Summary:
The poem “Great renunciation”depicts the profound and
emotional moment of Siddhartha’s great renunciation. It begins with the intense
silence of the night, when all of Kapilavastu is asleep, unaware of the
monumental decision their prince is about to make. The awakened nature and the
moon, personified as a sorrowful, pale maiden, witness Siddhartha's farewell to
his homeland.
The Poem
The
prince,
Silent, troubled, and disheartened,
Stood in his chamber,
Detached from the clamor of the garden festivities,
His body drained, his spirit worn,
Deeply unsettled—
Like a lotus wilting beneath a snowfall,
Its petals slipping away.
His head, bowed under the weight of sorrow,
Even at the stroke of midnight,
The prince lay awake,
Upon his radiant, broad, and noble brow,
A twisted furrow of worry appeared.
His locks, trembling,
As though entangled in a thorny mesh,
Such a sight had never been seen before.
Unknowingly, Siddhartha drew in a breath,
Deep and sharp,
That seemed to tear at his very heart.
Ah! What a wretched life!
No longer do I trust you,
Caught in the deceptive waves of illusion—
Where once,
From the seven-hued rainbow,
Life’s joy arose,
There is no foundation left.
That—
Ultimate truth,
That eternal bliss,
Where is it to be found in this life?
What is this gathering of happiness?
As far as the eye can see,
It is pierced by the sharp thorns of despair,
Torn apart,
From one horizon to the other,
The sky, bruised blue.
The earth cries out,
Arms wide open—
"Hold me," she pleads,
While the heavens respond,
"I too am burdened, weighed down by my own
grief."
The horizon—
Sometimes gathers the earth’s tears,
Sometimes the scorched flowers of the sky.
It too has become a graveyard,
Roaming in the smoke of despair.
Sometimes,
The earth touches the ocean with its hand,
Sometimes the sky is scratched and tormented
By the tidal waves,
The thousand arms of the sea
Flailing, beating its head,
Raising a wild lament.
It drinks the whirling vessels of fate,
Then tosses them away,
Empty, screaming madly.
Ah! This insatiable thirst!
Whom can the mind trust?
All is deception,
In the end, a grand illusion.
I,
Unfulfilled, dissatisfied,
Tormented by the shadows of absence,
Wounded,
Unshackled from the rhythm of time,
Wandering in search of joy,
Yet all I’ve ever found is unfulfilled hope.
This—
Change,
Eternal change.
Life,
With each breath, slipping through.
Upon my wounded soul,
The relentless burden of cruel sorrows weighs heavy.
In the scorching blaze of the raging storm,
Life burns,
Slowly disintegrating,
While the living cling to its veil,
Calling it happiness.
But it is,
The piercing, intricate definition of pain,
Unimaginable.
The mind,
Deceived by the illusion of joy,
Confused,
Crushed by the agony of sorrow.
Where is the
clear,
Precise method
To harmonize these two—
This duality of life?
Sorrow—
This is eternal,
This is constant.
In this dark night,
Life’s pulsating star
Flickers like a firefly.
This—
Is the eternal inner burning,
The endless lament.
The soul, defeated,
Watching,
Offering endless tears in sacrifice.
On which branch of a tree
Shall I hang
This knotted pouch of sorrow?
Which blossoming, flourishing,
Honey-laden orchard,
With its lush green leaves,
Will bow down, full of grace and respect,
And gently brush,
With its tender touch,
This burning forehead
With the fragrant pollen of saffron?
This resolute mind can only say—
On the horizon of my knowledge,
Nurtured by the showers of tears,
A golden dawn is smiling.
One—
An auspicious day,
Like the celestial Ganges descending from heaven,
Is arriving.
In this deep immersion,
I will light the lamp of truth-seeking.
In these groaning, worn,
Scorched souls,
I will pour the essence of new life.
Never again, in the web of words,
Will I mislead the thirsty deer.
What is truth—
I will reveal it with clear, evident proof,
And show a simple path
To attain it.
Today, the guidance was given
By the slender, graceful Gautami,
She, my first guru—
I bow my head in reverence at her feet.
Age does not make a teacher;
It is wisdom that earns respect.
But did even Gautami herself
Truly absorb
What she spoke of?
The signs she offered—
Did she too test them
On the touchstone of her heart,
Did she feel them deeply,
Test the truth with experience,
And find it to be pure?
Or—
Were they mere words she had heard from others?
Light—
It only illuminates the path.
It neither reaches the destination,
Nor reveals the road to take.
This is, simply,
The duty of the traveler.
He must choose his path
And reach his goal.
Thus,
O guide on my path, I bow to you.
You cleared those thorns,
The ones that tormented me day and night.
He looked—
The Lord gazed toward the sky,
Bathed in the soft, milky light of the moon,
Boundless,
The full moon of Ashadha blossomed,
Its glow filling the vast, profound heavens.
Not only the sky,
But the earth too was drenched in moonlight,
The ground shimmering in its curious embrace.
Silently, she watched—
The maiden, the moon,
Witness to the churning thoughts,
Twisting and turning within the prince’s mind,
In his wordless chamber.
Alone, Siddhartha,
Pondered,
His troubled heart wandering through shattered
thoughts.
At times,
He would sit on his bed,
Suddenly startled,
Turning over with every restless movement,
A soul in torment.
At times,
He would rise,
Staring unblinkingly
Through the open window,
His chest heaving with deep, unsettled breaths.
No peace could the fragrant, incense-filled chamber
offer,
For something sharp kept piercing his mind,
Impossible to ignore,
Difficult to forget.
How many waves of anguish rippled through his heart,
How many dark clouds of sorrow gathered,
In the lotus-like eyes,
Burning with the pain of suffering.
Every step that touched the ground,
Felt as though it burned,
Like an offering in a sacred fire.
Who could have known,
That in the depths of this midnight,
A fierce storm was brewing,
One ready to erupt,
Bringing great disaster.
In an instant,
All the neatly arranged objects
Would be destroyed.
This—
Silent night,
Has come with fate itself in its hands,
Hiding within it
A ruthless and unstoppable force.
Slowly,
The prince left his chamber,
And stepped into the quiet hallway of his home.
All the doors were shut,
No sound came from any room,
All were asleep—
Some in deep slumber,
Others half-dreaming,
Unaware of what was about to unfold.
Days passed by,
All alike—
Who knew,
What stirred within the mind?
But—
The heart, like a lotus with a hundred petals,
Who can say which petal will unfurl next?
How restless it is,
So full of turmoil!
Its quicksilver core is ever so unsteady,
Doubtful,
Suspicious of every moment.
Within it, all knowledge, wisdom, and reason
Swirled in endless debate.
It was in such deep contemplation
That the prince found himself
Standing at the door of a closed chamber—
The sealed room
Where Gopa slept.
He too stood, uncertain,
Waiting,
Restless in anticipation of the unknown.
Silent, wordless,
The lonely night
Pressed upon him,
A soft touch,
Like the heavy breaths
That stirred the stillness.
There he stood—
The prince,
At the threshold between past and future,
His mind wandering
Through a labyrinth of thought.
His face glowed in quiet radiance,
His eyes, lotus-like, deep crimson at the roots,
Filled with burning questions,
Half-awake,
Restless.
Far away,
The shadow of a fast-approaching storm
Hovered over his eyelids,
And his golden, delicate form trembled.
Through the crack in the door,
The anxious,
Milk-white moonlight
Peered in.
It mirrored the heaviness of the closed doors,
Marking the unease of the world outside.
The fragrant breeze,
Thick with the nectar of youth,
Unable to bear
The natural intoxication of the moment,
Tugged at the fine garment
Resting on his chest.
The chamber, thick with the scent of incense,
Was filled with a restless fragrance,
Searching—
Pouring out of the window
Into the night.
Slowly, Gautama opened
The half-shut door.
There she lay,
Upon her bed,
Pure as a river,
Her youthful beauty serene,
Blossoming like tender petals.
Silver moonlight
Bathed all,
In its soft embrace.
His eyes fell
Upon the bed—
Her dark, silken tresses,
Rivaling the blackest bees,
Fell gently over her brow.
Her half-covered moon-like face,
Blossomed like a thousand-petaled lotus,
A flower, smooth and perfectly bloomed.
She—
Her delicate form wrapped in
The golden web of lotus filaments,
Clothed in saffron and pollen,
Radiant with the essence of life.
From head to toe,
She was softness itself,
A tender, graceful vine,
Bending a hundred times over with beauty.
In deep, untroubled sleep,
The young woman lay,
Her newborn child
Cradled against her breast.
The bed was adorned with white flowers,
Like a pure, white water lily—
As though from the heavens
The sacred Ganges had descended
To rest upon the earth.
There she lay,
Like Lakshmi,
Serene upon a lotus in full bloom,
Floating on the gentle waters,
Lost in the sweetness of dreams.
Her tender, red lotus-like feet,
A hundred-petaled blossoms themselves,
Trembled in their softness.
So radiant was their beauty
That even the scarlet lotuses blushed,
For they were ever adorned
With eternal grace.
Beams of light streamed in through the window,
Dancing off emeralds, sapphires, and rubies,
Breaking into a rainbow of colors,
Touching her beauty,
Shivering in awe.
The moonlight, proud of her own beauty,
Held a full bouquet of flowers,
Yet, gazing at this matchless form—
Fell silent, heavy-hearted.
As the waves of the milky ocean,
Upon which she lay,
Looked upon her matchless beauty,
Her enchanting, serene, and magnetic form—
It was as if an entire lotus garden
Bowed in admiration,
Or a field of ketaki flowers,
Swaying in the intoxication of their fragrance.
This—
The festival of love and beauty,
A celebration of spring’s intoxicating bloom.
The god of love, adorned with a crown of Madhuka
flowers,
Fearless, confident, and ready,
Roamed freely, his quiver full.
The air was thick with the intoxicating scent of
spring,
And the treasures of its fragrant abundance
Were freely shared.
But she—
Unaware of the storm brewing within him,
Slept in the deep peace of one
Lost in untroubled dreams.
For a moment,
He stood still,
Enraptured,
As if spellbound—
Like a moon-struck chakora bird,
Gazing at the moon.
And yet,
In this hidden stillness,
The prince knew nothing of his own heart.
Torn between love and detachment,
He stood, shaken,
Wounded by the storm that stirred within.
His gaze swept across the room,
Everywhere lay scattered, the hues of love,
The vibrant colors of youth’s newly bloomed stars.
Here, a gleam of radiance,
There, the glow of an intoxicating haven,
The weight of youth bowed down
The blossoming, fragrant vine—
A celestial nymph from the dream world.
The floor, covered in flower garlands,
Fragrant with soft, exhaled breaths,
Her tender body, delicate as a flower,
Drenched in the nectar of beauty—
Like a gentle rain of moonlight
Spilling its sweet ambrosia.
Joyful, blissful, newly adorned,
Her form, as tender as fresh butter,
Like a stream flowing in the bright sky.
Dreamy, languid, she rested in slumber,
Her lips, like coral petals, trembling softly,
Filled with the juice of love’s blossoming smile.
Her lips kissed by the nectar
Of a lotus-like flute, trembling in rhythm.
A bangle tinkled softly on someone’s delicate hand,
A veena lay abandoned,
Its strings, bent under the weight of its delicate
burden,
Too frail, too weak, to bear the weight of its own
beauty.
A jeweled belt, adorned with golden threads and
flowers,
Lay carelessly—
Around a waist, or on a knee,
Or scattered on the ground like the river Sipra.
Her loose, flowing black hair,
Soft as silk, half-covered her moon-like face—
A serene embodiment of nectar,
Sprawled upon the earth, aching with longing.
Jasmine garlands, swayed upon her open chest.
This—
Was not Gopa’s chamber.
It was a lotus-filled pond in full bloom.
The bed, bathed in moonlight,
Filled the entire room with its glow.
One moon—surrounded by so many lotuses,
The enraptured water lilies,
Drank in the beauty of her radiant splendor.
For a moment, the prince stood still,
Then his eyes turned once more to Yashodhara.
Her beauty, like a pillar of light,
Pure, unblemished, serene—
A moon untouched by the stain of night.
Her tender face, a soft intoxication—
Beckoned him,
Towards her allure.
The bed itself seemed to challenge him,
Daring him to resist
The ocean of seductive nectar that surged within.
Her fragrant sighs rose gently,
Offering, with urgency,
The gifts of form, fragrance, and taste,
An invitation,
Full of longing, full of life.
Life—
Not renunciation,
But the blossoming of new hopes,
Not desolation,
But a surge of intoxicating allure,
Spilling over from her dark, languid eyes.
There—
Dawn flirts,
Carrying the colors of playful gulal in the air,
Offering nothing but love,
An unending invitation to surrender.
Life—
Is not defeat,
But the tender embrace of desires.
Before him stands—
A living, breathing, complete embodiment of life
itself.
An exchange of beauty, fragrance, joy,
A seductive, intoxicating sharing of delight.
Dreaming upon her bed,
Drenched in the nectar of youth,
The thousand-petaled lotus of her being,
Languid, smiling,
Her youth—
Blossomed, alive, and tenderly intoxicating.
The mind,
Like an eternally captivated, restless bee,
Easily swayed, flutters on,
Drawn to the blossoming lotus grove,
Kissed by the southern breeze, fragrant and new.
To leave this,
To abandon it and walk away—
The helpless mind gazes,
At this indomitable splendor,
Its own lowly defeat.
Human life—
A masterpiece of skill and art,
The ultimate, well-arranged, and exquisite gift of
nature,
Full of joy, wholeheartedly offered.
Perhaps—
This is life!
Granted only once.
What is this breath, this combination of life?
Each time,
It climbs countless steps,
And arrives at this boundary—
What lies beyond, who knows?
Who has seen it?
They speak of past lives,
Of rebirth—
But who has witnessed both firsthand?
Who truly understands the secret of existence?
It’s only—
An unfounded consolation
For the rewards and sufferings of one’s deeds.
Therefore, what lies before you—
Live it fully,
And accept it as the purpose of this life.
Perhaps—
This unparalleled joy
Failed to bind the formless, unshackled soul.
And so,
It donned the body, woven and sprouted
From the five elements,
In a vessel of nectar,
Drawing the breath of life,
Embracing the material form.
The pull of this vast intoxication—
The ultimate downpour of life’s sweetness.
The soul,
Drunk with its spellbinding lure,
Closes its eyes,
And drinks deep from the nectar of life.
Gautama!
Be alert—
Abandon this clinging of the mind.
Do not resist it.
This life,
Is the first and the last.
There is nothing—
Here or elsewhere—
Nothing to be found, anywhere, ever.
Only fools,
Step from the known into the unknown,
Binding themselves to the blinding mirage—
The blazing flames,
Finding themselves trapped, struggling.
To walk into some blind fog,
Is merely,
A collision with confusion,
A crash into the void.
Do not fall—
Into this daydream.
All the capable ones live, in this very life.
But what you’ve seen in these days past—
Every breath filled with the sting of thorns.
This,
In youth's golden cup,
Brimming with its relentless, intoxicating rush,
Is the parched songbird—
Burning, dissolving in a clear sky,
A mere drop of the elusive Swati rain.
Each passing moment, each fleeting breath,
Ultimately fades into fragile impermanence,
For in this world of shifting forms,
There is no nurturing nectar of eternity.
The other day, you witnessed it—
A body, once proud and erect,
Bent with time,
A crown of youth
Now encircled by countless thorns of age.
Like a serpent entwined,
It sucked the sweet essence from within,
Leaving the body as mere bone and ash,
Hanging,
In the limited shelter of time.
Oh, how brief—
How ephemeral this masquerade of youth and its grand
illusions.
Even knowing this,
Life still submits,
Bound helplessly to fate,
And yet, it suffers,
With the weight of destiny unbroken.
You too,
Do not tread the path
That others have followed for so long.
Break the shackles of fate
With one swift strike.
Do not wait for hope from others,
Do not place your trust in anyone.
Though the path is treacherous,
Filled with thorns and peril,
Be fearless—
Advance alone, unshaken.
This,
O Lord,
Fate,
Time,
Destiny—
Are but the constructs of weak minds,
Mere reflections of thought,
Temporary shelters of the mind.
But still,
The heart trembles,
And the mind pauses—
For this life,
Its crown of beauty and youth,
Is no less.
An infallible spell,
Overflowing with the endless nectar of desire,
The pinnacle of youth’s blissful ecstasy.
Who has ever understood
The true secret beyond?
For life itself
Is the unattainable truth,
The highest of all dharmas.
All pursuits of the afterlife,
Are but the anxious cravings
Of a troubled, suffering soul.
Nature’s mystery—
Is but an illusion.
Man—
An invisible serpent, lured by the sweetness of nectar.
Drink deep.
This intoxicating, frenzied, surging ocean of desire.
This—
The chalice of youth’s nectar,
Pouring endlessly,
Life and death—
Inescapable.
A fleeting transaction,
A fragrant sigh from nature,
Whispering in delight.
Drink deep, immerse yourself.
Yet, in this burning thirst,
Amidst this insatiable craving,
There lies
An endless, blind satisfaction.
Life—
A stream flowing restlessly,
Endlessly,
Like the night and day.
The soul, like a parched bird,
Yearns deeply, desperately thirsting.
Each wave, another unquenched desire.
The waves rush forward,
Their thirsty lips kissing
The whirlpool's edge.
And as they gaze into the empty cup,
They cry,
Repeating the chant of thirst,
Beating their heads against the shore.
A mesmerizing mirage of hope.
Siddhartha!
Do not dismiss this.
This shimmering net of golden rays
Spread across the lotus petals,
A celestial rainbow’s veil.
Close your eyes,
Hide your head beneath it.
For this flood of joy in the heart,
Is not some groundless, false illusion.
If truth be everlasting and complete,
Then this too is no failure.
The river of life flows, filled to the brim,
Its essence is vibrant in every particle.
Each fleeting moment of this impermanence,
Each changing joy,
Is a fierce, enchanting, irresistible force.
In reverence to this pull,
Even immortality folds its hands.
For this nectar,
For this intoxicating celebration,
Even the immortal descend,
Hungry, disguised,
Drawn to this intoxicating brew.
Even as they drink deeply from the cup of eternity,
They fall, still yearning for this potion.
Bored of the monotony of eternal life,
They plunge headlong into it,
Drowning, thirsting in its intoxicating flood.
This youth—
This ecstasy, this charm,
Is the ultimate truth of life.
In it,
Flows an intoxicating shower of ambrosial nectar.
In this silver moonlight,
The soul, like a thirsting bird,
Soars freely, without fear.
Soaking,
Drenched in body and soul.
This endless, unceasing downpour—
Of rain and elixir.
Each moment, every fleeting second,
Embrace it.
In your eager, impatient arms,
Open wide,
Catch this undulating nectar of life.
Calm yourself,
For within your soul burns
An unbearable fire,
A relentless thirst that torments you.
The prince, once more, gazed at his beloved,
Her beauty like molten gold,
A sea of graceful waves,
Lapping against the shore.
An irresistible tide of charm,
With no boundary, no end in sight.
Passion and detachment,
Entwined,
Were dissolving away.
There lay Gopa, radiant as gold,
Frail, her body now pale and weak,
Like the falling golden lotuses,
Floating on the stream’s surface,
Each petal drifting away.
In her closed, lotus-like eyes,
Dreams were weaving an embrace,
And before him,
Those dreams lay asleep,
Silent,
The unmistakable signatures
Of countless sweet nights,
Making it near impossible to break away,
To shatter the bonds in one swift stroke.
The heart was heavy,
Torn by helplessness,
Wounded by emotion.
He remembered,
The union with his beloved,
The royal garden adorned with golden ornaments,
That mesmerizing moment—
So full, so rich,
Overwhelmed with emotion.
An enchanted, captivated mind.
At that moment,
Suddenly, speechless,
The prince beheld
The beauty of the nectar—
A divine river of grace,
Flowing freely in pure joy.
Radiant, pure, still,
Overflowing,
With a fragrant blend of new delights.
Her coral-red lips,
Framed by pearl-like rows of pomegranate seeds,
Glimmered with a luminous smile,
Showering a rain of night jasmine,
A fragrant, white garland,
Strewn in offering.
Time, like a vast, surging wave,
Left the prince
Mesmerized, bewildered.
His mind,
Like a bee lost amidst blossoms,
Stood still, stunned—
Unable to grasp what lay ahead,
Or what was behind.
The entire universe,
Boundless and wide,
Merged into that moment.
In a deep, unbroken stillness,
There was no difference
Between what was lifeless,
And what was alive.
The rising tide of sorrow,
Became one
With the endless ocean of being.
The intoxicating vitality of unity
Filled the air,
A blossoming world-lotus,
Overflowing with a singular essence.
That unbroken immersion,
What they call the meeting of souls,
Was nothing but
The silent dialogue of the heart,
An unspoken exchange—
Only the boundary of breath,
The pulse of throbbing beats,
Measuring the boundlessness of being.
The subtle, wave-like
Sensitivity of the mind,
Remained alert, illuminated,
As words, long abandoned their humble forms.
The soft, sweet hum of the soul’s lute,
The ceaseless downpour of blissful rain.
The resonance of that day,
Still echoes.
And now,
This living, manifest reality,
Born of all power,
This irresistible charm—
Striking to the very core.
This form, unparalleled in its beauty.
The heart, overwhelmed,
Shattered into pieces by pain.
That royal garden,
Where the innocent swan of Devadaha
Flew in, carried on waves of joy.
Like a shining white stem of marble,
Spreading wide,
With folded palms,
Her disheveled hair flowing
Like serpents hissing in the breeze.
Her blue eyes,
Reflecting the shimmering waters of the horizon,
Scattered colors like dawn,
Descending joyfully.
In the gleam of her unwavering gaze,
Lightning flickered,
Dancing restlessly,
Like a meteor spinning in the sky,
Only to vanish
Into the depths of an inner flame.
Today,
To leave her
Without a word,
Without any reassurance,
To go in silence—
How could it ever be righteous?
At that moment,
The prince realized—
This blossoming lotus of love,
To abandon it,
Would be an unforgivable, cruel mistake.
Dreams, resting upon her delicate form,
Would shatter suddenly
Into countless sharp thorns,
Stinging and piercing
Her gentle heart.
She, wounded,
Like a dove struck at midnight,
Would cry out in agony.
Her cries would reverberate
Through empty space,
Striking against the desolate walls,
Breaking like lightning
Upon her solitary heart.
This lotus,
The lotus of the mind,
A tangled web of scattered emotions,
Had enmeshed, with complexity,
Siddhartha’s trembling, tender feet.
And helpless,
Grieved, distressed, bewildered,
He gazed upon her moon-like face,
Tears filling his eyes,
The prince, Siddhartha,
Turned toward her, overwhelmed with sorrow.
She—
Her tender body adorned with saffron and vermillion,
So delicate,
Quivering like the petals of a lotus bud
In the fierce winds.
This blossoming green vine,
Bent under the weight of its flowers,
Uprooted, torn apart,
Will fall to the ground, scattered.
With her head resting on a strong chest,
Assured, without fear or doubt—
Where could she go, once separated?
The vast world,
The unsupported mind,
Life—a burning forest of sand.
Like the dry, yellow leaves of autumn,
Buffeted by the harsh winds,
Tossed and torn,
She will become battered and broken.
Like a fish without water,
So helpless,
She will writhe and die.
His gaze fell upon Rahul—
Clinging to his mother in sleep,
This seven-day-old newborn,
So innocent, so utterly captivating.
What could he know?
Of time—
Of life—
That with his first breath,
It had already become so ruthless.
What has he lost?
This number seven,
So steadfast, so certain.
At my birth, I too,
Took seven steps upon the earth.
And my mother, Mahamaya,
Left me after seven days,
Abandoning her life.
Today, once again, this number seven,
Returns, bearing with it
A new awakening, a new dawn.
How many times more will it come,
Bringing who knows what gifts?
Standing here,
Will I remain rooted,
Frozen in place?
In this deep attachment,
Where the world is immersed—
Shall I too,
Remain entangled in this dilemma?
This attachment! This intense attachment!
To wife and child,
This painful separation—
Yet, beyond this dark obscurity,
I must transcend.
He gazed at the bed, unblinking, unmoving—
The radiant, rosy glow
Of his beloved, still in the grip of sleep,
Her beauty undiminished.
Her deep, dark eyes, slightly restless,
Held within them a struggle—
Subtle waves of emotion rising and falling,
Forming and dissolving,
Caught in an internal battle.
The surge of youth—
Each limb vibrant with energy,
Her heart stirred by the churn of thoughts.
In front of him,
The intoxicating allure of her seductive beauty,
Fragrant and inviting.
There he stood, unshaken,
Within his heart's forest,
Unfazed, bold smiles mingled with desire—
Cupid, preparing his aim.
He—
Armed with his piercing arrows,
That Smara—
Who, though dead,
Never truly dies.
When had his heart ever become
As firm and unyielding as stone?
He, too,
Never remained resolute, unwavering,
In his own determinations.
Defeated,
Not by desire—
But by that very moment,
He became Shiva,
The fearless destroyer,
The conqueror of Manmatha.
He could not bear it—
The anguished weeping of Rati,
Her heart-wrenching cries.
Even the great giver,
The benevolent one,
Moved without reason,
Melted like water,
Swayed by compassion.
The silent dialogue between Shiva and Rati,
Their mutual exchange,
Had determined one thing—
Desire's ultimate triumph,
Undisputed.
Rati's lament,
That deep, searing pain—
It was,
A premonition,
An invitation,
A fated proposal for love.
And there stood Siddhartha, silent.
Though he had known what lay ahead,
Fate, in its cruel design,
Had made it infinitely harder.
For a sensitive, emotional heart,
To abandon this world,
Was no simple feat.
Youth—
And desire—
They too have their own endurance,
Their own permanence.
Born from eternity,
They too possess an existence.
Yes—
They are fleeting,
Mortal,
Ever-changing.
But the eternal—
The indestructible,
The everlasting truth—
It remains.
And yet,
This form of nature,
This ever-changing, alluring manifestation,
Though within its limits,
Is still vibrant,
Living,
Unquestionably powerful,
Undeniably eternal.
It could not be simply erased or dissolved.
Watching,
The inner conflict within the prince,
His indecision and turmoil,
Torn between desires,
As Smara’s lethal, venomous smile
Danced upon his lips,
Toying with Siddhartha.
Whether Gopa or Gautama,
They are but instruments.
It is I who binds them all,
I, Smara,
Who weaves the fabric of all pleasures and joys.
This invincible dwelling—
Whoever has dared to challenge it,
Has burned in the flames of Dipankara.
Why do you stand there, so despondent?
You cannot sever this bond.
No matter how hard you try,
No matter the resistance,
No obstacle of restraint
Can ever halt my boundless speed.
I hold within me,
The roots of all desire,
All the twists and turns of the heart.
Even without form,
I am always present—
Always there.
In just a moment—
Gautama's dim, pained face
Was illuminated by the flame of his resolve.
And in that flood of radiant light,
Suddenly, a thousand tongues of fire
Burst into flames,
Lashing out in every direction.
Gautama saw—
The eternal youth,
The ceaseless, insatiable, thirsting and unfulfilled,
A lover,
Nature’s countless deformations.
The blooming petals of the lotus,
Drunk on the beauty
Of that pool of pleasure,
Burned—one by one.
Their delicate silken robes,
Multicolored garments,
All turned to ash.
Fleshless, skinless,
Those maidens, in the bloom of youth,
Overflowing with the intoxicating nectar
Of golden cups,
Suddenly vanished.
Only the grotesque ruin of skeletal remains
Was left scattered there.
Where did their ornaments,
Their adornments disappear,
In an instant?
Those burned, disfigured skeletons—
Beating their heads in agony,
Crying out in tortured, pitiful wails.
This is it.
This is the fleeting nature of life—
A mirage,
A wandering in darkness,
A suffering,
Endless torment.
And on the eternal,
Indestructible,
Self-revealing truth,
The venomous downpour
Of time’s ultimate destroyer,
Mahakala.
Why?
Why, knowing this truth,
Does the soul not accept it?
Adornments—
Love’s inflamed passion—
All burned away.
This is the truth,
The supreme truth,
The unchanging,
Final,
Ultimate end.
Life—
A desperate,
Thirsty,
Chase after illusion.
Never finding relief.
Not even for a moment.
Alas, life!
Alas, its remedies!
This is the cursed ruin of falsehood.
The very foundation stone of this existence
Is a lie.
The soul—
Always wandering,
Blind and agitated,
Yet forever empty,
Forever unfulfilled.
It never received anything.
This—
This illusion,
This deadly, fleeting,
Beautiful palace of deception.
Look, Gautama!
Look—
The terrifying reality of truth.
All the enchanting forms,
Now turned to ashes,
Scattering in the wind.
Only the endless lament of suffering remains—
The cries of despair.
The balance of all joy—
Weighed by only one thing:
Suffering.
It is suffering
That is the eternal truth—
The true pulse of consciousness.
Life!
In the feverish hope for happiness,
It crumbles,
Breaks,
Shatters,
Burns,
Melts,
And disappears
Into that same suffering.
The silent prince beheld
This transformation of form—
Yet,
A thorn-like doubt
Still pierced his heart.
Where is the clear, defined boundary
Between what is right and what is wrong?
What other option remains
For this gentle wife,
This mother, who just gave birth?
Where lies the axle
Of her life’s chariot now?
Did they ever
Have even a hint of fault
In any of this?
One, a wife abandoned—
The other, a newborn child
Who has barely opened his eyes to life—
Both will be left without shelter,
Deprived of the love they so naturally deserve.
Is this the end
Of their story?
Is this the final verdict
Of a young bride’s marriage?
Marriage—
It was never a game of the heart.
Nor did love and renunciation
Ever go hand in hand.
When the dreams of a detached mind
Were never cursed with such visions,
Why did he wander
Among these vibrant clouds of attachment?
Why—
Why were his mind and soul
So restless for their sake?
What is the ultimate answer
To these incomplete questions?
Where lies the solution
To these burning dilemmas?
Could this also be
An escape from life itself?
While I stand rooted in sorrow,
I still long for eternal bliss—
Could it be?
That I,
In this burning, cloudless blue sky,
Am merely a wandering, empty cloud—
In life’s scorching desert,
A dry twig waiting to burn?
But—
These doubts,
These questions—
They are the venomous bites
Of delusion.
No,
Siddhartha, no.
Do not waver.
You—
Are beyond love and renunciation.
The future’s sorrowful cries
Hold no power over you.
I am lit
With the light of my own soul.
No enchanting creation of nature
Can ever be withheld from me.
The anguished cries
Of the suffering world,
Echoing through the flute of life—
A single note resounds
In the vast sky of my mind.
Move forward.
Do not linger here another moment.
For your beloved Gopa and Rahul—
They are not just individuals;
They are reflections
Of the entire universe,
Descending into your heart.
In every particle
Of universal consciousness—
In all living and non-living beings—
There is only suffering,
Endless suffering.
**Birth—**
Arrives bound in the knot of death,
Youth, filled with pride and intoxication,
Struts about.
Yet at the mere sight of old age,
It trembles to its core,
Startled, afraid.
And old age!
With its wrinkles of suffering,
Wearing the white garments of death,
Bowes its head, tied to fate,
Helplessly moving forward.
Even this body of mine,
Perfumed with saffron,
Adorned in golden beauty—
Will forsake its youth,
And be thrown onto the thorny bed of age,
Where it will writhe, weep.
Slowly,
The dark shadow of death will fall upon it.
This body,
That even the surging tides of beauty
Once bowed before,
That even the bright full moon of Ashadha
Grew pale in its presence—
It too will walk silently, helplessly
On this journey.
Not a trace of charm, grace, or loveliness
Will remain.
Death, with its unwavering, unstoppable stride,
Will reign victorious over all.
Ultimately,
Where lies the root
Of this infinite, eternal joy of the earth?
What is this endlessly piercing,
Heart-wrenching thorn
That stabs at the core
Of this nectar-filled, blossoming lotus of life?
Its removal—
That is the task.
My restless mind asked,
What higher divinity
Presides over humanity?
Even the gods—
Immortal sons—
Could not find this release,
This liberation.
And you,
As a mere human,
How will you ever be established
In immortality?
This—
This world,
With all its pleasures, indulgences,
And enchanting delights,
Which come effortlessly, without effort—
Can you ever truly renounce them?
The soft, tender body of this great man,
Once like fresh butter,
Has become as hard
As the marble of a firm rock.
The era of change,
The invitation to the golden dawn,
Has arrived.
His eyes,
Clear and bright as lotus petals,
Look deep,
Into the windless, serene ocean of blue,
Where the flame of wisdom burns
With a brilliant, profound glow.
The waves of his mind
Are stilled.
His sky-like mind,
Vast, clear, and deep,
Speaks from the depths—
This is what they call divinity:
It is merely the pause
Of rigorous discipline and restraint.
It is
The stillness
Of desires and emotions,
The true meaning
Of tranquility.
**The Gods—**
As soon as they rise above humanity,
They loosen the reins of restraint,
Letting them unravel.
Repressed desires reawaken,
Once again stirring,
Breathing freely.
Divinity,
Swollen with ego,
Grows reckless with all its powers
And divine attainments.
Ultimately,
Even this godhood,
At its peak,
Becomes the beginning of a fall.
The gods,
Though mighty,
Are bound by their desires,
Deceiving themselves.
History reveals
The evident downfall
Of Indra, the king of gods,
And Chandra, the moon.
Man,
Always stood higher than the gods—
For he is not complete,
Not fully realized.
He is ever striving,
Always reaching for completion.
Engaged in the deep meditation of his mind,
He cuts through the intricate web of instincts.
He is incomplete—
Never reaching totality.
His penance is unceasing, eternal.
There is no pause, no rest.
His movement is tireless,
Ever upward.
He fights his inner battles,
Engaged in constant struggle.
Burning in the flame of his resolve,
He remains pure, unblemished.
His journey is relentless,
Always ascending.
He,
With his quest for experience,
Forges untouched,
Unexplored paths.
The essence of penance
Lies in desireless action—
Or perhaps completion,
The eternal cessation,
Of all effort and inaction.
Yet every achievement,
Brings forth the energy of selfhood,
Establishing itself anew.
In the end, this drives man
To collapse,
To fall from grace.
Do not stop,
Do not pause,
Siddhartha.
You must remain a man,
Not a god.
Immersed in the world’s joys and sorrows,
You must churn the nectar
And attain nirvana.
Remain detached,
Do not waver.
Just as the solitary sun,
Consumes the poison of darkness,
And offers the world of action,
The brilliant light of dawn.
As the blue sky’s horizon,
Bears the gathering of dark,
Compassionate clouds—
So,
Two large tears,
Glistening like pearls,
Appear in your trembling,
Compassionate eyes.
In those deep, calm
And peaceful dreams,
Where the moon’s face shone—
The bow of love’s mystery,
An unerring, unfathomable,
And rare flower,
Was drawn.
It showered,
On all—
The churn of passion and detachment,
Aimed to resolve the inner conflict,
That stirred within.
Shivering lips,
Writhing with pain,
Bore the weight of countless aches.
Before your eyes,
Suddenly,
Images of the past, vivid and speaking,
Scattered and fell.
He gazed,
Once, unblinking.
The surge of emotions,
Flooded with tears.
Those two drops—
Oceans of compassion.
Like a sacred sprinkling of blessings,
They fell,
To cool,
To soothe.
They became—
The final farewell.
Past life, present, and rebirth,
Memories of ages intertwined,
Marked by a grand pause.
The bonds of past lives broke,
And those being formed
Remained untouched.
The prince stood silent,
Like an unmoving stone,
With a stubborn heart.
These unbreakable ties,
No cure for them,
No ritual can mend them.
Surging,
The unstoppable flood
Of paternal love,
Boiled and swelled with force.
Why not—
Before the parting—
Just once,
For the last time,
Hold Rahul to his heart,
And love him with all his soul?
But,
As his eager arms reached out,
Longing to embrace,
Both hands stopped
Outside the door.
His feet, at the threshold,
Did not move forward.
The knot of affection,
A profound gift,
Called him, silently,
A hundred times over.
With the proof of their union,
And the powerful storm of youth,
That tender vine of beauty—
How many autumn nights passed,
Filled with her silent, unspoken pleas?
And yet, upon them all,
Was this undeniable, unbroken, unshakable seal.
How could the mind
Abandon them now?
Not just Gopa, but Rahul too,
Were the ties—
Deep and profound.
For a moment,
Siddhartha stood like wood—
Motionless,
Silent.
The storm of emotions,
Swirled like a turbulent sea,
Churning within.
One question, burning bright,
Unceasing:
Is this all life is?
Mother, father, wife, son—
Is this the entirety of life?
Can humanity’s reasoning and ascent
Be confined to this?
Life—
Beasts, birds, creatures of the air, water, and forest—
All live without purpose,
They have lived,
They live,
And they will continue living.
That,
Is not my path.
The road they tread—
Without reason, without thought,
Blindly following,
Without questioning themselves
Or others.
What is it?
Who are they?
This machine-like existence,
Driven by the reins of others,
Without seeking truth,
Blindly moving forward, endlessly.
I, too, shall not walk that path,
For it is not my chosen way.
With a deep breath,
He shut the door halfway,
With both hands—
His steps firm, grave, unwavering,
Steadfast, resolute,
Lit by an unyielding, extraordinary,
Otherworldly glow.
That radiant face,
Illuminated with light,
Was fully turned towards his path.
Not just warriors,
March into battlefields.
Bloodshed, life’s collisions,
Can never truly measure
The essence of life’s truths.
This was a rare and unparalleled warrior,
Not one who chased fleeting achievements.
The world,
Born and perished countless times,
Only ever left a trace of dust.
To grasp it in hand—
He never entertained the thought.
Like Nachiketa,
Who had once questioned Yama,
What good is this transient,
Immeasurable wealth?
Today,
Those same questions,
Returned, echoed again:
What is the eternal truth?
Where is the stillness amidst life’s waves?
Where does cessation lie,
And where is the everlasting state?
In the luminous heart
Of that great man,
The essence of truth, goodness, and beauty,
In divine peace,
Manifested like Lord Shiva,
With the third eye opening—
For the welfare of the world,
Blazing fiercely,
In the fiery incandescence
Of desires, attachments, and unions,
A great conflagration burned.
All enchantments and attractions
Were scorched to ashes,
The garden of desires reduced to dust.
Gripping the reins of the mind,
Mounted upon the steed of resolve,
He crushed and ground
All flourishing desires,
And strode forth.
He,
The seeker of bliss,
Determined in his quest—
To uproot the very essence
Of all suffering.
Emerging from the palace,
In a soft, calm voice, he asked:
Is anyone there?
At the entrance,
Laying his head upon the threshold,
Stood Chhandak,
Astonished,
"My lord,
It is I, Chhandak, your charioteer."
The prince spoke:
"I shall embark on the Great Renunciation.
Ready the horse."
Chhandak went to obey the command.
In that brief moment,
The prince pondered—
Just once,
For the final time,
Before I leave,
Let me see
My beloved,
My son Rahul.
This, my last act of love,
Demands a toll—
This house,
This world of past pleasures.
A storm,
An inner conflict,
Raged within his heart,
Trembling with emotion.
Though he wished,
He could not yet turn back.
Before him stood Chhandak,
With the horse prepared.
Stepping out from the palace,
From sky to earth,
The moonlight was pure, endless, and unstained,
Like a silent, shining cup held by the full moon—
Eternally unsated,
Ever-thirsting
For the nectar of immortality.
This nectar—
It must be found.
Even Nature
Was clad in the pure attire of serenity.
Nectar! Nectar! Nectar!
The heavens echoed,
Earth, sky, water, all directions—
One resounding cry:
Where is that hidden truth,
The eternal, the deathless?
In front of him,
One last time, adorned in splendor,
The white steed Kanthaka awaited
His master.
Siddhartha,
Prince of Kapilavastu,
Looked upon Kanthaka.
But even animals sense
The approach of destiny,
Or perhaps,
There is one shared sensitivity
Across all souls.
The steed—
Did not stir,
Did not neigh,
Nor stamp its hooves.
Silent,
He grasped his master's resolve,
Wordlessly comprehending
The imminent departure.
No sound proclaimed it,
But bound by fate,
Silent grief swept through all.
Without voice,
Without a word spoken,
An exchange passed between them,
A question,
And its unspoken answer.
The Lord took a step,
Mounted Kanthaka.
The earth's heart trembled,
Forests, groves fell silent,
The entire atmosphere stilled in pain.
Not a single leaf stirred.
The sky’s dark, misty eyes seemed to weep,
And the heavens, holding their breath,
Gazed down in sorrow.
The horse advanced.
At the Lord's signal,
He left
The palace grounds behind.
Every window, blocked or open,
Every terrace, balcony, lattice, and door,
Marked by the imprints of childhood and youth,
Now covered, shrouded in veils.
This chapter,
Once open,
Has now been sealed with a full stop.
The grand gates of the palace,
Wide and unguarded,
Lay bare.
The sentries, gatekeepers, and doormen,
Lay deep in slumber,
Unaware,
In the middle of that still midnight.
Only
The dense, solitary forest,
Silent witnesses along the path,
Stood as mute sentinels.
None could speak,
For within each heart,
A storm churned,
A whirlwind swirling,
A tempest so deep.
In the sands of the heart’s meditation,
The lines of infinite memories—
Were they being etched?
Were these marks indelible,
Or mere ripples upon the canvas of time,
Like drops of dew scattered and ephemeral?
The imprints of joy,
Carved deep,
Now stirred and tormented,
Stricken by a storm of pain.
Even the steed Kanthaka,
Though a beast, understood,
This separation from his master was deadly.
He too was bound,
By the chains of fate,
Helpless under the lash of destiny.
Silent too was the charioteer, Chhandak,
Binding a storm within his chest,
Knowing well,
This sorrow,
Was boundless and relentless.
The Lord was mounted,
Firmly committed,
To His resolve.
On either side of the royal road,
The trees stood in line,
Each hoofbeat on the steed
Sent shivers down their roots,
Causing dewdrops to fall,
Like tears, unbidden.
Even Nature,
Covered in mist,
Shuddered and trembled.
The mysteries she had concealed
Under an enchanting veil,
The treasure chest in which
She had nurtured the serpent of desires,
Playing the mesmerizing tune
Of its hypnotic flute for ages—
Who was this ascetic,
Facing her,
With the flute of truth?
Ready to subdue all desires,
Poised to quell the storm of the mind.
Who was this,
Ready to challenge the guardian of the nectar,
To crush mortality and transience
Beneath his feet,
To silence their cry forever,
And declare the eternal and everlasting
Victory of life?
Who was this,
Whose blazing thunderbolt
Would strike the turbulent sea of desires?
In whose consciousness
Would burn the most radiant light of the soul?
At whose command center
Would the unshaken, unwavering flame of wisdom
Shine eternally,
Steady and bright?
Who was this,
Marching forward,
Bearing the lamp of the soul,
Conquering all desires,
Overcoming every obstacle,
With nothing able to stop him?
The moment the Lord left Kapilavastu,
He bowed for the last time and moved on.
The entire city lay deep in slumber,
Its citizens fast asleep,
Unaware of the unreadable,
Unfathomable inscriptions
That destiny had carved
Upon Kapilavastu’s fate.
Only Nature remained awake,
Awake was the moonlit night,
Draped in white,
A mourning lover.
She had discarded all her adornments,
Her bracelets of stars,
Shattered and lost in the pale, white stream.
The full moon, her crown,
Now hidden beneath dark clouds of grief,
Veiled by the storm of pain.
The pulse of the universe,
Usually vibrant and alive,
Now felt wooden, numb,
While the eyes of existence
Filled and brimmed over.
That night,
The Lord crossed the Sakya village of Kili,
And passed beyond Ramgrama.
Thirty yojanas away from Kapilavastu,
He arrived at the banks of the Anoma River.
The river flowed like molten silver,
Silent and serene.
In that still moment,
The Lord gazed at the clear,
Blue, and transparent waters
Of the gentle Anoma.
The water sparkled like silver,
And as the Lord’s reflection fell upon it,
The river stirred from its depths,
Shuddering,
Its soft, lotus-like ripples
Embraced the shadow
Of the prince adorned in royal attire,
His divine form reflected in the heart of the river,
Like a rare gem.
Anoma was blessed,
For she had witnessed
This majestic, radiant, unbroken light—
A prince aglow with the flame of resolve,
In his final royal form.
She whispered silently to herself:
Water’s nature is cool,
Yet within,
It burns, gulp by gulp.
At times, it turns to vapor,
At others, it struggles within the arms of lightning.
Water is always restless,
Changing forms.
Today,
This is my first
And last request to you, O Creator:
Show me some mercy.
Turn my fluid heart to stone,
Let this rare, divine image of the Lord
Be etched in me forever,
Untarnished.
Let me flow on,
With pride swelling within,
Pondering to myself,
Who can be more fortunate than I,
Brimming with the nectar of immortality
Within my very soul?
The Lord looked at Anoma,
And then again,
At Kanthaka, standing quietly by.
With a signal from His foot,
Kanthaka swiftly crossed
The waters of Anoma.
This,
Was that moment of void,
Where all the longings of detachment,
Quivered like a hundred-petaled lotus,
Thirsty, eager, trembling,
Each leaf yearning for honey.
When would the cup of nectar open,
And flow into every drop?
Siddhartha descended from the horse,
And said in a soft, deep voice,
“Dear one!
The time has come.”
Chhandak stood frozen,
As if turned to stone.
He saw the bright, gem-strewn sands of Anoma’s shore,
And before him stood
The great man,
Like an eternal, vast, boundless Banyan tree.
Once more,
He looked at the Lord,
From toe to crown,
His hair, dark as crushed powder, crowned with jewels,
Earrings of diamond,
Bracelets on his arms, bangles shining,
His broad, noble chest adorned with strings of pearls,
Golden garlands shimmering.
His body, fragrant with white flowers,
His face adorned with sandalwood and saffron,
Every limb painted with fragrant leaf patterns.
He wore silken robes, sparkling with gold.
Ah! The blow of a thunderbolt.
Chhandak’s body, like a tree battered by the wind,
Within, a fierce storm raged silently.
He stood, gazing, speechless,
Like a tree struck by lightning,
Burning from root to crown.
Then, like a dry, yellow leaf of autumn,
He trembled,
From head to toe.
“My Lord! My Master!”
Tears welled up,
In a faltering voice,
His throat filled with sorrow,
He spoke,
“My Lord,
How will I live,
A purposeless, destitute life,
Without your sacred feet?
I too,
Will embrace renunciation,
In the shelter of your grace.”
“No, Chhandak, no.
It is not yet time.”
Then,
The Lord,
Laid down on the earth,
All his ornaments, adornments, fineries.
Unnecessary worldly attachments,
Renunciation does not choose them.
Then, like dark-hued grapes,
He gathered his flowing, powder-soft hair
With his left hand,
And with his right,
He cut them with a sword,
Offering them to the Earth, his final gift.
Seeing this,
Chhandak wept,
“My Lord!
This endurance, this forbearance,
Has gone beyond cruelty.
How shall I take these discarded ornaments?
How shall I return?
And what shall I tell the King?
How shall I bear this shame?
I, who did not heed the call of loyalty,
I remained,
A servant, bound by duty,
Forever in debt, thus.”
“My Lord,
Even if this is an outburst of emotion,
Great people, for amusement,
Treat the common folk differently.
Their actions are often
Strange, and incomprehensible.”
But Lord,
It is still the third watch of the night.
What has passed,
Is still a stubborn childhood.
The life ahead,
Is an unforgiving wilderness,
Impossibly harsh and treacherous.
The very feet that felt pain from soft petals,
The body that could not bear even the cool touch of
moonlight,
How will they endure
The thorny, treacherous woods?
How will this golden form,
Tender as saffron, soft as butter,
Adorned with sandalwood and vermilion,
Endure the unbearable heat of the blazing sun,
The torrential rains of the dark nights?
Lightning strikes,
Storms filled with icy winds—
Lord, Lord,
These feet,
That sink into soft cushions,
That flinch at the slightest pain,
Are gently massaged
By maids with soft, caring hands.
Those same feet—
How will they bear
The wet, muddy earth of the rains,
The chilling dampness of the wind,
The merciless blaze of a cloudless sky?
A flower beetle only feeds on saffron pollen,
It never eats grass or wood.
Master,
On this harsh and difficult earth,
Colliding with rocks, trees, men, beasts, birds—
Your pure, tender, glowing flame of life
Will grow faint and weary.
I have seen the world—
The house, the forest, the mountain cliffs,
The vast, barren deserts.
Why surrender this rare and precious life
To such cruel separation?
Who could bear this unbearable parting?
The Lord spoke:
“Dear one,
All who are born must die.
Who has ever become immortal?
Even if one does not wish it,
One day death will come.
That day, too, will bring
Separation from friends and loved ones.
Why not today?
To meet that day,
I leave everything behind.
I will return
Only after conquering old age, sickness, and death.
Otherwise, like all others,
Death will claim me as well.
I will return after vanquishing death,
And I will directly examine and discover
The very essence
Of its defeat.”
Man,
Standing at the pinnacle of purity,
Why should he remain bound
To the allure of desires?
Go,
Take Kanthak with you.
Convey my well-being to all.
Give them my humble message:
Human life
Is but an entryway
To renunciation, to liberation.
Otherwise,
What is the purpose
Of taking this human form?
True joy lies only in that which is eternal,
Not in the fleeting torments
That plague our lives.
Saying this, the Lord sighed deeply.
For life alone
Is the unshakable trust in action.
Stepping forward,
He lovingly patted Kanthak's back,
Asking his loyal steed for a final farewell.
Ah! That touch—
The touch of childhood, adolescence, and youth,
Those hands
That held the very pulse of Kanthak's life,
Had once patted with the carefree joy
Of innocent youth.
All that had passed,
That invaluable moment
Would never return.
That touch—
It was no mere touch.
It had broken
The relentless dam
Of unspoken grief.
This farewell,
For which
There was no alternative.
The Master's hand upon Kanthak
Pulled,
And with it,
Drew out the very breath
Of the horse’s life.
Wailing in agony,
Kanthak collapsed to the earth,
Letting out a heart-wrenching cry.
He placed his tear-soaked head
At his Master's feet,
And in that instant,
Surrendered his life,
For how could his Master leave him behind,
Turn away so mercilessly,
And take even a single step forward?
True love!
It only gives,
Never takes.
Near it,
There is no harsh scale of exchange.
Kanthak was but a horse,
Yet this tale of unyielding love
Knows no limits.
This moment too, the Lord witnessed—
How death itself
Takes its revenge.
Their feet
moved slowly forward,
leaving Anoma’s shore behind.
They entered the dense woods,
the thick groves of Anupiya's mangoes.
Here, amidst the deep, dark trees,
among the thorns, blades of grass, and brittle leaves,
the branches tore at the moonlight,
shredding it to pieces, scattering it like rags.
There was
the rustling sound of dry leaves,
echoing beneath their steps.
Nature stood still,
watching in silence,
its jaws clenched tight.
Slowly,
within that grove of mango trees,
the great human form
vanished into the shadows.
Yet, upon the earth,
the immense shadow of his being
kept growing,
moving onward.
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