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

by Phyllis Granoff

  Even though wise Vajra knew well that a person can never repay the debt that he owes his mother, he still thought to himself, ‘If I turn my back on the monks out of pity for my mother, then I shall be doomed to wander in the cycle of rebirths for a terribly long time. And my mother is surely one of those fortunate souls with little remaining karma. She will eventually renounce the world and become a nun. I must not worry about the momentary pain that I will cause her now.’ This was what Vajra, with his ability to know the future, thought. His resolve as firm as a diamond, he remained where he was and did not move an inch, as motionless as if he were a statue.

  The king said, ‘Sunandā, step aside. The child did not come, although you called him, as if he did not even know that you are his mother.’ It was Dhanagiri’s turn, and the king let him proceed. The monk showed the child the broom that monks use to sweep their path as they go, and he spoke these carefully chosen words, ‘If you are determined to became a monk, if you know the truth, then faultless one, take this broom, which is like the banner of right faith.’ Instantly, Vajra stretched out his hand, as a young elephant might extend its trunk, and he ran over to Dhanagiri, his anklets jingling. That pure-minded one then climbed onto his father’s lap and picked up the broom, as if it were a lotus to play with. The broom, raised high by Vajra in his two lotus-like hands, looked like a fly-whisk held high in honor of the Glory of the Jain community. Vajra smiled and his teeth glittered like tiny white jasmine buds. He never for a moment let his glance waver from the monk’s dust broom.

  Sunandā wilted, like a lotus pond at night when the lotus blossoms close. Resting her chin in her hand, she thought to herself, ‘First my brother became a monk and then my husband too became a monk. Now my son is going to become a monk. I too should renounce the world. I have no brother and no husband; now I have no son, either. It is far better for me to renounce the world than to continue to live as a householder.’ Having come to this conclusion all on her own, Sunandā then returned home. The monks too went back to their dwelling, taking Vajra with them. When the monks realized that in his determination to become a monk the little Vajra refused to nurse anymore, even at his young age, they ordained him and then gave him back to the nuns. Sunandā totally lost interest in the pleasures of worldly life, on account of the ripening of her good karma. She became a nun and was ordained by a leading monk in the same lineage. Vajra read on his own and listened to his teacher expound the eleven pūrva texts; brilliant, the Blessed Vajra studied the doctrine, possessed as he was of the ability to learn the whole from just one word. Vajra lived with the nuns until he was eight years old, at which time the great ascetics, filled with joy, took him with them to their lodgings.

  (from the Pariśiṣṭaparvan of Hemacandra, Ch. 12)

  3

  THE MONK SUKOŚALA

  King Kīrtidhara had become a monk. He wandered from place to place, performing extreme asceticism, as solid in his forbearance as the earth itself, his only bodily covering the dirt that clung to him; he was devoid of pride, noble in thought. His body was emaciated from fasting; he was steadfast in his resolve. His head was bare; it shone with a special lustre that had been imparted to it by the ritual of plucking out his hair that he had performed when he renounced the world. His long arms hung down and his gaze was fixed directly in front of him. He walked naturally with a gait like that of a noble elephant in rut. He was unmoved by anything, calm and collected, humble and devoid of all desires. He carried out the rules for a monk as they were set down; his mind was pure in its compassion; he was devoid of the stain of affection and suffused with the glory of the monastic life. As he wandered among the houses he came to the house in which he had formerly lived. That sage, having fasted for a long time, now entered his former home in search of alms. Sahadevī, who had been his wife, was looking out the window just then and when she saw him her face turned red with rage. Her lips pressed tightly together, that wicked woman commanded the doorkeepers, ‘Chase away this monk who cares nothing for the sanctity of the family, before the innocent, tender young prince, beloved of all, naturally soft-hearted, sees him. And if I ever see any other naked ascetics here in this house, then I shall punish you all, O doorkeepers, mark my words! For that one, without a trace of compassion, abandoned his own son, who was just a baby. Ever since that moment I have lost all patience with the likes of him. People like him despise the glory of kingship, which is the preserve of heroes. They cause even vigorous men to become disgusted with the activities of this world.’ The doorkeepers, sticks in hand, chased the monk away, obedient to thecruel words that came from her mouth.

  All the ascetics were then banished from the city, in an effort to ensure that the prince in his palace would never even hear the word ‘religion’. Now his wet nurse, Vasantalatā, heard how that heroic monk was cut by the chisel of cruel words; she saw, too, how he was chased away, and was filled with grief. She recognized the monk as her former master King Kīrtidhara, and ever loyal to him, she began to cry loudly and uncontrollably. The prince Sukośala rushed to her when he heard her crying. Trying to comfort her, he asked, ‘Mother, tell me, who has wronged you? My mother only gave me birth, but in truth my body is what it is now because of the milk you gave it. You are more important to me even than my own mother. Now tell me who, eager to enter the jaws of death, has insulted you? Even if it was my own mother who hurt you, I will punish her. You can be sure that I will treat harshly anyone else who has caused you this pain.’

  And so it was that the nursemaid, Vasantalatā, with difficulty stopped the flood of tears from her eyes and explained to the prince what had happened. ‘Your father installed you on the throne, and fearful of the many pitfalls of transmigratory existence, which is like a cage that traps living beings, he betook himself to the forest to practice asceticism. Today he came to your house in search of alms and he was violently turned back by the doorkeepers, who were acting on your mother’s instructions. When I saw him being rudely expelled I was unable to contain my grief, and that is why, my child, I cried like this. Who would dare to insult me, when you hold me in such high regard? Now I have told you why I cry. When I think of all that your father did for me, a blazing fire of sorrow consumes my body. Surely, I only live this life of misery now that your father has gone, because I do not have the good fortune to die; my body seems as, indestructible as if it were made of iron. Because your mother is afraid that if you see a naked Jain monk, you will want to renounce the world, all ascetics have been barred from entering the city. You see, it is the tradition of your family that the king installs his son on the throne and retires to the forest to become a monk. Surely, now you understand why the ministers have decided that you can never leave this house. Even when you are allowed to walk the streets outside, you are actually still within the palace, led about by the clever ministers.’

  Now when Sukośala heard all that she said, he quickly descended from the upper storey of the palace. He threw aside all the marks of kingship, like the royal umbrella. Radiant nonetheless, he proceeded to leave on foot; his feet were soft and lovely like lotuses. He asked everyone, ‘Have you seen a most excellent monk come this way?’ In his eagerness he found his father. The servants, who had followed him out of the palace carrying the insignia of royalty, were caught off guard; they were confused and did not know what to do. Three times the prince circumambulated the monk, who was seated on a stone surface that was free of living creatures. His eyes were filled with tears and his thoughts were pure. He raised his hands and folded his palms in reverence. Filled with affection, he bowed down to the monk. His hands folded, he stood before the monk in all humility, as if he were ashamed that the monk had been chased away from his house. And then he spoke, ‘Until now I have slept the deep sleep of delusion. But now you have awakened me, just as the thundering roar of clouds might awaken a man who slept in a house consumed by a blazing fire. Grant me your favour, O Lord! Consecrate me as a monk under your tutelage. Rescue me from the terrors and miseries of transmigratory exi
stence.’

  No sooner had Sukośala, his head bowed low, finished speaking these words, than the royal retainers arrived on the scene. His despondent wife Queen Vicitramālā had come too, though the way had been particularly difficult for her, since she was in an advanced stage of pregnancy. She was accompanied by many women from the harem. Hushed sounds of crying, like the buzzing of bees, came from the women, who realized that Sukośala was about to become a monk.

  Sukośala, free of any desire for worldly things, spoke. ‘It may well come to pass that the child Vicitramālā is carrying is a boy. I give to him my kingdom.’ And then, cutting the bonds of desire, burning up the snares of affection, breaking asunder the chain that is the family, throwing aside the kingdom as if it were no more than a worthless blade of grass, Sukośala cast off all his jewellery, along with all his inner and outer attachments. He sat calmly in the lotus posture and pulled out the hair on his head. Sukośala received the vows of the monk from his preceptor, and then, calm at heart, he set off with his father. He wandered the good Earth, as if making offerings to her of lotuses at every step, with the rosy rays that came from his feet. Everywhere people looked at him in amazement. Sahadevī died harbouring evil thoughts; that wicked woman, who did not believe in the right religion, was reborn as an animal.

  Sukośala and his father wandered from place to place, stopping when the sun went down. The rainy season came upon them, darkening the expanse of the sky. It looked as if hosts of black clouds had been painted onto the surface of the sky, while here and there a string of cranes crossed the sky, like so many water lilies scattered in worship. Plump kadamba buds, resounding with the hum of bees, seemed to sing a paean of praise to the rainy season, that was now king. The entire world seemed covered by chunks of black collyrium, as big as lofty mountains. The sun and moon seemed to have fled, frightened by the roar of thunder. As the rain poured down in torrents it was as if the sky itself was melting, while the earth, delighted, donned a new blouse of green grass. The surface of the earth, once bumpy, not level, was entirely smoothed over by the rush of water that flowed over it so quickly. In the same way the difference between good and bad, high and low, is erased in the mind of a wicked person. On the ground the torrents of water roared, while in the sky the clouds thundered; it was as if both of them were in hot pursuit of their enemy, summer. The mountains, covered with new sprouts and adorned by waterfalls, could themselves be mistaken for clouds that fell from the sky, too heavy now with water to float any longer. Bright red beetles glittered along the ground, like chunks of the sun reduced to powder and fallen to the earth. Flashes of lightning rushed from one corner of the sky to the next, like so many eyes of the sky, racing to see which places were filled with water and which needed some more. The heavens were adorned by a multicoloured rainbow, like a beautiful ceremonial arch of unusual height. The rivers, now muddy, overflowed their banks; with their waters swirling in frightening whirlpools, they rushed blindly forward, like women following their own desires. Terrified by the roar of thunder, some women, their eyes darting hither and thither like the eyes of frightened does, could only throw their arms around the pillars in their room, for their husbands were still abroad in the frightful storm. These women, whose husbands were travelling, cast their eyes into the distance, as the roar of thunder crashed through their hearts and agitated their minds.

  Noble Jain monks, ever compassionate, sought out a proper place, free from living creatures, to wait out the four months of the rainy season. Jain lay people restricted their comings and goings, so as to minimize the harm they might do living beings; to the best of their abilities they practiced various restraints, ever intent on serving the community of monks.

  When the rainy season had arrived with all its might, the two Jain monks, father and son, observing all the rules set down for monks, came upon a cemetery on a mountain, that was difficult to reach and terrifying even to those creatures that normally strike terror in the hearts of others. The densely growing trees let in no light and so the place was covered in a deep darkness; it was frequented by dangerous and predatory creatures, snakes and the like; caves there echoed with the cries of jackals and bears, vultures and other predatory birds. Half-burnt corpses littered the awful place and the ground was pock-marked by pits and holes. In some places the earth was white from the heaps of skulls lying about, while an evil-smelling wind whipped through the place, carrying with it the stench of flesh and fat. There, ghosts and goblins laughed their raucous laugh, and tall trees were encircled by clumps of grass and creepers, like nets encasing their trunks. It was to this horrible burning ground, then, that father and son, their minds pure, chanced to come that June in the course of their monastic wanderings. Free from desires, there they undertook their rainy season fast, living under a tree, subsisting only on the pure water that they strained through leaves. Some time they sat in meditation in the lotus posture; some time they stood stock still in concentration; in these and in other yogic postures, the two passed the rainy season.

  Then at last autumn arrived, the season in which men seem more eager than ever for work; like the dawn it brought light to all the world. Some pale, tremulous clouds could still be seen in the sky, like wispy blossoms of the cane plant. In the sky, now free of clouds, appeared the sun, friend to the lotuses, just as the Jina, friend to the righteous, appears at the end of the degenerate age in the cycle of time. The moon was resplendent among the host of stars, like a fine young swan in the midst of a pond of blooming lilies. The world was awash in moonlight, like a sea of milk released from the moon, lord of the night, as if from a dike. The clear rivers, their banks softly marked by waves, spoke gently to the world with the cooing of cranes and kraunca and cakravāka birds. In the ponds, the clusters of lotuses, bees skipping among them, perked up, like righteous people suddenly freed from the stain of false belief. At night men, having enjoyed many objects that delighted their senses, sported with their lovers on the lower terraces of their mansions that were strewn with flowers. Couples, once separated, were reunited and great parties were held, in which friends and family took part.

  Now that October had come, all the Jain monks, rich in their austerities, resumed their wanderings, setting out for those places where once the Jinas had performed special acts and now people gathered in worship and celebration. Those two monks, Sukośala and his father Kīrtidhara, completed their rainy season austerities, and in strict obedience to the laws laid down for monks they headed toward human settlement in order to break their fast. The tigress, who had been Sahadevī in its previous birth, saw them and was filled with anger; she shook her mane that was wild and red like blood. Her face was made hideous by her huge fangs and her red eyes sent out sparks; her tail was curled high above her head and she tore the earth with her claws as she walked. Looking like death incarnate, she let out a deep growl. Her red tongue hung out of her mouth and her powerful body trembled. She looked like the midday sun as she advanced to pounce with all her might on Sukosala. The two monks, both exceedingly handsome, saw the tigress about to attack, and with firm resolve they stood there in a posture of meditation. The cruel tigress began to rip the monk Sukośala apart, starting from his head. When she was finished she dropped to the ground. Blood gushed from the tattered body of the monk, which looked like a mountain with waterfalls made red by the minerals dissolved in the water. Then that wicked tigress stood in front of the monk and began to eat him, feet first.

  See, O King Śrenika, what delusion can cause a person to do; the mother devours her beloved son, limb by limb. What can be more painful than to see how relatives, deluded by things that have happened in a past birth, become cruel enemies. That monk, who was as steadfast as Mount Meru, reached the highest level of meditation and became Omniscient. Shortly thereafter he was released from his body. The gods with their king and the anti-gods gathered at the spot where he had died and joyfully worshipped his bodily remains with bouquets of divine flowers.

  The tigress was awakened to the Truth by Kīr
tidhara’s gentle words. She renounced everything and died a pious death. She went to heaven. Kīrtidhara, too, gained Omniscience. The gods celebrated his Omniscience as well, when they came to honour Sukośala. Having bowed down at the feet of the two monks and having celebrated their acquisition of Omniscience, the gods and anti-gods returned to wherever they had come from. Whoever learns about the greatness of Sukośala is free from all troubles and lives happily for a long time.