THE THIRD OMEN: THE REAPER

Siddhartha’s heart hangs heavy with melancholy. And his once radiant face manifests the degree of turmoil brewing within. Already sorrow seems to have cast its shadow on his countenance. He makes his way to his royal confines to reflect on the mournful day. The day before he’d seen old age, how remorseless time did ravage the beautiful and fair. He had understood then that ageing was a natural process and neither to bliss nor wealth but to decay was all his flesh was heir.

But this morning had been different. As he reminisces over the picture of the young man collapsing to the ground without notice and shaking and foaming saliva from his mouth, he feels even more and more unnerved what the morrow may hold for him. For he had seen how sickness sans delay can dash the dreams of youth and flay the flight of life midair. And Siddhartha realises that, with the Damocles sword overhead arrayed, all life danced on a razor blade.

Isn’t there a way out of this, the Prince ponders and determines to continue his voyage of discovery in the morning.

He wakes before the dawn and after his ablutions proceeds to the royal courtyard to inform his charioteer that he will be in need of his services this morning too. To his surprise, he finds the charioteer waiting for him with horse groomed and carriage spruced.

The Prince steps into the chariot and they proceed to the city gates. No questions are asked by the guards. The gates open and, as the chariot enters the outer field, the charioteer turns round and asks the Prince, “Where to, today, my lord?”

“Take me where the roads lead,” Siddhartha replies. “For I have realised the uncertainty of life. We think we make the decisions. We think we can dictate terms and forge the future in our own fashion. But we are wrong. Some higher being or some other higher force is at work to displace our fond hopes and spoil our dreams. Thus it’s futile for me to say where to go but to say: take me, wherever the road of fate wills to take me. We are nothing but puppets dangling on fate’s strings. “

So they ride through the open countryside where men are tilling the land, through crowded bazaars where goods are sold and bought, pass hundreds of hamlets where children are often seen playing their childish games. And then they come to a park where the charioteer stops the carriage to rest the horse and drink from the stream that flows nearby.

Whilst waiting for the horse to quench its thirst, Siddhartha wistfully stares at the tranquil splendour of the park and finds in its serene beauty, an inner peace. Long time ago, he had been told by his father that he had been born in a park whilst his mother was on her way to her father’s palace for her confinement. Was this the park where he had first seen the light of day, he wonders.

Soon the chariot wheels turn and they ride further and further away from the city. At one point the chariot turns the corner and they come to a clearing. The chariot comes to a halt for there is a procession in front, made of both men and women, with some of the women wailing. Siddhartha hears the sound and inquires from the charioteer, “What is this? And why are those women wailing?

“It’s a funeral procession, my Lord,” the charioteer says. “They have lost a loved one. Maybe a father, mother, son or daughter who has died. That’s why they are crying.”

As they pass the funeral procession, Siddhartha sees men carrying a body wrapped in a shroud aloft their shoulders. “Why is he dead,” asks Siddhartha. “Who can say, my lord,’ the charioteer replies. “It maybe he died of old age, of sickness or perhaps even due to an accident. But whatever the cause, death comes to all, even to kings and princes.”

“And what happens after death?” The Prince asks.

“One is reborn. The cycle goes on and on and on”

“Is there no way out of this endless cycle of birth, death and rebirth?

“No, my lord.”

Siddhartha is distraught. He tells the charioteer, “I have seen enough. Take me home.”

For then came death, the reaper’s scythe which sans remorse does fall

To mow the old and young alike enact life’s curtain call.

Birth, decay, suffering and death Stalk the living each hour by stealth, the common lot of all:

The shroud that wrapped the dead now showed:

The reaper mowed whate’er one sowed