The emptiness of being
seemed to have dissolved
In the loveliness of the looks,limbs,lips and playways of
the child.
She thought she had put behind the memories
(Yet the mind went back of itself
To the warmth of pleasures of days gone by )
They rolled by before her mind's eye,as she lay
Looking at the scenes painted on the ceiling, and sighing.
Thus did the cycle of days, weeks and years
Kept moving on, yet one day it stopped
Of a sudden
She heard the voice clearly, and no mistake:
"I come as a mendicant to your door
begging for the gift of food"
The voice sounded like the revived breath
Of the corps buried in the grave,
And felt like a cool breeze blowing
Into the hot cave of memories
The door flew wide open
And Yashodhare stood gazing-
There was no mistaking the man;
It was her Siddhartha, to be sure.
The one who rejecting the ready answers
had gone where questions led him
The hero of an immortal saga of quest and conquest,
one who,sighing for the sorrows of the world,
Left his own kin behind to grieve.
He rose from the bed like a soul forsaking the body,
Cast a lingering look at the babe blissfully asleep
And walked away into the night
In search of the ray of Enlightenment.
Why did he, who had gone never more to return,
Now turn his steps towards Kapilavastu?
Memories of events past rolled off
As in a procession:
The royal costume and jewelry
Which the prince had removed one by one
Had come back to the palace;
Chenna, the royal attendant
Had come back with them.
The pain of parting from his Master
Was too much; he was a heart-broken man.
Siddartha's trusted horse
Had felt too dejected when the Master,
Declining to ride any more,had dismounted
And walked away.
The tears in his eyes had not dried up yet
His cheerless face shadowed forth his grief.
The palace had worn a forlorn look that day
Food remained untouched like poison.
That He had eaten the choice meal
Got up by an army chief's daughter, named Sujata
Had bathed and then sat down under a tree
As if resolved not to rise
He sat day and night in meditation-
Nothing stirred around him but the wind passing through the leaves
Not for a day or two but for a full nine and forty days.
He sat as if his roots had sunk into the ground
Proofs to all worldly bonds and temptations.
And when dawn came the next day
He rose as the Enlightened one!
He then walked forth to Saranath
Dressed in yellow, he traversed country and town,
Preaching that covetousness is the root of all sorrow.
Yashodhare, stemming the tide of her private grief,
Was set here to wiping the tears of the distressed
And bringing relief to the sad and oppressed
She foreswore her claims to the Buddha
As her husband of yore and,as such,
Belonged to her and her alone.
How could she celebrate, then
The home-coming of her husband?
He with half-shut eyes,
The begging bowl in hand,
A look of exceeding calm,
A face exuding compassionate tenderness
Is now the property of all mankind
Now He is Tathaagata, she told herself.
A lump rose to Yashodhara's throat
More than once, as if to burst
Its bounds and release a flood of tears.
She held back from the brink, as it were,
He had come not to ask
How the tear sacs in her eyes had got dried up,
Nor, to fathom the depth of her sorrow
No yet to hug the child-son Rahula
Who knew 'Father' only as a word
He had come to herd them all-
Father, guru, brother,wife, son and all-
Into the pathway that he had discovered.
He came but stopped short,
Not crossing the doorsill and stepping in,
So run-down he looked,
He had so grieved for the sorrows of mankind.
Rahula, seeing the man standing with a bowl in hand,
Asked "Who is he,mother?"
Yashodhare, pushing Rahula forward,
In a quaking voice, said:
"That's your father. Ask him
What he gave you as patrimony,
And you got from him"
The tide of feelings choking her voice,
Yashodhare hugged the bewildered son
And sobbed
That very instant the clouds overhead
Dissolved and sent down a shower of rain
Tears from yet another aggrieved soul
The Buddha's begging bowl was full to the brim.. .. .....
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