This
is the thirteenth part of the translation of Mahagama Sekera's epic
poem 'Prabuddha', an exercise that has the permission and blessings of
the immediate family of Mahagama Sekera. Parts I, II, III, IV, V, VI , VII, VIII, IX, X , XI and XII were published in www.malindapoetry.blogspot.com.
‘The
graveyard is solemn,
silent,
nade
for meditation,
so
must we enter
must
we wander
in
wilderness solitude
to
obtain the immutable truth?
A
meditation too is music
a
sense of rhythm
the
discerning power
to
see most subtle tone
and
non-intrusive hue,
separate
and together,
that
too is a vessel
carrying
you to enlightening bliss
leading
to union with the brahman principle.’
Cannot
music deliver nirvanic bliss?
To
hear music and tone beyond the diatonic scale
To
see colors unnamed and beyond spectrum
To
discern the truth resident in the dismal and foreboding caves
of
myth, illusion and delusion,
May
the Goddess of the Arts my faculties hone.
Budu Samindune,
Enlightened
One!
For
what reason didst thou abandon world?
Art
is myth, it is truth;
reality
is truth;
no
human can ever conspire
something
more enchanting to create.
Art
is for the poverty-stricken
the
blinded among us
eluded
by that beauty,
the
enchantment that empowers
the
reflective, the yogi who embraces meditation.
‘In
the resplendent wilderness
upon
a singular rock
bedecked
with rain’s sparkling necklaces
if
there wandered a spotted deer,
then
that hillock will rise before you,
will
capture the mind,
and
the mind will be bested
of
this let there be no doubt.
In
that wilderness
bathed
by the new rains
where
wild boar and other creatures
gambol
in their natural commerce
turning
cave into home
a
compelling force
will
urge meditation.
With
deep blue necks
vividly
plumed
chirping
the songs
reserved
to call and welcome the rains
there
will be birds
of
myriad color
pleasing
the mind
deep
in the residence of reflection.
And
upon the forest floor
carpeted
with petalled tenderness
I
will lay down
as
I would upon a bed
of
the softest cotton made. [1]
Is
it only the forest that enchants
is
the city not enchanting?
I
will not flee into wilderness:
for
in bus and train
university
and factory
even
the tallest mansions obliterating
there
are thick jungles
growing
and growing,
thick
in the dark of delusion
watered
by the springs of lust
bristling
with the thorns
of
envy and ego,
overgrown
with the weeds of the kleshas
those
defilements that cloud
where
hardened minds
turn
stone into missile
fling
in anger
where
all secret weapons are drawn
and
beasts ill-willed and intemperate
take
on one another
seek
to subdue,
seek
to own,
seek
to extract from.
And
yet,
it
is also here
that
is resident
the
lofty and incomparable
the
bodhisattva gunaya,
the
essential quality
the
mark of one who can
and
will stop sansaric journey
at
the border village of comprehension,
right
here,
in
the midst of delusion
amidst
the surging waves of
of
defilement-debris.
‘There
is a cost in attaining human form.’
Frail
humanity beds with human form
in
inextricable embrace,
rising
now, subsiding now
causing
tremor
battering
heart,
like
moon-streams
flowing
from heated lunar lamp
enveloping
earth with love.
And
so,
however
vile,
man
stands above tree,
above
rock and creature.
If
true bliss has a name and heart
it
is man,
for
there is nothing sweeter
than
human heart.
He
knows she will die
decaying
in terminal cancers
but
the husband will not share prognosis
for
fear of hurting.
She
knows too
very
well
but
does not share knowledge
fearing
that sorrow will overwhelm.
They
protect their mutual muteness
and
their hearts
with
love and sorrow
are
full.
It
was not for reasons of compassion alone
that
Dayavati, made of kindness and love,
decided
to leave.
Swept the floors and the
garden
cooked and cleaned
took
care of the children
was
everyone’s favorite,
‘We
thought we were blessed
but
she stayed but two months.’
‘I
am the eldest
Amma
leaves at dawn
to
pluck leaves
it
is dark when she returns,
in
those intermediate hours
it
is I who stays
who
takes care of the little ones,
my
brothers, my sisters.
A
quarter pound of flour
from
retail store,
finely
chopped cassava leaves
just
a handful,
that’s
a mix enough for a roti
cut
into seven or eight pieces
that’s
lunch.’
One
day around midnight
there
were sobs in the kitchen.
‘Madam,
I must go home!’
‘Why?
Is
the work too hard?
Don’t
we pay you enough?
Did
we do you wrong?
We
shared with what we ate
when
we went out, we took you along too,
we
treated you as one of us, Dayavati.’
‘All
this is true.
But
when I have my fill,
when
I go out
I
remember Amma,
my
brothers and sisters I remember too,
and
then I can’t eat;
to
pick leaves with Amma
to
be with them, share their hardships,
let
me go home!’
‘When
I take the rare vacation
or
partake now and then
of
the wholesome and delicious,
it
is the same for me
Dayavati!
I
remember a remote village
I
remember a humble little hut
I
remember my mother too.
She
too worked hard
dawn
to dusk
all
her life,
went
without food
never
had new clothes
never
asked for help
and
there was help offered
and
she toiled without complaint
not
knowing that sorrow was sorrow.
Siddhartha!
I
was not a prince
unlike you,
unlike you,
I
did not have splendid palaces,
one
for each season
did
not enjoy royal comforts;
you
left home and hearth,
wife
and child,
with
utmost ease,
that
privileged ease I do not enjoy.
If
I left
my
wife and children
will
have rent for roof,
my
children are not children,
but
infants still crawling stage;
they
need milk
and
it is I who has to find it,
when
they are ill
it
is I who have to pick them up
carry
them to the doctor,
they
gaze and gaze upon me
with
hope and future clenched in hand.
Niranjala
wakes the dawn
and
bids night goodnight,
hands
manicured by callous
cheeks
cleansed by soot,
accessoried
with bone
clothed
in skin,
she
pounds rice into flour,
she
gets the milk ready,
she
prepares porridge,
washes
clothes
irons
shirts.
Like
a mother,
like
an older sister,
she
broke open life’s earth
and
called forth springs,
in
a poverty furnished house
riddled
with hunger
I
cannot leave them alone.
As
I wandered in sansaric dejection
she
stood by a bylane of a slum
lost
and abandoned
was
she and her infant,
husband
gone the way the over-worked go
and
so I gathered his unburdened burden,
in
utmost compassion.
The
soft breeze caresses the golden grain
but
to kiss and draw away hurt from calloused hand
and
pearl-like beads of sweat turn
turn
into flower
into
full ripened grain.
From
the silent skies
that
the half-moon rides
there’s
milk that flows
into
infant heart,
Punchi
Putha sleeps and sleeps
delights
in the new world
that
must come up on the morrow,
and
smiles and smiles.
Those
giants who envisioned
blended
strength and heart into vision
and
built a thousand internal seas,
they
are reborn now in this earth,
this
Motherland,
and
the new freedoms decked in color and finery
have
their creases smoothed
with
the little boy’s smile.
I
wipe the tears
upon
an era free of debt and fear
and
as the sun rises
his
consecration I behold.
Little
ones who open rivulets
to
quell the throbbing pain
of
a wearied body,
know
this:
that
expending is bliss enough
when
upon you my gaze tarries.
It
is a long dream, little ones,
twenty
five hundred years long
and
so I cannot and will not leave
until
that world I create.
Siddhartha!
Therefore,
on this day
grant
me the sacred license
the
irrevocable word,
the
niyatha vivarana granted to thee
and
all the Buddhas who came before,
by
all the Enlightened Ones
from
the first to the last
one
birth to the next
along
the long sansaric tract.
By
this table upon which pen moves on paper,
sitting
on this very chair
among
these manuscripts
on
a field of ploughing, sowing and reaping,
in
slogans and placards
boycotts
and strikes
the
teeth of a factory wheel
on
a commuter train
where
men and women
are
packed together in the daily to and fro,
the
diurnality of occupation,
in
the midst of the multitude,
to
attain Buddhahood
enlightenment
supreme,
not
for me,
not
alone,
but
with the masses,
for
all
together
in
communal comprehension
a
togetherness of knowing,
of
enlightenment.
