by Vilas Sarang
The emotion is evident, and conspicuous—Buddha does not try to hide it—the word ‘Vaishali’ he lovingly repeats every time; the names of the local places—Gomantak and others—he repeats equally fondly; ‘on one occasion’ likewise is repeated, with a hint that maybe this is the last occasion; the word ‘here’ is similarly repeated—time and space are paid homage to; Buddha, whose mind was always trained on the everlasting, at this moment—you may call it a moment of weakness—is plainly sentimental about space and time, the ephemeral dimensions of life. But you can forgive him at such a moment in his life; it would be crass to talk of ‘equanimity’.
And he repeats most of the names before who knew them too well; so the repetition is for the speaker’s sake. He savours the experience: ‘And now today, Ananda, at the Chapal shrine, I spoke to thee and said: “How delightful a spot, Ananda, is Vaishali, how charming the Udena shrine, the Shrine of the Seven Mangoes, and the shrine of many sons.”’
To the savouring of the names he adds the plainly emotive words ‘delightful’ and ‘charming’. Buddha doesn’t want to hold anything back. The sentences begin emphatically with, ‘And now today …’ ‘On one occasion’ was the past, now it is the present; the suggestion is pregnant with the question: will there be a tomorrow?
Buddha climbed down slowly, with a loving last glance at Vaishali. It was a last glance. He knew there would be no tomorrow.
Buddha’s journeying continued: Bhandagam, Hatthigam and other places on the route. He then arrived in Pava—that momentous place where Mahavir, the founder of Jainism, died in 527 BC Buddha ate his fatal meal in Pava, but carried on and finally fell near Kusinara. Pava (held by many to be the modern Fazilnagar in Uttar Pradesh) would have been known as the resting place of two famous religious founders. But before we go on with Buddha’s lifestory, some points need attention. The discourse entitled ‘The Lion’s Roar on the Turning of the Wheel’ is one of the most important discourses of Buddha’s later—or final—years. It begins with Buddha’s message to his disciples:
Live ye as islands unto yourselves, brethren, as refuges unto yourselves, taking no other as your refuge, live with the Dhamma as your island, with the Dhamma as your refuge, taking no other as your refuge.
But how, brethren, does a brother live as an island unto himself, as a refuge unto himself, taking no other as his refuge? How does he live with the Dhamma as his island …?
The next paragraph explains how this is to be done. ‘Thus, brethren, does a brother live as an island unto himself …’
The striking thing about these opening words is the repeated use of the metaphor, ‘island’. While Buddha constantly uses similes and metaphors, they are mostly from everyday life and everyday professions. The metaphor of ‘island’ is striking for several reasons. Firstly, Buddha lived in a landlocked part of India, where it is unlikely that he would have seen an island. Secondly, the ‘island’ metaphor seems very unlike Buddha. He lived a public life, outgoing and extroverted. Then how is it that he fixes on this image of ‘island’? Buddha, in his extreme old age, seems to have become obsessed with the image of the island. And, reflecting on Buddha’s entire life, we may entertain the notion that, indeed, Buddha was himself the island. He was basically an introverted, reclusive man, who forced himself, out of what he saw as necessity, to adopt the role of preacher, of the public Ssangha-man. The authoritative biographer H.W. Schumann describes Buddha’s personality: ‘Throughout the forty-five years of (his) missionary activity we can observe Gotama swinging between introversion and extroversion.’ Tirelessly teaching as the head of the sangha, sometimes, ‘tired of people, he sought solitude and quiet’.
On the basis of the ‘Lion’s Roar’ discourse and its obsession with the island, it is possible to conclude that perhaps the island-man had overcome the sangha-man. The emotions—verging on sentimentality—in parts of the discourse support this view. Yet, of course, there is the paradox: Buddha is speaking this in a public discourse. The sangha-man and the island-man coexist; though we do not know how harmoniously.
In another discourse in a valedictory tone (but without the Island metaphor), Buddha speaks in a heartfelt, insistent manner:
Therefore, O Ananda, be ye lamps unto yourselves. Be ye a refuge to yourselves. Hold fast to the Dhamma as to a lamp. Hold fast as a refuge to the Dhamma. Look not for refuge to any one besides yourselves …’
The metaphor of the lamp has replaced that of the island. The repetition of the word ‘refuge’ invites our attention. It is as if Buddha thinks of the external world as a world of assault, of an onslaught, an invading world of dangerous beleaguerment. The thought of everyday life as such a world appears exaggerated, almost morbid, but from Buddha’s point of view, it is not so aberrant. For one thing, at this extreme old age, Buddha’s mind may have become hypersensitive. He was thinking—perhaps unconsciously—of his disciples living without him. What would these men do once he was removed? He answers this hypothetical—but not far-off, as is evident—situation by advising to ‘hold fast to the Dhamma’, or, ‘Live … as islands unto yourselves’, ‘Be ye a refuge to yourselves.’ You can almost imagine Buddha worrying over his disciples as ‘fatherless’ children after him. The anxiety in the tone of his words is transparent. For a Buddhist monk, living a spartan life, focused on one thing only, the dhamma, the external world was indeed a threat. Buddha himself, in his younger days, viewed the world in this way. As he once so memorably said: ‘Monks, I do not quarrel with the world. It is the world that quarrels with me.’
The use of the word ‘quarrel’ is peculiar. An average man would not think of the ‘world’—the whole world—as a source of discord, of clash. A man may think of having a quarrel with this or that thing, or even an idea. But having a universal ‘quarrel’ throws a certain light on Buddha’s view of the world. This early use of the notion of a ‘quarrel’ corroborates our interpretation of ‘refuge’. The ‘quarrel’ with the ‘world’ is unending; so, at the end of his life’s journey, Buddha thinks only of a ‘refuge’: the clash is endless. This is not a defeatist position. On the contrary, Buddha places the onus on the individual. For him, there are two main recourses in the ‘quarrel’ with the world: first of all the dhamma. That is the bedrock. In the second place, Buddha’s advice is not to surrender to some guru or prophet. No, a man must cope with the world ‘as a refuge unto himself taking none other as his refuge’.
The precept is not to be taken as a licence to any unrestrained interpretation. The individual, monk or layman, must always stick to the word of the dhamma according to his own understanding of it. He should do it in all sincerity and responsibility. As always, you will find in this directive Buddha’s typical emphasis on the individual’s intelligence. Buddha does not believe in the Buddhist individual devoutly and unthinkingly following a religious command. Such freedom bestows upon the Buddhist follower astonishing individuality. No major religion will say: ‘Live ye as islands unto yourself … as refuges unto yourselves.’ Polytheistic Hinduism is somewhat liberal; it gives one the freedom to choose between gods or deities, but still, Hinduism will frown upon the idea of devotees becoming ‘refuges unto themselves’. None of these other religions give much importance to the devotees’ intelligence. Which is understandable, since in the infancy of those religious, literacy was minuscule, or non-existent. Astonishingly, Buddha declares that his teaching was suitable for the solitary, not for those who delight in society. Can you imagine a religious teacher proclaiming this boldly at the beginning of his discourse? For any other teacher, eighty per cent of the audience would quietly leave the gathering. It is amazing that, 2500 years ago, Buddha places such great significance on intelligence and individualism.
Among the later discourses, ‘The Lion-roar on the Turning of the Wheel’ a fetching title—appears to be one of the most significant. The tone is passionate, earnest; Buddha, foreseeing his death, is speaking from the bottom of his heart. He expresses the vision of the future, of the glorious, golden city o
f Ketumati and the future Buddha: ‘There will arise in the world an Exalted One named Maitreya …’ It is appropriate that at the death of King Bimbisar, Buddha speaks to him of Ketumati and Maitreya. Before his own death, Buddha is voicing this glorious future. Before the rise of Buddha himself, there were other Buddhas—Deepankar, Kashyap, Kaundinya, Vipashyi et al. In Buddhism, a popular concept is that of the seven Buddhas. The Seventh Buddha is Gautam, or Sakyamuni. And the chain of Buddhas will continue: the next Buddha is Maitreya: ‘an Exalted One, a Buddha, even as I am now.’ Buddha is endless.
Maitreya’s birth is described:
Maitreya, the best of men, will then leave the Tushita heavens, and go for his last rebirth into the womb of Brahmavati. For ten whole months she will carry about his radiant body. Then she will go to a grove full of beautiful flowers, and there, neither seated nor lying down, but standing up, holding on to the branch of a tree, she will give birth to Maitreya. As Maitreya grows up, the Dharma will increasingly take possession of him, and he will reflect that all that lives is bound to suffer. He will have a heavenly voice which reaches far; his skin will have a golden hue, a great splendor will radiate from his body, his chest will be broad, his limbs well developed, and his eyes will be like lotus petals. His body is eighty cubits high, and twenty cubits broad. He will have a retinue of 84,000 persons, whom he will instruct in the mantras. With this retinue he will one day go forth into the homeless life. A Dragon tree will then be the tree under which he will win enlightenment; its branches rise up to fifty leagues, and its foliage spreads far and wide over six Kos. Underneath it Maitreya, the best of men, will attain supreme enlightenment—there can be no doubt on that. And he will win his enlightenment the very same day that he has gone forth into the homeless life.
There used to be a giant Buddha carved out of a mountain in the far corner of Afghanistan at a place called Bamiyan; it was destroyed by hostile people some years ago. That giant figure may have been a sculptural homage to Maitreya.
In ‘The Lion-roar’, just before the description of Ketumati and the coming of Maitreya, there is an intriguing detail: ‘Among such humans the Jambudwipa (India)—one might think it a Waveless Deep—will be pervaded by mankind even as a jungle is by reeds and rushes.’
What is the ‘Waveless Deep’? Scholars are puzzled over this. Some think it might be one of the purgatories. But the context is positive and that of praise. Perhaps the aged Buddha—in delirium?—had some sublime vision. Anyhow, this vision, reminiscent of a prophetic poet like William Blake, is an image that may haunt you.
We return to Pava. After the disastrous meal prepared by Chunda, Buddha fell ill with stomach pain. Dehydrating diarrhoea would be a modern physician’s diagnosis. Yet, the master was firm upon his resolve. ‘Come, Ananda, let us go to Kusinara.’
‘Even so, lord!’ Ananda replied faithfully. He did not have the courage to contradict the master.
But Buddha’s physical condition overcame his will. He had to relieve himself under a tree. ‘Fold, I pray you, Ananda, the robe in four and spread it out for me. I am weary, Ananda, and must rest awhile!’
There is pathos in these words. That a man as unyielding as Buddha, in supreme control of mind and body, would have to make such a confession is telling. Then he said: ‘Fetch me, I pray you, Ananda, some water. I am thirsty, Ananda, and would drink.’
Ananda went to fetch water from a rivulet. But some carts had crossed the stream, and the water was foul and turbid. Ananda came back empty-handed.
The master sent Ananda a second time. But he came back to say the water was still turbid.
The third time the master sent Ananda. This time the water was clear. Ananda thought: ‘How wonderful, how marvellous is the great might and power of the Tathagat! This streamlet was flowing foul and turbid; now, as I come up to it, it flows clear and bright.’
This incident soon became famous as a ‘miracle’ wrought by Buddha. Actually, Buddha knew that the soil would settle after some time, from the perfectly natural process of sedimentation. Thus are miracles made and to call it so was an insult to Buddha’s intelligence. Even in extreme pain, Buddha’s mind was sharp and clear.
The retinue continued on its way, reached the river Kakuttha, where the master waded into the water and bathed, drank, and rested a little bit. He continued to walk. He waded the river Hiranyavati (today’s little Gandak). He was exhausted and wished to lie down. The two sal trees, between which he lay down, were in bloom, which puts the master’s last illness to the months of March–April. Now Buddha knew that from this place between two sal trees, he would not rise again. He was near Kusinara. Even in such an extreme condition, Buddha was clear-headed, and he instructed Ananda about what was to be done with his body.
If one reflects upon this narrative, one is amazed that, at the age of eighty, in the dire condition that he was in, Buddha had walked six miles (the distance between Pava and Kusinara). It is an eloquent testimony to Buddha’s grit and will power, and his physical hardiness.
It is futile now to indulge in such idle speculation, but if Buddha had rested in Pava, he might have recovered soon and continued on his journey. As a matter of fact, Buddha had done precisely this when he had a severe illness in Beluva. But this time he refused.
Even in this dire condition, Buddha was in command of things. The aged lion could still roar. In the large wooded garden where he rested, disciples crowded in, some of them fanning him. The master did not like this situation. He said aloud: ‘Stand aside, brother, stand not in front of me!’
Ananda went aside briefly; he could not control his tears. He came back and sat by the master’s side. The master admonished him: ‘Enough, Ananda! Do not let yourself be troubled; do not weep! Have I not already told you that it is in the very nature of all things most near and dear unto us that we must divide ourselves from them, leave them, sever ourselves from them?’
But Buddha did not forget to acknowledge Ananda’s selfless devotion: ‘For a long time, Ananda, have you been very near to me by thoughts of love … that never varies, and is beyond all measure. You have done well, Ananda!’
That the enlightened one should die in a godforsaken place like Kusinara is distressing, says Ananda: ‘Let not the Exalted One die in this little wattle-and-daub town, in this town in the midst of the jungle, in this branch township. For, lord, there are other great cities, such as Champa, Rajagriha, Sravasti, Saketa, Kosambi and Varanasi. Let the Exalted One die in one of them.’ But the master refuted this: ‘Say not so, Ananda … long ago, this Kusinara, Ananda, was the royal city of King Maha Sudarshan, under the name of Kusavati.’ Buddha the island-man would prefer to die in a secluded town.
Shortly before his death, Buddha again underlines that he did not want anyone to claim the mantle of leadership: ‘It may be, Ananda, that in some of you the thought may arise: “The word of the master is ended, we have no teacher any more!” But it is not thus, Ananda, that you should regard it. The Dhamma, and the Rules of the Order, which I have set forth and laid down for you all, let them, after I am gone, be the Teacher to you.’
Having said the last word as the dhamma-man, the master enunciates his final message: ‘Work out your salvation with diligence!’ These were the last words of the Tathagat.
Buddha was a teacher, a preacher; he had something new to say. He had an original intellectual framework. But Buddha was the last man to set himself up as a guru, or a prophet. He gives his listeners astonishing existential independence. He is saying, in effect, ‘I have given you thoughts to chew over; now it is your freedom to find the best way for yourself to tackle the questions and goals I have proposed. Work out your salvation with diligence! Fare well and good luck!’
The nameless ancient historian describes the further progress: ‘Then the Exalted One entered into the first stage of [what the translator calls] ‘Rapture’. And rising out of the first stage he passed into the second. And rising out of the second he passed into the third. And rising out of the third stage he pa
ssed into the fourth. And rising out of the fourth stage of rapture he entered into the state of mind to which the infinity of space alone is present.’ Further progress is depicted: ‘He fell into a state between consciousness and unconsciousness. And passing out of the state between consciousness and unconsciousness he fell into a state in which consciousness both of sensations and of ideas had wholly passed away.’ A mesmerizing passage with its incantatory repetitions, and the sense of gradual ascension, ending with a serene stillness. At any rate, much more evocative than simply saying, ‘he fell into a coma’.
The quarrel with the world ended, and the luminous, singular island finally submerged into the waveless deep.
Epilogue
‘Oh, so you are writing a book about Buddha?’
‘Buddha, yes.’
‘Don’t you think that Buddha is too much of a male god, sir?’
‘That’s a misconception. And, by the way, Buddha is not a god’
‘Okay, but …’
‘Buddha in his lifetime did care about the bhikshunis, the nuns of his order.’ And then there is the goddess Tara … You don’t have a god, but you have a goddess, so to speak.’
‘Goddess Tara? Never heard of her.’
‘I admit that no one knows her much in the western part of India. She is mainly a goddess of the far north, Tibet, Nepal, and those regions.’
‘Then, why did that happen may I ask?’
‘You see, Tara, when she came upon the scene, did not become popular in central India. But she found a home in the northern parts. Especially Tibet. One book tells us, the Tibetans find with this goddess a personal and enduring relationship unmatched by any other single deity.’