Grief in the Palace (II)

"Even while a husband is still living, if he withdraws to the mountains — trusting to their heights as one trusts the very snow-capped peaks, his own heart as settled as the great earth itself — a wife's grief and sorrow may still bring her nearly to the point of death. How much more so, then, for one at this very window, weeping and crying out at such length — for she has lost, whether he lives or dies, the very lord of her own heaven. How could such suffering possibly be endured?

I say to you, horse, that you are without any sense of loyalty at all — you have stolen away what a person's heart holds most dear, no different from a bandit plundering treasure under cover of darkness.

Riding you into battle, amid blades and sharp arrows, he endured everything without exception — so what, in this case, could you possibly not have found the will to refuse?

You have forcibly torn away the very finest of our whole lineage, seizing him from my own heart — you are nothing but a vile and wretched creature, the author of every kind of wrongdoing.

Today my great wailing fills this entire palace with its sound — yet when he was stolen from me before, why then were you so silent?

Had you made a sound at that time, the whole palace would surely have woken; and had we woken then, this suffering I feel now would never have arisen at all."

Chandaka, hearing these bitter words, held his breath, his chest tight with grief; wiping away his tears, he joined his palms and answered: "I beg you, hear my own account — do not blame or reproach the white horse, and do not be angry with me either.

Neither of us is at fault in any of this — it was entirely the doing of the gods. I myself was in the greatest dread of the king's own law, yet I was driven and compelled by the gods themselves.

They made me bring the horse to him at once, and the two of them set off together, swift as flight; they stifled every sound so that nothing could be heard, and his very hooves never once touched the ground.

The city gates opened of their own accord, and the empty sky itself grew bright of its own accord — all of this was the power of the gods alone. How could any of it possibly have been my own doing?"

Yaśodharā, hearing this, felt a thought of wonder rise in her heart — that this had truly been the doing of the gods, and no fault belonging to either of them at all.

Her reproach and blame dissolved away, and the fierce heat of her great suffering came to rest; yet she still fell to the ground, crying out in sorrowful lament: "Like a pair of ruddy geese now parted from one another — I have now lost the very one I relied upon. He who once walked the same path as I now lives apart from me; he who once delighted in the Dharma has left his companion behind — where, then, am I now to seek the Dharma myself?

The great and excellent kings of ages past, and those they most delighted to see, in every such case husband and wife alike, together studied the path and wandered the forest wilds together.

Yet now he has abandoned me alone — what Dharma is it, then, that he seeks?

Even in the brahmins' own sacrificial rites, husband and wife must always take part together; when the same conduct becomes the shared cause, the fruit that follows is shared as well — why, then, should he alone be so miserly with the Dharma, abandoning me to wander it by himself?

Can it be that he saw some jealousy or malice in me, and now seeks instead a woman free of such faults?

Or does he hold me in some contempt, and seek instead some pure and heavenly maiden?

For what beauty of surpassing virtue does he now cultivate this life of ascetic practice?

Because of my own wretched fortune, husband and wife are now sundered apart from one another — but why, then, should Rāhula be denied even his father's own lap?

Ah — what an ill-omened man! Gentle in appearance, yet hard of heart. Born of a most excellent lineage, resplendent in glory — and yet even those who hate and resent him still hold him in reverence.

And his own son, not yet even out of infancy — that he could abandon him forever! As for me, I too must have no true heart at all — for my husband has abandoned me to wander the mountain forests, and yet I cannot even bring myself to disappear entirely. I must truly be a creature of wood or stone."

Having said this, her mind grew disordered and confused; at times she wept, at times she raved as though mad; at times she stared fixedly, sunk in thought, choking and unable to master herself, until, her breath nearly spent, she collapsed to lie upon the bare ground.

Every one of the other palace women, seeing this, was moved to a grief just as deep — like a lotus in full bloom, beaten down and left withered by wind and hail.

The father king, having lost the prince, gave his heart day and night to grief and longing; he kept the fast and prayed to the gods, wishing only that his son might swiftly return.

Having made his vow and finished his prayer, he came out from the gate of the heavenly shrine, and, hearing the sound of weeping all around him, was seized with such fright that his mind grew wholly confused — as when the great crash of heavenly thunder sends a whole herd of elephants stampeding in every direction.

Seeing Chandaka and the white horse, he questioned them at length, and so learned that his son had gone forth; he threw his whole body down to the ground, like the great banner of Indra himself collapsing.

His ministers gently raised him up, and counseled him with reasoned words to find some peace; and after a long while, his mind recovering itself a little, he said to the white horse: "Time and again I have ridden you into battle, and I have always remembered your merit and your service — yet now my hatred for you exceeds even the love and regard I once held for you.

The very son whose virtue I so cherished, you carried away in an instant, casting him off there among the mountains and forests, and now you return here alone, empty of everything but yourself.

Either carry me quickly to him now, or go and bring him back to me — if you can do neither of these things, then my own life can no longer continue.

There is no other remedy left to me now — only my son himself can serve as the medicine I need. Just as the brahmin Śāṇḍilya once took his own life for the sake of his son, so I, having lost the son who walks the true path, would rather take my own life and cease to exist at all.

Even Manu, lord of all sentient beings, would surely have grieved over the loss of a son — how much more so, then, an ordinary man such as myself? How could I possibly find any peace, having lost my own son?

In ages past, King Ajita, out of love for his son who had gone to wander the mountain forests, was so overcome with longing that his life came to its end, and he was reborn in heaven that very moment.

Yet I myself am unable even to die — I remain instead in this long night of grief and suffering. This whole palace, thinking of my son, is as empty and parched as a hungry ghost — like a man who, thirsting, reaches for water only to have it snatched away just as he means to drink.

To hold to one's thirst until the very end of life is certain to bring rebirth as a hungry ghost.

I have now reached just such an emptiness and thirst myself — having once had my son, I have now lost him again, as water lost from the hand. Before my own life comes to its end, tell me quickly where my son now is — do not let me die of this thirst, and fall into the realm of hungry ghosts.

I have always been a man of firm resolve, as hard to move as the great earth itself — yet, having lost my son, my heart is now as wildly disordered as King Daśaratha's once was."

The king's own teacher, a man of wide learning, and a minister of sharp and penetrating wisdom, these two together counseled and remonstrated with the king, neither too gently nor too sharply: "We beg you to ease your own heart and thoughts, and not to injure yourself further with grief — the great and excellent kings of ages past cast aside their very kingdoms as lightly as scattering flowers.

Your son has now gone to seek and study the path — why should this be cause for such bitter grief and sorrow?

You should recall Asita's own prophecy — this is simply how the order of things must naturally unfold.

Even the heavenly bliss of a wheel-turning sage-king holds no attraction sufficient to entangle one so pure and free — how, then, could the mere rule of a single kingdom possibly move a heart already resolved like purest gold?

Let us now be the ones to go and seek him out wherever he may be, and, by every skillful means, urgently counsel and remonstrate with him, to show him our own sincere devotion — hoping in this way to bend his resolve at least somewhat, and so ease Your Majesty's own grief and sorrow."

The king, gladdened at this, answered at once: "Only go, then, and go quickly — like the cuckoo circling in the empty sky in search of its own young; for my own longing for the prince is exactly of this same anguished kind."

Once the two men had received the king's command, the king and his whole household felt their hearts grow somewhat cooler and more at ease, and their breath and appetite began, at last, to return to them.