Summary
"Amrapali" is a poignant exploration of
love, longing, and the quest for spiritual fulfillment. The poem centers around
Amrapali, a beautiful courtesan in ancient India, whose life embodies the
complexities of desire and devotion.
The Poem
They saw,
the Licchavis,
Vaishali’s glorious
royal road,
covered in dust,
resonating with the
chiming of delicate bells,
as many chariots,
neatly arranged,
adorned and
draped,
came into view,
graced by lively
Sindhu horses.
Flags fluttered,
silk in myriad hues
danced in the breeze,
fragrant with fresh,
crimson blossoms,
saffron, vermilion,
and gulal scattered in the air.
At the forefront,
one chariot
stood,
the golden dawn, awash
in a sea of light.
On its path,
bathed in beauty’s
glow,
sat she,
like the goddess of
spring herself,
as though a jasmine
blossom swayed on a string of pearls,
mingling with the
fragrance of pollen and nectar.
Drawn by white
horses,
lost in her
thoughts,
she came,
gently smiling,
dream-bound—
Amrapali.
Suddenly, within the
deep night, dawn arose.
Lotus buds
bloomed—
gleaming like
diamonds, pure, dew-adorned.
Kissed by the southern
breeze,
each leaf trembled,
tinged with the blush of dawn.
The lips, touched by
the intoxicating kiss of desire,
bore a soft
smile,
captivating and
lethal.
Adorning her hair,
clusters of Madhuka flowers,
strange and beautiful
lotus garlands,
swayed in the fragrant
southern wind,
a net of curls veiled
her moon-like face.
Long, flowing locks
danced proudly in the wind,
like black serpents,
intoxicated by venom,
gently grazing her
cheeks,
silky, fragrant
strands swayed in rhythm.
Around her conch-shell
neck,
a pearl necklace
wrapped.
Her lotus-like arms
adorned with bracelets,
emerald, sapphire,
ruby, diamond-clad armlets,
golden bangles
encircling her wrists.
On her shoulder, a
thin shawl fluttered,
dyed in the deep red
of pomegranate blossoms.
Her rising chest
swelled with breath,
a cascade of moonlight,
spilled from her
beauty.
Below, a blue,
gold-studded silken robe,
barely concealing her
slender waist.
A belt of lotus stems,
encrusted with jewels,
her figure enchanting,
her gaze hypnotic,
an irresistible flood
of allure,
a rain of ambrosial
desire.
Her curving form
radiated charm,
lotus-like eyes
gleaming,
the rainbow of dreams
glittered within them.
In the deep blue lakes
of her eyes,
newly blossomed lotus
buds smiled with delight.
In the cool, dark
shade of her lashes,
the dawn stretched and
yawned.
Beneath the blue
sky,
a thousand lamps
burned in unison within the courtyards.
Infinite beauty.
An ocean of grace
surged in waves of radiant color,
reflected in a
thousand arrows of light.
The noble men of
Licchavi, astonished.
What stood before
them, undeniable—
How could anyone turn
away?
This strike was
infallible,
an unparalleled
beauty, an irresistible force.
The noble men spoke in
wonder—
“Ambe! Ambe!
Where are you coming
from, and where do you go?
Chariot collides with
chariot,
axle clashing against
axle,
dust rises from the
horses’ hooves,
and the tinkling of
tiny bells rings out—
Why, oh restless mind,
do you stir so?
Why so unsettled, moving
swiftly, without a care?
Like a cool,
rain-filled breeze rushing through,
where do you go, lost
in dreams?
Eyes washed in silver
moonlight,
bathed entirely in the
ocean of joy.
With a pull of the
reins,
the horses halt,
her proud neck raised,
her voice ringing out
with jubilant vigor.
She laughed—
an open, joyous laugh,
radiant in her beauty,
her pomegranate-like
teeth glowing white,
so bright even the
moonlight would slip away.
Night jasmine
scattered.
The purest lotus
bloomed.
Morning smiled.
Her crimson lips, like
coral,
brushed by the nectar
of beauty.
Words unspeakable,
unknowable, yet innocent spilled forth.
The onlookers stood
stunned.
Her beauty—boundless,
untiring.
Before them,
Lakshmi, risen from
the churning of nectar,
her form swaying,
intoxicating like waves,
took graceful
steps,
bewildering all.
Even the most
eloquent,
stunned into silence,
gazed at her,
as though watching a
fragrant, swaying cascade
of mango blossoms,
overflowing with
ambrosia,
a stream unceasingly
flowing.
The golden waves of
this tide surged,
bathed in the light of
the full moon,
all beauty shimmering
upon the dawn-hued pearls.
She spoke,
smiling—
“Do not be
surprised.
I had gone to the
mango grove,
to my abode of
mental tranquility.
Yesterday, with all
reverence,
I bowed before those
divine feet of radiant light,
and invited him to my
humble meal,
with utmost
respect.
Though Jetavana is a
golden, hallowed ground,
even more honored will
be
my humble
cottage.
I extend a heartfelt
welcome to him.
Had I been a queen, or
a wife,
this might have
been
a social or religious
ceremony.
But—
my countless past
lives, dormant,
now spoke, alive and
awakened.”
Lord,
Supreme Soul, !
Kadamba !
The feet of the Gopis
danced in devotion.
From the hollow,
thirsty flute of life,
sweet nectar began to
flow.
A garland of joy, new
and blue,
swayed and bowed.
How parched it
is—
this barren land of
the heart, longing, waiting.
From the stone of
solace,
a deep sigh
emerged.
And then,
the rain of nectar
fell.
In the venom-stirred
ocean of time,
raging skies clashed
and roared,
but the eternal truth
and thirsty soul
met upon the infinite
horizon.
Someone asked, “Ambe,
is it possible—
for the ocean to be
contained in a shell?”
I will say,
surely.
If you do not
believe,
look into my
eyes.
Today, a circular
dance unfolds,
in every particle of
my life.
The spring has arrived
in full bloom,
within the
long-thirsty courtyard of my heart.
The dark, rain-filled
clouds bend and pour,
over the sun-scorched
desert of my soul.
The Licchavis stood
speechless,
then spoke in
supplication—
“Ambe,
you are the pride of
Vaishali.
A festival of
beauty,
the eternal,
ever-fresh blossom.
You are the blessing
of this land,
the pinnacle of grace
and splendor.
Let not Vaishali be
shamed.
Let this meal,
be completed amidst
royal grandeur.
Take a hundred
thousand gold coins,
but allow the royal
men
to be honored at this
feast.”
Amrapali smiled with
knowing grace.
Striking the horses
with the reins,
gripping the bridle
with both hands,
she measured this
offer
with the scales of her
proud eyes,
arched her brow in
defiance,
and weighed them with
cold indifference.
She looked back at
them and spoke with firm resolve—
“No, Licchavis! No,
never!
‘Sacepi me ayyā puttā,
vaisālī sāharaṁ dassatha evaṁ ahaṁ taṁ bhattaṁ dassāmi.’
Even if the entire
kingdom of Vaishali were offered,
I will not serve this
grand and glorious meal to you.”
Saying this,
without waiting for a
reply,
she signaled the
horses to move ahead,
and swiftly,
she left.
In her heart, she was
forever devoted.
She had accepted the
meal offered by the embodiment of beauty—
He, the most exalted,
the Arhat.
His pure light touches
every leaf of creation,
whether upon the snowy
peaks
or in the fearful
depths.
Everywhere, the rays
of compassion spread equally.
This beauty, this
grace, this radiance—
though it may be the
pride of Vaishali—
for me, it is a
jewel-studded golden chest,
trapped within, a
venom-drunk serpent,
twisting and
turning,
night and day,
banging its head
against the walls, spewing toxic fumes.
My heart burns, my
every limb burns.
The pain, eternal and
unending, infinite and unbreakable.
Who knows this silent
agony?
In the dark horizon of
my despairing eyes,
so many nights of
suffering have sunk,
drenched to the depths
in boundless sorrow.
Today, though, as my
head lifted a little,
I found before me a
golden chalice, overflowing with the morning light.
In the sapphire
courtyard of my eyes,
the new joy of the
east laughed.
In the endless sea of
pain,
immersed to the
brim,
Ambe smiled.
Her hair floated like
algae in the water,
and upon the water’s
soaked edge,
good fortune rained
down like blood-red sandalwood.
A sacred tilak, pure
and proud,
was placed upon her
forehead.
Fortune’s blossom
swayed and smiled.
For the first time,
the chains of centuries were broken.
With wings
outstretched,
the soul, like a
parched cuckoo,
soared into the
endless sky,
bathed in clear,
radiant light,
freely flying
high.
A single ray of
compassion touched
the neglected, scorned
courtyard of the mind.
In an instant,
everything shattered and fell apart.
Lying in my deepest
anguish,
sobbing alone and
unsupported,
how wondrous was this
golden dawn.
The cool rain of
frost-like nectar
soothed the blistered
heart
wounded through
countless lifetimes.
This cool balm of
sandalwood
emerged from the fiery
agony,
and the yearning soul
wandered,
moved, through the
fragrant forests of the Malaya region.
One being
appeared,
who did not ignore or
disdain.
For all, his loving
and open heart
was revealed.
The calm, pure expanse
of dawn’s tranquility
was in full flow.
Who am I?
All known remained
silent.
And with reverent
acceptance,
I embraced the
invitation,
my heart dancing in
joy,
amidst the
scent-filled, lush gardens,
where spring itself,
in infinite abundance,
scattered colorful,
fragrant flowers.
In every branch, in
every leaf, new life blossomed.
There was the thrill
of the nine emotions.
I forgot
everything.
This rare bliss—
the end of my
fortune’s quest.
Mad with joy, I
leaped,
becoming like the musk
deer, natural and free.
In the garden of my
own delight,
I wandered,
overwhelmed with emotion.
Where the distance of
inequality was erased beneath those sacred feet,
in their presence, I
was complete,
this eternal journey
now fulfilled,
which had always
remained incomplete.
Amba! Not today,
Amba.
The entire universe is
contained within him today.
Transcending all
limits,
I bow, ever ready in
service at those feet.
Today, I have
seen.
The knowledge of the
self is not ingrained.
It is
self-examination,
a new science.
In every particle of
the Lord’s divine feet,
innumerable lotuses of
faith have bloomed.
This life—
a desert of sharp
thorns, burning in heat.
Today, flowers bloom
amidst the prickly cactus thorns,
adorned with tears,
wearing a diamond crown,
waiting in the Lord’s
paths.
Today, every particle
of body and mind dances in rapture.
No longer is there the
venomous flame,
spitting from a
thousand hoods,
the restless waves of
the mind,
the boundless
expanse.
Under the silver rain
of milky moonlight,
there is only pure,
bright
love! Love!
The parched soul, the
thirsting cuckoo,
spreads its wings,
immersed and reaching out.
The sky fills the
eyes,
but this joy cannot
cross the destitute heart.
Even the
wish-fulfilling cow or the divine tree
seem
insignificant,
compared to this rare
invitation.
The feet dance.
Today, they are not on
the earth.
If anyone asks me who
the supreme being is,
my jubilant heart
would say:
Go and see.
There, in
meditation,
is the unwavering
light.
On his seat, he is the
lord of compassion.
He knows how much the
heart has burned and suffered,
the intense,
unbearable pain of life.
In the remote, dark
valleys of despair,
this imprisoned
life,
lies covered,
sobbing.
No one has ever looked
at it with respect.
Always scorched in the
blazing sun of scorn,
baked on the heated
bars of contempt.
Never, even while
walking together,
has anyone turned
around to ask,
“Ambe, have you been
hurt too?
Is there in your
wounded soul,
the sharp, cruel,
unbearable sting of barbed arrows?”
A touch of
compassion,
in which I have
immersed deeply.
In the unbearable heat
of countless births,
where have I
vanished?
That supreme peace and
bliss.
Even that, they have
come to eradicate.
They have come to
crush the final breaths
of the defeated and
dying.
I will never allow
this offering to be seized.
In it, all persistent
wounds have become serene and cool.
Engrossed in her own
world, Amrapali moved on,
amidst the dense
foliage of blooming,
fragrant groves.
From the depths of the
lush grove,
a sweet sound of
commotion arose.
Absorbed in
meditation, Amba was startled,
her gaze darted in
surprise.
In many adorned
chariots were the noble ladies,
who, seeing her,
smiled in response.
One of them
spoke:
“Ah! Noble Amba!
As in the Ketaki
forest, where Kaikeyi’s call resounds,
the forest and gardens
have become intoxicated with essence.
Where are you coming
from, and where are you going?
Even in daylight, this
enchanting moon,
has pierced the
heart.
This divine
radiance,
the blazing light of
beauty,
with a face lit up in
a bewitching, intoxicating glow.
Pulling the reins,
Amba replied with a smile,
“That is my question
too, dear!
Today,
why has the fortune of
forest opulence awakened, abandoning the homes?
Why, in the splendid
homes and temples,
have the illuminating
lamps suddenly stirred in the forest paths?”
One of them,
with piercing
eyes,
glanced sharply at
Amba.
In her eyes,
the endless beauty of
the lotus flowers
was inscribed.
With a hint of
bitterness, she said:
“Lord is said to be in
your mango grove.
We all, in
reverence,
are heading to his
holy and pure feet.”
Giving the reins a tug
and urging the horses forward, Amrapali said:
“I too am coming from
there.”
One of them spoke in a
deceitful tone:
“Do not play games
here,
this is the mirage of
the deer.”
They are no longer the
princes of Kapilavastu.
They do not desire
wealth, beauty, or grandeur.
They are indifferent!
Unmoved!
Surely, your
stubbornness must have yielded.
We, however,
are unfortunate.
A fire has ignited in
the house,
in the midst of the
green monsoon.
The delay in the
lord's arrival
brings immediate
sorrow to the heart.
Will they come home
today,
laughing and
rejoicing,
or will their faces be
shadowed by dark clouds?
Will they meet us,
suffering from your poison's flames?
Will they respond to
these waiting hearts with a smile?
What a dark night it
has become
in our fortunate,
happy lives.
Now, a sacred place
remains.
Why did you go there,
to whom did you offer service?
Seeing you here,
a hundred-fold
thunderbolts fell on the heart.
The sea of tear-filled
eyes,
pierced through by the
lance,
is enduring the
unquenchable flame of form.
At what time, which
moth will burn in the blaze?
In this searing,
flaming inferno,
the mind, like
withered dry grass,
wanders, crying out in
despair,
will be swiftly
reduced to ashes.
No other choice
remains.
Reining in the horses,
she turned,
a flame of form,
flaring from her
eyes,
like sparks of
anger
scattering
terror,
the blazing fire of
poison.
Her lips quivered. A
voice broke.
“What you all
desired,
you have said without
fear.
You are the holy
boundary
of your own family’s
honor.
Have you ever
seen,
a thunderbolt suddenly
strike
a lotus in full
bloom,
when it was thriving
with nectar?
What?
The moon, full of
nectar,
eclipsed and
waning,
fading away under the
blows of fate.
Burnt lotus, burning
tears unceasingly flowing.
Did the moon’s
blemish
or the forest’s
scorched ruin
bear any fault?
Both were struck by
the curse of fate.
Goddesses!
The powerless,
helpless, and hopelessly afflicted,
blaming others is an
accepted and simple way
in society.
The grass beneath the
feet is trampled,
but under the same
Ashvattha tree,
it is revered as
divine and sacred,
the head of society
bows to it.
Who am I?
The gift of yours, the
irreparable affliction of society.
Creation remained
silent on it.
Hasn’t the earth and
sky’s gaze
yet fallen upon what
has been endured?
In the shade of the
mango tree
of the royal garden of
Vaishali,
I lay,
an unnamed orphan girl
of noble lineage.
Raised in an esteemed
household.
What?
In this blooming
garden of my hopes,
in my joyful and
elated heart,
didn't you have a
strong, intense desire to become like me?
Yet, it’s possible
that I was
the victim of a royal
curse,
the tormented curse of
a noble maiden.
Like that silent cursed
one,
I too received,
without cause,
unexpected,
fate-tormented, internal agony.
Unforgettable,
indescribable, unbearable,
endless silent
groans.
Relentlessly burning
heart-heat.
If my mother was ever
anywhere, that day
was the most self-destructive
for both of us,
a day of countless,
thunderous, and most cruel strikes.
Fate, treacherous and
mocking, stood before us,
its cruel laughter
echoing.
The earth’s silent,
helpless core must have cracked,
the sky, stunned, must
have shattered and bowed low.
On that day,
a sacred offering,
pure as the tender grass,
a rite of youth,
fearless and shameless,
was exchanged.
And beauty!
Like a serpent burned
by its own venom,
tortured by its own
fatal poison,
sought refuge in the
cool embrace of solace.
Yet, no solution was
found,
no appropriate turn of
fate.
It must have burned
with anguish,
the sacredness
subjected to disgraceful torment,
forced to endure on a
filthy, wretched path.
It melted like
wax,
drenched and
dissolving in grief.
That day,
the ancient glory of
Vedic civilization and culture
must have bowed in
mourning,
weeping over its own
degradation.
Since that day until
now,
how the moments have
passed, ceaselessly, endlessly.
In the cup filled with
ambrosial nectar,
a lethal poison
mingled.
Heart, how to describe
this indescribable suffering?
Shattered into
thousands of pieces,
it wept in the agony
of unspeakable pain.
But who witnessed
this?
Even the unseen was
silent and mute.
Was it truly
worship?
In the festival of
love, amidst the praise of Ananga,
proclaimed the
greatest beauty,
the jewel of the land.
In the subtle tribute
to beauty and art,
A new definition was
born,
Of the dignity of
womanhood.
Like an innocent
lamb,
The pure vow of
virginity,
Was sacrificed, silent
and helpless,
On the grotesque altar
of barbaric cruelty.
Bound for life,
To the thorny,
flowered labyrinth of deceit,
Tormented and broken
by it.
The society's silent,
blind prison,
Encased her.
Beauty—
Not belonging to just
one.
What a clever
ploy!
It made way for
unrestrained freedom.
As she spoke, Amrapali
trembled, overwhelmed,
Her pride flared,
Like a serpent
writhing without its gem.
When the protectors
turned into destroyers,
Who was left to
guard?
The same question
again—
A thousand
thunderbolts shattered upon her head—
What is a woman?
Is that all she
is?
Is this the judgment
of her beauty, her grace, her dignity?
Why was this beauty
denied trust,
A rightful sanctuary
of devotion?
Why did no one
lovingly,
Offer her a place of
honor?
Burned—
This life burned.
Always alone, utterly
alone.
You women—
Blessed as you
are,
Sheltered by the earth
and sky.
You were sent off with
love from your father's home,
Embraced with joy in
your in-laws' house.
Society gave you this
respect,
And gave me this
disgrace.
I—
Utterly solitary,
Enduring ceaseless
sorrow.
No father, no
mother,
No home to warmly
embrace me.
No eyes waiting with
hope,
No outstretched arms
eager to hold me.
Your home is a
temple.
It is naturally
fragrant with the sweetness of pure love.
The dishes prepared in
the kitchen,
Are lovingly offered
to your husband.
Even in that, flows an
unending nectar of sweetness.
Here, the food is
lifeless, purposeless,
Flavorless and devoid
of joy.
A decorated
temple,
But where is the
deity?
The silk draped bed,
adorned with flower petals,
Becomes a death
shroud.
Where is the
heartbeat,
Where is the devotion,
love, surrender?
Where is the
self-sacrifice,
That wraps itself
around the master's feet,
With the fragrance of
the soul?
There, the flame of
single-minded devotion burns.
But here, without a
goal or purpose,
Lingers this wounded,
crushed womanhood,
The endless suffering,
tormented,
Lying on an anonymous
bed,
Burning to its
core,
A never-fading
question mark.
In the silent, blue
sky's mirror,
The heart's flaming
waves ripple and surge.
No date is
certain.
Like a wandering
sorcerer standing at the door,
Which guest will
arrive?
On the living
corpse,
He will awaken his
dead chants.
These ornaments, these
garments, these flowing colorful robes,
Are merely elaborate,
painted, white shrouds.
Womanhood cries in
agony.
Her dignity crushed
beneath the heels of pride,
Her self-respect,
wounded.
Endless tears flow
from her eyes, drop by drop.
Every breath filled
with thorns,
Every moment pierced
with agony.
The fragrant vermilion
in your hair parting,
Like the red dawn on
your glowing forehead,
Shining with the
magnificent light of a joyous morning.
Your radiant,
graceful, glorious beauty,
Is crowned with
pride.
That same vermilion,
before these eyes,
Appears a warm, red
flood.
How empty, how light,
how laughable you seem,
Ambe!
It overflows, speaking
for itself.
Every time you fill
your hair with vermilion,
Your mirror must smile
with pride.
Yet that same
vermilion,
Caught between these
trembling fingers,
Whispers—who gave it,
for whom was it
offered—
And like a thousand
blades,
It pierces through my
soul.
When you are
fortunate, blessed with children,
You become a cherished
link in the honored chain,
Of ancestral lineage
and continuity.
We, too, participate
in breathing life,
Color, and awareness
into these age-old traditions,
Completely offering
ourselves in joy and celebration.
But has anyone ever
thought about it?
The stream that gushes
forth in hundreds of currents,
Filling itself with
the light of the sun, the moon, and the seven-hued rays,
Surging, overflowing,
carrying waves upon waves of radiant colors,
Dancing to the rhythm,
the pulse, and the tempo of life,
With swift grace,
laughter lighting up the face,
Even though in the
depths of darkness, painful memories linger.
Yet, with jingling
bangles,
Swift feet dance,
intoxicated with delight.
Has anyone ever
thought, or seen,
Beneath that net of
radiant light,
The silently flowing
stream?
How agonized, pained,
and restless it is.
In the blinding light,
in the irrepressible joy,
Do you see?
That proud, full lap
of yours,
And in the thick
darkness, your hidden child.
Does a mother’s love
not become deranged?
Washing the pain of
her heart,
Torn into a thousand
pieces,
With her burning
tears?
Each time, she
consoles herself:
It is not fate,
Not the unseen
hand.
It is the degraded
society, so vile,
That turned me, a
forbidden one,
Into a cursed ketaki
flower for its rituals.
Who knows?
In whose unknown
hands,
At an unknown time, by
an unknown name,
Her child was
born?
Even if they stood
face to face one day,
Would they not look at
each other, strangers to the core?
Sālawati,
The respected daughter
of a noble family,
Renowned for her
purity,
When did she
realize,
That fate would be so
cruel?
From being honored as
the "Blessed Maiden of the State,"
To being adorned with
the thorny crown of defeat in disguise.
The Vajji
Confederation made her the courtesan of the city,
Against her will, she
was forcibly thrust into the abhorrent life of a courtesan.
Her son, Jīvaka,
The renowned Ayurvedic
physician of Takshashila,
And Syriya,
The unblemished
beauty, her illegitimate daughter.
This, in the end, was
the outcome.
Neither respected nor
honored by society.
Silenced,
outcast,
Neither the community,
the religion, nor the state accepted them.
Whose responsibility
was it?
Who was the father of
justice?
We, the ones tormented
by society,
Who is truly to blame?
We, all of us.
Why haven’t the most
exquisite women
Found their rightful
place?
Look,
In my eyes,
unfulfilled desires play,
The searing festival
of blood.
If any man has the
courage,
To stain his
honor,
To curse his own
masculinity,
Let him mark his
forehead with this bloody vermillion,
And vow.
Woman is Lakshmi, she
is Saraswati,
She is the revered
mother,
The purifier like the
sacred Ganga.
There is no
alternative.
I will return on this
very chariot,
And seek refuge in her
holy feet, renouncing the world.
But never will I tolerate
The distorted view of
men or society toward women.
It will not be my
fate,
I will never endure
it.
For this deeply
painful, soul-wrenching humiliation,
I will exact complete
revenge.
This torment, seething
with countless thorns,
The burning, wounded
wrath of a mother—
It will not cease for
a moment
Until these lecherous
beauty-moths,
Bereft of
dignity,
Are burned to ashes
beneath my feet.
I will find no peace
until then.
Only when I crush
those searing embers beneath my steps,
Will I move
forward.
Calling woman
weak,
Deceiving her
mercilessly.
I will take my
revenge.
I will surely take
revenge.
As the restless horses
reared,
She pulled the reins
and halted them.
Her blazing, bloodshot
eyes softened slightly with tears,
Her trembling coral
lips tightened.
On her sorrow-stricken
face, clouds of pain gathered.
In a voice laden with
anguish and tear-filled throat, she spoke:
“You are women.
Do not insult other
women.
You all understand a
woman’s heart.
Do you know the
dissonance, the adversities,
Through which she
silently travels her inner journey?
No matter how
excruciating the pain,
She spreads smiles
upon her lips.
Where the heart
weeps,
Her eyes shower joy.”
To align with time and circumstances,
You all possess the
same natural wisdom.
In every life, under
the dazzling mirage,
Destiny takes its
revenge, mercilessly.
Victory always leads
to defeat in the end.
What the heart calls
happiness
Is but the dawn of
sorrow
Rising in the hopes of
fate.
This body, bound by
helpless circumstances,
Moves like a
mechanical puppet,
A living corpse.
What the senses call
enchantment,
Is but the deadly,
intoxicating venom of poison
That burns every part
of this being.
This is not a paradise
of pleasures,
But a desolate garden
of despair,
Where the inner cries
echo.
It is the unquenchable
fire
Of the tranquil,
windless blue ocean,
An endless
self-immolation burning within.
These alluring,
intoxicating gazes,
The adorned
bodies,
And priceless,
intricate jewels
Are the final
adornments
Of a dead queen,
Whose soul has long
departed.
What remains is but
the disintegration
Of the five
elements.
These beings, treading
unknown, eternal paths,
Are merely living
corpses
Bound by the strands
of time.
In the eternal
graveyard of impermanence,
Every moment
celebrates a death festival.
It is the defeat of
this eternal soul,
The search for the
ultimate truth,
That, though fully
aware,
Pretends
ignorance,
Staring at its
reflection
On the restless waves
of the mirage.
Night and day, it
marvels
At the flickering
flames
Of golden desires
burning on every wave,
And is overjoyed,
Thinking that
fulfillment lies close.
But what can man
do?
Even while
deceived,
He keeps burning in
the very illusion.
It is man’s inherent
nature.
Knowledge and
action,
Their true essence
remains unknown.
The mind, carried away
somewhere far,
While knowledge
dazzles, scattering blinding light,
Speaks something
entirely different.
Harmony between the
two
Has not yet been
found.
Man,
In pursuit of
truth,
Remains utterly
helpless in the hands of fate.
Knowledge,
A star,
self-illuminating,
On the horizon of
wisdom’s pure, radiant sky.
Desires,
Luring in multicolored
forms,
One in the sky,
The other on the
earth,
Never meeting at the
horizon.
These two parallel
lines
Find only emptiness as
their meeting point.
We are all such
beings,
Our resolves one
thing,
Our actions
another,
Proud travelers of
mirages.
One of the women of
the house said,
"O Mother,
It is not just your
beauty,
But the profound
wisdom, too,
That heightens the
intensity of your charm.
Beauty is
boundless,
Not of the body
alone,
But of the mind as
well,
In countless
forms.
It is said, like
things do not attract each other,
But here, bound in the
spell of your enchantment,
The mind, forcefully
drawn,
Slips helplessly.
And then the men—
So feeble, so devoid
of strength,
Where lies their power
of restraint?
They bind themselves
to baseless accusations.
I ask of you this one
plea:
Why are the strong so
merciless towards the weak?
The crushing of a tiny
ant
Does not elevate the
elephant’s dignity.
O noble one, I humbly
request you,
Your knowledge is
being wasted here.
In the thick darkness
of attachment,
No one shall see the
brilliance
Of this treasury of
wisdom.
Why don’t you awaken
the coiled power
Resting within the
locked casket of knowledge,
With the resonating
echoes of your mind’s flute,
To unlock the grand
gates of the free order?
They will gladly
accept you
If you take the vow of
renunciation.
Behold this
thorn-filled path—
The sight of it makes
my heart pound.
Above your head hangs
a sharp dagger,
Suspended by a fragile
thread,
Swaying with every
gust
Of the blind storm of
enchantment.
When will it fall upon
your head,
Striking a meaningless
blow?
This overwhelming
enchantment
Destroys the
self,
Moment by
moment."
Amrapali,
That laugh, a poisoned
laugh—
Don’t lay your
weakness on me.
Do not, upon one
nearing death,
Heap accusations upon
accusations.
Search within your own
heart a little.
Why do you lack such
allure?
When fortune’s
blossoms
Have rained upon you
all, unhindered,
Why is it
That your life’s
treasures
Could not bind
themselves to the thread of attraction?
You had time, space,
and endless opportunities.
Religion and
society,
With red sandalwood
seals,
Granted you
certificates of honor,
Gladly and
respectfully.
Then why, pierced by
the arrows of words,
Wounded by the fiery
eyes of scorn,
Do you, a gazelle
surrounded from all sides,
Accept defeat?
One of them, with a
sly smile, spoke—
"Defeat!
Defeat!
Each breath, a
defeat.
Where is this
extraordinary wealth of beauty,
This adorned form,
this dance, this song, this music,
Refined in
manners?
All of these too could
be learned and perfected.
But your boundless
intellect,
The soaring bird of
your spirit,
Falls, helpless,
Even as it takes flight,
Collapsing with both
wings spread wide."
Where, in the golden
cup,
Waves this
intoxicating nectar of life,
And where, in a humble
palm,
Trickles the cool
water of a mountain spring,
Striking against the
rocks—
There lies the
difference.
One brings
satisfaction,
The other, an
insatiable thirst.
Victory belongs to the
deceit of mirage,
And above all,
What makes your beauty
even more piercing
Is the radiant,
unmatched self-awareness
That beams from within
you.
Like the enchanting
crimson of the dawn
Pouring from the
horizon,
Your deep, solemn eyes
exude a tender, soothing coolness,
Woven with the
intoxicating moonlight
Of your radiant
wisdom.
Bitter gourd growing
upon a neem tree
And before you, like a
Kapalika priest,
Holding a skull filled
with blood,
Laughing loudly,
Stands your
unrelenting fate, fearless.
Just this much I wish
to say, O Amba,
It is for you to speak
now.
Can anyone drink, on
their own,
a cup that mixes
nectar and poison?
How many thorns should
I gather
with these tear-soaked
lashes?
My body and soul burn
continuously,
scorched by your
ever-flowing, moonlit beauty.
This proud, swelling
ocean of charm—
Our senses have
fled,
We have forgotten all
awareness.
How can a mere drop, a
tiny speck of dew,
become the mirror to
the ocean’s pride?
Show mercy, O
Goddess.
Who can bear to watch
the nest of their dreams
burn, twig by twig?
Do not place another
piercing arrow
upon the string of
your ever-drawn floral bow.
Accept this boundary
as the line of dignity.
Do not take one more
step forward.
With a pull on the
reins,
Amrapali angrily
stamped her foot on the carriage.
The soft heart of the
forest was pierced
by the tinkling of her
anklets.
In the dark horizon of
her eyes,
blazing meteors
ignited.
A thick black cloud of
pain swirled above.
Lightning crackled
through the clouds.
She spoke, with great
indifference—
"Why?
Whether my pride is
crushed, or yours,
Both remain bound by
the honor earned
within their own
realms.
In this duel of
rights, the sword has already been drawn,
Why not handle the
blows
that now fall upon us
both?
Even still, you stand
secure,
shielded by the armor
of moral and social duty.
While I, beneath the
aimless horizon,
observe, utterly
alone.
I lack the wisdom, the
knowledge, the sense of propriety.
What is deemed right
or wrong?
To speak of what is
appropriate or inappropriate,
To be bound by the
rules of public decorum."
Your conversations
with everyone—
mere cries in the
wilderness,
like the futile
weeping of the sea,
a hopeless lament on
the shore of sand.
Helpless,
powerless,
a head, endlessly
striking against stone.
Only the thorn
pricks,
in the cold, cruel
gaze of the strong.
These feet of
mine,
they have never been
still.
Whether easy or
treacherous,
they have kicked
against all paths,
crossed every
boundary,
moving forward—
unceasing, unyielding.
Those who stop
are the ones who still
hope
for a tender,
comforting rest.
But for me, carving a
path
through rare
valleys,
through thorn-filled,
painful roads,
is the very definition
of life.
In the dense darkness
of endless "no's,"
the pitiful, forlorn
hope
was to find a ray of
light
among the tear-lit
lamps.
My
journey—uninterrupted, unbound, alone.
Defeat.
In defeat, to search
for victory.
Never tiring, never
bending—
This is the final
truth, the ultimate aim of life.
Every decision is mine
alone.
I need no advice from
anyone,
I have nothing to say
to anyone.
The flowers are mine,
the thorns are mine.
Both must reside in
this heart.
My lofty, radiant
pride
will never compete,
never yield.
One woman said—
"O Goddess!
You, crowned with a
garland of blossoms,
ever triumphant, with
a brow gleaming in pride.
You, who can crush or
raise
whomever you wish,
whenever you wish.
Even the master of my
master
stands before you,
hands folded, as if before death.
Yet, I have a
plea.
A life can be
sacrificed at the feet of only one.
I spread my shawl,
begging,
grant me this one
favor.
I shall be forever
grateful, honored by your grace.
For you, it matters
not—
Choose who you will,
discard who you wish.
You are the queen of
this market of beauty."
Another woman,
with a voice burning
in scorn,
called out from the
chariot—
"You
courtesan,
Do not let this
praise
get to your
head."
Upon hearing
this,
her face flushed with
rage,
Amrapali
screamed,
“Me, a courtesan?
Here I stand among
thousands.
Me, a prostitute?
Deprived of
opportunity,
or the chance to
choose my own heart’s will—
you spew venom in
vain.
If dissatisfied with
your husbands,
who have fallen from
their own deeds,
you too have the
right
to choose another
life.
In ancient times, did
not Sage Parashar say—
‘In death, desertion,
renunciation, impotence, or disgrace,
a woman is free to seek
another husband’?
So, go ahead, praise
womanhood all you want,
but do not boast of
your fidelity.
This fidelity, this
chastity—
it rings hollow, a
discordant note,
between the upper and
lower classes.
It grinds away in the
millstone of society's religion,
crushed between the
two grinding stones,
breathing the
poisonous air of blind superstition.
Only the middle
class,
born into this
belief,
holds it tightly in
its fist,
binds it in the knot
of tradition,
and clings to it as their
sole support.
Bound by hypocrisy and
pretense,
they are weighed down
by the burden of gods and goddesses,
suffocating beneath
curses and blessings,
fearful and overjoyed
by the veil of blind faith.
Even these gods are
summoned and dismissed
by the whims of the
upper class.
The lower class
remains trapped
in beliefs of spirits
and demons.
Meanwhile, the middle
class,
like Bhishma on his
bed of arrows,
entangled in an
endless web of problems,
surrenders, rubbing
their foreheads at the feet of fate,
begging for
deliverance.
In every place, every
land,
this special class
drinks the poison of silent suffering,
endlessly, day after
day,
breathing in that
toxic air,
forced to live.
They endure
exploitation, oppression,
mental, physical, and
financial torment,
calling their
helplessness a divine blow.
And there, in the same
world,
the prideful,
intoxicated capitalist—
the upper class,
those esteemed at
society’s peak—
they weigh religion,
wealth, and desire
on the same
scale.”
This upper echelon of
society, these Pandavas,
in the dazzling
moonlight of Drupad’s daughter’s endless beauty,
they barter for
fidelity
in exchange for
wealth, promotion, and temptation.
Yes, even this is
fidelity—
obedience to the
husband’s command,
a secure rise in
status,
whatever the
cost.
But how cruel, how
agonizing,
is this inner
churning,
this twisted form of
fidelity.
When forced
fidelity
becomes as hollow and
meaningless
as a flurry of
scattered husks,
where were those gods
then?
Where was the revered
blood sandalwood,
worshipped and adorned
with pride?
Isn’t it shattered
into a hundred pieces?
This society,
at no time, in no
form,
has ever spared a
woman.
In whatever way
possible,
she has been crushed,
ground, broken, pieced together, and bent.
I face this harsh
neglect,
this oppression,
in front of those
women—
queens, empresses, and
noble wives.
You bow low, always
turned toward their grace,
forever seeking their
favor.
Their brows do not
even twitch,
yet you tremble to
your very core.
No matter how much
poison they pour,
no matter how
unbearable the insult,
you swallow it with a
smile.
There, honor, respect,
dignity—
all crushed beneath
their feet,
and still, you stand,
hands folded in submission.
Do they not seem
fallen to you?
No, because they are
adorned with royal respect,
they are society’s crown
jewels.
With wealth, power,
influence, and ambition,
they are strong,
secure.
They are the axis of
your moving life’s wheel.
From them, you are
driven,
you are
protected,
you live.
And us—
the swelling,
repressed tide from over there,
a mass of rising,
pent-up emotion,
a heart bowed under
the weight of blows and counter-blows.
You easily cast this
unbearable burden aside
because the weak have
always been
the ones destined to
bear the flaming curse.
Their bodies and minds
pierced
without cause by
burning words and arrows.
It is better, dear
one,
that we all move
toward our destinies.
Enough time has been
wasted,
let’s not prolong this
futile dispute any further.
Suddenly, a woman
spoke—
After hurling such
accusations, will you just walk away?
You speak as you
wish,
and silence all of us
by force.
These accusations are
unjust, Ambe.
Our household life,
our husbands—
they are our sole
foundation.
Do not balance
everything on the same scale, woman.
Someday, a weight too
heavy will tip it.
Amrapali twirled her
reins, laughing—
a bitter, poisoned
laugh.
Clouds, thick in the
blue sky,
pour and thunder until
they empty.
Hidden beneath
well-crafted, deceptive words,
the red tears in your
helpless, pleading eyes do not go unnoticed.
What flames of
vengeance burn in your gaze?
What restless, dark
nights have you endured?
One slight gust of
wind,
and the frost-laden
branch will shed its leaves.
Upon the shell of my
insult,
your Ashoka tree will
not flourish,
for it must burn in
the hissing fire of the serpent Takshaka.
Why do you keep crying
out "husband, husband"
and tormenting
yourself with the call of fidelity?
Open your eyes and
look once at the truth.
Timidity, economic
dependency,
the helplessness that
has sought a foundation for centuries—
this is your
reality.
Whether wife or
husband,
it is nothing but
exchange held in balance.
The steps you
take,
he will match step for
step.
He will not tolerate
the slightest disruption
to his pursuit of
comfort and joy.
No matter how much you
boast of your own greatness,
you do not truly
grasp
the sacred purity of
fidelity.
Surely, you have heard
the names of the monk Mahakassapa
and his radiant wife,
Bhadra Kapilayani.
In the auspicious sky
of Buddhism,
she arose like the
dawn’s divine radiance.
Fortunate, like kumkum
and red sandalwood,
like the sacred
knowledge of gulal,
she spread across the
new horizon,
shining like a light
of good fortune.
She was that pure,
sacred Ganges,
the eternal, spotless
moonlight of glory and fame.
This proud, uplifted
head
was always stained by
the red of her sacred feet—
for she had
disciplined and renounced her heart
even before
marriage.
On the first night of
their union, surrounded by fragrant flowers,
her steadfast purity
bore witness to the sacred bond.
Both chose to live as
monks,
yet not once did they
falter or long for union.
At the crossroads of
their separate paths,
Bhadra paused, asking
for her final farewell—
after countless lives
together, now to remain utterly apart.
An eternal
separation.
Tears welled up,
as life chose its
eternal release.
Prostrating on the
ground in deep reverence,
she offered her
farewell
to her husband,
Mahakassapa—
a farewell to lives
past,
a farewell to the
eternal parting.
That goddess—
my heart longed like
Gautami’s
for the dust of his
sacred feet.
The ashes of burnt
passion,
became a red offering
at those pure feet.
No woman could ever
compare to her.
Such was her selfless,
virtuous, sacred fidelity.
And then there was
another—
the fourth wife of
Ugga, the householder.
Knowing his wish to
marry another,
she consented before
Ugga renounced the world to become a monk.
Here is where fidelity
groaned in pain.
Does this not raise a
question
about the laws and
customs of society?
By what rule, by what
law
does society make such
decisions?
Sometimes declaring a
woman as virtuous, sometimes a courtesan,
sometimes casting her
aside as fallen.
The face, the pen, the
power are his—
he shapes them as he
pleases, at his convenience.
So, woman,
do not wander lost in
the names men give you.
Be aware.
Examine yourself,
and know who you truly
are.
This oppression,
suppression, and pain—each layer slowly seeping with suffering,
Every woman endures,
bound helplessly by her circumstances.
Society has only known
you as its reflection,
You are withering,
fading, suffocating, bearing this eternal, ceaseless pain.
Now, awaken!
Gather your
self-respect.
Do not force me into
this excruciating self-examination.
Elsewhere, the nectar
will be found,
But here, only the
deadly poison, the Halahala, will cling to your throat.
What you call insult,
I have long been
drinking that venom, up to the brim.
Absorbing it, enduring
it, until my heart became numb, immobile.
Now no line can be
drawn on it.
Beyond honor and
insult, all knowledge has passed.
Guard your suffering
heart,
Even if a harsher blow
strikes.
Each word, every trap,
slices deeper through each layer,
My wisdom, sharp as
the Sudarshan chakra.
I am that crescent
moon, untouched by any star.
Do not wound me.
My reasoning, like
Rahu with a thousand arms,
Consumes the radiant
fortune you've earned over centuries.
I am not Amba.
I am the one battered
by every season’s winds—
Pierced by winter’s
cold, struck by icy arrows, soaked by unrelenting rains.
Scorched by the sun,
standing alone on barren, thorny earth,
Under a clear,
desolate sky,
Always exposed, always
neglected, I stood alone.
Fighting silently,
unyielding in the face of every adversity.
I, like the cursed
Ahalya,
Who has yet to be
redeemed by Rama’s touch.
My heart, burning in
restless despair,
Now rages in its
endless flames.
Do not warm your hands
in its fire, woman.
Look closely—time is
cruel, so unkind, so deceptive.
This room of darkness,
Where no ray of light
ever descends.
Come, see with me,
How sharp this
double-edged sword cuts through.
How piercing, how
agonizing, how deep it strikes.
And how my tear-filled
eyes endure it all.
My son, Vimal
Kaudinya,
A Buddhist monk in his
ascetic world.
There, Ajatashatru and
Abhay Kumar too—
Honored with royal
respect, coronated as kings.
Yet all three sons of
the same father.
But how strange, how
marvelous is fate!
Go, O goddesses,
Fortunate
Lakshmis,
Return to your
homes.
May your lives
overflow with joy,
May the gentle touch
of the wind from Malaya Mountains cool your hearts,
And may my tears, held
within my own garment, go with you.
Whenever a virtuous
woman is chosen in any land,
Do not forget to
shield her—swiftly reject her degradation.
These tears will
remind you,
They will warn you not
to let the same agonizing pain repeat itself.
If women hold onto
their dignity,
And earn the respect
they deserve,
Be vigilant,
always.
Never let anyone else
fall into that pit.
If each household makes
a vow,
Never will a woman
face this fate.
Amba, pulling at the
reins, signaled the horses.
Through the throng of
chariots, cutting a path, raising dust,
In the dense fog, like
a bright star, she vanished,
Amrapali, standing
upon the chariot.
She was deeply
distressed.
Her lips crimson,
teeth clenched,
Tears swelling, eager
to pour from her eyes.
She pondered
silently,
How strange, how
tangled is a woman’s heart!
When her helpless,
shattered soul wails in endless sorrow,
She cloaks herself in
a veil of anger,
Carefully concealing
her pain.
And this rage—
The agonizing cry of
wounded pride,
A heart-rending scream
of the soul,
Known fully within but
never shown outwardly.
A heart churned by
endless sorrow, a boundless ocean of grief,
Surging, bound, and
overwhelmed by the tides—powerless, pitiful, small.
Yet still, she fills
herself with false pride—
We are no less than
anyone.
But the sharp,
venomous grin of reality,
Pierces her body,
mind, and spirit with a thousand thorns,
Leaving her
distraught, broken,
In this vast,
limitless world.
In the vast space of the mind,
Gathering every shard of shattered, intoxicating
dreams,
How deep was the blow? How many blows?
No shelter ever came for her.
Washing them in silent tears, polishing each fragment,
She examines how deeply it broke, where, and how far
it scattered.
Collecting those fragments of destruction,
She begins anew, creating another form.
But it is just a memory—
How boundless is this soul-wrenching ruin?
The path is desolate, the heart desolate.
In the dense fog of arguments and thoughts,
The wounded, despairing mind flutters like tufts of
cotton,
Torn and scattered,
Struggling like a loosened string caught in a
whirlwind,
A kite entangled in the fierce winds of the mind’s
sky.
The suffering heart could not hold onto any patience.
The inner conflict, the churning thoughts,
A solitary star trying to absorb
The deep, suffocating darkness of the long night.
She took a deep breath.
How lonely, helpless, and hopeless she felt.
Once, her youth, like a thousand-petaled lotus,
Blossomed pure and untouched.
In the courtyard of her heart, in the intoxication of
her own dreams,
Like the musk-deer enchanted by its own fragrance,
She was spellbound, lost.
Her eyes, waves of joy.
For an imagined, unnamed, unknown prince of her
dreams—
The trees and vines of the forest and gardens bowed,
fragrant,
With gratitude for the delight of this imagined love.
On that unforgettable day, in that moment struck by
thunder,
The imagined wedding altar in the horizon of her
heart,
Shattered and broke apart.
It had no form, no color, no name, no trace.
An unknown, unnamed prince,
Yet forever unwavering in her heart.
At the feet of this master of dreams,
She fell, rubbing her forehead,
Cleaning the dust from his feet with her hair,
Crying out in soul-piercing agony,
She bid her final farewell.
With the fragrance of virginity, her body and soul
perfumed,
Every particle burned in the self-kindled flame.
On the funeral pyre of her dead dreams,
Her hair loose, her body bare, deeply pained,
She washed the sacred red sandalwood from her parting
line, offered by her heart.
With both hands, in anguish,
She shattered her marriage bangles,
Their breaking sound striking her heart with a hundred
blows.
She removed the anklets of wedlock,
Each tiny bell igniting like a burning, glowing
spark.
Bound tears shimmered in her lowered lashes,
But as soon as she tied the courtesan’s anklet to her
feet,
They fell, ceaseless, like torrents from a hundred
streams.
The harsh clanging of those tiny bells
Pierced through her heart, ringing with a sharp,
discordant echo,
Yet even that did not awaken society’s deaf ears.
Whenever anklets of the city’s courtesan are tied on
the feet
Of any young maiden,
Her rising, tormented, oppressed tears
Will turn into unbearable embers, burning like molten
lava.
In the blazing flames of helpless rage,
Flowing with unspoken curses, her silent condemnation
will swell.
This youth will writhe in agony a thousand times
over.
Where are those brutal riders of time,
The cruel marauders who stole away the pure fragrance
of life,
The untouched innocence?
Where are the claimants of virginity?
Upon the sacred floral offerings of worship,
They left the venomous hiss of a serpent’s bite.
From the predators of this society,
Tender, unprotected girls will continue to be
exploited, crushed, humiliated,
From beginning to end, endlessly repeating
This tale of unending pain.
This society only ever inflicts robbery upon
robbery,
Never, in any way, offering protection to the
exploited.
This society’s incurable leprosy festers,
Afflicted by its own poison,
Choking in its dense suffocation, longing for the
free, pure air.
And if, by mistake, a step is taken toward the fresh
breeze of freedom,
Every path remains forbidden, barred.
This burning curse,
Neither quenched nor returned.
Like a river that, tearing through the heart of a
mountain,
Flows unbridled—
Through heights, valleys, ravines, plains, plateaus,
and cliffs,
Meeting all, advancing onward.
The ocean opens its arms and embraces her,
Takes her burden and gives her rest.
It does not ask what trials she has endured.
It washes away her impurities
And joyfully takes her in.
But she—
Fallen, bereft of righteousness, cast out by
society—
She is neither weighed by wisdom nor justice,
Neither asked nor considered.
With the illusory reflection of a mirage, society only
says,
"Look, there is water, endless water."
But where is the slightest drop of satisfaction?
At the first opportunity, it averts its gaze,
Or cruelly kicks her aside,
Clearing its path, it moves on.
This eternal, unhealed pain,
A relentless flow of misery,
Reflects society’s shameless degradation,
Its intellectual poverty—
Revealing only its helplessness, its narrowness,
The silent, suffocating helplessness of the
oppressed.
No one ever truly belonged to her.
She remained the helpless plaything of fate’s cruel
kicks,
Like a ball in a merciless game.
In her deep inner churnings, she pondered—
Who could ever understand this shattered heart?
In the black, dense half-night,
In her own unbearable, searing grief,
She lay, alone, helpless, and suffering.
Eyes wide open, unblinking,
She broke endlessly upon the burning, scorching
rocks,
A lightning-stricken, shattered soul,
Electrified by the flashes of pain,
Wandering through the vast, dark, desolate desert of
her mind,
Alone, utterly alone,
With her heart broken into countless pieces.
Filling the dense darkness,
The spaces between the trees, confused, disoriented,
She cried out like a frenzied bird,
Torn apart, moment by moment, by the night’s
wounds.
She drowned in the swelling waves of her ocean of
pain.
Who knew what passed over her anguished, fragile
soul
In these thorn-filled, empty, desolate paths?
He stood still, gazing at the silent, blue mirror of
the sky.
Reflected within it was his own anguished heart.
In the flood of despair that filled his eyes,
How many blazing meteors, burning with fire,
Sank and disappeared in the smoky darkness of
hopelessness.
How many blossoms, yet to bloom,
Hid their faces behind leaves, weeping and
sobbing.
The corpses of dreams that sprouted from the
earth
Lay scorched upon his suffering chest,
Burned by the harsh sunlight.
In silence, Madhavi wept bitterly,
Pouring out streams of tears
To quell the volcano erupting within.
Yet she endured every season’s wrath,
Adapting and adorning herself to fit its demands,
Ever devoted, completely surrendered.
But to whom could she ever tell
Of her heart-wrenching torment?
Her lips remained sealed like stone,
Her voice stifled in quiet sobs.
And so she whispered to herself,
"Cry, heart, cry, mad heart,
Wash away the scorching heat of neglect with your
tears."
No loving shade of eyes,
No one ever came close,
No one offered a hand of support,
No one ever called for the cool shadow of
comfort.
On the path of life, bound by time,
She walked, her soul in pain, utterly alone.
Who had ever borne the weight of her silent, tearful
sorrows?
Who had ever felt such burning in their soul
As she had—
Her heart so defeated by life?
The hopeless eyes that met the horizon
Never saw the light of dawn.
Finding her heart’s courtyard empty,
A fierce storm tore through her to the core.
Who would ever stand by the weak?
Seeing her helplessness,
People threw scorn at her,
Tossing the cold meal of bitter words
At her feet with disdain.
The cup of pain overflowed with the poison of her
suffering,
A poison she had treated with life-ending
remedies.
That cup belonged to her alone.
There was no one, no savior,
No one with the strength to drink it all and bear
it.
The sky is poisoned with despair,
The earth too is suffocated by its venom.
Fate, holding that poisoned cup,
Looked around helplessly,
And finally, in defeat,
Called upon her—
"Drink, mad heart, drink!
Summon the intoxication of deep surrender,
Of new, vivid experiences.
However many blows life brings,
Embrace them all in silence.
In the awakening of new consciousness,
Let the light of wisdom anoint you."
Suddenly, the horses halted.
Amrapali paused,
Looking up, she saw her home before her.
Abandoning the chariot,
She rushed like a storm into her chamber.
The storm of her emotions swelled,
An endless churning,
With countless venomous thorns
Piercing deep into her wounded chest.
She collapsed, like a felled tree,
Upon the bed, unsupported,
Her sobs shaking her,
Her body trembling in anguish.
The unstoppable flood of her tears,
Flowing continuously,
Streamed like rivers.
Her lips, reddened,
Her face contorted with unbearable grief,
She heaved a deep sigh
And spoke quietly to herself:
“Ah!
Like a meteor fallen to the earth,
Crushed and trampled underfoot like grass,
It never lifted its head.
Fiery embers rained down,
And one who never had a place in this world,
What strength, what support,
What ground could he stand on to rise?
I engaged in a meaningless battle.
Why didn’t I simply absorb the arrows of mockery,
Lower my head with a slight smile,
And move on swiftly?
This sorrow, like a dark cloud,
Keeps raining down relentlessly
On my heart’s canvas,
A deep, soul-crushing sorrow.
What pride is this that is now breaking my body and
spirit?
He had marched forward,
Carrying the flag of ignorance,
Unaware of his own helplessness,
His vulnerability,
Even as the venomous arrows struck endlessly.
Still, there was no awareness of his
insignificance.
O Mother! What deceit has trapped you?
Fate takes its ruthless revenge,
In this dazzling,
Alluring mirage,
A cruel illusion of the heart.”
Ah! For what reason?
Why?
Did I display such reckless audacity?
Of one whose very birth is unknown,
Who has no blessing of peace upon their head,
No boon of fearlessness granted
By the cool, nectar-shaded blue sky.
No comforting earth, soaked with affection,
To soothe the tired, worn-out feet on their path.
Restless, anxious, utterly alone, and troubled is the
mind.
In the vastness of space, filled with the flashing,
crackling beams of light,
In the burning forest of meteors,
The distressed, tormented heart
Continued to gaze, silent and still, at the
horizon,
Where the ocean of pain meets the sky,
The swelling, rolling waves
Reflecting its own shadow, its own form.
Broken, fragmented, like a piece of dead wood,
Unconscious, lifeless, aimless,
Blown by the winds without direction.
In the silent, dark courtyard of the mind’s sky,
For countless nights,
I silently shed tears,
Sewing my own torn and tattered veil,
Threading it with the stars.
Why?
The lonely, maddened bird of the soul,
Clung to branches, creepers, and leaves,
Weeping, distressed,
Seeking memories,
Lost among the stone-cold tombs.
Why did it make a mirror out of the turbulent
waterfalls?
Why, filled with the throbbing of blue lakes,
Did it absorb the pain of all,
And cry out in an anguished voice?
Why?
The heartbeat of all—still and moving—
Resonated with the churn of its heart.
Listening to their silent stories of suffering,
My soul grew melancholic and troubled.
Why did I wander endlessly, like a soul
disturbed?
Why?
The experiences, so vivid, so piercing and
intense,
Countless times I saw, over and over,
This body submerged in an ocean of pain,
Breaking into hundreds of pieces,
Crushed, disintegrating, dissolving, and
disappearing.
There was no awareness of existence anywhere.
The wild firestorm surged recklessly,
And the faint flickers of hope, like bubbles,
Danced, pleading for rescue,
Caught and tangled in boiling whirlpools,
Struggling, yet unable to escape.
Still, the heart, clinging to the waves of pain,
Never turned away in disgust.
How tormented, how bitter and burdened the mind,
Bowing beneath the weight of sorrow.
In the hurricane-filled courtyard of the mind,
Needles of sharp, relentless thorns,
Were scattered by the pitiless, blinding storm.
She spoke within herself:
Nothing remains anymore.
Only this endless, searing pain persists.
Walking endlessly upon the scorching ground of
sorrow,
This tired heart now stands at the final edge,
Turning to fate, it asks—
Is there no land left upon which to set foot?
If, fate, you still hold
Some new, untouched form of torment,
Then give that too into my bowed hands—
For from earth and sky,
I have only ever received such things.
This is one truth of life—
The impermanent, as it is called.
When even this impermanence
Strikes with ruthless, heart-wrenching blows,
That supreme truth, in which all contemplation
rests—
What outcome will it bring?
No one knows.
This mind, agitated by storms and tempests,
Why is it so pained, why so distressed,
This anguished heart of mine?
A ceaseless, unrelenting cry,
Tears flowing endlessly, without restraint.
This, the offering of one utterly neglected,
Is my humble salutation,
My worship, my prayer, my complete surrender
At your holy feet.
My inner witness,
You know well how deep this wound is.
This heart is pierced by countless thorns.
My anguished cry trembles your ocean of
compassion.
Who has ever seen, O Lord,
The burning eyes,
Scorched by tears?
The thorn-pricked soul,
Crushed by despair,
Falling, abandoned, alone, with heaving sighs.
Even the deepest, most empathetic feelings
Cannot touch the unfathomable depths of such
pain.
But you have immersed yourself in them time and
again.
You did not accept rice,
But you accepted the invitation
Of the vast, expansive desert.
You are coming, O Lord, to offer words of
blessing,
To gather these scorched tears,
Your infinite, boundless love,
Charged with the world’s sorrows,
The light of friendship spreads across land, water,
sky, and beyond.
In these deep, tender shadows,
This sun-scorched, thirsting soul bows before
you,
Still, the heart remains deeply unsettled,
Pierced like a thorn by one question.
Whose pride, whose insult was it?
Of this impermanence?
No.
It was mine.
But who am I?
This question,
Echoing across ages, across the horizons of
space,
Resonating yet unanswered,
Forever yearning for a reply, remained silent.
I am.
But what am I?
I do not know.
Amba became disoriented, and a light drowsiness
descended.
Upon her burning, tormented heart,
A soothing shadow gently waved.
In the thorn-covered, desolate desert of autumn,
A cool breeze, touched by the Malaya mountain,
Brought a calm to her pain-stricken mind.
Even before dawn, in the depths of the night,
When the forest, garden, and riverbanks become
Anxious, trembling with the fragrance of unknown
sources,
The wind, softly brushing every leaf, every
petal,
Sings a sweet, intoxicating melody.
In the lake of Amba’s heart, where dreams lay
dormant,
The delicate lotus petals, quivering and shaken by
unseen lightning strikes,
Felt a cool touch, a deep release from burning
anguish,
As if love itself poured out in nurturing rain.
Amba! Do not fill your heart with tears.
Do not, in the thorny, desolate forest of pain,
Like a confused, frantic musk deer,
Lose yourself in scattered thoughts.
The sky burns with sorrow.
The oceans cry out in pain.
Sorrow fills the entire world.
Grasping the folds of the five elements,
Beings remain bound within them, caught in their
grip.
You are not weak,
You are not lowly.
Dissolve the distortions of the mind's tendencies
In the light of truth.
The wind that blows, the words that escape—
They can never return.
For those wounded by the arrows of venom,
The only remedy is care,
Why, when, how, and from whom the wound came—
It is futile to search for that.
The moon pours down nectar,
But when has it remained unblemished?
The dust settled on the mirror of the mind—
The more you wipe it away,
The clearer, sharper your reflection will appear.
Wipe it away, wipe away the impurities,
For it is the accumulation of these five elements that
burdens the ego.
The intense attachment of the mind's tendencies,
That is the height of ego.
This impurity of desires—
Bound by them, life remains utterly helpless.
A mind troubled by waves of thought, yet firmly
disciplined,
Becomes peaceful, free of reaction, imbued with
detachment.
Gather your scattered thoughts,
And ascend, step by step,
Upon the radiant, pure, exalted stairways of your
noble ideas.
Be focused, single-minded, completely devoted.
Behold the boundless, eternal light,
Rippling with waves of divine brilliance.
Shatter all the sprouting desires,
Human!
It is the thick, smoky fog of your desires
That obscures your vision.
Tear through this mist.
Amba spoke, her voice trembling with reverence—
"But, Lord! Who am I? Who is that?
To whom is man devoted?
Climbing the stairways of impermanence,
Is it possible to attain the immortal realm?
The tendencies born of the five elements
Will forever create impermanence.
How can the inevitable offering of truth
Arise from falsehood?
Amba! Who? Where? To whom?
Do not get entangled in these confusions.
Remove the thorns scattered on the path.
Through careful contemplation,
Purify your tendencies,
Cling only to that which withstands scrutiny.
What you have not seen,
What your consciousness has not experienced,
Do not rely on others' words to guide you in those
matters.
Be your own witness.
When all darkness is dispelled,
Only light remains.
Contemplate that.
This contemplation, reflection, and
self-extraction,
Is the vast, flowing ocean of purification.
Its waves, crashing upon the shore,
Have cast pearls of wisdom upon the sands of
Uruvela.
In them,
The right and wrong paths, adorned with the beauty of
pearls,
Are filled with a self-illumined radiance—
Behold.
Where is the flaming glow of knowledge?
In the vast courtyard of your mind,
Within the milk-white, pristine light of wisdom,
Lie half-opened, unopened,
The profound, majestic chest of truth's purification
signals,
Overflowing with knowledge.
Look! Upon the horizon of the mind,
Carrying a golden pitcher,
The radiant dawn descends, smiling, spreading light
everywhere."
Do not wander in the thorny forest.
Thorns, only thorns, cover the life soaked in sorrow
and pain.
Wounds of many births, fresh and raw,
Golden dreams have never offered comfort,
Nor tended to them.
Humanity has groaned from birth,
Wounded, ceaselessly aching,
Constantly hurt by stabbing pain.
No matter how many tears have flowed,
From hearts scorched by sorrow,
They have never soothed these wounds.
Incurable, beyond remedy.
Only deepening with waves of torment,
These wounds twist and churn within.
The endless wailing,
Continuously stirring the heart.
And on these open, crimson wounds,
Time, with both hands, has only sprinkled salt.
Seeing the suffering,
The cruel world, always cunning, smiles.
All stand with those
Who move slowly, without hindrance, without
pause.
But one who stumbles, falls abandoned to the
ground,
No one extends a compassionate hand.
Neither time, nor companions,
Show any mercy toward them.
So rise. Test yourself.
Light your own flame.
Look, within the dense darkness of your mind's
cottage,
See your helpless solitude.
In the emptiness, all that was gathered,
Shattered and scattered.
Gather your world back together.
Do not warm your heartbreak
In the burning gaze of the world's disdainful
eyes.
Be without conflict,
Break the entangled verses.
Like the unrestrained wind, roam freely,
In the unbound river of knowledge.
Here, there is no inequality.
A vast realm of uniformity under one sky.
No distinctions,
No disrespect.
All alike, covered in the shade
Of love, truth, and boundless friendship.
The creature, burning for countless lives,
Has come under the shade of this tree of maternal
love.
Taking a deep breath, Amba continued to reflect.
Ah, truth. Unassailable truth.
Endless cycles of life and death,
The return of myriad experiences.
For how long and why,
Does life wander aimlessly, fruitlessly?
If this suffering is merely a web of desires,
Why have these tangled stalks of water lily not broken
yet?
Why does life take birth again and again at someone’s
behest?
If it is just the illusion of desires,
Then why does the essence,
The life force that expresses this existence,
Not dissolve along with the desires?
Why does this eternal ego,
This life, though shattered and scattered,
Somehow remain alive, pulsing somewhere?
Somewhere, there is a readiness, a longing,
For entry into something.
Then whose birth is this?
Whose death?
Who is it that keeps running?
This.
In this pause,
Why does all knowledge, science, reasoning, fall
silent?
Who is this eternal weaver,
From whom the inert and the moving draw their
essence?
What remains unknown until now?
Only the blossoming of verbal intricacies,
Why does all inquiry remain mute?
The language of the incomprehensible,
An extremely complex definition.
Only this question.
So glaringly vibrant,
No one has made it peripheral until now.
Those who stand at the door of liberation,
Why have they reappeared?
The suffering of the world is immense.
Even these avatars could not relieve it.
With the end of desires,
In the same ashes,
Something again takes a breath.
This impenetrable mystery has eluded all.
Gradually ascending from the realm of mere argument,
the wise.
Logic calls upon the subtle knowledge.
But when it reaches a point,
Where all the splendor of knowledge and light is
perceived,
It bows down,
And there emerges the essence of knowledge, fragrance,
and reverence.
It gently holds the hand and leads onward,
Where logic, knowledge, science, and curiosity
All become restrained and subdued.
So, do not argue, Amba.
Do not mix nectar with the poison of doubt.
This only reveals the light.
The path becomes rare and accessible.
Here’s a translation of the concluding passage into
free verse:
---
On the thousand-petaled lotus, soaked in the essence
of faith,
a radiant truth shines, like golden light,
as I behold the vastness,
the unconditioned,
the absolute.
In that moment,
the seeker merges into the nectar of existence,
pure, untouched,
tranquil, without doubt.
In the solitude of my heart,
all debates and discussions fade away,
as I witness the sacred feet,
white as a pure lotus,
gracing the thousand petals of my mind's heart.
Faith, fragrant with love,
flows in an unending stream of tears.
Prostrating with my burning forehead at those
unprecedented,
otherworldly feet,
I cry out—
O Source of life and breath!
O Ocean of Compassion!
O Abandoner of the path of immortality,
beyond attachment,
the abode of truth!
Standing at your door,
is the yearning for liberation,
while you, showering love,
endlessly call out to the tormented world.
Your light, a piercing brilliance,
tears through the veils of illusion,
illuminating all realms,
the sun and moon's splendor dimmed,
as the sacred Ganges flows,
countless streams pouring forth.
The waters—land, sky,
are drenched in your luminous presence.
You are the ultimate tranquility,
eternal compassion,
the boundless, unwavering faith.
You quench the thirst of souls,
O Great Shelter,
the final refuge.
For the weary traveler,
lost across lifetimes,
you offer the shade of your everlasting banyan,
your sublime peace,
a robe of stillness,
in the blazing blue sky.
The world trembles,
you are the soothing balm,
a protective embrace,
surrounded by the gentle breeze of love.
You breathe life into every particle,
the long-thirsty heart,
like the cooing dove,
you are the shower of divine grace.
Truth, non-violence, compassion,
universal love,
always, eternally safe and sound.
You are the very essence of liberation,
the manifestation of the elixir of life,
the sacred message,
and at last, O Supreme Being,
O Infinite One,
you are the final sanctuary,
the only refuge,
the ultimate.
O Adored of the worlds,
the remover of all suffering,
I bow my head in reverence,
surrendering my existence
to your blessed,
nectar-filled feet.
No comments:
Post a Comment