Chapter 3 : Old Age

Summary:

This poem reflects on the inevitability of aging, the fleeting nature of youth, and the profound realization of life's impermanence. It captures a moment of introspection where Gautama (likely referring to Gautama Buddha) grapples with the stark reality of old age, death, and the cycle of life.

 The poem begins by depicting youth as a temporary state, destined to be replaced by old age. It describes the physical and mental decline that comes with aging—bent backs, weakened senses, and the struggle for survival—emphasizing the inevitable deterioration of the body and spirit.

 Gautama reflects on the terrifying and overwhelming nature of old age. He wonders if he, along with his loved ones—his wife Yashodhara and his son Rahul—will also have to face this fate. The realization dawns that all beauty, comfort, and life's pleasures are subject to time's decay and are ultimately temporary.

 The charioteer explains that time is the true master, shaping and dismantling both the gross and subtle forms of existence. Humans are not the ends themselves but merely tools of time, bound by its cycles. Time is portrayed as a force that alternates between creation and destruction, wearing different masks and forms.

 The poem culminates with a recognition of the futility of human desires and attachments. It conveys a deep sense of helplessness in the face of life's suffering. The speaker calls for a return, away from the illusions of youth and pleasure, recognizing them as mere deceptions of the ego. The heart, burdened by grief, longs to transcend these pains and the endless cycle of desire.

 Overall, the poem is a profound meditation on life, aging, death, and the ultimate quest for liberation from worldly attachments and suffering.

 

 

The Poem

One day, 

Siddhartha, 

Ready to enter the forest, 

Set out from the palace, mounted on a golden chariot. 

 The royal road, 

Upon hearing the prince’s arrival, 

Was in a great commotion. 

In balconies and courtyards, young maidens, 

Adorned, 

Were scattering flowers along the path. 

 The air was thick with the fragrant smoke of agarwood. 

In everyone, a powerful eagerness 

To catch a glimpse of the prince. 

 On the royal road, the prince saw— 

Some human form. 

With each step, it halted, 

Leaning on a staff, 

Utterly helpless, breathless, 

Sometimes pausing, sometimes moving forward, 

Slowly, slowly advancing, 

It kept moving on. 

 Amazed and bewildered, 

He asked the charioteer— 

“Gentle one! 

What is this moving thing?” 

 “This too is a human, like us, my lord!” 

Slowly, over time, 

It has been sipping 

The cup of life’s essence. 

Once, it swung in the cradle of childhood. 

In the mist-laden forest paths of youthful curiosity, 

It wandered, awestruck, with a smile. 

 Then, 

In the tumultuous tides of youth, 

Amid the nectar-filled lotus, 

With wings spread wide, 

It swam, deeply immersed, 

Lost in intoxicating dreams. 

 Now, 

In the searing, thorny terrain of old age, 

Distressed, 

Through the rugged, sparse valleys of life, 

In the dappled sunlight of fading hopes, 

Like a weary bird, seeking a nest, 

It wanders, searching. 

 “What is this ‘old age’?”

“Old age?

 Old age! 

It is the autumn—of youth! 

A blazing wildfire of life, 

Dry branches scorched by winds of despair. 

A defeated, tormented acceptance 

Of past dreams, once enchanting and intoxicating. 

On the dry, yellow leaves of youth, 

The merciless feet of time step heavily. 

Crushed and mute, they lie broken, 

Silently weeping. 

Eyes moist with tears, 

In the shadows of life’s twilight, 

Longing, 

Like a dancer’s shadow on the canvas of the past, 

Wanders, filled with sighs of sorrow. 

Searching—where is that 

Mesmerizing, all-encompassing blind surrender of youth? 

When the entire world became 

A vibrant mirror of desires, joys, and ambitions, 

A living, mesmerizing reflection. 

 That pinnacle of youth, 

Of fragrance, rapture, and wild abandon, 

Delicate, intoxicating, full of pride, 

And short-sightedness, 

Found satisfaction 

In the sleepy stretches of accomplishments, 

A restful, trusting yawn. 

 The blue-lotus eyes 

Of youth, 

Waving their deadly redness on the horizon. 

 Old age! 

The shattered splendor of the past, 

Like a broken, tear-soaked wick, 

Flickering on the memory-shrine of former glory. 

Desolate, burnt, wandering, 

Eyes flooded with tears, 

Gazing silently, unblinking, 

At the horizon— 

Pain, 

Seeping with sharp bitterness. 

 In the silent, solitary desert 

Of body, mind, and soul, 

An endless, throbbing ache, 

The slow, piercing melody of sorrow plays on. 

 In the utterly empty sky of the mind, 

It paints colorless 

Pictures of void. 

 Youth!

Ah! Its jubilant celebration! 

The buzzing of kin, friends, and dear ones, 

A constant, melodious hum, 

Endlessly overflowing with the nectar of life. 

Having sipped it, utterly fulfilled, 

They all vanished swiftly, 

Disappeared into nothingness. 

 Life!

Tossed by waves and tides, 

A directionless, unanchored signal of time, 

A disoriented pain, paralyzed, crimson. 

All meanings of life lie faded, 

All beliefs and principles, 

Abandoned, lifeless, futile. 

 Time! 

Weighing on its scales 

The dull emptiness of life. 

Childhood, mistaking mud for sweetmeats, 

Eats it handful after handful. 

 Youth! 

The very touch of whose eyes, 

One tender, loving ray, 

Would make bloom, 

Lotuses in bewildered, astonished forests, 

Bashful and smiling. 

 

Who could turn 

A barren, sandy mind-forest 

Into a lush, green grove, 

Fertile and flourishing. 

That radiant youth, 

Its gaze, soaked in intoxication, 

Filled with arrogance, 

Pure ego. 

 

The proud youth, 

Cheered by Love's army, 

Falls flat to the ground, 

Struck by the hard, cruel lash of old age. 

Its wounded pride, a pitiful state. 

 

In the dark, swirling waves 

Of the poison sea of time, 

The shattered vanity of beauty breaks apart, 

Watching the sky-rubbing tower of youth crumble. 

 

Old Age!

That's what it is called. 

A faded water creature in the stream of time, 

Gazing at its own reflection. 

Searching, in each dry leaf, 

Where has vanished that radiant body, 

That golden, graceful form, 

Once so full of charm. 

 

Youth !

At the zenith of life’s midday, 

A bewitching king of seasons, 

Melting away like the moon 

Shedding tears in the darkening shadows 

Of the evening sky. 

Dew drops, the drops of life, trickle down. 

 

The crumbled palaces of youth, 

In the dim sight of twilight, 

Somewhere far, 

In the dense greenery of memories, 

Smolder softly, 

Burn like stones, aflame. 

 

Old Age! 

It is the powerful, strong signature of time 

Upon youth. 

An intense, brilliant blaze. 

A relentless, incurable blow. 

 

Senility! 

In the valleys of the shriveled, 

Wrinkled skin, 

Where flesh has sagged away from bones, 

The shadow of darkness rises and falls. 

It searches, 

Where lies the dying, distressed youth? 

Once, 

So vibrant, full of nectar and bloom, 

Fragrant and graceful, 

Now, wandering 

In the thorny, fearful wilderness 

Of old age’s blind alleys. 

 

The gentle sunshine 

Of once lively, intoxicating eyes— 

There, it comes to rest. 

 

In the shadows of lowered eyelids, 

Creeping slowly, slowly, 

Old age, 

Advances further there. 

The mind fills with sorrow, 

And the dark ink of weariness, 

In the dry, slack courtyard of the mind— 

After drinking up all the joy and laughter of life, 

Drains away. 

 

The pained feeling of emptiness, 

Seeping through every pore, 

Pierces like a thorn. 

Where every celebration comes to an end, 

Every path disappears into the mist. 

A weary, defeated traveler, 

Gazing at life's entire wealth, 

In broken toys, 

Sighs deeply and lingers on. 

 

That is what they call old age. 

 

"Gentle one! 

Does old age spare no one? 

Does it come to all equally? 

Why, then, these fragrant, dark tresses, 

The intoxicating surroundings of youth, 

Will they too leave me in endless pain? 

Bereft of them, in torment, 

Must I too drink the bitter poison 

Of this incurable old age?" 

 

With a smile, the charioteer replied— 

"O Prince, 

Just as 

The seasons of external nature belong to all— 

Heat, cold, rain, spring, autumn— 

All of them, 

Affect everyone equally. 

The sky stretches alike over all, 

Both palace and hut fall under its shade. 

Likewise, like light and moonshine, 

Old age makes no distinctions. 

It is the bright garment of time, 

Which covers up youth. 

 

When, my lord, 

You witnessed the joy-filled childhood, 

And drank from the intoxicating cup of youthful ecstasy, 

You never asked time, 

Not to take away your childhood, 

Not to let adolescence fade into recklessness. 

And in youth! 

A thousand lotus flowers bloomed in self-admiration, 

Fresh, delightful, fragrant. 

Yet, even then, no one said to time, ‘Stop!’ 

 

Whatever time had, 

It gave freely with open hands, 

And no one resisted. 

So, now, whatever it brings, 

That too must be endured. 

One must welcome it, 

And accept it with grace."

 

This Youth 

Surely, it will fade away. 

Old age— 

A bent back, white hair, dimmed sight, 

Tired, weary, panting, 

Will arrive leaning on a cane. 

Dry skin will crackle, like a nest of straw. 

The strings of life's harp, soaked in pain, 

Will stretch taut. 

The fierce, flaming thirst, 

From hollow eye sockets, 

Through half-shut eyelids, 

Will timidly peek, 

Like a frightened bird. 

Bones and flesh will abandon their bonds. 

The body, bent and searching for a path, 

Will remain a mere skeleton. 

In the stormy gusts of breaking breaths, 

It will sway, like yellow leaves in autumn. 

Yet still, old age— 

Clinging firmly to the edges of a dwindling life, 

Struggles to draw out its time, 

Never abandoning its cravings. 

 

O Lord! 

In youth, there is a carefree abandon, 

It is filled with the pride of self. 

"I shall face whatever comes," it boasts, 

Worrying not for the future. 

But— 

In old age, in the culmination of all gathering, 

All conclusions come to their peak. 

 

This Old Age 

The gateway to death. 

Here, neither life, 

Nor even youth, can escape 

Its inevitable defeat. 

In dismay, Gautama said— 

"Old age is so dreadful, so unbearable. 

Will I also have to endure it? 

Is all pleasure, all beauty, 

Merely a mockery? 

A cruel jest of time? 

Not just me— 

Gopa, Rahul, they too are with me. 

And she— 

The enchanting, graceful Yashodhara, 

Whose fragrant breaths, 

Filled the chambers with intoxicating scents. 

And that newborn, tender bud— 

Whom deep affection keeps kissing. 

They too will arrive at this same end. 

Ah! 

All the blooming, fragrant, wondrous lotuses 

Will wither in the scorch of time. 

 

Sucking away all colors, 

Old age— 

Will step in deeply. 

Ah! The heart trembles. 

Outside the palace, 

All these decrees seem so harsh. 

Gentle one, 

Is there any way at all 

To escape them? 

 

The charioteer said, "O Prince, 

Who are we, or you? 

What are we? 

Merely time. 

Nature— 

A captivating veil of time. 

It creates both the inner and outer forms, 

Manifesting them both. 

Within the span of time, 

Nature weaves the web 

Of gross and subtle consciousness. 

These material things are its gross forms. 

The mind—its feelings and tender inclinations, 

The subtle surroundings. 

Time— 

A masquerader. 

Transforming itself into myriad shapes and colors, 

In universal consciousness, 

It dances on the stage of existence, 

Glimpsing its own reflection. 

Sometimes, it destroys; 

At other times, it creates." 

 

We, the Living— 

Are not the end, 

Merely the means to it. 

Bound by the signals and cycles of time, 

We are under its command. 

The limits of time are insurmountable. 

O Gentle One, 

Why is it that time cannot be transcended? 

O Lord! 

Man, bound in desires, 

Sleeps in the slumber of delusion. 

 

O Gentle One! 

Enough, just enough now. 

The heart is utterly helpless, 

Unable to bear the weight of pain. 

The heart bends under the burden of agony. 

Cursed be this life, 

Cursed be its very foundation. 

Let’s go, let’s go— 

Turn the chariot back. 

This endless suffering is unbearable. 

This— 

Youth, the indulgence in life, 

Is a stinging defeat of the self.