Grief in the Palace (I)

Buddhacarita, Chapter Eight: Grief in the Palace

Leading the horse back alone, all hope now gone, his heart choked with grief, Chandaka wept and wailed the whole way, unable to master his own sorrow.

The road he had traveled with the prince only the night before, he now traveled alone, having left the prince behind — as though heaven's own shade had suddenly been snatched away from him.

Wandering on, his heart full of longing, it took him eight days to reach the city again — the fine horse, pale and swift of body, still carrying himself with a certain majestic bearing.

Yet he too hesitated and looked about, searching in vain for the prince's form; tears streamed from him and his whole body sagged, worn and haggard, his former luster gone.

He turned this way and that, crying out in mournful whinnies, forgetting water and grass alike, day and night, as they made their way back to Kapilavastu, having lost their world's own savior.

The whole kingdom seemed suddenly hollow and empty, as though one had wandered into an abandoned settlement — as when the sun itself sinks behind Mount Sumeru, and the whole world falls into darkness and gloom.

The springs and pools no longer ran clear, the flowers and fruit no longer flourished, and the men and women in every street and lane wore faces stripped of all joy.

Chandaka and the white horse, disconsolate, could hardly bring themselves to go on; when asked what had happened, neither could give any answer, moving on slowly as though already among the dead.

When the crowd saw Chandaka return without the Śākya prince, they cried out together in loud lamentation, as when Sumantra once returned to Ayodhyā having left Rāma behind.

Someone came up along the road and, leaning in, asked Chandaka: "The prince, whom the whole world loves, on whom the very life of this entire kingdom depends —

you have gone and stolen him away — where is he now?"

Chandaka, holding back his own grief, answered the crowd: "I clung to him and followed after him, unwilling ever to leave the prince's side; but the prince abandoned me, casting aside as well every mark of worldly majesty, shaved his own head, put on the robe of the Dharma, and so entered the forest of ascetic practice."

Hearing that he had gone forth, the crowd rose up in astonishment, sobbing and weeping, tears streaming down mingled together, each one saying to the other: what are we now to do?

The whole crowd deliberated together, saying: "We ought all to go after him at once — for it is as when a person's very life-force fails, and body, spirit, and form are sundered apart from one another.

The prince is our very life — how could we go on living, having lost our own life itself?

Let this town become nothing but wild forest, and that forest become our town and city instead — for this city, having lost him, has lost its very majesty and virtue, as though its guardian deity had been slain."

The men and women throughout the city, hearing the false rumor that the prince had returned, rushed out onto the road, only to see the horse coming back alone; not knowing whether he was alive or dead, they wept aloud in every manner of grief.

Chandaka walked on, leading the horse by foot, sighing and weeping as he went; his grief at losing the prince now compounded by a rising dread — like a soldier who, having been defeated by the enemy, must still bring the captured foe before his own king.

As he entered the gate, tears poured down like rain, and his eyes could take in nothing before him; he lifted his face to heaven and wept aloud, and the white horse too cried out in mournful whinnies. Every bird and beast within the palace, and every horse in the stables, hearing the white horse's mournful cry, answered back with their own long calls, thinking the prince himself had returned — only to fall silent again on finding he was nowhere to be seen.

The women of the inner palace, hearing the cries of the horse and every beast and bird, let their hair fall disheveled, their faces turned sallow and wan, their bodies gaunt, their lips parched and dry.

They wore soiled robes left unwashed, their bodies caked with grime and left unbathed; every ornament was cast aside, and they appeared worn and haggard, their former brightness entirely gone.

Their whole bodies had lost every trace of radiance, as dim now as the faintest of stars; their garments hung torn and ragged, as though they had all been set upon by bandits.

Seeing Chandaka and the white horse return in this way, all hope gone, they wept and cried aloud, their grief welling up into loud lamentation, as though they had just lost their own kin; they moved about in wild, distracted confusion, like cattle that have lost their way.

Mahāprajāpatī Gautamī, hearing that the prince would not return, threw herself convulsively to the ground, her whole body bruised and broken, like a golden plantain tree shattered by a wild wind.

And hearing, further, that her son had gone forth, she let out a long sigh, her grief deepening still further: "His fine, soft hair, curling to the right, grew one strand from every single pore.

Black and pure, fresh and lustrous, it lay smooth and even, sweeping down toward the ground — how could this hair, once fit to be crowned with a royal diadem, now be shaved off and cast down among grass and dirt?

His rounded arms, his lion's own gait, his long, wide eyes like a king among oxen, his body radiant as blazing gold, his square chest, his voice like Brahmā's own —

bearing marks as supremely wondrous as these, he has now entered the forest of ascetic practice. How meager, then, is this world's own fortune, to lose so holy a lord of the earth!

His feet, webbed like a fine net, soft and tender, pure in color as the lotus flower — how could they possibly walk over earth and stone, over briar and thorn?

He was born and raised in the depths of the palace, clothed always in warm and delicate garments, bathed always in scented water, his body always anointed with fragrant powders.

How, then, could he possibly endure the wind and dew, the cold and the heat, out there now?

A great man of a most flowering lineage, distinguished above all in learning, his virtue complete and his renown supreme, ever giving to others and seeking nothing in return — how could he possibly, in a single morning, come now to begging for food to sustain his own body?

He who once lay upon a pure, bejeweled couch, roused each morning by the sound of music — how could he possibly now make his bed on grass and dirt, there among the mountain trees?"

Thinking of her son, her heart overwhelmed with grief, she fainted and collapsed to the ground; her attendants raised her up again, and wiped the tears from her eyes.

Every one of the other royal wives, too, sagged with grief in every limb, their hearts choked with an inward sorrow, as still and motionless as painted figures.

At that time Yaśodharā spoke to Chandaka in bitter reproach: "He whom I hold dear, living or dead, where is he now?

Three of you set out together — man, horse, and prince — and now only two return; my own heart is seized with terror, trembling, unable to find any peace.

You have proven, in the end, no man of integrity, no companion truly worth keeping close; ill-omened and reckless as you are, is this a moment for laughter, that you should instead be weeping now?

You went off with him laughing, and now come back weeping — such a complete reversal makes no sense at all.

You must have doted on him as a companion who could do whatever he pleased, indulging his every wish and whim — and it is for this that you let the holy prince go, never to return.

You ought to be overjoyed now — the evil you have done has borne its very fruit.

Better to keep close a wise enemy than to take up with a foolish friend — one who bears the false name of a good companion, while harboring resentment and treachery within.

Now this whole excellent royal house lies utterly shattered in a single day; every one of these noble wives lies wasted with grief, their beauty destroyed, weeping until their very breath fails them, tears streaming down without end."