by Vilas Sarang
With due respect to Buddha, one does feel that, with age, the master had become crusty and adamant. He might have cordially negotiated with Devadatt and patched up the divergence. So too the matter of succession. Devadatt urged that, seeing that the master was old and worn-out, the young man may be made the leader of the sangha. He made this appeal three times in the sangha congregation. Buddha’s reply is worth quoting: ‘I would not hand over the order even to Sariputta and Moggallana, still less to you, Devadatt, a common lickspittle!’ These are heated, emotional words. We do not see here the equanimity, the upekkha that is expected of the master.
The schism that Devadatt threatened to install in the dhamma did not come about. But a schism in the dhamma did come about later: that between Mahayana (the Greater Vehicle) and Hinayana (the Lesser Vehicle). But the factions in Buddhism are not hostile to each other as is the case with so many other religions. The reasons are not too difficult to understand. For one thing, Buddhism practically disappeared from its home country, India. For another, Buddhism spread widely and the schism did not affect dhamma in each country. The Mahayana school dominated in China, Japan and Tibet; the Hinayana faith spread in Sri Lanka, Myanmar, Cambodia and Thailand.
It is amazing that of all the major religions of the world, Buddhism is probably the one religion which does not talk of god or gods. Buddha demonstrated that we can very well do without god, thank you. And yet, it would be a gross misjudgement to call Buddha an atheist. His teaching has all that one needs to lead a spiritual, virtuous life. The only thing is, Buddha was economical in his thought. If a religious life could be developed without involving the concept, or entity, of god, he would gladly not involve the entity.
The Abrahamic religions, which rule more than half the world, have conditioned our minds to think that religion equals god. Hinduism propounds pantheism—one can take one’s pick between various gods. Buddhism goes one step further. It does away with god—or gods. It is rationalistic and spare. This has a great advantage. As Buddhist scholar Edward Conze observes, Buddhists, unlike Christians, ‘are spared a number of awkward theological riddles and have not been under the necessity to combine … the assumption of an omnipotent and all-loving God with the existence of a great deal of suffering and muddle in the world’. Buddha begins by plainly accepting dukkha, and that’s that. Thereafter, he embarks upon the rational quest for the remedy; he has no need for the nebulous concept of god—or of ‘love’. Buddhism hardly ever speaks of ‘love’. Conze aptly remarks: ‘Buddha’s mind was focused upon “intellectual precision”, and the word “Love” is one of the most unsatisfactory terms one could possibly use.’ This does not mean that Buddhism is dry and arid. One of the central notions in Buddhism is karuna, or compassion, and as H.W. Schumann puts it, he ‘radiates with a mind full of loving-kindness (metta)’.
The tragic death of King Bimbisar was not the only event that threw the master. The death of another old friend was equally tragic. Pasenadi, the king of Kosal, who was the brother of the dead queen Kosaldevi was much grieved by his sister’s death, and the miserable death of her husband before her. One year, Pasenadi visited the Sakya republic, which was subject to him. On that visit the king heard that Buddha was in Medalumpa, which was quite close to where Pasenadi then was. The king thought this was a good opportunity to visit the master and rode on horseback to see Buddha. Naturally, he rode with his bodyguard. The bodyguard was under the command of one Karayan. This Karayan nursed a grudge against King Pasenadi, for some convoluted, personal reason. Pasenadi and his retinue reached the house where Buddha stayed. Out of respect for the master, Pasenadi removed his royal insignia, sword and headgear and gave them to Karayan to look after.
Buddha himself opened the door. The two distinguished old men embraced affectionately. The door closed.
The king and the master had a long conversation. Karayan looked at the royal sword, looked at the crown, then he looked at the closed door. The thought struck him that in his hand were the two most important royal insignia, and he could use them. Prince Vidudabh was the prince of Kosal. A maidservant was with the group; Karayan told her to look after Pasenadi’s horse. Karayan rode off to see Prince Vidudabh and said: ‘Dear sir, here are the two insignias of the kingdom of Kosal! Now you can declare yourself the new king! My soldiers are with you.’
‘Good work, Karayan!’ Vidudabh said, flashing a broad smile. He gladly accepted the booty. Vidudabh with Karayan entered Sravasti and declared himself the new king of Kosal.
Good friends of long standing that they were, the seventy-six-year-old Pasenadi and the equally aged Buddha remembered that it was time to say goodbye. The two men got up and embraced with genuine emotion—they didn’t know when they would meet again, if at all. Buddha himself opened the door again and Pasenadi stepped out.
The king naturally looked out for Karayan; he was puzzled that he had vanished. And then he noticed that his soldiers and their horses were missing too. Only the tired maidservant stood there, looking after Pasenadi’s horse.
Irritated and almost furious, the king asked the maidservant: ‘Woman, where is Karayan? Where are all the soldiers?’
The maidservant hesitated. Then she stuttered: ‘Lord, K-Karayan has gone away. H-He took away your sword—and also your royal turban.’
‘And my soldiers?’
‘Lord, Karayan took them with him.’
The whole situation struck Pasenadi like a thunderbolt. It was plain, brazen treachery.
‘Woman, why didn’t you tell me of this immediately?’ Pasenadi’s voice was a mixture of anger, exasperation and irascibility.
The woman joined her hands and spoke beseechingly: ‘Lord, Captain Karayan had told me not to speak to you, or to anybody. Otherwise, he would have me killed. And you hadn’t given me any instructions. So what could I do, my lord?’
The woman was almost in tears. Pasenadi cooled down a bit. He saw that there was no point in needling her. But he asked her: ‘Did Karayan say where he was going?’
‘No, lord. But in his talk with the soldiers, I heard the name of Lord Vidudabh.’
‘All right, woman. You stay here in some house. I am going to Rajagriha.’
Pasenadi’s meeting with Buddha had taken longer than it should have. It would be evening soon.
Pasenadi stood there, alone, swordless, turbanless. Only his horse stood beside him, a forlorn animal. Pasenadi decided to go to his nephew Ajatasatru. Perhaps he would be able to persuade the young man to undertake a retributory campaign against Vidudabh. Rajagriha was far but there was no alternative. The heavily built old man mounted his horse and set out for Rajagriha alone. Turbanless, his hair was flying in the wind. Without his royal sword, he felt naked. And alone. Alone as he had never felt alone. On the road to Rajagriha, darkness slowly surrounded him.
Night had advanced when Pasenadi reached the gates of Rajagriha. As he had expected, the gates were closed. He knew that knocking on the gates would be fruitless. The gates were of thick, solid wood, you could hardly hear someone knocking. And anyway, the guards inside had strict warning that the gates could not be opened at any cost after sunset.
Pasenadi would have to spend the night outside the gates, in the open. He was already tired after the long, rough ride, what with the wind playing around his bare head. During the day, the sun had been merciless; now, in the dark, the cold was assailing his defenceless body. He knew that the cold and biting wind would get worse as the night advanced. Pasenadi had not eaten anything since morning. Hunger had added to his tiredness. Now, he would be hungry till morning.
He found a rickety shed outside the city wall. Probably the guards had built it for daytime sun. It wasn’t much protection; but there was nothing better.
The old man, weather-beaten and utterly exhausted, lay down on the bare floor within the shed. He felt good; every muscle of his body had been crying out for rest. He lay utterly motionless. Resting was good, but also treacherous. After some time, the old man felt the adverse conseque
nce of the condition. Motionless, his body rapidly lost its heat. The body became gradually cold, and, after an hour or two, wooden. In that windy place that was getting colder and colder, it was a perilous situation. But Pasenadi was beyond all such physical concerns. He didn’t care.
The one consolation was his meeting with Buddha. He treasured that experience. As he lay supine on the hard floor, he savoured each moment of that meeting. He remembered every word that Buddha had said. He pondered over every word. Buddha had quoted some words from his discourses: ‘Hold fast to the dhamma as a lamp. Hold fast as a refuge to the dhamma.’ Pasenadi felt happy, and with those words ringing in his ears, passed from the half-asleep state he was in to deep sleep. In his sleep, Buddha appeared again. He saw Buddha in the standing position, with his entire body glowing with inner light. That rare sight was Pasenadi’s last dream-vision. Early in the morning, the guards opened the gates. They saw a man lying in the shed. At first, they thought it was some beggar dead in the night. Walking closer, from his clothes, they knew it was not a beggar.
Vidudabh was now the king of Kosal. He had wanted vengeance against the Sakya republic for a long-held grudge. Now that the young man had the power, he moved with his army to attack Kapilavastu. When Buddha learned of the new king’s plan, he begged Vidudabh not to destroy Kapilavastu. In deference to the aged master, Vidudabh refrained from attacking the city. This happened twice more; Vidudabh stood at the gates with his army, and again and again Buddha persuaded him to spare the city. All that happened was that Vidudabh’s obsession for revenge became more and more fierce. The fourth time, nothing could stop Vidudabh from taking Kapilavastu. His army mercilessly executed all citizens of military age. Then he set fire to the whole city. This happened in 485 or 484 BC. In 485 BC as we know, Buddha was in Sravasti. But we can be sure he could imagine the city, in which he had spent his youth, burning. Buddha was a man of iron heart, but we can well imagine how much his heart must have ached. Against such grievous loss, the virtue of equanimity seems hollow.
Was that all that old age meant? Death, destruction?
The dance of death would not stop after the events narrated. Shortly after the monsoon of 485 BC, the master received news that his principal disciple Sariputta had died of a sickness at Nalagamak, which was not far from Rajagriha. Following that, another of Buddha’s main disciples, Moggallana died. The details of his death were shocking. Moggallana had been murdered. A bhikku and a teacher murdered? By whom? Moggallana had attracted so many followers owing to his excellent teaching that other schools became envious. They hired a robber who hacked him to death. So much for the nobility of teaching. The death of both these disciples, in quick succession, made Buddha very sad.
Yet, now that the rains were over, Buddha, at his age, continued his peregrinations. Ananda, in the master’s old age, was a faithful companion. From place to place, they wandered. ‘Come, Ananda, let us go to Ambaltthika … come Ananda, let us go to Nalanda.’
‘So be it, lord!’
‘Come, Ananda, let us go on to Kotligam.’
‘So be it, lord!’
‘Come, Ananda, let us go on to Vaishali.’
‘So be it, lord!’—Vaishali!—but we shall dwell upon Vaishali later.
At each place, the master shared his blessings; at each place, he gave a detailed discourse: ‘Such and such is upright conduct; such and such is earnest contemplation; such and such is intelligence.’ Incidentally, Buddha might be the only prophet to emphasize ‘intelligence’! He didn’t ask for ‘faith’ but intelligence. The mind with intelligence is set quite free from the intoxications of sensuality, of becoming, of delusion, of ignorance. Always, Buddha appealed to the mind rather than to the heart, or that nebulous thing called faith. That is how, 2500 years ago, Buddha taught for the modern age.
In-between is the delightful story of the courtesan Ambapali, a prostitute in yesterday’s coarse word, or a sexworker, in today’s ostentatious term. A courtesan, and a superior one in Buddha’s time, was a perfectly respectable lady. Ambapali, in her heydays, charged fifty kahapanas, the price of five milchcows, for a night of love. She had a son by the former king Bimbisar; the son later became a bhikku. She was still able-bodied, and still attractive. Naturally, she could afford expensive gifts. She presented her grove, Ambapalivan, to the master and the sangha. A note on Vaishali says: ‘Ambapalivan (Ambapali’s Grove) … Vaishali was the only republican capital that could boast a permanent Buddhist monastery.’
All the monks, when they came to Vaishali, stayed in Ambapali’s mango grove. Ambapali requested the master: ‘May the Exalted One do me the honour of taking his meal, together with his brethren, at my house tomorrow?’
Buddha assented with silence.
When the Licchavis of Vaishali heard that Ambapali had stolen a march on them, they were envious. They thought up the idea of a race to decide the winner. They—all young men—thought that they would easily defeat the elderly woman. This is what actually happened:
And Ambapali drove up against the young Licchavis, axle to axle, wheel to wheel, and yoke to yoke, and the Licchavis said to Ambapali the courtesan: ‘How is it, Ambapali, that thou drivest up against us thus?’
‘My lords, I have just invited the Exalted One and his brethren for their morrow’s meal,’ said she.
‘Ambapali! Give up this meal to us for a hundred thousand,’ said they.
‘My lords, were you to offer all Vesali with its subject territory, I would not give up so honourable a feast!’
Then the Licchavis cast up their hands, exclaiming: ‘We are outdone by this mango girl! We are out-reached by this mango girl!’ and they went on to Ambapali’s grove.
The next morning the ‘mango girl’ served a magnificent meal to Buddha and his bhikkus. Some years later, Ambapali joined the order of nuns and is even supposed to have attained sainthood.
The rains of the year 484 BC, Buddha, with Ananda, decided to spend in Beluva.
He addressed his disciples: ‘O mendicants, do you take up your abode round about Vaishali, each according to the place where his friends, acquaintances, and intimates may live, for the retreat in the rainy season. I shall enter upon the rainy season here at Beluva.’ Beluva was a suburb of Vaishali.
Notice that Buddha is mindful that the monks should each stay with ‘his friends, acquaintances, and intimates’, that they should have some human warmth. But what about Buddha himself? True, he had his devoted disciple Ananda. But did he think of Yashodhara? Of Rahul? Especially since Buddha fell ill in Beluva. He had severe body pains. Since it was the rainy season, it must have been some kind of influenza. He lay supine for several days. During those days did he at least think of his son? Probably not. The master had supreme control over his mind. If he wished, he could live without a thought touching his mind; the yogic ‘no-point’. The master could, with the sheer power of his will, bend sickness to his whim. There was much he had left undone, much he had to teach his disciples. He exerted himself mightily and the disease abated and slowly the master got well. He began to sit in the shade of the hut. Ananda confessed that he feared the master would pass away without leaving instructions on what was to become of the order. But here the mind of Ananda—as well as that of all the disciples—and the mind of the master diverge. In the following speech, some emotion—exasperation?—may be detected:
What, then, Ananda, does the Order expect of me? I have preached the dhamma without keeping anything back. Surely, Ananda, should there be anyone who thinks, ‘It is I who, who leads the brotherhood,’ or, ‘The Order is dependent upon me.’ The Tathagata does not think in these terms. Why then should he leave instructions in any matter concerning the Order?
This almost sounds like defiance. But then, Buddha begins to talk quickly in personal terms; he speaks movingly:
I too, O Ananda, am now grown old, and full of years. My journey is drawing to its close, I have reached the sum of my days. I am turning eighty years of age; and just as a worn-out cart, Ananda, can be
kept going only with the help of thongs, so, I believe, the body of the Tathagata can only be kept going by bandaging it up.
Trust the master to find a telling metaphor. But the important question which needs answering is: why did Buddha refuse to have a successor, a chosen follower? We can speculate: for one thing, Buddha may have feared that an arrogant follower would make changes in the doctrine. The recent example of Devadatt was a red signal. Buddha would rather have a democratic sangha. And this is what actually happened after Buddha’s death. First, there was confusion but then, a council was formed. Buddha had himself supplied a sketch of the working of the council. As he said to Chunda: ‘Chunda, those of you to whom I have taught the truths that I have realized, must come together and recite the teaching together … comparing meaning with meaning and sentence with sentence, in order that this pure doctrine may exist and continue for a long time.’
We must remember that 2500 years ago, there was no way of preserving important texts, there was only memorization, and exact memorization. Disputes about the text then had to be settled by discussion. Much earlier, the Vedas had been preserved this way. Which explains the names Dwivedi (two Vedas), Trivedi (three) Chaturvedi (four). The names indicate the number of Vedas memorized. The disadvantage of this system was that intellectual energy was spent on memorization, and there was no energy left for original thought.
When Buddha was well enough, he said: ‘Come, Ananda, let us go to Vaishali.’
‘So be it, lord,’ said Ananda.
Buddha loved Vaishali. It was a miracle that he had recovered from his illness; any other man would have succumbed to it. Buddha knew this. With his frail body, he climbed to the Chapal shrine. He spoke to Ananda in moving tones. ‘On one occasion, Ananda, I was dwelling here at Vaishali at the Gomantak shrine—on one occasion here at Vaishali at the Shrine of the Seven Mangoes—on one occasion here at Vaishali at the Bahuputt shrine—on one occasion here at Vaishali at the Sharandad shrine—’