A Narrative : The Buddha's Departure

 

The Buddha's Departure

 

( When Siddhārtha left the palace in search of truth, he departed without bidding farewell to his wife, Yaśodharā. History tells us little of what she may have felt on that night. The reflections that follow are entirely imagined, inspired by the silence that history leaves between its recorded events. This narrative is an imaginative attempt to give voice to that silence in our own time .)

 Everything was quiet.

The setting sun entered through the window in a gentle stream of amber light, resting softly upon the stone floor. She sat in her usual place by the window, watching the evening unfold. Outside, the playgrounds and the entire city had begun to surrender themselves to dusk. The treetops and faraway temple tops glowed briefly in gold before slowly fading into shadow. Along the pathways, people walked silently, their long shadows stretching behind them. From the playground below came the faint, fading laughter of children. Somewhere in the distance, the low sound of a conch shell lingered for a moment before dissolving into the twilight.

She had always loved this hour for reading and writing.

The sunset filled her with an inexplicable blend of peace and loneliness. There was comfort in knowing that the same sun was descending everywhere—over villages and cities, mountains and seas; over strangers who would never know one another, yet who all shared this single departing light. The last rays, trembling upon the leaves of the swaying coconut  trees, possessed a beauty beyond words. She often wondered why beauty seemed most moving when it was about to disappear. Perhaps that was why she loved sunsets more than sunrises.

And with every sunset, her thoughts returned to Siddhārtha—the man who  one day become the Buddha.

She remembered his quietness, his gentleness, the depth of his silence. She had believed that such stillness could never be disturbed, that a man so inwardly calm could never be restless.

But one night, everything changed.

The silence she had trusted gave way to an unrest she could neither understand nor name. He seemed already to belong to another path, another calling. Without anger, without accusation, without even a farewell, he chose to leave—not merely the palace, but the life they had shared.

He departed in the dead of night.

Why?

She had never found an answer. Was he seeking freedom? If so, freedom from what—or from whom?

Every evening thereafter, she returned to the same window. She watched the sun sink slowly beyond the horizon, waiting… 

  - Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya