Among the
pleasures provided
by my
father, Suddhodana,
to keep me
captive and distracted
in his
palace in Kapilavastu,
in the
foothills of the Himalayas,
in winter
he lit fires
of the
finest aromatic
sandalwood
from Benares
and in
summer
sent me
concubines who
danced and
taunted
through
nights of music
beside
pools
of white
lotuses
and of
blue.
My father
sought to spare me
from the
realities
of
suffering, age and death
but drove
me to escape.
My
journeys over years
were as a
common man.
I was
drawn to Benares,
a
colosseum of steps
flanking
the arena of the Ganges,
smoke of
sandalwood pyres,
smell not
as in my father’s palace
but of
roasting ghee and flesh.
Each day I
saw the ashes and bones of
one
hundred men and women
scattered
on the river
and each
evening
souls set
afloat
on leaves
with candles
as the
river drifted towards morning.
So I chose
Benares
as the
place
to preach
my sermon.
