The Chief Disciples Sāriputta and Moggallāna Adapted from Saddharmaratnawaliya and The Jatakas One hundred thousand aeons ago, a wealthy young brahmin leaves the household, seeking a way out of death and decay. Later his following, seventy four thousand in all, attain arahantship on hearing Buddha Anomadassi, while he himself impressed by the Buddha’s Chief disciple, Nisamba, aspires to be one too, urging his best friend to strive for the place of the second chief disciple. After many wandering in the worlds of gods and men, of beasts and Nāgas, perfecting all along the pāramis they achieved this goal in Gauthama Buddha’s sāsana as Sāriputta and Moggallāna. Preface. It seemed a pity that a book like Saddharnaratanavaliya should be confined only to readers highly proficient in the Sinhala Language. Having searched far and wide for a translation, and finding none, I decided to labour somehow to understand, even with difficulty, the high flown and somewhat archaic Sinhala, in which it is written, for the sake of its priceless contents; and did so. The challenge has been rewarding. Then came the urge to adapt some of this great work for the benefit of the non-Sinhala readers, that they too may gain from its true and inspirational narrations; and giving pride of place to the two most revered personages, I started on the ‘Chief Disciples’. If I have done wrong in not having applied to the venerable writers of Saddharnaratanavaliya and the Jatakas may I be forgiven. When I say that I have enjoyed writing this ageless history of Arahants Sāriputta and Moggallāna, I mean not the usual mundane pleasure of reading or writing novels; but a joy deep and spiritual. It is my earnest desire that my readers too would experience that same joy when reading it. Sāriputta and Moggallāna Lord Buddha had just named Sāriputta and Moggallāna as his chief disciples: Sāriputta, as foremost in wisdom, and second to none but the Omniscient One Himself, and Moggallāna as being foremost in mental powers (irdhi) and second to none but the Omniscient One Himself. This made some disciples – some non arahants – to murmur among themselves, “It is their clan, and the regal appearance,” said one. “And, perhaps the clear complexion and stature,” said another. “They have been favoured.” “He has overlooked Kondañña the first arahant and first to realise Nibbana and Yasa thero who brought fifty five followers to the sāsana.” “And then there are the Baddavaggiya friends and also the three Kassapa brothers, Uruwela, Nadi and Gaya Kassapa with a retinue of a thousand. He overlooked all of them and chose those last two arahants to be chief disciples! A position to be coveted by many!” The monks saw nothing but favoritism here. Lord Buddha, the omniscient one, knew their minds; and with his divine ear, heard what they were saying. But as was the practice with the Buddhas, He asked them, “What is it, O’ bikkhus that you are discussing?” They told Him. “No, not so bikkhus,” said the master. “None of those who preceded Sāriputta and Moggallāna into my sāsana had aspired to be chief disciples. What they aspired to, they came to be, like Aññakondañña who had wished to be the first arahant to attain Nibbana in a Buddha sāsana.” The congregation then wanted to know all about it, and Lord Buddha began: “It was during the time of Buddha Vipassi. Our Kondañña was then known as Chulakāla. He had discovered, after having plucked and tasted a tender ear of rice, that rice was sweetest when still tender and he wished to have rice pudding made of tender rice to offer to the Buddha. But his elder brother would not hear of it. So he had the tender ears of paddy in his half share of the field only, plucked, the rice extracted, and the pudding cooked with pure milk enriching it further with ghee, and sweetening more with juggery and honey. This he offered to Vipassi Buddha and his retinue of one thousand and sixty eight disciples, and wished that by the merit of having offered the foremost of his crops to the Buddha, that he be the foremost to attain Nibbana in a Buddha Sāsana. A wonderful phenomenon resulted from this action! - Chulakāla’s crops had not suffered one bit from having been so prematurely gathered. Greatly impressed by this wondrous effect of the offering made to the Buddha and His disciples, Chulakāla made similar offerings from the same crops eight times over; all amounting to nine, and made the same wish.” With unwavering zeal did he pursue his wish through saṁsāra, and during the time of Piyamatura Buddha, offered meals (dāna) to the Buddha and his retinue again through seven consecutive days, making the same wish. And now, in my sāsana he has realized his wish. He was the first to gain Nibbana. It was not my doing. It was as he had wished for; and so it is with the others. They all got what they had aspired to.” Lord Buddha (when being asked), narrated what the others had wished for in previous existences, and ended recounting the true story of his chief disciples. “One hundred thousand innumerable aeons previously,” Lord Buddha began, “Sāriputta was born to the highest caste of brahmins, known as the Mahasals. His name was Sarada then. Moggallāna was born to a great family of the Govi caste. His name was Sirivadu. The families had more wealth than they knew what to do with, and the parents on their demise, left all of it to the sons who were also very close friends.” “The death of the parents made Sarada reflect. They had left behind enormous wealth as could feed several generations – Such great wealth; but they had taken away nothing.” “I know only this world,” thought Sarada, “nothing of the next. Death is as certain in life as in birth. It is well therefore for me to search for a state free of death; free of decay; free of suffering. I must, therefore, leave the household.” With his mind made up, he went to see his friend Sirivadu, and told him of his decision. “Are you coming with me?” he asked. “Not for me, the ascetic life,” was the answer. The friend’s answer set the young brahmin to contemplate further. “No friend, no relation or loved one accompanies one beyond the grave. It is only one’s merits or demerits that follow. Why should I want anyone, even my best friend, to come away with me now, when he cannot, after all, walk with me beyond the grave? I will go by myself.” And so he did. He let open the doors of his treasuries; to let whoever desired it have it; but the treasury was not one that could be emptied easily – not in a day; not in a week or month; or by several people – not even by tens, hundreds or thousands of greedy people. Relinquishing all this wealth, Sarada set off to the Himalayas, and the word spread far and wide. A particular acquaintance of his, sat contemplating Sarada’s renunciation. “It must be for a greater treasure that he left all this wealth,” thought he. “I must find out what it is.” He too left the household and joined Sarada in the Himalayas. Then a second left his home and joined them; and a third, and a fourth. Very soon, his following grew to seventy four thousand! Sarada, was now an ascetic complete with the five super powers (panca abiñña) and the eight attainments (ashta samāpatti.) These he had attained in his previous lives too, and on the first day of his renunciation, when he placed on his head, his joined hands to take the ascetic vows, all of what he had practised in his previous lives awakened, and the super powers and attainments recurred that very instant! (So intense had been his one pointedness of mind) He instructed his followers, as and when they joined him, on how to practise concentration, or kasina bhavana and all seventy four thousand ascetics under Sarada, became fully accomplished in the five super powers and eight attainments. That was the time when Buddha Anomadassi had come to be. His two chief male disciples were known as Nisamba and Anoma. His two chief female disciples were Sundarā and Sumanā by name and the chief attendant was Varuna. His father was King Yasawath, and Queen Yasodara, his mother. The life-span of a human then was one hundred thousand years; The Buddha had a constant retinue of one hundred thousand bikkhus. One day Buddha Anomadassi, on following the ancient practice of all Buddhas, of entering Mahā Karunā Samāpatti Gnāna, perceived with his divine eye, ascetic Sarada. “If I go today,” thought the Buddha, “I can shed a great shower of Dhamma there. All of Sarada’s retinue with their five super powers and eight attainments, will attain arahantship. Furthermore, Sarada will aspire to be a chief disciple. I should, therefore go now.” And he went, gliding through the clouds like a fleck of cotton in the wind, determining that this great ascetic, well learned in all the Vedas, should know a Buddha by his physiognomy, descended in a twinkling towards Sarada’s hut, and stood before Sarada dazzling in Buddha glory. Sarada knew at once, that this was none other than the Buddha Himself, and walked reverently towards Him; he then prostrated humbly at His feet and worshipped the Buddha with utmost veneration. Buddha Anomadassi, having accepted the seat offered Him was sitting like a blending of several moons all shining together, when the seventy four thousand ascetics returned from gathering fruit. A strange seating arrangement met their eyes. Very high was the seat the Buddha was sitting on compared to where their teacher sat – and looking very humble too! “What is this sir?” One of them voiced what all were thinking. “We thought there was none on earth who could be compared to our teacher. But now we see how lowly you sit, and doubt fills the heart. Could there be anyone upon on this earth who could be greater than you our master? Who could take a seat higher than our teacher’s?” “What say you my sons, if a mustard seed can be compared to the Mahameru, then, that mustard seed am I. No, not even so! Not just one Mahameru. If all the Mahamerus in the universe were to be placed one top of the other, I would yet be less than a mustard seed beside them all. Such is Buddha’s goodness!” “So it is,” they thought – doubt dispelled. The seventy four thousand ascetics, pupils of Sarada, fully fledged in super mental powers and attainments, worshipped the Buddha. When they had thus paid homage to the Omniscient one, their teacher addressed them more. “We should now wait upon the Buddha as best we can. The fruits you have brought were meant for us and they are not a fit offering to a Buddha. So go ye back to the forest and fetch for him the sweetest of fruits that could ever be found in the Himalayas – as sweet as the Dhamma a Buddha preaches.” And so they went like lightening (by power of irdhi) and were back again with fruits as sweet as nectar. The great ascetic, Sarada, then washed and wiped his hands and offered them to the Buddha. The repast over, master and pupils all sat down in readiness to hear the Dhamma. The Buddha then wished that his two chief disciples and his one hundred thousand attendant bikkhus should join him. He had only to wish for it to be felt and they all came flitting through the sky – a sight more magnificent than the retinue swans of the swan King Datarashtra himself. Having arrived – as quick as lightening, and yet perfectly calm and serene, they worshipped The Buddha and stood respectfully aside. Once again, ascetic Sarada addressed his pupils. “My sons,” he began, “The seat we have offered to the Buddha, is far too low for a being such as He. Nor do we have seats for His retinue. We must treat our noble visitors well. It is our bounden duty to do so. So go ye back to the Himalayan forest and bring here the most fragrant flowers.” No sooner was this said than done; seats of soft flowers and petals were soon prepared. They varied in height. The highest seat was for the Buddha, and the lowest to the junior most bikkhu. Even this lowest seat was very high indeed! How could a simple hermitage accommodate such large number as a hundred thousand and one? And in such magnificent seats too? Such was the power of erdi the ascetics had; not for a moment, though, would they have used such powers for personal convenience. With the following words, Sarada thapasa now invited the Buddha and his retinue to take their seats. “That I may long benefit through my sojourn in saṁsāra, may the Buddha and the Saṅgha, accept this offering of seats.” When all were seated, Sarada stood behind the omniscient one, holding seven large flowers over His head as a parasol; the Buddha then entered Nirodha Samapatti, so as to make this offering of the ascetics be of much merit; the saṅgha too entered Nirodha Samapatti (which lasts seven days). Through all seven days, Sarada thāpasa moved not an inch from his place behind the Buddha where He stood holding the parasol of flowers over Him. What sustained him through all seven days was joy – the joy of being thus able to attend on the Buddha. The rest partook of a fruit when mealtimes came, but lived mostly on the pure joy of knowing the Buddha. The seven days soon over, Buddha Anomadassi bade His chief disciple sitting on his right hand side to give a discourse on the merit of offering flowers. Very willingly and confidently did the arahant acquiesce and address the assembly, speaking with the easy grace of a Buddha Himself! At the end of it, the Buddha asked His second chief disciple on his left to address the congregation. At the end of a most enlightening discourse from him too, the Buddha Himself began to speak. Of the six unique knowledges of a Buddha, knowing the minds of his listeners, and what exactly they needed to be told for their pāramis to blossom, is one of them. With this knowledge, He discoursed; the ascetics listened with holy calm; their minds concentrated. At the end of it, all of them were arahants with their minds as pure as gold unalloyed. But not so their teacher, Sarada! (The discourse of course, had not been meant for him.) Sarada’s mind had been too full of wonder at the Buddha’s chief disciple, and the easy and confident grace with which he expounded. The words flowed effortlessly from his lips, and Sarada began to wish that he too could be like that. Sarada’s mind filled with wishing that he too could be like this one for a future Buddha, and as such his mind had not the concentration his pupils had. At the end of the discourse Sarada approached the Buddha – as fast as decorum would let him – and after worshipping Him most reverently, asked, “Who is it sir, who was seated on Your right hand side and expounded the Dhamma with such ease and grace? What place does he hold in your sāsana?” The Buddha smiled, “It is no simple place that he holds; he is my chief disciple; second only to me in wisdom. My right hand disciple is he, and is well able to impart the Dhamma – as well as I. He had practised the pāramis through innumerable aeons to achieve this goal.” “If that be so, O Lord, may I also, by the merit of having offered You a flowery shade, held by me as a parasol over you through seven consecutive days become one day, the chief-most disciple, foremost in wisdom, and like the right hand to a future Buddha. I wish for no other glory; not the glory of being Sakka, or a Brahma. May I be a chief disciple like Nisamba Thero, and be able to teach the Dhamma as well as he did today. I wish not to sojourn long Sir in saṁsāra, so may it not be more than one hundred thousand aeons.” Lofty was his wish; as lofty as himself! Buddha Anomadassi looked into the future. Yes. Sarada had enough character to realize his aspiration; and so he said, “Your wish will certainly be realized in a hundred thousand aeons from now, in the time of Buddha Gauthama. His lay name will be Siddhartha. His son will be Rāhula, and Ānanda his chief attendant. The second chief disciple will be Mugalan; and you yourself will, as Sāriputta, be His right hand disciple, foremost in wisdom.” Having made this prediction, the Buddha rose and departed, and Sarada went in search of his friend. Sirivadu, happy to see Sarada after a long lapse of time, offered him a suitable seat. Then, sitting himself on a lower seat asked, “Where sir, is your retinue today?” “Dear Sirivadu, Buddha Anomadassi has been visiting us. He has only just departed. We were as hospitable to Him and his one hundred thousand attendant bikkhus as was within our power to do. The Buddha treated my retinue to the sweet nectar of the Dhamma, for having brought for Him sweet fruit from the forest. They all attained arahantship, and are gone with Him. He revealed to me that I would be the chief disciple of a future Buddha called Siddhartha. Please my friend, make an aspiration that you should be the second chief disciple to the same Buddha.” “But how can I? I don’t even know the Buddha.” “I do. Do you prepare the alms; I’ll do the inviting.” Thus urged by the friend, Sirivadu had a very large extent of land cleared, leveled, and covered thickly with white sand. He then sprinkled jasmines over it. There, he erected the most exquisite alms-hall which surpassed even the ‘Sudam’ (the hall of the gods of Thavathimsa). The seats ranged in height according to the seniority of the bikkhus expected with the highest lined with blue lotus petals for the Buddhha; two seats, a little less high were for the chief disciples, and the lowest, low only in comparison, but otherwise quite high indeed, was for the youngest bikkhu. They all glistened like thrones in the beautifully lit hall. Having completed these arrangements, Sirivadu called on his friend to invite the Buddha. The omniscient one and his one hundred thousand bikkhus arrived, conducted by Sarada and most respectfully received by Sirivadu, who, taking the Buddha’s alms-bowl in hand, ushered the venerable company to the alms-hall. The meal ended, offering of robes and other gifts followed. At the end of it all, Sirivadu, with hands clasped humbly before him, spoke. “By no means little, Sir, is what I desire as reward for this offering of mine. Therefore, may the Buddha and his disciples, out of compassion for me, endure to receive alms at my house this whole week.” The Buddha conceded, and with quiet joy Sirivadu attended on the august visitors, offering them the choicest of delicacies that could ever be found. At the end of the week, he voiced his wish. “By the strength of this merit of mine Sir, may I be the second chief disciple of the Buddha, to whom my friend Sarada is going to be the first.” Buddha Anomadassi, looking into the future with His divine eye, and seeing the certainty of the wish being fulfilled, revealed to all present that at the end of a hundred thousand aeons he, Sirivadu, will be the second chief disciple of the Buddha Gauthama. The two friends, pleased at the prospect of being chief disciples together, busied themselves in the wholesome task of practising the perfections. They often met in their journey through saṁsāra, always the best of friends – in heaven or earth, in animal or human form; and in the world of Nāgas too – striving always for perfection. Their final appearance on earth was as the sons of two extremely wealthy brahmins bearing the names of the villages they headed – Upatissa Gāma and Kolitha Gāma. Both were blessed with exceptional wisdom which they had cultivated through aeons, and in a very short time completed their education, learning all and everything that was to be learnt in the world; they were as close as good friends ever could be. They went about together sporting, often in park or river, each accompanied by five hundred young men - Upatissa’s companions in five hundred palanquins and Kolitha’s in five hundred horse carriages. The horses knew exactly where the masters wished to go. There used to be at that time, a concert called Giriggasamajja held annually, thus named for it having been held in the shade of a rock or on the top of it. The friends never missed this show. They sat, each beside the other and enjoyed themselves wholeheartedly empathising with all the changing emotions displayed. When it came to giving, they gave liberally. There came a day, though, when neither could enjoy the performances. Both, silent and deep in thought were contemplating. They were contemplating, separately, on the futility of sense pleasures. “As transient as pictures traced on the sands are they,” thought Upatissa. “Soon to be washed off by the rolling waves. They only help lengthen saṁsāra. I must look for a way out of this tangled mess – a way out of this trap of worldly pleasures and the entailing suffering – of birth, death and decay.” At the end of the show, Kolitha was the first to speak. “What is it my friend, that makes you look so grave? You are different today. Please tell me the reason.” Upatissa told him. “Exactly what I was thinking myself,” was the rejoinder. “Vain are pursuits of pleasures. They are transient; void; coreless; and invitations to suffering. We must find a way out. We must find Nibbāna.” But, it could not be done in the household. They had to leave. They needed a teacher. Who could it be? There was at that time, an ascetic called Sanjaya. He was very popular, and had a large following. They decided to go to him. Two hundred and fifty of Upatissa’s companions and two hundred and fifty of Kolitha’s companions took the chariots and palanquins back. The rest went with the two friends, and under Sanjaya Paribrājaka, they all took up ascetic vows. Within a few days Upatissa and Kolitha had learnt all there was to be learnt from the famous teacher. “Is this all you have to teach us sir? Or is there more?” “You have been taught without reserve all I know.” The friends were disappointed. There was no point in staying there any longer. “There is no Nibbāna here,” they said. “We must leave.” They went walking all over India looking for one who could help them in their quest. But the search seemed vain; though India was not wanting in religious teachers then. They sojourned with some teachers hoping to be taught, or brought closer to what they were so earnestly seeking. But there being none among them wiser or more learned than Upatissa or Kolitha, or even their parallel, the friends found themselves retracing their steps to Sanjaya’s ārama dejected but undeterred. They were not giving up hope. Surely there must be, there had to be, someone who had realised Nibbāna, or if not, has at least found the right Path! Upatissa and Kolitha decided to resume their search. Of finding that someone, they were sure. This time they were to take different paths. Whichever of them who found Him first, was to come back for the other. With this promise made, they parted ways. Meanwhile, our Lord Buddha Gauthama had sent his first sixty arahants in sixty different directions on a Dhamma mission. He Himself had gone to Uruvela and returned with an added following of a thousand and more, and was residing at Veluvana Park gifted by King Bimbisāra. Arahant Assaji had also returned from his mission, and was going round for alms the following day when Upatissa spied him. Quite struck by the sight of this saintly samana, his measured steps, the slow unhurried walk, with eyes cast down, Upatissa began to follow him – at a respectful distance. Here was one who had stilled all fires! A myriad questions played on Upatissa’s lips, but the time was not right yet to speak. The saint was on his round for alms. Upatissa followed him slowly, patiently, respectfully – until he had got enough food and was looking for a place to sit. Gladly did Upatissa prepare a seat for him! Gladly did Upatissa fetch him water and attend to the numerous little duties of a pupil towards his teacher. The meal over, Upatissa felt free to speak. “Sir, your only sustenance is the food you receive as alms. Yet, your complexion is bright, Your eyes shine with quiet joy. They are signs of inner purity. Pray tell me please sir, who is your teacher? Where is he? Where does he reside? What is his doctrine? Where do you reside?” Staving this flood of questions, the arahant said, “ The Dhamma is deep; and I am new to the sāsana. I cannot therefore explain at length.” “You needn’t tire yourself with length sir, tell me in brief. Briefly is enough for me,” he pleaded. “I know I will understand,” he said with right good confidence in his own wisdom. “Those that arise due to a cause, that cause The Buddha expounds to all. Also the ceasing of such arising. These comprise the core of His Teachings.” Upatissa, blessed with a wisdom cultivated through aeons, needed to hear only the first two lines to know that with the removing of the cause the arising also ends. He was already a sotāpanna when the third and fourth lines were said. Upatissa understood the Dhamma, and through the Dhamma, he saw the Buddha! “I understand sir,” uttered he, with hands clasped before him in gratitude and veneration. “Tell me please sir, where is the Buddha now? Where is this Great Teacher of the law? - the law of cause and effect?” “He resides presently at Veluvana.” “I will come there this very day sir. I’ll come with my friend. I must hurry to him now for I have a promise made to him that I must now honour. I’ll be back soon.” So saying, Upatissa worshipped the arahant, walked three times clockwise round him, and took leave. From the look on Upatissa’s face Kolitha knew all he needed to know. “Well?” said he expectantly. Upatissa repeated the four lines he had heard from the Arahant Aññakondañña. At the end of it, Kolitha too was a sotāpanna. “Let us set out immediately,” he said eagerly. “We must hear the Teacher. We must see Him. I’m longing to see Him. Let us go now.” “Wait we must tell our teacher – our teacher of hitherto; it is our duty. He should understand the Dhamma as you and I have done. If not, he will understand when he hears the Buddha. Let us take him with us. Let us seek him now.” But Sanjaya could not be persuaded. Try as they would, with all arguments possible, Sanjaya would not budge an inch! “Who abound this world, tell me,” he said. “The wise or the fools? Fools far outnumber the wise, and they will come to me, and I’ll still be the master of a large retinue. You, of course, would go, for you have attained the fruit of Dhamma. I have spent too many years as a teacher, and I cannot be a pupil now.” The friends had no alternative but to leave without Sanjaya. All of Sanjaya’s following chose to join Upatissa and Kolitha and also two hundred and fifty of the five hundred companions who had come with them initially. Of all that had filled Sanjaya’s ārāma, only two hundred and fifty remained. Seeing his ārāma so reduced – contrary to his expectations – Sanjaya fell sick. He belched blood, and died. In Veluvana, when Upatissa and Kolitha came into view, Buddha Gauthama was sitting in His usual place expounding the Dhamma. Then, diverting the attention of His assembly to the approaching party, He said, “See you those two young paribrājakas coming towards us? They are my chief disciples.” The End The saṅgha so perfect in precept, Like Sāriputta and Moggallāna and the rest, At whose holy feet even Brahma prostrates, With hands on top I worship them. Sāriputta and Moggallāna with the Bodhisatta In Hattipala Jataka We know the circumstances which kindled in Sarada (Sāriputta) and Sirivadu (Moggallāna) the desire to be chief disciples. The merit they had by then accumulated was enough, and the time was ripe for them to aspire to such goals, as it had been enough for Sarada to have gained the five mental powers and attainments the moment he prepared to take ascetic vows. Nor was it the first time for Sirivadu to have been a brother ascetic with Sarada. It was all past life experience. The Jataka book XV gives another account of them where they come together with our Buddha in his Bodhisatta days. Though it is extremely difficult to trace their appearances in chronological order, the descriptions are most interesting and inspiring. In one life, they had been weavers in Baranes performing all manner of meritorious acts together with two other weavers – our Buddha himself in his Bodhisatta days and the great disciple Anuruddha. The four of them were in the habit of putting all their earnings together, and then, dividing it up to five instead of four shares. The extra share was to give away to the needy, in whatever form the need arose. Thus they passed their time, performing all manner of good and meritorious deeds, helping others at all times, living at peace with themselves, and the world. And when the time came for them to depart they were born, one after the other, in the heaven of the Thirty Three or Thāvathimsa. When their life-span (extending to many aeons) in Thāvathimsa ended, they were reborn in the higher heaven of Yama and after that in the next and the next. In this manner they entered and exited from one heaven to another, when once again, they returned to Thāvathimsa. At the time this story begins, the four gods, (the four good weavers of a former time) having ended their life-span in the heaven of the Thirty Three, had been on the verge of leaving to be born again in Yama heaven, when came an interruption. The king of Kasi in Banares, King Esukāri, was yearning for a son. King Esukāri, basking in splendor and glory, was a sad one. He had no son. He was good; he was generous and righteous; but want of a son marred his happiness. It would have comforted him somewhat, if his best friend, the chaplain, had one. But that was not so either. The chaplain was also childless. And so the two of them often sat together and mourned and contemplated. “What use is all this glory to me,” sighed the king, “when I have no son to bestow it on!” “Rightly said,” was the frequent reply. “What use is all my wealth to me, when I have none to bestow it on!” One such day, the king said to him, “If a son is born to you, I shall give him my kingdom. And, if a son is born to me, let him be the master of your wealth.” Agreed upon these terms, they spent their days, longing, for the king especially, to have a son. One day, when the chaplain was approaching his revenue village, he saw a poor woman walking by – very poor she looked, but not so poor of sons. She had seven of them altogether, going along with her, and looking quite hale and hearty too. One carried a pot and plate, another mat and bedding. One walked in front of her, and another walked behind. One, holding her finger, skipped and another sat on her hip. Yet another rode on her shoulder drumming upon a tin. The chaplain was astounded! “Such riches!” he thought, jumping off his carriage and striding towards the woman. “Where,” asked he, “is the father of these lads?” “They have no father for certain sir.” “How then did you get seven such fine lads?” She pointed to a banyan tree just outside the city gate. “I offered prayers to the tree-spirit there sir, and my prayers were answered.” He let go the woman and approached the tree. Then, taking hold of a branch, shook it vehemently. “What has the king failed to give thee, O divinity? That you should treat him so? Year after year, he gives you, a thousand pieces of gold! And what have you given him? Not a single son! What has the beggar wife given thee that you should give her seven sons? Gold? No. Silver? No. Copper? No, not possible, and yet you have given her seven sons. “Within these seven days, you shall grant the king a son,” he ordered, “or I shall have this abode of yours felled to the ground,” came a threat too. “I will have it cut at the roots and chopped up piecemeal!” Having made this uncommon mixture of prayer and threat, the chaplain returned to the chariot and rode away. This prayer cum warning was repeated day after day, for five days, and on the sixth day, grasping again a branch, he said, “Only one night is left, deity. If you don’t grant my king a son, down you come!” The goddess of the tree was disturbed. She reflected. “The brahmin means business. He will surely destroy my home, and where can I find another? But where can I find a son for the king, one worthy of such glory? It is one thing getting beggar boys for a beggar woman. But finding a crown prince for a king is quite another! Maybe the four great guardian kings can help.” Off she went to them. “We are quite unable to do that.” they said. She then approached the twenty eight war lords of the goblins, only to be told the same. She was in quite a predicament. She had to somehow save her tree, her home. But how could it be done? Made bold by anxiety, she went in search of Sakka himself, and related to him her plight. Sakka pondered for a while. “King Esukari is good and righteous.” he thought. “Great glory is his. Is there anyone in my kingdom worthy of such glory? I wonder?” He surveyed his kingdom and saw, not just one, but four! – the weavers of former times, now about to leave Thāvathimsa. Sakka had great respect for them, for even in heaven, they indulged not in sense pleasures, though such pleasures surrounded them. They conducted themselves more like ascetics than gods, with no evidence of sense desire at all. Now Sakka approached these four. “Holy sirs,” said he, “your life-span here is ending. You must go to the world of men. King Esukari, it seems, is greatly distressed as he has no sons. You should conceive in the womb of his chief consort.” “We shall go, my lord, to the world of humans,” they said in one voice, “if that be your wish. But we will have nothing to do with a royal house, or royal glory. We will conceive in the chaplain’s family, and while yet young, renounce the world. For that purpose the chaplain’s family is right.” Sakka thanked them for their promise, and returning to the tree-spirit, told her of the four gods. Very much relieved and thanking Sakka profoundly she returned to her abode. “My home will be safe after all,” she thought. The following day, there came the chaplain, with wood cutters well equipped with axe and all. He approached the tree, and seizing in his hand a branch, said, “Listen now, divinity of the tree. This is now the seventh day since I begged of you a favour. The time has now come to make good my word; the time has come for destruction!” The tree-goddess then showed herself seeming to have cleft the trunk to issue forth. “One son, brahmin? pooh! I shall give you four!” “I want no sons. Just give one to my king. That’s all I ask.” “Four it shall be, but not to the king. I shall give four sons to you.” “Then give two to the king, and two to me.” “No, I will give only to you. The king will have none. You must have all four. They do not wish to live in a worldly household, and while still young, they will renounce the world.” “Let me have the sons then, and I shall see to it that they do not renounce the world.” It was granted, and happily the deity returned to her dwelling. She was held in high esteem since then and ever after. Now the eldest god came down and was conceived in the womb of the brahmin wife. He was named Hattipāla, and entrusted to a family at the head of the elephant keepers as the chaplain’s house being occupied with religious ceremonies was not the place for boys needing to be kept in the house hold life. In their care the boy grew. When he was just learning to walk, a second son was born. He was named Assapāla and, for the same reason, placed in the care of a family heading those who kept horses. The third, who was to grow up with a family in charge of cattle farmers, was called Gopāla. The fourth and the last Ajapāla, was sent to be cared for by a family that supervised goatherds. And all grew up to be self assured and commanding young men. Meanwhile, for fear that they would renounce the world, all ascetics in the kingdom had been banished! Fifteen years passed in this manner, and Hattipāla was turning sixteen. Both chaplain and the king, were losing their complacency. “What are we to do now? When Hattipāla is appointed king and the ceremonial sprinkling done, he’ll become masterful. Ascetics will return to the kingdom, and they will please our sons. Eventually they will become ascetics too, and the country will be a mass of confusion. Let us test them first.” So the king and the chaplain both, disguised themselves as ascetics, and with bowl in hand went about seeking alms, arriving finally at the door where Hattipāla lived. The sight of ascetics delighted the lad, and approaching them with great respect, said, “At last I see a brahmin, like a god is he to me. With top knot, and feet all covered with dust, carrying only the requisite. At last I see a sage, who delights in what is right With robes of bark and yellow dress, he makes a pleasant sight. Let us wash your feet sirs, and please accept seats To offer food to holy guests delights my heart greatly.” And then the Chaplain said, “Son, Hattipāla, you speak like this because you do not know us. We are not what you think – not sages from the Himalayas. This is Esukāri, our king, and I, the chaplain, your father.” “Then why do you come all dressed up like this?” “To test you my son.” “Test me, for what?” “To see how you take to ascetics. Obviously, they please you very much. But do please come with us son. The King here, wishes to give you his crown. We will perform the ceremonials and with the sprinkling, make you king. Great glory will be yours.” “Oh no! Father, I want no royalty or glory. The ascetic life beckons me. I will renounce the world. I will leave the household life.” “First learn the Vedas my son, and get yourself a wife. Enjoy the pleasant things in life, my son, all the pleasures of life.” “In smell, in taste, and in every sense, the world is sweet to live. And when you are past your youth, my son, then, a sage you can be.” “Truth comes not from Vedas sir, nor does it come by gold. Nor will sons keep me from getting old, this, the wise men know In the next birth we reap, as now we sow for that end to achieve, I must now go.” Then, King Esukari took upon himself to persuade the boy. “What you say is true my lad, we reap in future as now we sow Your parents are very old now, but by their blessings may you live To be a hundred and more!” “For him who has befriended death,” said Hattipāla, “and with old age, a contract signed, For him who is free from all of these, your prayer for long life is right.” In this way the lad preached on. Neither king nor chaplain could persuade the boy to change his mind. By this time many hundreds had gathered round them to hear Hattipāla preach. “Even as I speak now,” he reminded his august visitors, “Sickness, old age and death are closing in. So you must be vigilant sirs,” he added, “And let me take my leave.” Having thus turned down a kingdom and all his father’s wealth, Hattipāla made haste to leave the house hold. All his attendants prepared to go with him. “The religious life must be a noble one,” whispered some others to one another – the ones who had been attracted there by the debate, “for Hattipāla to have turned down such glory, such honour, such wealth! What he’s bent on seeking must indeed be greater than all these! Greater than wealth; greater than fame; greater than kingship itself,” they thought, and decided to be led by the young sage. A great company of people young and old followed Hattipāla on his way to the banks of The Ganges. They extended to one league in length. Gazing upon the waters of The Ganges, Hattipāla concentrated and in a very short time developed the calm of ‘apo kasina’ (the element of water) and thereby the five mental powers, and the attainments. That did not take him much time. He taught his followers how to do the same, and waited for his brothers, parents, king, queen, attendants and all who, he knew, would soon be joining him. The king and the chaplain were quite shaken. It seemed to them that they had driven Hattipāla away. What could they do now, but seek Assapāla? May be they could persuade him. Yet, what the tree-god had said about the sons he would get was now weighing the chaplain down. He plucked up enough courage though, and together with the king, after donning themselves in ascetic clothes as before, went to see Assapāla. The sight of the ‘ascetics’ pleased Assapāla as much as it had his brother; and just like his brother, he exclaimed, “At last I see…………” But he soon came to know who they really were and the purpose of their visit. His spirits fell. “Where is my brother now?” “On the banks of The Ganges.” “Dear ones,” said Assapāla. “I will not take on me what my dear brother has spewed out. He has been wise to do so. He has shown me the way. Wealth, power, glory and such like are great dangers. So are pleasures of senses. They know no bounds. I have no desire for power or pleasure. An inner sense urges me to follow my brother. Dear ones, pleasures of the senses are like morass; like mire; and power too. Power, like a drunken fool, inflicts pain and grief on others. Caught in such intoxications as pleasure and power, the fool sinks. He sinks deeper and deeper, and finds no relief. Even now, as I speak, sickness, old age, and death are closing in on me – and on you too. I must prepare myself to meet them undaunted. For that, I must take the religious life; I must follow my brother e’re it is too late.” With these words Assapāla left the house hold together with a following that stretched the length of a whole league; he went to join Hattipāla, who poised in the air, declared the Dhamma to him. “Brother,” said Hattipāla to him. “There will be a great concourse gathered in this place soon. Let us both wait for them.” Meanwhile, the king and his chaplain were seeking better luck with Gopāla, the third son. They went to him in the same manner, disguised as ascetics. Gopāla though pleased to see the ascetics, was not so pleased to learn of their mission. His disappointment was great. He cared not an atom for a kingdom, or his father’s wealth. The sight of the ‘ascetics’, even false ones, had stirred him deeply. He said, “For long have I desired to embrace the holy life. I’ve been wandering about everywhere searching for such a life. Now that I see the path my brothers have taken, I too shall go by it.” “But come with us for a day, son; perhaps two, or may be three. Make us happy first, and then renounce the world,” begged the chaplain. “Tomorrow, next day, cry fools, no freehold in the future, say the wise. My dear sirs, if you want luck, take it today. Take it by the forelock. Never put off for the morrow, what must be done today. I must make haste. No time must be lost, when the way is made so clear today.” And Gopāla too left followed by a retinue one league in length to join his brothers on the Ganges. And The King and the chaplain, still hopeful, and more determined than ever, repaired to Ajapāla’s house, only to meet with the same result. “Son,” they said to him, “you are still very young. Your welfare is our care. When you are older, you can embrace the religious life. Until then, come with us.” But he too could not be persuaded by any worldly argument. Instead he had much to say to them. “Surely,” he said, “death comes to the young as much as to the old! I have often seen many a maid, young, beautiful, and fair beyond compare, carried off by death! I have seen many a lad young, strong, and intoxicated with the wine of life, carried off by death! I shall not linger in the household any longer. Not when the way is now made so clear to me. I leave the world now sirs, a hermit to be. Go ye home please, and pardon me.” And, with a following one league long Ajapāla too set out to join his brothers on The Ganges. The following morning, the chaplain feeling tired and defeated, and left to himself, began to contemplate. “I have lost my sons, all four of them!” thought the chaplain, “and the king’s plans for a brilliant future for them are all shattered. I’m like a withered stump of tree now, bereft of branches to spread. Perhaps, the life my sons have chosen is right. I shall follow my boys, and be guided by them. This wealth of mine has no meaning for me – now.” The following day, he told his wife of his decision, and the wise brahmin lady approved. Then he summoned all the brahmins at his command and sixty thousand of them came. “The time has come for me to embrace the holy life. I will not, very certainly not, delay. I’m leaving today. What will you do?” he asked. “Hell is hot for us too sir, not only for you,” they said, and prepared to go with him. The brahmin, handed over all his wealth – eighty croes in all – to his wife, and with a league long train of brahmins repaired to the banks of the Ganges to hear Hattipāla, – poised in the air – expound the Dhamma. The young ascetic knew that more were coming and therefore, remained where he was, for a while longer. The following day the brahmin wife left the household and all her wealth together with what her husband had given her, and with a league long train of brahmin women, directed her steps towards the Ganges. Hearing this news, the king thought, “Masterless is all their wealth now. It belongs to me, the king!” and he sent his men to fetch home all of the chaplain’s wealth. The queen seeing the bustle, enquired and found out what was going on. “The king is most wanting in wisdom to desire what the chaplain has thus thrown away; thrust aside like dung and spittle by the brahmin, his wife and sons all; and here is my husband fetching it home all for himself! His desire for wealth clouds his wisdom. I must help him dispel them,” she thought. Accordingly, she got some dog flesh made into a heap in the middle of the courtyard, and had a snare set around it, leaving a way open straight at the top. Vultures, seeing it from afar, swooped down and had their fill; but, they could not leave the way they had come for they were too heavy. The wise ones among them disgorged what they had eaten; made themselves light, and flew up straight and escaped! The greedy ones ate what the wise birds had vomited, and too heavy to fly, remained. One of these vultures was brought to the queen. She took it to the king. “Come, your majesty. There is a sight for us in the courtyard.” The king saw what had happened. “A brahmin vomits his lust for wealth,” said the queen, “will you eat the same? A man who eats a vomit, sir, deserves the gravest blame. The birds that ate and vomited, in the air are flying free. But those who ate and kept it down, are captured now by me.” The king was ashamed of himself and his lust for wealth, the effects of which the queen had illustrated so well. He thanked her profusely for the lesson, and praised her wisdom. He called her his savior. “Like a strong man that lends a weaker one a hand to rise from mire, my queen saved me,” he said. He called his courtiers to him; “Let anyone who so wishes, have my kingdom,” he said, and set out immediately to seek young Hattipāla. His courtiers, without any ado, went after him and were joined by the others on the way. Eventually, there was a league long train of courtiers, ministers, noblemen, and high officials walking silently behind the king. The queen saw her chance. But the people who had stayed behind, were gathered in the palace courtyard, wanting to see the queen. “The king has gone away,” said they, “and we are without a ruler. Do you please take his place and rule! You’ll be protected by us all. To that we vow!” “It has pleased the noble king,” she said, “to leave all behind a hermit to be, and so shall I. I shall walk the world alone, renouncing lust wherever it comes to me. Time passes by, youth and beauty both fade and die, so, shall I walk the world alone, renouncing pleasure wherever it comes to me. Night after night passes by drawing me closer to my grave So shall I walk the world alone, renouncing passion wherever it comes to me.” The courtier’s wives, ever so loyal, were adamant on joining her. The queen let open the storehouse of gold, silver, gems, and all. She engraved on a gold plate the message “Hidden in such and such a place is a treasure. Let him who so wishes have it”, fastened it on to a pillar at the palace entrance, and departed – followed by a league long train of ladies – all bent on reaching The Ganges. The word spread. And Benarians, stirred by such renunciations, stepped out of their homes, shops, fields, workplaces and all, and taking their young ones with them, and not caring so much as to give a backward glance, left the city leaving all their gates and doors wide open. A train of people twelve leagues long walked quietly and silently behind the queen, and finally reached the Ganges. That young Hattipāla had emptied the city of its people and was heading towards The Himalayas with them, spread like wild fire, and the entire kingdom of Kasi hurried to join them. The train extended to thirty leagues in length alone. Meanwhile, Sakka, the king of gods, had been following the activities of the boys who had left heaven at his request, to be born in the world of men. They had been true to their word, and it was now Sakka’s turn to do his part. He summoned god Vishvakarma. “Go, my friend, to The Himalayas, and make there a hermitage thirty leagues long and fifteen wide, complete with the requisites.” Vishvakarma chose a pleasant spot where beautiful trees laden with most fragrant and colourful flowers grew scattered all over, and created there leaf huts each just the right size for a hermit, with the door opening to a promenade. At the end of each promenade was a well, and beside it, a fruit tree laden with all kinds of fruit. Within each hut was a pallet covered with leaves and a hermit’s bare requisites. There were also separate places for night and day living, and benches to rest. Inscribed on a wall was the message “Whosoever embraces the religious life is welcome here, and to the requisites”. Vishvakarma, with his supernatural powers freed the place of all hideous sounds, removed troublesome beasts and non humans, and created a foot path at the foot of The Himalayas, designed to lead to the hermitage. This done, he returned to the heaven of the Thirty Three quite pleased with himself. (Sakka and Vishvakarma must have gained great merit by this most wonderful gift.) Hattipāla, coming upon the footpath, and by it the hermitage, saw the writing. He knew at once that it was Sakka’s doing. He entered one hut, and helping himself to the requisites went out again. He walked up and down the promenade a few times, his heart completely at rest and light with relief! Then, admitting the rest of the company, he went round inspecting the hermitage, allotting methodically, the huts. He allotted the ones in the centre to young females and boys. The huts around them were given to the elderly females and childless ones. He then placed the men folks in the surrounding huts, thus ensuring the safety of women and children. A neighboring king heard that King Esukari had relinquished his throne and came to take the kingdom. He found the city adorned, but bereft of inhabitants. Great wealth lay wasting undesired as dung; and he saw the folly of his own lust for wealth and glory. He saw the wisdom of relinquishing, of renouncing; and enquiring (of a drunkard who happened to be around) as to where Hattipāla could be found made his way thither with his following. Hattipāla, knowing of the king’s approach, met him at the skirt of the forest, and, as always, poised in the air, declared the Dhamma to him and his following, and led them to the hermitage. In this manner, six other kings and their subjects joined him. The hermitage was filling continually, and the young ascetic guided them all to virtue and thereby concentration. If or when any of them had thoughts of lust or anger, Hattipala knew it and taught them how to treat these imposters with their opposites, and overcome them. He taught them how to develop calm, the attainments, and ecstasies, and rise to the perfections. Thus they lived ennobling themselves until their life on earth ended. In this Jataka, King Esukari and his queen had been King Suddhodhana and Mahāmāya Devi; the chaplain, the great disciple Kassapa. His brahmin wife Baddhakachchanyana (his wife in long saṁsāra five hundred times and over). The youngest son Ajapāla had been the Arahant Anuruddha. Ajapāla’s three elder brothers as introduced at the beginning, had been Lord Buddha, Sāriputta and Moggallāna respectively. The large following that filled the hermitage had been part of Lord Buddha’s following (to be), who at the end of their life on earth had been reborn in the world of Brahmas and Devas according to their attainments, while others, who took upon themselves duties to perform in the world of men, returned to earth to guide more and more into practicing and cultivating the perfections for Nibbāna. So we see it was no miracle that so many thousands attained arahantship and lesser stages of sainthood, on the spot upon hearing the Buddha. It was the fruitioning of the perfections they had cultivated life after life, under the guidance of the bodhisattva with His chief disciples (to be) and His great disciples (to be) to assist Him. Sāriputta and Moggallāna In Panca Uposatha Jataka [ Note: In this jataka, Arahant Sāriputta and the others are animals in the company of the Bodhisatta who is an ascetic at the time. This story shows how those in the animal realm also can rise to noble states if in the right company. For the potential to be noble and rise to arahantship is an inert quality common to all beings. It stands to reason to believe that these births must have been at a time long before the time of Buddha Anomadassi, for it is very difficult even to imagine that Sarada and Sirivadu and the other two great disciples could have fallen into the animal realm after that. Though they could have come together in an animal realm when ever the Bodhisatta chose to be born in an animal race in order to help them rise above it and attain better lives later and eventually arahantship. Lord Buddha related these jatakas if and when occasion arose to illustrate that they had been so in previous lives also. These occasions had not arisen chronologically and as such the jatakas cannot be given in a chronological order] When this story begins the Bodhisatta is a hermit in a forest near Magadha. He had been born into a great brahmin family, and was very conscious and proud of his high birth. However, when he grew up he renounced all his wealth and fame, and went to the forest, there to live the life of an ascetic, in the hermitage he made for himself. At times, pride in his noble birth rose within him. But that was only at times. Otherwise he lived a very holy life. Close to the hermitage, in a clump of bamboos lived a wood-pigeon and his mate. And in an ant hill near it, lived a snake. In a thicket in the vicinity lived a jackal; and in another a bear. All were good friends; and were in the habit of visiting the ascetic quite often. The hermit preached to them on the ills of sin, and taught them many lessons in virtue. One day, the wood-pigeon was wandering about looking for food, with his mate close behind him, when a hawk passing by, saw them. It swooped down on the female bird and carried it off. In vain were her cries for help; the pigeon husband could only look on. As if that was not enough, the helpless bird had to bear the agonizing sight of his mate being devoured alive! It was, soon, all over; but not for the pigeon! The pain of having lost his love smote his heart. And the hatred for the hawk that had taken her away from him, burned him. Fires of love for one and hate for the other smote and blazed within him. They sickened and tormented him. “It is just as my friend the ascetic has said,” wailed the pigeon. “Passions are hard to bear. They cause such exceeding pain! They are tormenting me. I must subdue them. It is through my passion for her that this burning hate for the other arose. I must subdue both. Until I have done so, I shall not seek food,” resolved the bird, and went to the hermitage determined to subdue those passions. Meanwhile, the snake had also been on its quest for food along a cow-track in a village nearby. A bull had just then finished its meal and lain down on its knees to sport in the sand, digging it with its horns and tossing it about when the snake happened to come along; and the bull, quite accidently stepped on it. Taken by surprise at this, the snake bit him, and the bull died on the spot. The villagers were beside themselves with grief when they saw what had happened. The bull had been a grand creature, white all over, and very pleasant to the eye! It had been the headman’s property too, and loved dearly by all. But now it was dead! Weeping and wailing, the villagers honoured the dead creature with garlands and buried it sadly; and still weeping they returned to their homes. The snake was very sorry! It was quite put off, quite disturbed, thinking, “my temper has deprived the villagers of a fine bull, and life itself to the bull. And all because of my ungovernable temper! This anger in me must be subdued,” he thought. “I shall not, and will not seek food until it is done,” it resolved, and wound its serpentine way to the hermitage. And there coiled up in a corner he lay quite still, determined to subdue anger. “All because of my ungovernable temper!” The snake kept repeating to himself. Some days prior to this, the jackal was out looking for food. It had come upon a dead elephant, and was delighted! “Plenty of food here,” exclaimed he, and tried its teeth on the trunk; it was as hard as a trunk of a tree! Then he tried the tusks, and next the tail – all to the same effect; and the elephant’s belly was like a basket. Nothing did he find to his taste until he got to the rump, and it was as soft as a cake of ghee! The jackal, pleased immensely at this find, ate his way inside. It tasted so good that there the animal remained, eating the flesh and drinking the blood when thirsty. He saw no reason why he should go back, or elsewhere for food for both food and drink were in plentiful for him right there; and a bed to sleep in too! Thus the days passed. By and by, the carcass grew dry in wind and heat and the way by which it had got in closed. Finding itself trapped, and unable to get out, the animal fell sick. He lost flesh; he lost blood, and turned quite yellow too. But get out of there, he could not. Then one day, there came a storm. The carcass got drenched and grew soft, and the duct began to open. This was the jackal’s chance to escape. There was only a little chink at the duct, but dare not wait for it to open more. He went head first at the chink; and got stuck! The passage was yet very small and getting out was no easy task. It squeezed and wriggled its way through. And when it finally got out, all bruised and bleeding, it had lost all its hair too! “This is all my doing,” said the jackal reproaching itself. “I brought this upon myself. My insatiable greed did this to me. I could have died inside there. I should have left when I had had my fill like the hermit would have said.” The thought of the hermit, diverted his thinking. “I wonder whether I was missed? It is a few days since I last saw my friends,” mused he; “I’ll go to the hermitage right now, and I will not budge from there, not even for food, until I have subdued my greed.” So, to the hermitage he went. The jackal was too preoccupied to notice his friends already there sitting quietly as ever and dead to the world around. He chose for himself a shady corner, and there he sat quietly, determined to repress his greed. The bear also in its quest for food on that fatal day, had conceived an overpowering desire to have something different. There was a variety of vegetables growing in a nearby village, and on them the bear fixed his mind. With mouth already watering with anticipation the animal made its way to a field of sweet-corn all ripe and ready for harvest. It had barely helped itself to an ear or two of juicy corn, when the villagers saw it! Pouncing on cudgels, sticks and stones, and whatever else could be got hold of, and shouting threats and abuse into the bargain, they charged forward at the now very frightened animal, who ran back to the forest, at a speed none could have imagined was possible for such a ponderous animal! If only it had been satisfied with what the forest had to offer! And there was a plenteous variety of fine fruit there for it to choose from too; good enough too, for any beast, man, even god. If only it had not looked for variety, such a plight would never have come to it! With a bleeding head, and a body bruised all over and aching from the attack, the animal reached home, and from there lumbered its way to the hermitage promising itself very fervently, never to leave the forest again and dropped heavily into a comfortable corner, determined to fast until its greed had been subdued. Now, while the animals had been out looking for food and learning their several lessons from first-hand experience, the ascetic was also having trouble. He was having difficultly maintaining calm, and the mystic trance would not come to him. His mind kept wandering to the past; and to family glory; their wealth, and his own high birth. He sat on his leaf-covered pallet with legs crossed and body erect, and feeling light as a feather at one time, and quite heavy at another. Pride causing memories kept tugging at his mind, and he gave way to them unconsciously. It meant losing his hard-won calm, and he could feel his body losing its lightness at such times. He would then recall the dangers of letting the mind wander and try once more to concentrate. Then with concentrated mind he would sit feeling so light, as if he was sitting on air. But this sense of comfort would not last long. He would relapse into those pride-fanning memories of old once more and would find himself heavy again! How the mind had stolen away, he could not tell. His enemy ‘pride’ kept coming at him ever so stealthily and relentlessly! It was like guerilla war! And before the ascetic knew what was happening he was a fallen man again! The battle against defiling thoughts is always hard. It was harder than ever for the ascetic that day. His pride was resorting to subtle strategies to attack him. To win lasting peace, these enemies of the mind need to be vanquished quite. Until such time they need to be kept at bay and subdued even for the temporary victory of a trance. But victory, would not come for the ascetic that day, and a Pacceka Buddha, happening to survey the world that morning, saw it all; He saw the battle. “Family pride is weighing him down,” said the Pacceka Buddha to himself. “Yet, he is no common man. I must go to him and help him tame this pride of his. I will help him to develop the attainments.” Bent on this purpose, He descended from The Himalayas, stepped into the hermitage, sat on the ascetic’s seat, and waited. The ascetic saw Him and came forward – not with respect though! His pride, which he had managed to subdue somewhat, had reared its head again! “Curse you, you good for nothing bald-headed hypocrite,” he cried snapping his fingers. “How dare you sit on my seat!” “Holy man, why are you so proud?” said the other, still sitting. “I am a Pacceka Buddha; and I tell you that you are destined to become an omniscient Buddha; – in this vey cycle too! – that is when you will have perfected your pāramis.” Then He proceeded to say what his name would be as a Buddha, and of his clan and chief disciples. “A great being like you should not be proud. It is most unworthy of you.” But the ascetic, still stood on his dignity, too proud to salute; too proud to ask for further details; too proud to do anything that called for humility. He stood there like a statue. “Well then, learn you the measure of your birth and my powers,” said the Holy Visitor; “See if you can rise in the air as I do!” With this, the Pacceka Buddha rose. He shook off the dust on His feet upon the top knot of the high born ascetic; and like a feather floating in the air, returned to The Higher Himalayas. “There goes a holy man,” thought the ascetic as he watched the receding figure. “With a body so heavy, and yet seeming so light. Like a fleck of cotton does He pass through the air as He has no unworthy thoughts to weigh Him down.” He watched until the Pacceka Buddha had disappeared from sight, and then, was stricken with remorse and grief. “A Pacceka Buddha!” he exclaimed, “and I didn’t even salute Him! didn’t show Him any respect at all; didn’t ask Him to tell me more; and all because of my all consuming pride! This pride of mine has done me enough mischief for a day. Food I shall not touch,” he said to himself, “until I have subdued my pride.” He then re-entered his leaf hut, and sitting down on his pallet of leaves meditated long. His pride subdued, he developed calm, and then the faculties and attainments and he sat experiencing the bliss, and relief of passions subdued. After sometime, he came out and sat upon the stone-seat at the end of the promenade. Seeing him there, the animals surrounded him. The hermit turned to the pigeon. “You are not seen here at this time on other days. You are out looking for food. How is it that you are not out today? Could you be fasting?” “Yes sir.” “Why so?” The pigeon explained what happened to its mate. “My love for her hurts me so. It burns within like a blazing fire! My hate for the other burns me too. Torn between love for one and hate for the other, my heart aches, and my whole frame burns like hell-fire itself! I shall keep the fast until I have subdued these passions.” The snake, the jackal and the bear in turn explained their reasons for taking up the fast; and then they said, “Sir, you go out at this time on other days to seek fruit. Why is it that you are not going out today?” It was now the hermit’s turn to explain. He recounted to them his episode with the Pacceka Buddha. “Eaten up by my pride,” he said, “I did not prostrate at His feet as I should have. I did not ask him for more details about my coming to be a Buddha! I just let Him go when I should have waited upon Him, and offered Him some water, at least, for that was all I had. Instead, I stood here rigid like a pillar. I was so bloated with pride! All this when the Holy One had come down out of compassion for me! Pride will never have sway over me again!” Thus they all learnt from one another the outcome of love, hate, greed; and pride too! They held that day a Dhamma discussion; that stretched longer than usual. Day after day, they reviewed the hazards of passions as they themselves had experienced and strove wisely and diligently to overcome them. At the end of the lives on earth, the animals were born in heaven; and the ascetic (the Bodhisatta) was, of course, born in the Brahma World. In this account the great disciples Anuruddha and Kassapa were the pigeon and the bear respectively. Moggallāna was the jackal, and Sāriputta, the snake. Sāriputta and Moggallāna (with the Bodhsatta) In Bhuridatta Jātakaya In this tale, Sāriputta and Moggallāna are again brothers of the Bodhisatta; this time, in the world of Nāgas, as sons of the great Nāga King, Dataraṭṭa. Their mother was Queen Samuddaja, sister of the king of Kasi, Sagara Brahmadatta, at the time. How did a princess of the human world come to be the queen of a Nāga King? It happened this way. Her grandfather, the previous king of Kasi, had sent his son, the crown prince, away to the forest, there to live until recalled. The prince did his father’s bidding; made himself a hut of leaves and sustaining himself on fruits and roots in the forest lived there like an ascetic. During this time, there happened to be in the same forest, a Nāga widow. Unable, after her husband’s death, to bear with the fun joys and merriment that went on around her, she had left her home and come to this forest hoping to find some solace, and she saw this ascetic prince, young, tall and handsome, and fell in love with him. “I’ll try him. I will make his hut comfortable for him.” She said to herself, and when the prince had gone out in search of fruit, she swept and decorated the hut with beautiful sweet smelling flowers. She covered his leaf pallet with layers and layers of soft multicolored petals; she placed beside it a basket of choice fruits, all brought from the Nāga world itself; She then hid herself and waited. “If he is a true ascetic,” she said to herself, “he will have none of these. But, if not!” The prince, on returning to his hut, saw the transformation and was very pleased. “Who could it be?” he thought; “Who has paid all this attention to me?” He lay indulging in the comfort of the soft petals on his bed for a while, and then took a bite off a fruit placed ready for him. It tasted divine! The Nāga widow showed herself then, in the form of a beautiful princess and offered herself to him as wife. They lived happily together for many years, and she bore him first a son and then a daughter, Sagara and Samuddhaja. Then, one day, there came from the kingdom of Kasi, some brahmins, to fetch Prince Sagara home. The king, his father, had died, and the prince was required to return to the palace to receive the ceremonial sprinkling and be made King of Kasi as Sāgara Brahmadatta. “You are coming with me,” he said to his Nāga wife, but she would not hear of it. He pleaded for the sake of the children who would not be happy without their mother, “But,” she explained, “life in a palace filled with busy people is not for me. One angry look from me if given cause – in an unguarded moment – would be enough to turn a mischievous human to ashes. Therefore it will be very dangerous for your people to have one such as me, around them. I cannot come; but I understand that you should take the children. Having been born of me our children are delicately made. A long journey in the hot sun may cause them harm. So please, my lord, let there be in your vehicle, a portable pond for them to sport in during their journey.” Her bidding was done and the weeping mother took leave of her husband and children and returned to the Nāga world to be heard of no more. In Kasi, Prince Sāgara was ordained King, Sāgara Brahmadatta. The two children, the prince and princess grew up, looking most pleasing to the eye, and very happy under their father’s tender care, spending most of their time in a beautiful lotus pond which the king had had specially built for them. Meanwhile, King Dataraṭṭa, the great king of Nāgas had been deceived by a conniving turtle into believing that the king of Kasi wished to give his daughter, Samuddhaja, in marriage to him. Very pleased at this prospect, the Nāga King sent his own ambassadors (in the form humans) to King Kasi, to make necessary arrangements only to be told that King Sāgara Brahmadatta had no intention of giving his daughter to a Nāga. It seemed to Datarattha that Sāgara Brahmdatta was going back on his word, and felt angry and insulted. His ambassadors added fuel to the fire! So, threatening to destroy the entire kingdom of Kasi, Datarattha prevailed upon the unhappy king to part with his daughter, promising nobly that in the realm of the Nāgas his daughter would have no cause for fear; that no Nāga would be seen by her in the serpent form, and that she would be treated with utmost gentleness. To receive Samuddhaja, King Datarattha created, on top of a mountain, with his supernatural powers a beautiful city with a beautiful palace that could be seen for many leagues all round. It was the most beautiful city, and a palace a human eye had ever beheld! King Sāgara took his daughter to his balcony and showed her the city that glistered like a fairy-land in the distance. “My dear,” he said, “the king of yonder city asked me for your hand in marriage, and I consented. It is going to be your future home, and I trust that you will be very happy there.” Thus, Princess Samuddhaja, blissfully ignorant where she was going, was conducted to Dataraṭṭa’s palace, and the Nāga king received her with great honour. She knew by instinct that she was going to be very happy with him. While the princess lay fast asleep in her chamber, she was carried off, palace and all, to the Nāga world and awoke the following day, in the old familiar surroundings with maids to serve her, and guards to protect her just as it had been in her father’s palace. Little did she know that these fine young people who served her so well and with such deference, were Nāgas; or that the city she lived in was a city in the Nāga world; for the great king Dataraṭṭa had decreed that each and everyone in his kingdom should thence onward take the form of humans, and was not to be seen in the Nāga form on any account. The penalty for disobedience was death. In this way, a year passed; and then another, and another, and in the meantime, Queen Samuddhaja had borne for him four adorable sons. No secret is a secret when shared. So it was with the secret of the great Nāga King Dataraṭṭa. As the years rolled by it was getting whispered by the inmates of the palace that their queen was not Nāga after all, but a princess brought from the world of men. This fell upon the ears of her sons too, and the mischievous one among them thought of putting it to the test. So, one day, when he was being suckled by the queen mother, he changed himself to a Nāga! All was over in a moment! The queen jumped in fright. A nail on her finger pricked his eye. And when Aritta stood before his mother in his old familiar form, his eye was bleeding. The fond mother forgot, at once, her fears in her concern for the child. But King Dataraṭṭa was furious. He would have put his son to death as the law decreed, but the mother pleaded for her child’s life. After all he had lost an eye – that was punishment enough! And from that day he was called Kanāritta. Time flew past and the boys grew up to be fine young men. King Dataraṭṭa, divided his kingdom into four, making each of his sons a king by his own right in each of these domains, and he himself retired from active life. As kings, all four were capable and kind; as sons, they were dutiful and never failed to visit their parents once a month. King Bhuridatta, the Bodhisatta, visited them more often. Day by day, however King Bhuridatta was becoming more and more quiet and thoughtful now, and eventually decided to practice ascetic vows, even occasionally. However, he soon realised that this was an impossibility in the world of Nāgas amidst the general merriment of dancing, singing, banqueting, which was the norm there just as it was in the heavens. He could have put an end to it in his own kingdom; but instead he decided to go to the world of men on full-moon days (including the days before and after) for his holy practices, and chose for this purpose the shade of a large banyan tree in a dense forest. There, he practiced his observances most peacefully, until one day, an outcast brahmin, hunter by trade, happened to see him. King Bhuridatta was just about to return to the Nāga world, after his observances then. A retinue of attendants had come to conduct him home with all the pomp and pageantry of the Nāgas. King Bhuridatta, noticing this outcast brahmin, watching him most intently feared trouble. He therefore befriended the brahmin and his son and took them both to his kingdom, where he bestowed on them such comforts such as they could never have dreamed of on earth. They lived there like gods with more joys and pleasures than they could have ever imagined. And the Bodhisatta continued coming to the world to observe ascetic precepts in the shade of the banyan tree. Two years passed. The outcast brahmin got tired of his luxuries. (His merit to have them must have ended). He wanted to get back to hunting. He told so to his son, Somadatta, who tried all ways he could to make his father change his mind; but the luckless outcast would not listen. Instead he prevailed upon his son to go away with him. The Bodhisatta too tried in his own way to persuade the outcast to stay. But the brahmin trumped him. “These pleasures of the flesh do not appeal to me anymore,” said the vile outcast. “I long to be an ascetic; I yearn to lead a holy life all the rest of my life. You well know, O great king, the worth of such a life. So please don’t seek to stop me. With your blessings, let me go.” King Bhuridatta was left with no alternative but to let him go. He gave the outcast his most precious jewel – a Nāga’s most precious jewel – that which had the power to bring for the one who possessed it anything he could wish for. “Take this with you,” he said. “and whatever you wish for, will be yours – gold, silver, food, mansions, anything. You will never want for anything in your life.” But the brahmin had not the merit to receive such a gift. He gave it back to the Bodhisatta saying, in feigned earnestness, “Not for an ascetic, O king, such riches. All I wish is to get back soon, and then to an ascetic’s life.” And so, King Bhuridatta, with his supernatural powers removed the unwilling son and his lying father from the Nāga World and caused them to be placed by the banks of The Yamuna River. Back at home, the brahmin’s wife reviled him for his long absence; for having returned penniless from the Nāga world so full of treasures, and turned him out of her house; and he had no Nāga’s jewel to wish for himself a home of any sort! He did not have any luck even in hunting. He then conceived an urge to posses that jewel. All he had to do was seek the Great Being and ask for it. “You know where the Nāga king spends his holy days,” said Somadatta. “Go to him. He is so kind, and so forgiving he will give it you – you need only ask. Please father, seek him,” he begged. But that was not how the wretch of a brahmin planned to get the jewel. He told a snake-charmer, of a Nāga king that could be seen often at certain place. “If you promise to give me his jewel, I will show you that place.” And on an appointed day, he set off with the snake-charmer to show him ‘the place’. In vain did his son beg and plead with him not to betray a friend who had been so kind and generous. In vain did Somadatta warn his father of the dire results such a terrible sin would bring him; The wicked brahmin would have his way. Somadatta went trailing behind his father begging and pleading still; but turning a deaf ear to it all, the cruel brahmin pointed out the Bodhisatta to the snake-charmer. The Nāga king saw he was getting betrayed, and Somadatta, unable to bear it any more ran away as fast as his legs would carry, and never came back again! By that time, Ālambāna, the snake-charmer, was stalking towards the banyan tree under which sat the Nāga King. Seeing the vile creature approach, King Bhuridatta shut his eyes tight and hid his hood in his coils for fear that an angry thought should rise within him unawares; for then, if in such a state of mind he happened to look upon Ālambāna, the charmer would in an instant be reduced to ashes. So resolute in keeping the ascetic vows he had taken, the Bodhisatta lay quite still, and Ālambāna seized him with no trouble at all at which, as his vile nature would have it, the nature of all cowards, Ālambāna became quite bold and more so when he met with no resistance. He inflicted on the Great Being the tortures habitual to them in taming vicious snakes although it was, evidently, quite unnecessary in this case. The Bodhisatta submitted to it all with resignation. Ālambāna extracted from the Nāga king the jewel, for the sake of which the wretch of a brahmin had betrayed the Great Being, then packed Him, all bruised and bleeding, into a basket made out of creepers from the forest, and having given the coveted jewel to the miserable outcast brahmin as his fee for his treachery, Ālambāna carried away the Nāga king gleefully, to make his fortune. In the very first village he went to, he made hundred thousand pieces of gold. Just to be allowed to see the Nāga king was worth a great deal of gold. He was such a magnificent being, with a red hood and a full grown colourful trunk. When Ālambāna got rich by a hundred thousand, he thought of setting the Nāga king free in the next village when he would certainly have made another hundred thousand. In the next village he got what he expected, but could not keep to his resolution - there, or in the next, or the next or the next. The richer he grew, the greedier he became, and from village to village, town to town went the sinner, carrying his innocent captive, the Bodhisatta, in the basket. Back in the Nāga world, Bhuridatta had failed to pay his usual visit to his mother, for He had not yet returned from the world of men. Queen Samuddaja was beside herself with grief. “Something terrible must have happened, or he would not fail to visit me,” she wailed. A few more agonizing days passed. The other sons paid their customary visit to the parents, but still there was no Bhuridatta. Queen Samuddaja would not touch food or drink. “I can’t bear this,” she wept, “if I don’t see him soon, I shall surely die. Oh! I can’t bear it.” She sobbed piteously. “Rest your fears mother,” said King Sudassana the eldest. “We will bring him back within ten days. We will sweep the heavens, the oceans and earth and bring him back we will.” At the mention of ‘earth’ she broke out afresh. She writhed at the thought. “If he has been caught by a snake-charmer, my poor harmless child, will be so cruelly treated. I can’t bear to think of it. Oh! Sudassana find him soon!” wailed she. “We will bring him back within ten days.” He reiterated and took leave of the weeping mother. They took council with one another. “We must break up,” said Sudassana, “we must not cause delay.” Kanāritta wished to go the world of men to look for his brother. “Not you,” said Sudassana. “If you find him the captive of a snake-charmer, there is no knowing what damage you would do. Perhaps he must have been called away to one of the heavens. That’s where you should go Aritta, (Kanāritta) and bring him back forthwith should you find him there.” Subhaga was to search in the Himavat and in the five great rivers; Sudassana himself was to go to the world of men. “I may not have much chance if I go as a young man,” thought he. “But ascetics are dear and welcome to men. I shall go as an ascetic and then people will help me.” They set off in three different directions, with Sudassana in the guise of an ascetic to search in the world of men. Their half sister, Achchimukhi, begged to go with him for she was very fond of the Bodhsatta. “An ascetic should not be seen with a young lady,” he objected. “I’ll come as a frog, and hide in your hair. Nobody will notice me there.” They both went first to see Bhuridatta’s wife. From her, they learnt where Bhuridatta usually spent his holy days, and first went there. They saw the tell tale marks of blood under the banyan tree, and their eyes welled with tears. They saw the broken creepers with which a basket must have been made, and following the trail of blood, arrived at same village where the first display had been, and enquired whether a snake-charmer had been that way. “Yes, Ālambāna brought a glorious Nāga to perform here.” “When?” “A month ago.” “Did he make any money?” “A hundred thousand pieces of gold and more, in just one show.” “Do you know where he went from here?” “The next village south from here.” So they went tracing Ālambāna from village to village, and from town to town until they arrived in Banares close to the palace gate. Ālambāna was already there to show off his talents to the king. He was no longer a poor snake-charmer. He had come bathed and anointed, dressed in a tunic made of fine silk, with a basket studded with jewels carried by an attendant. A large crowd had gathered to watch the performance, and the king himself was expected. A great seat had been placed for the king from whom a message was given: “I am coming. Let him make the king of snakes, play”. Ālambāna placed the basket on a multicolored rug; acknowledged the throng with a flourishing bow, and called out, “Come out O snake king!” King Bhuridatta put his head out and looked around. This was to see if there were any garulas or actors present. If a Nāga sees a garula, he does not come out for fear; and if he sees actors, he does not come out for shame. There were no actors or garulas around that day. But he saw, standing at the edge of one part of the crowd, his elder brother Sudassana! Repressing the tears that welled in his eyes, he glided gently up to him. The crowd seeing the snake retreated, and the two brothers were left alone. The Bodhisatta laid his hood upon the elder’s feet, and hot tears poured forth. Other tears dropped on the Great Being’s hood from Sudassana’s eyes. Both brothers soon overcame their tears, and the Bodhsatta glided slowly back and slid into the basket. Ālambāna seeing this feared that perhaps the Nāga might have bitten the ascetic. “He must be frightened; I must allay his fears,” thought he, and going up to him said, “fear not holy sir, if my snake bit you. There is no harm in his bite.” Sudassana loathed his pretensions. “I must ruffle this fellow a bit,” he thought and replied, “That snake of yours cannot harm me a whit. I am a match for him. You may search wherever you will, but you will not find one who can charm a snake as I.” The words had the desired effect on Ālambāna – he let out an angry retort. “You filthy lout, dressed in skin of ass. Are you challenging me?” Let this crowd gathered here today, see how I break your pride.” Sudassana replied. “Your champion is this snake, and mine is only a frog. Let everybody see your powers today, and also mine. Five thousand pieces should be the stake.” “Here is my five thousand,” said Ālambāna, throwing it on the ground. But where is yours? Who will be surety to a beggar? None that I see here.” “You will in a moment,” said Sudassana and walked nonchalantly to the palace. The king was just coming out then. “Noble sir,” he said, greeting the king. “Please give ear to what now I ask. May good luck be with you always. May it never fail you, sir! Do be my surety for five thousand pieces.” “Is this some debt I owe your father, or something of yours perhaps, that you should come to me in this way, asking for such an unheard of sum?” “Not so, O king; Ālambāna swears he will defeat me with his snake, and I swear back that I can break his pride, with my little frog. You will see yourself, O king, my prowess and need not part with the smallest sum.” The king agreed, and both he and the ascetic emerged from the palace, disturbing Ālambāna quite. “He has got the king on his side. May be he is a friend of the royal family,” he thought getting quite alarmed and followed Sudassana saying, “Brahmin, I wish not to humble you. I do not boast at all. But you despise my snake too much; your pride could be your fall.” “Nor do I wish to humble you. But why do you seek to deceive this innocent crowd for gold, with an innocent snake that will not harm a toad? If these people here knew your real worth which is very plain to me, not gold man, but a little meal should your rightful claim be.” “You squalid beggar!” bellowed Ālambāna, “dressed in a skin of ass, you seek to scorn me, do you? And say my snake cannot harm! Come near him, and you will see how harmless he can be! A word from me, and he will make of you a sorry heap of dust. “A rat or water-snake perhaps, if angered, would bite and leave some poison too. But your red-headed snake could not do as much, command him as you would,” came the cool reply. “I see you’re bent on meeting your doom,” said Ālambāna shaking with rage. “I have heard brahmins say that those who give alms in this life, go to heaven when they die. So give alms now, you miserable ascetic, for you have very little time to live.” Sudassana’s composure was driving the other crazy with rage. He now met Ālambāna’s threat with the cool of a cucumber! “Give alms yourself,” Sudassana said, “for I too have heard that those who give alms go to heaven when they die. Give what you will from that which is rightly earned, for your time is nigh. This is no common snake that I have;” he continued now addressing the crowd, “nor a captive cruelly gained. She is the daughter of Datarattha, the great Nāga king. Achchimukhi is her name; her mouth shoots flame; deadly is her poison; and she is half sister to me.” So saying, Sudassana put out his hand and called, “Achchimukhi, come out of my locks.” She croaked three times while still inside, and then hopped out and onto his shoulder. Springing from there to his outstretched palm, she let fall three little drops of poison and returned to his locks. The crowd looked on spell-bound. “This country will be destroyed! This country will be wholly destroyed!” cried Sudassana three times, still holding the poison, and his voice echoed through the city of Banares twelve leagues square.” “What should destroy my country?” asked the king anxiously. “This poison,” he said, “I see no place where I can drop it.” “Drop it on the ground, it is big enough.” “If I do so, O king, everything on it will perish. Grass, plants, creepers and all will parch and die.” “Then throw it into the sky.” “I cannot O king, for if I do so, no rain or snow will fall from it for seven long years.” “Then throw it into the sea.” “If I do so O king, all the creatures that live in the great sea, will shrivel and die.” “I am utterly at a loss,” exclaimed the king. “Do you tell me what could be done.” “Please cause three deep holes to be dug in a line, O king.” It was done forthwith. Sudassana filled the middle hole with drugs (which he summoned with his super powers). He filled a second with cow dung got by the same means, and the third with heavenly herbs. He then dropped the poison into the middle hole. Smoke filled the hole, and a flame shot out. It blazed, and spread to the hole with cow dung burning all of it; and then it burst out and spread once more catching the hole with the heavenly herbs in it. It blazed and crackled until the herbs were all consumed and then died out of itself. Ālambāna had been standing near that last hole and the heat of the poison smote him; the colour of his skin changed; and he became a leper! Terrified, he screamed, “I will set the snake king free! I will set the snake king free! I will set the snake king free!” On hearing his freedom proclaimed, the Bodhisatta came serenely out of the basket, and stood assuming a human form, radiant with ornaments, and looking like Sakka himself! So did Sudassana and Achchimukhi. They looked like divinities descended from heaven! “Do you know us, O king?” asked Sudassana. “I know not.” “You wouldn’t; but you must know that the king of Kasi, gave his daughter away to King Datarattha of the Nāgas.” “I know it well, for Samuddaja was my sister.” “We are the sons of that same sister of yours, O king, and Achchimukhi here, is our half sister.” The king, overjoyed at this discovery, embraced them all, conducted them to the palace, and paid them great hounour.” Then, turning to Bhuridatta, he asked, “How could Ālambāna seize you when you possess such great powers – not to speak of terrible poison?” Sudassana answered for his brother, and explained how Bhuridatta’s staunch adherence to the ascetic vows he had taken that day, had brought on him trouble. He then urged the king to look after his people well – according to the ten laws for a king (Dasa Rāja Dharma) and soon added, “Uncle, my mother is pining to see Bhuridatta. She is wasting away with fear for him. We should not delay.” “Yes, you must go, but I long to see your mother, my sister; can that be arranged?” Uncle, “Where is our grandfather, your predecessor?” “When my sister was taken away, father, was grief-stricken, and could not remain in the palace. He left it, and is now an ascetic in the border forest.” “Then let us all meet there, in his hermitage,” said Sudassana. A date and time was fixed for the reunion, and they took leave of the king, and while he still looked on with tear-filled eyes, the brothers and sister sank into the earth and vanished. When the Bodhisatta, (Bhuridatta) returned all bruised and sick to the Nāga world, there was universal lamentation there. The tortures he had suffered had taken their toll. He took to the sick-bed; but had little rest, for anxious Nāgas kept coming to see him. Kanāritta had, by then returned from his search in the heavens and made an ideal door-keeper for the brother. Not even an ant could get past him. Subhaga also, having searched all over Himavat, the oceans and the great rivers had come to The Yamuna to search in that river. (The sacred river as the brahmin’s called it). And there was the outcast brahmin, who, on hearing what had happened to Alambana, had rushed to the sacred river to wash his sins away before any punishment could come to him. Fool that he was, he was confessing to the water expecting to be washed clean of his sins by so doing - his sin of treachery - when Subhaga discovered him and heard it all. “This evil creature had betrayed my brother for the sake of a miserable jewel! Betrayed Bhuridatta from whose hands he had received such kindness and riches! The vile creature will pay for it!” He said and twisting his tail round the brahmin’s feet, dragged him into the water, held him down for sometime, and then released him. He repeated this several times; the brahmin gasping for breath meanwhile each time he surfaced trying to speak and at last found some strength: “I am bathing in this spot here in Payāgas holy flood; my limbs are wet with sacred drops. What cruel demon seeks my blood?” “To that serpent king, whose fame, whose glory, is spread far and wide, I am son; I, who hold you in my coil, know you brahmin, I am Subhāga, Dataraṭṭa’s son.” The brahmin’s fears increased manifold. “I am doomed,” he thought. But still, he would try his tricks. So, he said to Subhāga, “Surely, the son of an illustrious mother, scion, Kasi’s royal race so divine, would not cause a brahmin slave to perish under these ruthless waves.” “This fellow is trying to fool me with praise. That will not do with me. I will not spare him,” thought Subhāga, and reminded him how he had betrayed the Nāga king when the latter had been so kind – but only after having dragged him once more under the water. Knowing that this irate brother could not be moved with praise or appeal, the brahmin resorted to a different tactic. “Study, religion, offering of prayers; sacrificial to the fire - these things make a brahmin’s life sacred and inviolate to mortal ire.” On hearing this, Subhāga hesitated. He was not familiar with brahmin lore. “I’ll take him to our world and ask my brother,” he thought, and told the brahmin so. Then, seizing him by the neck and reviling him with abuse, carried him off to Bhuridatta’s palace. There, at the gate was Kanāritta, standing guard! “Subhāga, don’t hurt him,” said Kanāritta alarmed. “He is a son of the Great Spirit Brahma, as are all brahmins. If Brahma learns that we’ve been hurting a son of his, he will destroy the entire world of Nāgas! Come, I will tell you what brahmins are.” Kanaritta had been a brahmin in his previous life and still remembered some things he had learnt then – lies repeated so often and gone uncontested that they eventually sunk into him as truths. “Do you know who created the world?” “No,” said Subhāga, who up to then had nothing to do with brahmins; nor had the specimen he had now in his hold made any good impression on him. “Brahma created the world,” said Kanāritta, “and he created the brahmins too. He created them to be the highest of all men – for studies, for veda, for prayer and sacrificials. They are the sole right of brahmins, and brahmins alone. Brahma created the Khattiyas to rule, Vessas to plough, and Suddhas to obey them all.” Thus Aritta rambled on mentioning names of all the great gods in heaven including Sakka himself – that it was through sacrificials made to the fire, officiated by brahmins, that they gained their glories. “Sakka also favours brahmins,” he said. “All those who obey brahmins are taken to heaven. Subhāga, do you know how sea-water became salty?” “No.” “You only know to injure brahmins. Hear me then. A hermit student well versed in prayer and spell once stood upon its shore and touched the water. The sea swallowed him up! Since then, the water in the sea had been undrinkable.” A number of Nāga nobles heard this oration and thought, “This won’t do. He is teaching a legend and false view. We must tell Bhuridatta, for our Nāgas are in danger of accepting false views.” “I must interrupt Aritta,” thought King Bhuridatta when it was reported to him. He left his sick-bed, bathed and adorned himself after the fashion of Nāgas, and sitting on the pulpit, gathered the Nāgas together. Then he addressed his brother. “Aritta, you are mistaken. What you have been saying is not true. It is a false doctrine. Brahma did not create the world. Nor are brahmins descendants of Brahma. Crafty brahmins invented lies to lure uninformed men to their doom.” “Vedas have no hidden power to save the coward, traitor or knave. Nor do Vedic ceremonies or sacrificials and worshipping of fire, lead a man to heaven. These are brahmins’ traps to trick witless fools to part with hard-earned money – given in exchange for a promise of heaven, neither you nor I can test. If one worships fire, but continues to sin, can he by his prayer alone hope to heaven attain? brahmins need a livelihood, and this is how they make it. There is no meaning, no reason, no logic, in anything they say.” “They tell us Brahma worships fire,” Bhuridatta continued, “and we must do the same. In the same breath they say Brahma created fire. Then why should Brahma worship that which he created himself? These are vile lies invented to trick fools. They are lies contrived by brahmins to gain wealth and power. ‘Brahma created the world’ so these brahmins say, and they themselves were made for religion and study to which no one else has entry. None but brahmins must offer prayer, or read the Veda or sacrificial make. None but Khattiyas must rule and exercise sway, so the Veda is believed to say. These are vile lies crafty brahmins stole into the Veda to monopolise learning and hold rulers in their sway in order to gain their own greedy selfish ends.” “A low-caste lad intelligent and wise can also read the Veda with no great fear of his head being split. He can also weed out the lies included in there and bring to naught false brahmin lore. When some self interested Brahmins stole into the Veda, lies, to keep it for themselves, they did so to their cost; for when others gained the knowledge, their lies were found out.” “Lines written in metric form, to music rhythm and rhyme, are not easily forgotten by man, woman or boy. Even fools of little wit can learn it, but no true service gain or give of it. ‘None but brahmins must offer sacrifices’ so the brahmins say. ‘For as sons of Brahma their hands are ‘pure’! And those they kill, their ‘holy’ hands heaven directly gain,’ they claim.” “If this were so, why do brahmins not kill brahmins first that they may to heaven get? And let the innocent cattle be, for they ask not to be killed for a better life to gain? Instead, they are unwillingly dragged; wailing, moaning, and struggling to the end! And what do the wicked, brahmins do? They pour forth a deluge of rhetoric, of their own coining, to veil the cruelty dealt to the victim; and the unrestrained hand that deals the blow at the sacrificial post! brahmins who perform sacrificials are cruel cheats! Base, ignorant and vile! They deceive innocent minds, and deprive innocent animals of their lives. Brahmins are a dangerous lot; dangerous in their ignorance and dullness of mind; as dull as the cattle they kill to gain their own greedy private ends.” “Householders, to gain a livelihood follow pursuits legitimate. But brahmins in our degenerated days will make a living in any way. ‘A holy seer well known in ancient days on the sea-shore was praying,’ so the legend says. ‘There was he drowned, and as punishment, the ocean’s waves have been undrinkable.’ Hundreds of rivers have drowned learned men and kept their waters still unchanged. Why should the sea alone be incurred with this curse of heaven sent?” “If Brahma created the world, why are his creations in such a mess? In so much want? In so much pain and distress? Why do lies, fraud, ignorance hold sway, and justice fail? If Brahma created this world as it is, he is very much to blame!” “There were no men on earth at first or women. It was the mind first; and then came mankind into being. They started well, all equal to begin with. It was their own faults, failings or strengths that made them vary and different. It was their own sins or merit that made them first, or made them last, rich or poor, high or low, sage or fool – not Brahma. It was no past merit or lack of it that made mankind vary so. It was their own and not Brahma’s doing, that made them high or low. In brahmin’s Veda, Khattiya’s policy, Vessa’s ploughing and Sudra’s cowering, one infallible hand deals alike.” “Loss, gain, glory or shame touch all four castes alike.” Thus confuting and refuting brahmin lore, Bhuridatta convinced his brother that he was mistaken. He saved his brother Subhāga from falling into false view and dispelled the fears of the anxious Nāgas too by establishing all on the truths he taught. He did not punish the wicked brahmin or let him be punished either, but had him transported to where he belonged, without so much as a harsh word or look, despite all the mischief he had caused. Nor did the Nāga brothers fail to take their mother, queen Samuddaja to see her father and her brother, King Sāgara Brahmadatta as previously planned. In this Jataka the Nāga king, and Queen Samuddaja had been King Suddhodana, and Mahāmāya Devi. Devadatta had been the outcast brahmin, and Ānanda, his son. Achchimukhi had been Uppalavanna; Sāriputta, Sudassana; Moggallāna, Subhāga ; and Sunakkatta had been Kanāritta. The End