सः यत्र अयम् अणिमानं न्येति जरया वा उपतपता वा अणिमानं निगच्छति तद् यथा आम्रं वा उदुम्बरं वा पिप्पलं वा बन्धनात् प्रमुच्यते एवम् एव अयं पुरुषः एभ्यो अङ्गेभ्यः संप्रमुच्य पुनः प्रतिन्यायं प्रतियोन्य् आद्रवति प्राणायैव
saḥ yatra ayam aṇimānaṃ nyeti jarayā vā upatapatā vā aṇimānaṃ nigacchati tad yathā āmraṃ vā udumbaraṃ vā pippalaṃ vā bandhanāt pramucyate evam eva ayaṃ puruṣaḥ ebhyo aṅgebhyaḥ saṃpramucya punaḥ pratinyāyaṃ pratiyony ādravati prāṇāyaiva
When he grows thin — whether from old age or from illness he grows thin — then, as a mango, a fig or a pippala fruit is loosed from its stalk, so this person, loosed from these limbs, hastens back by the same way to the former place — into life.
bfc745644aed · published Jul 27, 2026, 1:13:54 AM UTC
Available inRUENPage between verses with
The second image of death is from an orchard: a ripe fruit — mango, fig, pippala berry — "is loosed from its stalk" (bandhanāt pramucyate: the word means both "tie" and "bondage"!). The death of one who has grown thin is not the tearing off of a green fruit but the natural loosing of what is ripe: the body has ripened to its falling.
And to where? — "by the same way to the former place — into life" (prāṇāyaiva!): the formula of the transitions, which served dream and waking, is applied to death without a single new word: the same shuttle, the same road, only the station is called "life" — a new one. Death is written into the row of familiar returns; its terror is dissolved by the grammar of the everyday. A fruit falls — but remember the orchard: the falling of the fruit is how the seed sets out further.