The Forest of Thieves and the Magic Garden: An Anthology of Medieval Jain Stories (Penguin Classics)

by Phyllis Granoff

  It was not long before King Seniya heard about the many wondrous powers of that Holy One, how he had released the elephant and performed so many miraculous feats. His eyes wide open in astonishment, King Seniya hastened to see the Holy One along with Prince Abhaya and other members of his court. Filled with faith, he circumambulated the Holy One three times and bowed to him in respect. This is what he said:

  ‘Praise to you, who have abandoned the life of the householder! O abode of all the excellent virtues of the practice of restraints! Praise to you, who are a wild lion who destroys the mighty elephants, those ascetics of other religions, who are puffed up with pride at their own supposed virtues!’

  The Holy One blessed the king, wishing that the king one day would come to realize fully the true religion. Here is what he said:

  ‘O lord among men! May you one day possess that true religion which makes way for every good fortune and destroys all evil; it is a torrent of water to wash away all the mud of sin and gives rise to the true happiness that comes from Liberation.’

  The king, assured of the monk’s comfort, then sat down on a spot of ground that was free of living creatures. He said, ‘Blessed One! It is truly a great miracle that the elephant was released from its tight bonds through your power.’ To this the Blessed One replied with a verse,

  ‘O King! Far easier it seems to me was it to free a mad elephant in the forest from its bonds, than it was to free myself from the bonds of the threads that were wound around me.’

  The king asked, ‘Blessed One! What do you mean?’ And so the Holy One told the king what had happened to him. ‘O Great King! Once, bonds that were made of mere pieces of simple thread were wound around me by my son; in truth, they were bonds of love and I cast them off with the greatest difficulty. They seemed to me far more difficult to break than the bonds that can hold an elephant down. That is what I meant by the verse that I recited for you.’

  When they heard this many people were awakened. King Seniya and Prince Abhaya were also greatly pleased. They bowed down to the Holy One and returned to their palace. The Holy One worshipped the Blessed Mahāvīra and then resumed his life of severe penance and solitary wandering. He attained the highest knowledge and reached the state of highest bliss, the state of Final Liberation.

  (from the Mūlaśuddhiprakarana of Pradyumnasūri, pp. 6-12)

  2

  THE CHILDHOOD OF VAJRASVĀMIN

  Next in the monastic lineage of Suhastin was the monk Vajrasvāmin, who transmitted the teaching and strengthened the religious community. His story now begins.

  Here on this very continent of Jambūdvipa lies the country called Avanti, the ornament of the western sector of the land Bharata. It was like heaven in its splendour and wealth. In that country was a settlement called Tambuvana, that was like the abode of all material fortune, bringing joy even to the gods. In Tambuvana lived a Jain layman, the son of a merchant, who was like a son of the Goddess of Wealth herself. His name was Dhanagiri, “Mountain of Wealth”, and indeed his heaps of wealth resembled so many mountains.

  Although Dhanagiri was young and vigorous and strikingly handsome, no stirrings of desire ever entered his mind. An attitude of complete calm stood guard like a doorkeeper over his heart. Though many a text on the proper conduct of life declares, “Money comes from the practice of religion”, in his case, his practice of religion stemmed from his wealth, which he gave liberally to appropriate recipients. Knowing that becoming a monk and abstaining from all sexual activity leads to Heaven and Final Release, he did not want to marry. He steadfastly devoted himself to the doctrine of the Arhats. Whenever his parents, intent on finding him a wife, approached some family to ask for their daughter’s hand in the joyful celebration of marriage with their son, Dhanagiri would go to that family and declare to them outright, ‘I intend to become a monk. Surely I would be wrong not to tell you this.’ At this the daughter of the wealthy merchant Dhanapāla, insisted, ‘I must be given to Dhangiri. He must be my husband.’ And so the wealthy merchant Dhanapāla gave his daughter to the man she had herself chosen, to this Dhanagiri, despite the fact that he wanted to become a monk. Sunandā’s brother Āryaśamita had already become a monk at the feet of the teacher Simhagiri.

  One day Sunandā was in her fertile period and had taken her ritual bath. Despite his resolve to remain celibate, Dhanagiri made love to her, for a person is destined to live out the results of his karma. A particular god, who had once heard Gautamas vāmin recite the text known as the Puṇḍarikādhyāyana on sacred Mount Aṣṭāpada, descended into Sunandā’s womb. When Dhanagiri, pure in mind, realized that Sunandā was pregnant, he said to her, ‘Now you are not alone. This child that you carry will be your companion. It is time for me to leave you and become a monk. I married you against my will. I care for nothing but becoming a monk. I wish you all the best from now on.’ With these words Dhanagiri left her, as a merchant hastens to leave behind him the customs house. He went to the monk Simhagiri, under whose guidance he became an ascetic. Enduring the trials and tribulations that beset a monk, hunger and thirst, cold and heat, insect bites and the like, he practiced austerities that were difficult to perform, indifferent to the comfort of his own body. Endowed with the proper qualities of a good disciple, with steadfastness, honesty and humility, he drank deeply the draught of the teaching from his guru, as if from a deep well.

  At the end of nine months, as a pond gives rise to a lotus, Sunandā gave birth to a son, who brought joy to everyone. The women who cared for Sunandā in her lying-in chamber and stayed awake all night watching over mother and child, told the baby, ‘If only your father had not been so eager to become a monk, there would have been a fine party to celebrate your birth! A home is not a proper home without its master, no matter how many women there are in it. The sky, even though it may be studded with stars, does not shine without the moon.’ The child, though just a baby, could understand things, for he had very few obstructing karmas that might block his comprehension. He listened intently to what the women were saying and absorbed it all. He thought to himself, ‘My father has become a monk.’ No sooner did he think this, than he remembered his past births. Recalling his past births, that baby knew as well that worldly existence is worthless, and though just a baby, drinking his mother’s milk, he wished to follow the path his father had taken. He thought to himself, ‘How can I make my mother so fed up with me that she will let me go?’ And this is the way he chose. Even when his mother held him he would cry, night and day, without a stop. Nothing his mother did could make him stop crying; he would never stop, not even when she sang sweet melodies to him; not even when she showed him toys; not even when she made a hammock for him out of the sari she was wearing and rocked him back and forth; not even when she spoke coaxingly to him; not even when she made him dance on her lap; not even when she made funny noises popping the air she held in her puffed-out cheeks; not even when she kissed his head. Through all of this he just kept right on crying.

  The baby cried like this for a good six months. Even Sunandā began to get fed up with this child of hers. Now one day Simhagiri happened to come to Tambuvana, surrounded by some of his disciples, including Dhanagiri and Āryaśamita. When their guru Simhagiri had settled into the place where he was to stay, Dhanagiri and Āryaśamita bowed reverently to him and asked, ‘Blessed One! We have relatives here in this town. If you allow us, we will go and pay our respects to them.’ As they were making this request of him, the greatly learned Simhagiri saw a favourable omen. He said to them, ‘There is great gain to be made here and you two ascetics will surely do it. Obedient to my orders, you must accept whatever it is that you are given, whether it is a living being or something inanimate.’

  The two great ascetics then set out for the home of Sunandā. When they got to her door, some of the women of her household told Sunandā that they had come. All of those women said, ‘O Sunandā! Give that son of yours to Dhanagiri. Let us see what he will do with him.’ After all the women had told her this,
Sunandā, without joy, took the baby who still nursed at her breasts, for by now she had truly had all she could stand. She went to the door and said to Dhanagiri, ‘I have cared for this baby till now as if he were my very own self, but he has driven me to my wits end. All he does is cry, day and night. Even though you have renounced the world and become a monk, you must take this child. Do not abandon him as you once abandoned me.’

  Dhanagiri, skilled with words, smiled and replied to her, ‘O lovely lady! I will do as you ask, but later you will regret this. Do not give up your child; or if you are determined to give him up, then do so in the presence of witnesses. You cannot have him back later on.’ And so Sunandā, despondent, summoned some people to act as witnesses. She gave her son to Dhanagiri and he accepted the child. The child stopped crying as soon as Dhanagiri wrapped him in the piece of cloth he used to hold his begging bowl, as if there had been some secret promise between the two that this is the way things would be. The two ascetics then left Sunandā’s house. They took the child with them as their teacher had ordered them and returned to their teacher.

  When Simhagiri saw Dhanagiri coming, his arms sagging with the weight of that jewel of a child, he called out, ‘You seem to be having a hard time carrying the alms that you bring for me. Give it to me, O gentleman! Give your arms a rest.’ When he heard those words, the monk Dhanagiri carefully took the child, who was as handsome as a child of the gods, and who was the abode of Good fortune, and handed him to his teacher. The best of teachers took the child in his own arms; the baby was aglow with light that streamed from him, as the sun glows with its rays. At that instant the very earth on which the master Simhagiri was sitting sank into the ground under the great weight of the child; it bent low just as a person might lower his cupped hands to gather water in them. Simhagiri, his hands unsteady from the weight of the child, was filled with astonishment. He said, ‘This is really a thunderbolt, a vajra; it only looks like a child. I cannot hold him any longer. This child will become a famous, meritorious monk, who will pass on the teaching and preserve our religious community. You must watch over him carefully, for jewels are known to attract trouble.’

  The teacher Simhagiri gave the baby to the nuns to look after. They named him Vajra, ‘The Thunderbolt’, since he was as heavy as a thunderbolt. The nuns handed him over to the family of lay devotees who provided them with lodging and other necessities, saying, ‘You must look after this child with the same care as you look after yourselves.’ The women of the house, skilled in caring for children, lavished on this child even more love than they gave their own children and watched over him diligently. That child, a veritable treasure house of auspicious qualities, went from the lap of one woman to the lap of another, like a swan fluttering from one lotus to the next. The women talked to him in baby talk and were wild with joy as he talked back to them. Those lucky women took care of the child, vying with each other for the privilege of bathing or feeding him. Even though he was just a baby, Vajra behaved more like an old man. He restrained himself and never once did anything childish that might cause them distress. Wise Vajra ate only those purest foods allowed Jain monks and only what he needed to stay alive. From remembering his past births he had also gained the knowledge of what was right and what was wrong to do, and he knew the proper rules for monks. Even though he was a baby, whenever he needed to urinate, he would make a clear sign to whomever was carrying him. He was equally affectionate to all of the other children in the home, as if he were their twin brother. Every day he made the noble ladies laugh, playing at gathering up the things a person might need if he were going to study and become learned.

  One day Sunandā saw how handsome and well-behaved Vajra was. She asked the Jain family for him back, saying, ‘He is my son.’ They told her, ‘We know nothing about this child being your son or your being his mother. We know only that the monks gave him to us to take care of for them.’ They would not give the child to Sunandā and so she would watch him from a distance, as if he did not belong to her. She finally convinced them to let her help look after the child in their home and so, like a nursemaid, she lovingly cared for him, even giving him milk to drink from her breasts.

  There was a place in the prosperous district of Acalapur, between the famous rivers called Kanyā and Pūrnā where a number of ascetics were living. One of these ascetics knew how to make magical unguents to apply to the feet. He would smear the paste on his feet and put on special sandals, and then he could walk on water as if on land. In this way he would go back and forth to the city, along the water, astonishing everyone who saw him. That ascetic would also make particular fun of those who were devoted to the Jain monks, chiding them, ‘I bet there is no one of your religious belief who has the kind of power I have!’ The teacher Āryaśamita, Vajra’s maternal uncle, chanced to come to that place in the course of his monastic wanderings. He was a great ascetic and had acquired certain powers through the practice of yoga. The Jains all explained to that best of teachers how the local ascetics were making fun of their faith. When he heard this, Āryaśamita did not need to think very hard to find a solution. He told his followers, ‘This miserable ascetic does not have any particular power that comes from performing austerities. He is just using some kind of trick to deceive you. Just as a magician can amaze his audience by stunts like making flowers bloom when they shouldn’t be blooming, this ascetic is using some magic on you. That he can walk on water is not the result of any special ascetic practices he has performed. The goal that you seek can only be achieved through the proper teaching; you must not be fooled by this trick into believing in these ascetics. If you do not believe me, then invite that ascetic to your house. Wash his feet and his sandals.’ The Jain lay devotees then found some excuse or other to invite the ascetic to one of the Jain homes. He went there, surrounded by a crowd of people. The Jain layman and his family pretended to be faithful followers of the ascetic. The head of the house greeted him at the door with these words, ‘Blessed One! Let me wash your lotus feet. Those who wash your feet indeed wash themselves clean of all sins. You must grant me your favour and allow me to do this, for noble-minded men never reject the faithful service of their devotees.’ And so the Jain layman forced the unwilling ascetic to allow him to wash his feet and sandals with warm water.

  And as he washed and washed them, not a trace of the unguent remained on them, much as affection does not long remain in the heart of a scoundrel. That best of Jains then served the ascetic a sumptuous meal; there are times when one must honor even those who hold false beliefs to accomplish what is necessary. The ascetic was troubled that his Jain host had wiped off the unguent; he was so worried that it would lead to his humiliation that he could not even enjoy the taste of the food.

  The ascetic finished eating and went back to the river’s bank. A crowd gathered, eager to see him perform feats like parting the waters. That fool, thinking that some of the unguent still remained on his feet, rashly tried to walk out onto the water as he had done before. Glub, glub, like a pot thrown into the river, that young ascetic sank below the water’s surface right at the river’s edge. Even those who had been firm followers of the wrong belief were now distressed and thought, ‘We have been deceived by that trickster for too long.’

  As the crowd began to jeer and shout, the teacher Āryasamita, chief of those who know the Jain doctrine, arrived on the scene. Desirous of strengthening his own religious group, the teacher threw into the middle of the river some powder over which he had recited a spell. That best of teachers, foremost of the noble-minded, then called out to the river, ‘Come, my child, so that I may cross to your other bank.’ At that, the two banks of the river came together and the teacher and his followers crossed to the other bank. The ascetics and their followers, seeing the miracle that the teacher had performed, were struck with fear. All of the ascetics cast off their wrong beliefs, and all together they became Jain monks under the guidance of the teacher Āryśsamita. Because they came from a place called Brahmadvīpa, the scriptur
es tell us that they were called by the name “Brahmadvīpa Monks”.

  In time, living in the same Jain family, Vajra turned three years old and Dhanagiri and the other monks returned. When Sunandā heard that the monks had come back, she was delighted, for she thought to herself, ‘Dhanagiri will come and I will get my son back.’ Sunandā asked those great ascetics for her son, but they would not give him to her. They said to her, ‘We did not ask for your son; you gave him to us of your own free will. Who would ever want to take back the food he had vomited up? A person no longer has any rights over something he has given away, anymore than he retains the rights to something he has sold. Do not ask for your son back; you gave him away and he now belongs to another.’

  As Sunandā and the monks argued in this way, people gathered. They all said, ‘Let the king decide which of you is right.’ And so Sunandā and all the townspeople went to the court of the king. The monks and all the Jain lay community went there, too. Sunandā sat at the left of the king, while the Jains sat at his right; the other people sat down in their appropriate places. When he heard what the two contending parties had to say, the king passed this judgement, ‘You both shall call out to the child. He shall belong to the party to whom he goes.’ Both of the contending parties agreed. They asked, ‘Who should call the child first?’ The townspeople, who were quick to take the side of a woman in any dispute, said, ‘The child has been brought up by the monks and has a longstanding bond of affection with them. He will never disobey them. Let the mother call him first. The woman’s is the harder task; surely she is to be pitied. This is the only way the thing can be done.’ And so Sunandā showed the child all kinds of toys and delicious things to eat. She said, ‘Look at these elephants! And here are horses, and soldiers and chariots, too! I have brought all of these things for you to play with. Take them, child! And here are sweetmeats and cakes, grapes and sugar candies. You can have anything you want. Take them, my child! With my whole body I bow down to you and pray, may you have long life, may you always be happy, may you bring happiness to me, Sunandā! You are my god, you are my son, you are my very life. Revive me, my child, by your embrace. Do not embarrass me, son, in front of all of these people. My heart will split in two, like a plump cooked dumpling! Come, child, with your charming steps like the gait of a swan! Come into my lap. Can’t you do just this in return for the many months I bore you in my womb?’ But despite all the toys, the food and the coaxing words, the son of Sunandā did not budge.