  

When and whom it will pull, only it knows. 

 

Over every home, everywhere, 

Its shadow looms—dark and silent. 

This is the unbreakable spell of Mahakaal. 

Birth and death, beginning and end, 

Are entwined in the same thread. 

This is the only truth—timeless, eternal. 

The body, bound by the five elements, 

Is finally released when the soul flies away, 

Leaving this lifeless, breathless form behind. 

 

This is the ultimate truth—unchanging, eternal, 

Death is inevitable and impermanent. 

No one disputes this, all must accept it. 

Past births, the present, and the births yet to come, 

Are all links in an unbroken chain. 

At what moment, from where, will this chain snap 

Or be joined again, 

Is beyond our control, 

For the invisible thread of the cycle of rebirth 

Connects them all. 

No one has power over birth or death, 

Only the Creator knows. 

We are but puppets, 

Moving to the signals of the unseen puppeteer." 

 

Wiping her tears with her veil, Gautami spoke— 

“I seek mustard seeds only from that house, 

Where death has never entered. 

The women gathered around her, saying— 

‘This world is fleeting. 

A marketplace of impermanence. 

How can such strange things be spoken of 

In this mortal realm? 

From the dawn of creation to the end of time, 

Can there ever be a being born 

That will not meet its inevitable death? 

Could the cycle of time ever falter?’ 

 

Newborns, suddenly turning their faces away, 

Leaving behind these eager arms, these frantic heartbeats. 

The shadow of the husband once sheltering, 

Now reduced to a lifeless, distant figure. 

Every moment, every breath, life slips away. 

Whether the doors are open or closed, 

It enters uninvited, without fear. 

From each household, it takes whom it pleases, 

Without warning, at any time, 

Be it a child, an elder, the strong or weak, 

The rich or poor, powerful or destitute— 

All necks are caught equally in its noose. 

When and whom it will pull, only it knows. 

 

Over every home, everywhere, 

Its shadow looms—dark and silent. 

This is the unbreakable spell of Mahakaal. 

Birth and death, beginning and end, 

Are entwined in the same thread. 

This is the only truth—timeless, eternal. 

The body, bound by the five elements, 

Is finally released when the soul flies away, 

Leaving this lifeless, breathless form behind. 

 

This is the ultimate truth—unchanging, eternal, 

Death is inevitable and impermanent. 

No one disputes this, all must accept it. 

Past births, the present, and the births yet to come, 

Are all links in an unbroken chain. 

At what moment, from where, will this chain snap 

Or be joined again, 

Is beyond our control, 

For the invisible thread of the cycle of rebirth 

Connects them all. 

No one has power over birth or death, 

Only the Creator knows. 

We are but puppets, 

Moving to the signals of the unseen puppeteer." 

 

I wander elsewhere, 

Stumbling from place to place, 

Hearing the same words everywhere. 

Gautami stood still, now in a desolate, remote forest, 

Alone in her tormented solitude, 

Under the dark, cool shade of a dense banyan tree. 

She placed her son on the soft green grass, 

Her eyes filling with tears. 

“Oh, heart! 

Why didn’t you tear apart with him? 

Why didn’t our lives part together?” 

But who knows? 

Even there, would we have shared the same path, 

The same dwelling, or 

Would opposite ways have awaited us just outside? 

 

Life! Now in every way, it’s unbearable, agonizing. 

But death! 

Whose words remain unspoken, 

Yet stir in every atom, 

Silent, it spreads lethal poison 

Into every cup overflowing with nectar. 

Once more, she gazed at her lifeless child, lying silent. 

On his still, innocent face 

Were countless blue streaks of pain. 

A strange flame of reasoning surged within her, 

Her bloodshot eyes burning with the fire of grief, 

Flames of wrath pouring out. 

An overwhelming anger toward the entire world. 

 

She cried, “Deceived! Deceived! Everyone has deceived me here! 

From the earth to the sky, not a soul has shown compassion. 

There is no solution, no resolution. 

The mind— 

Dark, restless, exhausted, and weary. 

But isn’t there the example 

Of Savitri and Satyavan? 

Didn’t Satyavan’s soul re-enter his lifeless body? 

How do people say, 

That destruction and death 

Are the sole choices of mortality? 

Where did immortality go, where did fleetingness go? 

How did the pulse of time, ever-flowing, ever-moving, pause? 

Savitri, beneath the same kind of tree, 

Freed Satyavan from Yama’s noose 

And found him alive again. 

 

Where did the five elements go, where did mortality vanish, 

When, in the dispersion of the five elements, 

Life once again breathed through him? 

Then why has my son remained mute? 

Whom do I ask? 

This charm of mortality has enchanted everyone. 

But, placing both hands upon her chest, 

She calmed her heart.” 

 

Satyavan – the embodiment of truth and righteous practice. 

Savitri was the first to choose the spiritual path. 

Indeed, her husband was certain, 

But he was merely a medium, a means to the pursuit of truth, 

A journey of self-purification, 

The ultimate resolution, the final destination. 

 

So was Nachiketa. 

Death did not come to them by itself. 

Rather, both of them went forth and extended an invitation to it. 

Who else, besides these two, has truly seen the workings of death laid bare? 

An impenetrable veil of eternal illusion, 

Which they tore apart with their spiritual strength and light of knowledge. 

He— 

Satyavan did not simply come back to life. 

It was the glowing flame of Savitri’s wisdom and her spiritual sacrifice. 

And Nachiketa! 

With fierce defiance, he cast away impermanence. 

Dwelling in the abode of Yama, 

He clearly saw death itself, face to face. 

He engaged in direct dialogue, 

Choosing only the eternal. 

 

And I! 

In the overpowering tide of emotional blindness, 

I called out to him in anguish, 

But I did not truly see. 

I only grasped the shadow, the reflection, 

Sensing the mere feeling and reaction. 

Sensation and realization— 

Two vastly different states. 

One, a shadow reflected on the canvas of the mind, 

The other, a clear and explicit acceptance, 

A direct, tangible creation. 

 

Those who drink the lethal draught of death 

Are the ones granted the release into immortality. 

As for me, tossed about on the tumultuous waves 

Of worldly attachment and frantic heartbeats, 

How can I claim to stand firm? 

On what grounds, without foundation, 

Can I build castles in the air, 

When there is no solid ground beneath my feet? 

There is no union between the material and the spiritual, 

No merging of the two. 

One is light, 

The other, dense darkness. 

I stand confused, stumbling upon the horizon 

Where they supposedly meet. 

 

Light can only unite with light, 

It accepts nothing but its own kind. 

When has darkness ever embraced light? 

In vain,

I sought to imbue the fleeting instrument of impermanence  with the eternal melody. 

Nectar remains nectar— 

When did it ever grant immunity to the poison of death? 

The mortal must surely return to the five elements. 

All are travelers on the endless journey, 

Some for longer, some for shorter durations. 

Those who have glimpsed the house of death itself, 

Or have followed the path to Yama’s resting place— 

They too have not remained eternal. 

 

Where are they? Savitri-Satyavan or Nachiketa. 

Though there was a brief disruption in the cycle of time. 

When great beings collide with time, 

They sometimes create such moments. 

But time devours everything. 

It only gathers the five elements, as its desired feast. 

The supreme ascetic, the one who dwells in the great cremation grounds, 

Creates only great destruction. 

Utterly merciless. 

It creates and destroys the unmatched, natural beauty of creation. 

Its actions are without purpose. 

It strikes without reason, mercilessly. 

The blazing funeral pyre of Mahakal continues to burn relentlessly, 

Attracting all, like helpless moths falling into its unyielding flames. 

Indomitable flames. Unbearable heat. 

No one is spared anywhere. 

Deeply saddened. 

Profoundly desolate. 

Taking a deep, cold sigh, 

For a moment, she gazed at the silent, indifferent, cloudless sky. 

Her despairing, searching eyes finally rested 

On the lifeless, helpless, breathless, extinguished child. 

Like a madwoman, she snatched him, clinging him to her chest. 

She gently stroked his cold, wooden-like body again and again. 

Filling it with the relentless kisses of heart-wrenching separation, 

She bathed him in her hot, boiling tears. 

Then, placing him back on the ground, covering him with dead flowers and leaves, 

She took a handful of flowers, circled the deceased child, 

And, scattering flowers repeatedly over him, she recited— 

"May peace prevail in the heavens, peace in the sky and the earth. 

Peace in the waters, peace in the celestial realms. 

Peace among the plants, peace among the gods of the universe. 

Peace in the wind, peace, peace in all directions. 

May there only be peace, 

Let that peace manifest within me."

“द्दौ शन्तिनतर्तिक्षः Shanti Prithvi.

Shantirapah Shantisheshadhiah Shanti.

Vanaspataya: Shanti Vishwadev Shanti.

Shantirvaham Shanti Shanti Sarveshanti.

Shantirevashantih Sa Maa Shanti Redhi.”

 

Time stood still. Bending over her son, gently stroking him, she spoke— 

"This eternal sleep. An endless farewell. 

'Sleep, my life’s breath, sleep.' 

This eternal separation. 

My all-consuming, blinding attachment. 

I have been defeated by destiny. 

There will be no meeting again, 

Neither in this world nor the next. 

An expanse of impenetrable, dark, vast night. 

This eternal pause. 

My heartbeats, 

The comfort and peace, 

Of my life’s entirety, 

Rest now in deep, tranquil slumber. 

O my dearest, most cherished one, 

My delicate, fragrant soul, 

My everlasting, painful love. 

With a tear-soaked face, 

She glanced one last time. 

O Five Elements! Your essence is returning to you. 

This is my deeply penetrating, profound motherly love. 

O Earth, Water, Fire, Sky, and Air, 

I surrender to you, along with this unbearable pain. 

Then, swiftly, she turned toward Jetavana, 

Walking alone on the solitary path, 

Like a lightning bolt falling from the clouds, writhing in anguish, 

Or a wild flame, lost from the ocean, wandering aimlessly. 

The Lord, seated in meditation under the thick shade of a tree, 

Gautami stood before him in silence, motionless. 

Watching him, speechless, exhausted, grief-stricken, 

Like the clear, washed blue sky after the storm, 

After all the violent winds, rains, and thunder have passed. 

The lines of sorrow etched deep on her frozen face, 

The silent, vivid expression of unspoken pain. 

Two drops of tears glistened like stars, 

Her stone-like lips quivered, curled by grief. 

She spread both her arms, and with reverence, fell prostrate to the earth. 

As the unshakable image of the Lord looked on, the earth trembled. 

From the monastery and the chaitya came the evening chant of worship, 

Growing louder and deeper— 

“I take refuge in the Buddha. I take refuge in the Buddha. I take refuge in the Buddha...”

“Buddham Sharanam Gachchami. Buddham Sharanam Gachchami. Buddham Sharanam….”