by Donald Lopez
Then King Candraprabha stopped the goddesses of the pleasure-park: ‘Please, goddesses, do not hinder the supplicant who wants my head. And why is that? In former times, goddesses, a goddess hindered a supplicant who wanted my head. That goddess begat a lot of demerit. Why? If that goddess had not caused a hindrance, then I would have attained the highest knowledge very quickly. This is why I say to you – do not hinder the supplicant who wants my head! In this very Maṇiratnagarbha pleasure-park of yours, I have given away my head thousands of times, and no one has ever hindered me. Therefore, goddesses, do not hinder the supplicant who wants my head. Moreover, goddesses, this is the very spot where I sacrificed myself to a tigress and thus outdistanced Maitreya, who had set out for buddhahood forty aeons before. Maitreya bodhisattva was outdistanced by a single gift of my head!’
Then the goddesses, perceiving the great majesty of King Candraprabha, indicated their supreme faith in the king by remaining silent.
Then King Candraprabha proceeded to make a vow in the proper manner: ‘Listen, you deities, demons, garuḍas, gandharvas and kiṃnaras who inhabit and dwell in the ten directions! Here, in this pleasure-park, I will make a gift. This gift will be a gift of my own head. And I will give up my own head not for the sake of kingship, not for the sake of heaven, not for the sake of wealth, not to become Śakra [the king of the gods], not to become Brahmā, not for the victory of a universal emperor, and not for anything else. But having attained complete and perfect awakening, I will tame beings who are wild, pacify beings who are violent, rescue beings who are in danger, liberate beings who are not liberated, comfort beings who are troubled, and bring to nirvāṇa beings who have not attained nirvāṇa.
‘By these true words of truth, may this exertion bear fruit! And when I have attained nirvāṇa, may there be relics the size of fruit from the mustard tree! And in the middle of this Maṇiratnagarbha pleasure-park, may there be a great stūpa, more excellent than any other stūpa! And may those beings who go with pure bodies to the great holy site, wishing to worship it, feel at ease when they see that stūpa, full of relics and more excellent than any other stūpal And when I have attained nirvāṇa, may crowds of people come to my holy sites, perform acts of worship, and be destined for heaven or liberation!’
Having made his vow in the proper manner, he grabbed a branch of the campaka tree and said to the brahmin Raudrākṣa: ‘Come, great brahmin, take it! Do not hinder me!’
Then King Candraprabha brought forth the strength and power of his own body, gave rise to a thought of benevolence and compassion towards the brahmin, and cut off his own head, giving it to the brahmin Raudrākṣa. He died, went beyond the realm of Brahmaloka, and, because of his excellence, was reborn among the Śubhakṛtsna gods.
As soon as King Candraprabha had given away his head, innumerable thousands of world-spheres three times quivered, quavered and quaked; shivered, shuddered and shook; twittered, tremored and trembled. And the deities in the sky began to throw down heavenly flowers such as lotuses, water lilies, white lotuses and heavenly māndāraka flowers, as well as aloe powder, tagara powder, sandalwood powder and tamāla leaves. They played heavenly musical instruments and shook their clothes about.
Then the brahmin Raudrākṣa came out of the pleasure-park, holding on to the head. And many hundreds of thousands of beings let out a roar: ‘Alas! The lord who fulfils the wishes of all people has been killed!’
Then some of them wandered and roamed around on the ground, some cried out with their arms flailing, some wept with their hair dishevelled, and many hundreds of thousands of beings gathered. Then some of them, sitting in that very spot, gave rise to the meditative trances, died right there, and were reborn among the Śubhakṛtsna gods, in the same category as King Candraprabha. Others gave rise to the meditative trances, died right there, and were reborn among the Ābhāsvara gods. Others gave rise to the first meditative trance, died, and were reborn as inhabitants of Brahmaloka. Others gathered together, made a pile out of all kinds of fragrant wood, and cremated King Candraprabha’s body. They put the burned bones in a golden urn, erected a relic stūpa at a great crossroads, put up umbrellas, flags and banners, and worshipped it with incense, garlands, perfumes, lamps and flowers. They each conceived faith in King Candraprabha, died, and were reborn among the six classes of Kāmāvacara gods. And all those who worshipped there became intent upon heaven or liberation.
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‘O monks,’ the Buddha concluded, ‘you may have doubt and uncertainty and think that some other place was the capital city called Bhadraśilā in the Northern Country at that time. You should not think thus. Why? It is this very city of Takṣaśilā that was the capital city called Bhadraśilā at that time.
‘O monks, you may have doubt and uncertainty and think that someone else was the king named Candraprabha at that time. You should not think thus. Why? It was I myself who was King Candraprabha at that time.
‘O monks, you may have doubt and uncertainty and think that someone else was the brahmin named Raudrākṣa at that time. You should not think thus. Why? It was Devadatta himself who was the brahmin named Raudrākṣa at that time.
‘O monks, you may have doubt and uncertainty, and think that others were the chief ministers Mahācandra and Mahīdhara at that time. You should not think thus. Why? It was Śāriputra and Maudgalyāyana themselves who were the chief ministers Mahācandra and Mahīdhara at that time. At that time, too, they died without going to the realm of the ancestors.’
Thus spoke the Blessed One. Delighted, the monks, gods, nāgas, yakṣas, gandharvas, asuras, garuḍas, kiṃnaras, maho-ragas and so forth rejoiced at what the Blessed One had said.
Translated by Reiko Ohnuma from Candraprabhāvadāna, Divyāvadāna 22, in Edward B. Cowell and Robert A. Neil (eds.), The Divyävadāna: A Collection of Early Buddhist Legends (Amsterdam: Oriental Press, 1970; orig. pub. Cambridge, 1886), pp. 314–28.
19
RŪPYĀVATĪ GIVES AWAY HER BREASTS
There are stories of the Buddha’s past lives as an animal (a rabbit, a deer, a fish), and stories of the Buddha’s past lives as a male human (as an ascetic, a merchant, a prince, or a king). But stories of the past lives of the Buddha in which the bodhisattva is a woman are exceedingly rare. This is one of them. Like the story of King Candraprabha in the previous chapter, in which the king gives away his head, this is also a story of generosity. And like that story, this is a story of the gift of the body. Here, however, the bodhisattva’s gift does not result in her death. Instead, she lives, and undergoes two remarkable transformations.
The story appears in a fifth-century Sanskrit collection of jātakas or stories of the Buddha’s former lives, by one Haribhaṭṭa, entitled the Jātakamālā (Garland of Birth Stories). It lacks the framing narratives at the beginning and the end, in which the Buddha recalls a story from the past at the outset and then provides the present identity of the cast of characters at the conclusion. But the text states at the end that this is a story of how the Buddha (referred to as Bhagavan or ‘Lord’) gave away his flesh.
Here the bodhisattva is a beautiful young woman named Rūpyāvatī, who lives in a land struck by famine. She encounters a destitute woman who is so hungry that she is about to devour her newborn son. Rūpyāvatī pleads with her not to do so. When the woman refuses, Rūpyāvatī is at a loss for a moment: if she leaves to get food, the woman will kill the child before she can return, if she takes the child away from the woman, the woman will die of starvation. There is no way for her to save them both. Reflecting in a Buddhist way on the impermanence of the human body – that it has no ‘essence’ – she determines to extract some use from it. In an act of high symbolic meaning, she takes a knife and cuts off her own breasts and gives them to the woman, providing her with food that she might feed her child. Her horrific wounds are not fatal, and she returns home, where she instructs her husband to provide a supply of food to the woman. Her husband then performs an ‘act of truth’ (see also Chapter 27), a ki
nd of oath, whose power is derived from the truth of the statement. As a result of her husband’s act, Rūpyāvatt’s breasts are restored. (The restoration of a body part that has been given away is a common element of stories of the gift of the body.)
Śakra (also known as Indra), the king of the gods, then appears on the scene, in disguise. Knowing that the cause for rebirth as the king of the gods is an act of extraordinary generosity, he is concerned to determine whether Rūpyāvatt’s motivation in cutting off her breasts was to displace him from his heavenly throne. He is relieved to learn that her goal is only to achieve buddhahood for the sake of others. And to prove her aspiration, she herself performs an act of truth, asking that she become a male. She is transformed on the spot, with the (second) loss of her breasts, one of the signs of her womanhood, vividly described in verse. Shortly thereafter, the king of the city passes away without an heir, and the young Rūpyāvata (the masculine form of Rūpyāvatī) is made king. He rules beneficently until his death aged sixty, preaching to his people the virtues of generosity.
The story of Rūpyāvatī, told here in a mixture of poetry and prose, raises a host of questions concerning Buddhist attitudes to the body and to gender.
Even as a woman,
The bodhisattva cut the flesh from her own body
And gave it away.
How much more did he do so as a man,
For a man is superior in goodness and strength
And better at achieving the welfare of others.
According to tradition, there was once a capital city called Utpalāvatī – bounded by manifold verdant gardens, its streets and markets full of merchants displaying their wares, adorning the country of Gāndhāra like an ornament worn by the earth. This is the city that is now called Puṣkalāvatī.
And there, the bodhisattva was a woman named Rūpyāvatī – beautiful, bright and charming, with all the advantages of early youth, like a goddess dwelling in her own house.
Her peaceful nature,
Her eagerness to help others,
And her sharp intellect
Were a source of great wonder to people.
She seemed the very incarnation of compassion.
Now, at that time, due to its diminishing roots of merit, the country was experiencing a great and terrible famine. The burning heat of the sun failed to melt the Himalayan snow sufficiently, and because of this the rain dried up. Without any rain, the fields withered away, as the farmers looked on dejectedly. Seeing their storerooms and treasuries become empty, the people became depressed, and their desire for guests went unfulfilled. Thin herds of cows – their ranks thinned by death – wandered around, followed by emaciated cowherds. The country was full of starving people desperate for food, like a meeting-hall for wicked men.
The heavy breasts of the young women,
Which normally resembled shiny water-pots
With tiny, lovely nipples,
Now gave up their firmness,
Due to a lack of food.
Most of the women had become extremely thin
And lost their clear complexions.
Their eyes were hollow
And their jewellery neglected.
Their faces, which had formerly put to shame the night-destroying moon,
Were now covered with rough, dry hair.
They no longer arched their brows playfully,
Nor did they break into smiles.
A housewife smeared the inside of her house with mud,
Gave stale food to her child
And saw her husband stricken with hunger.
But she herself no longer even cared.
A cow came to the housewife’s house,
Acting as though she had been banished from the forest, for her calf had died.
The folds at her throat trembled with pitiful cries,
And her eyes overflowed with tears.
When cows have no grass to eat,
They gradually become weak,
And their gait becomes sluggish.
Their udders become lax,
And their milk disappears.
Confused and weakened a cowherd
Grabbed on to the tail of a withered and emaciated cow,
Her bones and joints clearly visible.
He bit into her hindquarters and somehow threw her down.
With their food and drink all gone and their herds of cows dead,
With their pale bodies dressed in old, ragged clothes,
The people who had gone to live in that country
Were [now] unable to escape from their home.
Now Rūpyāvatī, at one time, saw a female servant at some place. Because of the difficulty of having just given birth, her body burned with the scorching hot fire of hunger. Her cheeks, eyes, belly and other bodily cavities were sunken and depressed, and her ribs were clearly visible. Her body was dressed in filthy and decrepit clothing. Because she valued only the love of herself and had lost any feeling for her offspring, she was about to devour her very own child.
Seeing her, Rūpyāvatī said to her: ‘Sister, why do you wish to commit this extremely vile deed?’
The woman thought to herself: ‘This woman Rūpyāvatī is indeed generous and compassionate by nature. Therefore, if I tell her what I intend to do, surely she will remedy my hunger.’
Thinking this, she said: ‘Yes, sister, it’s true: my body is afflicted by the fire of hunger, made even worse by having just given birth. Therefore, I intend to devour my son.’
Look, indeed, how she shows hatred even for her own child!
For the self-love of beings does not see right and wrong!
Then Rūpyāvatī, her lotus-eyes cloudy with tears incited by her compassion, said to the woman:
‘O merciless woman!
Your baby’s great anguish is obvious
From the extent of his pitiful wails
And his tangled, knotted hair.
How can you ignore your son,
Whose eyes are as beautiful as those of a baby deer?
‘With his ringlets bouncing and shaking about,
And his eyelashes full of soil and dust –
Kind-hearted women feel love for a baby,
Even if he’s the son of another.
‘Why won’t you look at the face of your child?
He babbles and chortles.
His eyes are wide open, and a ceremonial mark
Has already been made on his forehead.
The bud of his lower lip quivers with a smile.
‘What woman would not wish to see her child [grow into a boy?]–
Sitting on a toy horse and holding a whip, his black ringlets flying,
Childishly pretending he’s on a real horse,
His rows of brilliant teeth, like little buds,
Glittering with laughter.
‘Even when afflicted with hunger,
A mother crow cares for and nourishes her young,
Who follow her around with their faces lifted up
And their beaks wide open,
Longing for food and uttering a thin cry.
So how much more should a virtuous woman do so!
‘When people hear that you have murdered your son out of rage, they could banish you from the country like a demoness! So please abstain from this reckless deed!
‘Having eaten your son,
Like a tigress who devours a baby deer,
How will you eat flaming iron balls [in hell],
O wicked woman?’
She replied: ‘What can I do, sister? For I cannot bear this fire of hunger that afflicts my entire body!’
Then Rūpyāvatī thought thus: ‘If I take this child and go, then surely this woman will die. But if I go to get some food to appease her hunger, then she’ll kill the child [while I am gone].
‘Stupidly doing something that is useless and inopportune
Only causes a person exhaustion.
Why carry a parasol
Once the sun’s bright light has set?
‘But this here is an opportunity. I will satisfy this woman by means of my own flesh!
‘I must extract the essence
From this crumbling, essenceless body,
As if I were plucking a piece of fruit
From a tree hanging on to a river bank,
Its roots flying to and fro
And being lashed by the current.’
Then the woman again spoke: ‘Sister, please go! I cannot get this child ready [to eat] in front of you!’
Then Rūpyāvatī said to her: ‘Wait a moment. First, bring me a knife, if you have one here.’ And the woman brought Rūpyāvatī a knife.
Then Rūpyāvatī cut off her breasts with the sharp knife,
Like two golden water-pots gushing with blood.
She gave them to the starving young woman,
Unconcerned with the suffering of her own body.
Those who are indifferent to their own suffering
Remove the suffering of living beings.
For they are troubled by the suffering of others,
But not by the suffering of themselves.
Then, having given both breasts to the woman, Rūpyāvatī went back into her own house.
The charming belt and garment on her beautiful body
Were stained with blood that had gushed forth from her severed breasts.
She looked like a golden image
That has been worshipped with saffron powder.
Then Rūpyāvatī’s husband jumped out of his chair and asked her in confusion:
‘O beautiful wife,
What horrible person
Has cut the breasts from your beautiful body, like a demon?’
She told her husband what had happened and then said: ‘Quickly, husband, we must give food and drink to this woman, whose fire of hunger has been aggravated by giving birth.’ And Rūpyāvatī’s husband, with a startled mind, agreed.