Summary
The poem
"Vaishali Patan" depicts the tragic downfall of the once-glorious
city of Vaishali, reflecting on the political intrigue, moral decay, and
betrayal that lead to its destruction. The narrative highlights the decline of
the city’s leadership, the disillusionment of its people, and the external
forces that exploit these internal weaknesses.
The poem ends with a grim reflection on the manipulative nature of politics, symbolized by the cruel laughter of Ajatashatru and Varshakar, who revel in their victory over the fallen city. Through the metaphor of Vaishali's downfall, the poem serves as a critique of power, corruption, and the consequences of moral decay in society.
The Poem
Truth
Forever deceived by
falsehood.
Otherwise, it would
not be such a lethal poison,
For it burns like
nectar, pure,
Scorching the soul’s
core.
The ruthless sun of
doom,
Scorched the sky
unceasingly,
Until it moved no
more.
And, the Moon!
Throughout the night,
with dew-like nectar,
Soothed its blistering
wounds,
Gathering its
scattered starry tears, endlessly,
With tender
beams.
Always, good
intentions are oppressed,
By the blazing,
venomous flames of evil.
Desires grow,
flourish, and blossom,
Rooted in the
self-serving serpent,
While pure love
silently fades,
Consumed by the
sacrificial flames of penance.
Vaishali!
A fragrant, pure
breath of culture, wisdom, and spirituality,
Fell into
treachery,
Entrusting its faith
in Magadh’s ten-headed Ravana,
Like Sita did.
Simple-hearted trust
is always deceived in diplomacy.
Hidden within the
flowers, it comes bearing explosives.
Its fatal deeds break
every breath apart.
When Ajatashatru, King
of Magadh,
Saw that by force he
could not conquer Vaishali,
He resolved to conquer
it by deceit.
With a simple heart,
he spoke clear and straightforward words.
An honest heart does
not know deceit.
In its nectar stream,
he poured effortless love.
Be it a serene plain
or rugged wilderness,
It embraces all
alike,
Flowing like the pure
stream of the Ganga.
Ajatashatru,
In furious rage and
turmoil,
Summoned his great
minister, Varshakar.
"I must conquer
the Vajjis, the Licchavis by any means,
Seize control of the
fertile lands along the Ganga’s banks.
Their unity, their
strength,
Forged by
togetherness, is too strong.
A direct war is
impossible.
They possess
far-reaching wisdom, keen insight.
Even the grandest of
palaces and fortresses—
When gnawed by tiny
mice from within their foundations,
Crumbles into
ruin.
Enemies are conquered
by diplomacy, bribery, punishment, or division.
Whatever form is
needed to achieve the task,
That form must be
embraced."
Varshakar
listened.
His eyes, searching in
the distance,
Suddenly found a
strategy.
Yet, he remained
silent.
Ajatashatru spoke
again— "Minister!
Sometimes, deceitful
rivers get tangled in rocks,
Sink deep into
caves,
And dry up in the
desert sand.
But a simple stream
flows freely,
Reaching the ocean
unhindered.
Bhante!
These days, the Lord
is spending his monsoon retreat at Griddhakuta.
Go to him, bow to him
with respect on my behalf,
And ask if he is
well.
Inform him,
That I am preparing
for war against the Vajjis and Licchavis.
Whatever response the
Tathagata gives,
Convey it to me word
for word."
Varshakar, adorned
with splendid transport,
Set out for
Griddhakuta.
Upon reaching the
Tathagata, he bowed reverently,
Inquired after the
Lord’s well-being,
And revealed the
purpose of his visit.
The Lord looked at
Varshakar,
As if seeing an
ominous, summoning comet.
How can the fragrance
of saffron pollen
Ever blossom among
thorns?
It clings to soft
petals or honey.
But Varshakar was full
of twisted thorns.
The Lord,
Pure, serene as moonlight.
What does he
know,
Where this treachery
lurks,
From where this plot
emerges?
His heart, so simple
and pure,
Knows not of
deceit.
Behind him stood
Ānanda,
Fanning the Lord with
gentle care.
The Lord asked,
"Ānanda,
Do the Vajjis often
gather in large assemblies?
Do they share news of
their meetings?
Do they discuss and
solve their problems together,
Do they work in
harmony, unified?
If their leaders and
elders gather as equals,
And listen carefully
to one another,
If they honor the
Chaityas and other places of worship,
And refrain from
seizing the wives of others,
Then they cannot
fall.
These are the seven
invincible laws.
As long as the Vajji
confederation holds fast to them,
They will never
decline.
Strong they will
remain, in body, mind, and wealth,
Steadfast from within
and without.
No harm will befall
them,
No enemy will conquer
or crush them.
As long as they honor
these principles,
Their progress will
rise ever upward,
And their welfare will
be assured."
Having heard this,
Varshakar bowed his head,
Then rose from his
seat.
As he stood, in a
voice filled with bitter sarcasm,
Masked in feigned
humility, he said—
"The universe
moves ceaselessly in its course,
Yet even it faces interruptions.
The days too, wax and
wane,
And the nights,
Sometimes grow short,
and at times, long."
Man—
A mere particle in the
vast universe.
Where does he
falter,
Blind to the passage
of time?
A mighty
elephant,
Felled by a tiny
ant.
A ship,
Sunk by an unseen,
minuscule hole.
And man—
Caught in the
enchanting web of desires,
Like a musk deer,
Charmed by its own
elusive scent.
Blinded by
delusion,
He fails to see where
the living trap lies spread.
Bowing once more,
Varshakar took his leave.
As soon as the great
minister departed,
The Lord summoned the
Vajji confederation.
Once again,
He reminded them of
the seven invincible laws.
He warned the Vajji
leaders:
"Do not be
careless.
Do not let desire
cloud your judgment.
Always bow to your
elders,
Remain disciplined
within the confederation,
Be committed to your
leaders,
Mindful of both the
present and future,
And honor the women of
your households.
Prosperity will always
increase,
And you will rise to
great heights."
The Vajji leaders
returned,
But before them,
Varshakar had already returned.
He went to
Ajatashatru,
And word by word,
Conveyed the Lord’s
response.
After hearing
everything, the son of Vaidehi exclaimed,
"Oh!
The organization of
the Vajji confederation is extraordinary!
When the enemy is
strong,
Do not openly declare
war.
Instead, sow discord
within their house.
Strike where the walls
are weak.
Otherwise, follow the
policy of Vibhishan."
Varshakar, with a
cunning smile, said,
"There is a
remedy for every problem.
O King, tomorrow in
the royal court,
Raise the issue of the
Vajjis.
Say they seize the
lands along the Ganga,
Depriving me of my
rightful taxes.
They take the precious
goods from the mountains,
Selling them without
my due share.
I will not tolerate
this injustice.
Then I will fully
support the Vajjis,
And you, in anger,
will say,
'This Brahmin is ungrateful,
harmful.'
Upon hearing
this,
I will leave the
court.
On that same day,
I will send the Vajjis
valuable gifts.
You will then
confiscate them,
And exile me in
disgrace.
This plan is well
thought out.
Surely, Vaishali will
bow before Magadh’s feet,
Without effort,
without battle."
Ajatashatru did as
Varshakar had instructed.
When Varshakar,
dishonored and banished from Magadh,
His tale of disgrace
spread like wildfire,
Reaching the Vajji
confederation.
They gathered the
Licchavis in their assembly.
"Ah! How cruel
Ajatashatru is!
He tortured his own
father, Bimbisara,
Letting him die,
imprisoned and alive.
And now this Brahmin
minister!
How deeply has he been
insulted, humiliated, shamed.
False accusations
piled upon him,
For nothing but
supporting the Vajji confederation.
Now he stands on the
banks of the Ganga,
Eager to cross and
enter our land.
We shall welcome him
with respect."
But one among
them,
Raised his voice in
opposition:
"He is the chief
minister of Magadh—Varshakar,
A deceptive,
unstoppable force.
To achieve his
ends,
There is no depth to
which he will not descend.
He will penetrate our
roots,
And with deception,
trickery, and guile,
Use every method to ensnare
us.
Do not trust him.
A serpent with golden
skin is still a serpent.
When has the fruit of
desire ever been nectar?
These are all surface
words,
Beneath them lie
deadly traps.
An enemy never truly
bends,
Even if he bows,
He does so to let
thorns pierce your feet.
He will call a
poisonous plant a remedy,
And while you gaze
upon fertile green lands,
He will sow the seeds
of venom.
If one path is
blocked,
He will form secret
alliances with neighboring states.
Turning enemies into
friends,
Only to strike when
the time is ripe.
He infiltrates the
house,
Learns all your
movements,
And shapes his
strategy accordingly.
Do not trust
Varshakar.
He is not just a
poison maiden,
But a venomous
man,
A black cobra whose
venom flows unstoppable.
There is no cure for
his poison,
His cunning is
unmatched,
He is an infallible,
deadly weapon."
Another arose,
opposing the earlier words:
"Varshakar, a
great scholar,
Capable in every
way.
If the Vajji confederation
could gain
Such a brilliant
mind,
How strong, how
powerful
Our empire would
become.
He would be an
infallible weapon,
An extraordinary
intellect, wise beyond measure."
But then another voice
challenged,
"Indeed, this is
true without dispute,
Yet one medicine
cannot cure all ailments.
'A wicked man, though
sweet of tongue,
Cannot be
trusted.
Honey rests upon his
lips,
But in his heart lies
deadly poison.'
But fate—
When destruction
looms, reason falters.
This once-conscious,
cultured Vaishali,
Is today being
deceived by destiny."
Another spoke:
"Why, one who
holds such high position in Magadh,
Would he be moved by
sympathy for their enemy?"
Amidst these divided
opinions,
Varshakar arrived in
Vaishali.
The Vajji council was
called once more,
And Varshakar was
questioned:
'For what reason were
you exiled?'
Varshakar recounted
every event,
Repeating all that had
occurred.
The Vajjis were
stunned.
"This matter is
so trivial, so insignificant,
Yet the punishment so
severe.
Truly, the king of
Magadh is ruthless, cruel, and arrogant."
They were all overcome
with emotion.
Varshakar, a
Brahmin,
A most experienced,
brilliant, and illustrious man,
Had been the chief
minister of Magadh.
In their emotion,
Vaishali too,
Bestowed upon him the
position of chief minister.
The Vajji
confederation said:
"Brahmin,
Here, you are revered
and honored,
Respected and
established."
Varshakar,
In the first year,
remained silent and calm,
Faithfully executing
every task.
He was an eloquent
speaker,
A master of every
subject,
Deeply absorbed in
wisdom,
A discerning judge of
right and wrong,
An impartial justice,
mentor to royal heirs.
All praised him
without restraint.
Yet, when the moment
arose,
The once-dormant
serpent slowly raised its head.
To release its
venom,
The hood of the cobra
unfurled,
On the soil of
trust,
It planted its firm
feet.
Slowly, the creeping
poison
Revealed its true
color.
Whatever Varshakar
said,
His words became
scripture.
Whatever he did,
Seemed just,
irrefutable.
Varshakar saw it
clearly—
The Vajji
confederation, under the shadow of his alluring spell,
Had come down to its
knees.
Years passed, one
after another,
Without
disruption.
In the third
year,
He began to roam
Vaishali,
Visiting homes and
places.
Wherever he went,
He was greeted with
reverence.
Sometimes he would
spark a conversation,
Sometimes speak a few
words to someone.
In trivial matters,
insignificant affairs,
He staged a drama of
seriousness.
Seeds of mistrust,
suspicion, and division
Were sown between the
Vajjis.
Gradually, they became
wary of each other,
Each confined to their
own world.
No longer did the
council meet,
No longer did they
visit the temples.
When a friend was
seen,
They would avoid eye
contact and turn away.
No one shared in each
other’s joys or sorrows.
Respect for elders was
forgotten,
There was no more
mutual exchange.
They became
strangers,
Faces always
unfamiliar and unknown.
In everyone,
self-interest prevailed.
All the rules were
broken,
Indiscipline spread
far and wide.
If someone’s house
burned or remained intact,
Why should another
feel the heat?
One day, the drums of
the Vajji council called for a meeting.
Yet hearing it, all
ignored the sound.
Not a soul gathered in
the council hall.
The hall stood
empty,
For none cared anymore
about the Vajji republic.
This was the same
Vaishali,
Queen of kings,
empress of beauty.
In her honor, a
thousand, hundred, and seven grand palaces,
Each with golden
spires, bent in reverence,
Silver spires doubled,
copper spires tripled.
Daily, they bathed her
in ablution,
With sacred, mantric
waters.
Majesty, splendor, and
grace abounded.
Groves of mango trees,
flowing rivers, serene forests and gardens,
The chirping of birds,
sweet melodies from the thickets,
Lakes adorned with
myriad blooming lotuses.
The earth, everywhere,
fragrant with multi-colored flowers and blossoms.
Day and night, anklets
tinkled, and veenas echoed their sweet sound.
Dancing maidens swayed
in graceful rhythms,
Sweet songs echoed,
pleasing to the heart,
Like the joyous,
rippling waves of the nectar-river.
Vaishali, aglow in
unmatched radiance,
A golden beauty,
moving like a graceful elephant.
Her slender waist,
swayed with the weight of her anklets,
Her full chest adorned
with necklaces and jingling girdles,
The jingling bells
resting gently on her undulating form.
Vaishali, proud of her
beauty,
Today, stood helpless,
defeated.
Varshakar, the cruel
observer, watched her,
Like a venomous
serpent poised to strike.
Just as a seasoned old
vulture,
Balancing itself on
half-burnt pyres
Saturated with funeral
oils,
Sinks its talons deep
into the wood,
Surveying with sharp
eyes the entire horizon.
The twilight of
Vaishali was descending, dark, tired, and heavy.
The trees stood
still,
The sun’s last rays
fading from the treetops.
In those moments of
stillness, Varshakar
Encompassed all of
Vaishali in his heart.
He wandered through
her forests, gardens, palaces, and halls,
Her branches and
marketplaces, villages and towns, and sacred temples.
He saw the
once-blazing sun of her grandeur,
Radiating unmatched,
undying light,
Now dimmed,
stilled,
Caught in the grip of
a shadow,
Completely
unraveled,
Disordered, and in
disarray.
The unmatched luster
of Vaishali,
The regal beauty,
adorned with grace,
Proud of her charm,
her elegance, her virtues, her pride.
She, the youthful,
flowing Ganga of grace,
Now lies, weary, limp,
fallen to the ground.
Her garlands of
flowers scattered,
Her bracelets,
armlets, crown, and waist ornaments shattered, fallen.
Her once flowing,
curly dark locks now disheveled.
Her heart scorched
with endless pain.
Eyes half-closed, like
blue lotuses,
Tears flowing
ceaselessly, trembling, soaked,
Witnessing the golden
dawns of a memory long lost,
The thousand-petaled
dream, now broken, scattered, soaked in sorrow.
Her eyes, silent.
Her memory, bound in a
trance of dreams.
Deep breaths of agony,
breaking, gasping for life.
Her chest heaving, her
tender arms helpless,
Her breaths,
unrestrained.
Her face, once a
lotus, now downcast, sad, unmindful.
A painting torn,
discolored, distorted by the fierce winds.
Breath choked, her
mind in turmoil.
She, thin-waisted, now
broken in every way.
A cruel, merciless
downfall.
The laughter of the
rains now distant.
Where is today, the
splendor, the celebration of Vaishali?
Where is the light of
youthful pride,
Where once in the
ponds, in the lakes,
Among the lotus-filled
waters,
Young men and women
reveled in joyous water sports?
Where now, are the
veena, the flute, the sweet songs, the rhythmic drums?
Where now, are the
intoxicating drinks of the taverns,
The dances of the
courtesans,
Where is the joy of
youthful eyes, drenched in the sweetness of bliss?
Gone. Silent.
The jingling anklets
woven with passion's flowers,
The playful, dancing
feet that swayed in celebration.
The eyes, adorned in
blue, brimming with beauty and joy,
The new dancers, the
radiant maidens, now dazed, lost.
They were bitten by
the venomous snake of treachery,
And their very limbs
shattered.
Where now, in them, is
the moonlit wave of joy?
Malice, hatred,
household strife,
An inescapable, lethal
poison.
It soaks deep, through
every pore, into the heart's core.
Dhanvantari descended
too,
Yet no remedy was
found.
Inevitable death.
Still, her parched,
trembling lips thirsted,
But where is the pure,
cool water?
The life-giving
elixir, the nectar of vitality,
Is now spent,
exhausted, drained.
Now, only the land of
Vaishali, once so desired,
Is scorched,
trembling, burning with curses.
The Rainmaker gazed,
unblinking,
The light of
knowledge, spiritual consciousness, and virtue—
All gone.
Ecstasy filled the
Rainmaker,
He inhaled a breath of
supreme satisfaction.
How could this corpse,
torn and tattered,
Be anything but a
claim to Vaishali’s immense riches?
Dead.
All that remains now
is the dance of destruction, revolution.
The Rainmaker played a
sweet melody on his flute,
To captivate the musk
deer.
And the wild forest,
enchanted,
The deer, charmed,
came closer,
And tied itself
willingly in the noose of death.
Politics,
Upon the burning pyre
of the cremation ground,
Aghori mantras
awakened, chanted to summon the darkness.
Here, only conspiracy
and deceit reign supreme.
This is no mango
grove, blooming with fragrant leaves,
Casting cool, soothing
shade.
Here, only the thorny
forest of acacia,
Where thorns pierce,
thorns fall,
Thorns are strewn
everywhere, thorns remain.
No lush, sweet
garden,
Where amidst the
bushes, confused and curling,
Awaiting in hidden
anticipation,
Are playful creatures,
surrounded by vibrant birdsong,
And bees humming in
the pollen-laden air,
Where the sweetness of
purity was once savored.
But here, beneath a
darkened sky,
In the graveyard of
politics and cunning,
Where ideals lie burnt
on the pyres,
Bodies lie,
half-burnt, smoldering.
The grand palaces of
thought, destroyed,
The homes of peaceful
light, extinguished.
On the cremation
ground of loyalties,
The haunting calls of
the cunning politicians’ owls echo ominously.
The earth trembles.
This politics!
A cursed, defiled
river,
Flowing with the sins
of those who sink within.
All virtues
sacrificed,
Here, divinity is
washed away,
While demonhood rises
to the surface.
Offering humanity as a
sacrifice in the ritual of complete annihilation,
The politician ascends
to honor.
Their heart,
Called the abode of
universal love,
A sea of eternal
unity,
But within, in that
dark abyss,
The words of venom
shine bright.
Their heart, a toxic
blossom,
From which flows a
sweet sound, a fragrance,
That lures beings
irresistibly, enchanted, drawn in,
Only to consume them
and close the petals tight.
They play a flute,
laced with venomous destruction,
Disguised in deceptive
attire.
Their notes, bound in
rhythm, melody, and beat,
Weapons, conspiracies,
revolts, and explosives are their scale.
This unparalleled
weaver of threads,
On its meticulously
crafted loom,
Sketches the desired
shape of the mind.
With just a momentary
flick of their brow,
A crooked glance,
Entire empires,
cultures, arts, and architectures are destroyed.
This is the
flood,
That devours whatever
it wishes in an instant.
Changing with
time,
Its forms are many and
varied.
Once, it manifested as
the venomous maiden,
Death, a cook, a
garland maker, a loyal friend, a dancer—man or woman.
Now, the poisonous
vine, deadlier still,
Climbs higher, spreads
further.
Now, their politics
strikes directly,
No longer a venomous
maiden or man,
But an infallible,
deadly human bomb—man or woman.
With a sweet
smile,
Like Takshaka hidden
within,
She offers a garland
to Parikshit,
An unfailing strike,
fatal and final.
This is ever
new—humanity’s ultimate red mark,
Playing with lives in
the festival of death.
The master
player,
Yearning for poison,
lets out his venomous roar.
This is the
healer,
Not of life, but the
protector of death.
Still, he sought, for
the sake of testing,
If there was any
alertness, any awareness left in Vaishali.
Or had everything been
utterly erased?
Once again, he ordered
the war drum's proclamation from the kingdom.
But the drum kept
sounding,
The assembly halls'
doors remained open,
No one came, no one
sat, no one gathered.
No one asked,
No one spoke.
Everything remained
just as it was,
Undisturbed,
unperturbed,
Indifferent.
The player
observed,
The poison, bestowed
upon him by fate, had spread,
Into Vaishali’s body
and soul.
No pride,
No resurgence,
No excitement in their
lives.
They wandered like
spirits in the ruins of their palaces,
Unable to rise,
Utterly defeated.
This was the right
moment to strike.
The master sent a
message to Ajatashatru immediately.
The war cry resounded
in Magadh.
Gathering his army,
the King of Magadh marched towards Vaishali.
Vaishali lay in
death's grip.
Once again, a call was
made,
Could Vaishali live
again?
The weapons, long laid
down,
Could they resonate
once more?
But Vaishali’s
body,
The shadow of past
glory and shattered dreams,
Neither mourned nor
rejoiced.
Motionless,
Vaishali lay shed of
its former self,
As Ajatashatru
advanced, unchecked.
The rulers said,
"We will not let
the enemies cross the Ganges."
The Lichchhavis will
gather and fight the enemy with all their might.
But Vaishali was
indifferent.
Whatever happens to
Vaishali,
Why should we be
troubled or afraid?
The declaration
came:
The enemy is
near,
He has crossed
Vaishali's borders.
Awaken, O people of
Vaishali!
Close the city
gates.
Take up your weapons
at once,
Vaishali is weak,
trembling in fear.
The war drum kept
beating, the battle horn sounded,
Resonating across the
sky, as the four-armed army marched.
Mighty elephants
trumpeted,
Horses neighed,
restless in their stance.
The clash of swords
and shields filled the air,
The earth
trembled,
Clouds of dust rose
from the galloping horses’ hooves.
The unstoppable Magadh
army surged forward,
In moments, they would
break through Vaishali’s gates.
The enemy rose to the
gates,
Yet Vaishali remained
unaware.
The gates lay open,
unguarded,
And a merciless blow
fell upon Vaishali.
Defenseless children,
the young, the old—
The furious army
struck them all.
Screams, groans, a
river of blood—
Vaishali lay covered
in crimson dust.
The palaces, stupas,
and mansions were destroyed,
Blood flowed in
scarlet streams.
Stripped, colorless,
shocked, bruised—
Vaishali, wounded, was
taken captive.
Vaishali looked
around, eyes brimming with tears,
Like a mother
searching for her children,
Her kin, her loved
ones, her husband, her family.
She saw, with sorrow,
grief, and anger,
Her lifeless, unworthy
sons—
For whom she had
sacrificed her wealth, her mind, her body, her people.
Helpless, terrified,
anguished, she called out to them,
Again and again.
But how could the hot
blood of pride rise,
When it had turned
into cold, pale water?
The mother,
humiliated, pained, ashamed,
Lowered her head.
Her pride
shattered,
Her face dimmed,
colorless.
Though still alive,
she felt as if she were dead,
Senseless, lost in a
state of stunned despair.
Tears flowed endlessly
from her bowed head,
Her glory, her
spiritual strength,
The pillar of her
pride,
Lay trampled,
unsupported.
Vaishali, on the verge
of death,
Still and
lifeless,
Her half-closed,
unconscious eyes saw the sun of her fame
Sinking into the
twilight of defeat.
It was a
heart-wrenching end.
Two shameless, cruel,
hungry souls roamed,
Like vicious spirits
in the ruins of her wealth—
Greedy, vile,
merciless,
Two jackals.
They had woven a web
of brutal conspiracies.
The tragic play's
puppeteer—
Vashakar.
Its hero—Magadh's
king.
Their cold laughter
echoed,
In the ruined,
desolate, broken halls of Vaishali’s shattered pride.
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