The Dhamma Man

by Vilas Sarang

  And this in a country where there were numerous and wide rivers! And in an age when there was no thought of conservation!

  Now, 2500 years later, the necessity of conserving plants and trees has dawned on us. Buddha put it in practice in his own time. We cannot think of Buddha’s life without trees: his birth took place under the sal tree, his enlightenment under the aswattha tree; and his death on the road between two sal trees. There were other Buddhas before the Buddha we know. Those that we know had their enlightenment under an aswattha tree. Some of the Buddhas had their enlightenment under different trees: all the names of the trees are recorded. In the Jatak stories, the tree goddesses give spiritual knowledge to the various Buddhas.

  The main profession of the Sakyas was tilling fields. Buddha’s father, Shuddodan, as King, ritually tilled the earth before planting season. When he became Buddha, it was the habit of the master to go to a quiet, wooded place and meditate. He used to tell his disciples: ‘Here, there is plenty of the lovely shadow of trees. Meditate, boys—don’t waste your time playing games!’

  Emperor Ashok had infinite faith in the bodhi tree. He used to decorate the bodhi tree in every way he could think of, and used to worship it every day. It is said that his queen Tishya-rakshita was jealous of the emperor’s love for the bodhi tree. Out of vengeance, she ordered her servants to fell the tree. Later, in the seventh century BC King Shashank, who was an enemy of the Buddhists, also destroyed the bodhi tree and its surroundings. The Chinese traveller Huien Tsang describes the bodhi tree. He says, ‘The bodhi tree does not shed its leaves in the summer or winter. It sheds its leaves only once: on the day when Buddha attained the Nirvana. The next day, it sprouts with tender, new leaves.’

  There were many vanas, forest gardens, in Buddha’s time. Buddha had rested in many of those vanas. His favourite was a hill called the Vulture’s Peak, and it is said that Huien Tsang cried, saying: ‘Why wasn’t I born when Buddha lived.’ An Indian writer has described Buddha as a ‘friend of the trees’. How apt.

  11

  ‘Rahul, let’s play,’ Sarika said.

  ‘Okay, what shall we play?’

  ‘Let’s play squares,’ Sarika said.

  ‘All right, I’ll mark the squares,’ Rahul volunteered.

  Soon, they tired of the game.

  ‘What shall we do now, Sarika?’

  ‘Umm … yes, you tell me a story, Rahul. You tell nice stories.’

  ‘Okay.’ They sat under a tree and Rahul began.

  ‘There was a little boy and his sister. They lived with their parents.’

  ‘What were their names, Rahul?’

  ‘Oh, don’t bother about the names. We’ll give them names later …’

  ‘All right, Rahul.’

  ‘So they lived with their parents. Happily. But one day their father vanished. Everybody was worried. Their mother most of all. Then they found out that the father had been kidnapped by a rakshas. The demon kept the father in a cave and made him do strong penance so that the demon could be freed from a curse. The children devised a plan to free their father. They stealthily went near the cave …’

  ‘Rahul … Rahul … where are the two of you?’ Rahul’s mother called loudly.

  ‘Oh, just when the story was getting interesting, your mother has to interrupt …’ Sarika complained.

  ‘We are here, Mama, in the garden. We are telling stories.’

  ‘Rahul, there are more important things than stories—’

  ‘So you always say, Mama—’ Rahul complained.

  ‘All right children, now come inside the house,’ Yashodhara said. ‘Sarika, you go home now. The carriage is waiting for you. Rahul, you sit here. I want to talk to you.’

  Rahul—Rahul Siddharth Gautam—was seven years old. Yashodhara was his mother—Siddharth used to call her Bimba affectionately. But now those days were gone and we must call her by her official name: Yashodhara. For seven years, Yashodhara had been living the humiliating life of a ‘monk’s widow’. Her only consolation was Rahul, and she showered much affection on him. It would not be too much to say that she lived only for him. Otherwise, one doesn’t know what she would have done. She was an intense woman.

  Sarika was a girl of nine, the daughter of a neighbouring nobleman. Rahul and Sarika got on very well.

  Servants were always around. Yashodhara told them to go out of the room.

  Rahul waited expectantly.

  Yashodhara talked to him in a low voice: ‘Rahul, my dear, there is some news. I don’t know if it is good news or bad.’

  ‘What is it, Mama?’ Rahul asked impatiently.

  ‘The news is—actually, it is more a rumour—that your father is back.’

  ‘Papa is back? Do you mean it? Is he back for good?’

  ‘No, I don’t think he is back for good. If he comes at all, it will only be for a visit.’ Yashodhara continued: ‘You know, Rahul, Papa has achieved enlightenment. So now he is trying to persuade people to accept his dhamma, his way. I believe he is now in Rajagriha. What I am planning to do is suggest to grandpa to tell Papa to come to Kapilavastu.’

  ‘Yes, yes, Mama, please do that,’ Rahul cried excitedly.

  ‘After I have talked to grandpa, you also persuade him. Okay, Rahul?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I will. When will you talk to grandpa, Ma?’

  ‘Not so soon. I will take up the subject with him when he is in a good mood.’

  ‘Do it soon, Ma. And tell me about it, okay?’

  ‘Okay, darling. Now go out and play.’

  Rahul ran into the courtyard. He sat under his favourite tree and thought. He was so excited that his little heart pounded hard. His first thought was what would Papa look like—the Papa he had never seen? Everybody said he was very handsome. And tall.

  Rahul was soon lost in his dreams of Papa. By nature, he was a dreamy child and full of imagination.

  Yashodhara, too, thought. How was she to talk to her father-in-law? Since the departure of her husband, she only wore a white sari, or a pale brown one, a kashay vastra. She didn’t eat meat when Rahul was an infant. Now that he was a little grown up, she used to eat a little meat or fish, for Rahul would not eat such food if Ma did not.

  Shuddodan would be busy in the mornings with the affairs of the kingdom—perhaps there was a council meeting or maybe some important citizens had come to see him. After lunch, he used to take a nap. Late afternoon was the best time to talk to him.

  Yashodhara sent word with a maid that the daughter-in-law wanted to see the king. The maid came back saying it was okay.

  Yashodhara went to Shuddodan’s chamber.

  She touched her father-in-law’s feet.

  ‘How are things with you and with Rahul, daughter?’

  ‘Very well, with your blessings, my lord.’

  ‘Has Rahul started his studies, daughter?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. A teacher has been coming to teach him since.’

  ‘Good. You know, daughter-in-law, now all my hopes are pinned on Rahul. My son by abandoning his duties has behaved disgracefully for the son of a Kshatriya. Anyway, let that pass.’

  ‘Father, I wanted to tell you something—’

  ‘Go on, daughter.’

  ‘Your son, I hear, has been going around preaching his new doctrine. The latest I heard, he was in Rajagriha. Why not invite him here, my lord?’

  ‘Oh, my son! When you mention him, my brow begins to twitch. Anyway, what is he to you now? He is not your husband.’

  With head bowed, Yashodhara spoke in a subdued voice: ‘True, Father. But relations cannot be forgotten so easily. And Rahul would be happy to see his father. In fact, he is very keen to meet him. Let us have some pity on the poor child.’

  Shuddodan looked at the floor in deep thought. Then he said, ‘All right. But whom shall we send to invite him? He must be an intelligent, clever fellow.’

  ‘You know, Father, you had sent Kaludayin many years ago to talk to your son. He was also a friend of your son’s you
nger days. I think he may be the right person on this occasion too.’

  ‘Hmm … I will talk to Kaludayin.’

  Kaludayin was an old-time friend of young Siddharth’s. Yashodhara knew him, and trusted him. Now she sent out a maid to call him.

  ‘Hello Udayin, how have you been?’ Yashodhara greeted him.

  ‘My lady, I am all right. How have you been?’

  ‘Miserable, to tell you the truth. But now there is something to jog my mind.’

  ‘Yes, Bimba, I know. Your father-in-law ordered me to invite Siddharth to Kapilavastu.’

  ‘Bimba! Siddharth! How sweet it is that we use these names now! I feel nostalgic …’

  Udayin smiled affectionately.

  ‘Anyway, Udayin, I wanted to tell you to try your best. Siddharth will be reluctant, I know. Persuade him to agree to return to Kapilavastu at any cost. You know, I believe in the axiom: once a husband, always a husband. Besides, Rahul is pining to see his father.’

  ‘I understand everything, Yashodhara. Whatever happens, I will bring him here. This is my promise.’

  ‘Thanks, Udayin. I know I can trust your word. Godspeed.’

  Rajagriha was far away—six hundred kilometres. When Kaludayin reached Rajagriha, he took stock of things. Buddha had a large retinue of monks and followers. He was always busy preaching or counselling monks. It was difficult to reach him.

  Kaludayin hit upon an idea: he could join Buddha’s sangh, his retinue or organization, and be a monk. That way, he would be an insider with access to Buddha any time. Besides, Kaludayin was from Kapilavastu and a friend from Buddha’s youth. After his ordination as monk, Kaludayin attended two or three discourses, and then went to see Buddha.

  ‘Hail, O enlightened one!’ Kaludayin greeted Buddha with a broad smile, even though he knew that Buddha hardly ever smiled. ‘I am from the town of Kapilavastu. O noble one, do you recognize me?’

  ‘Kaludayin, I remember you very well. Who can forget the friends of one’s youth?’ Buddha said. And while Buddha didn’t smile, Kaludayin noted the change in his body language.

  ‘O noble one, do you ever remember your hometown?’

  ‘I have been so busy since I left home, first with the search for enlightenment, and since then with the task of spreading the dhamma, that I have scarcely had time to think of my hometown. But yes, now that I see you, memories of Kapilavastu do come into my mind.’

  ‘Don’t you think that it is now time to visit Kapilavastu? Now you will be going home victorious having achieved what you had set your heart upon, and not as a defeated warrior.’

  ‘Yes, Kaludayin, that is reason enough. But it is so very far, Udayin. It takes many days to reach.’

  ‘O noble one, nothing is very far if you set your mind to it. Monsoon has set in now, perhaps you can start after the rains.’

  ‘If you say so, Udayin.’

  ‘Yes … oh, to think of Kapilavastu after the rains! It’s the most beautiful place in the world! Trees are blossoming again—I will sing a verse to remind you of the scene:

  The trees there, lord, glow crimson now,

  In quest of fruit they’ve cast aside their leaves.

  But still the blossoms hang there, red as blood:

  Now is the time, O lord, to travel there.

  This is the season that is full of joy:

  Not over-hot is it, nor over-cold.

  Let the Sakyas and the Koliyas behold

  You when you, towards the westward cross the Rohini.’

  Kaludayin stopped to see the effect of the verse which he had recited so beautifully.

  It was clear that Buddha was moved. He stared at the floor for some time, perhaps lost in memories.

  Then he looked up at Kaludayin and said: ‘Okay, my dear friend, I will visit Kapilavastu.’

  ‘When, O noble one? After the rains this year?’

  ‘No, not after the rains this year. But after the next rains.’

  ‘All right, so shall I tell your father as much, O noble one?’

  ‘You may, Kaludayin.’

  ‘Thanks, O noble one. I shall take your leave now.’

  Kaludayin hurried in joy at the success of his mission. He couldn’t wait to break the news to Raja Shuddodan and especially to Yashodhara. He told the monks on duty that he had a message from the Tathagat for his family, in Kapilavastu, and he must leave the monastery for a few days.

  Kaludayin rode on horseback. It was drizzling outside, but he did not care.

  When Yashodhara heard, she was both happy and not happy. She had hoped that Siddharth would come directly after the rains. Yet, she consoled herself, he would definitely come.

  Rahul was eager, too.

  ‘When is Papa coming, Ma?’

  ‘Not this year. He will come after next year’s rains.’

  ‘Oh!’ Rahul muttered, and without saying anything, he went out to the courtyard and sat under his favourite tree. Yashodhara was sure he was crying to himself.

  Yashodhara herself was melancholy. She had to carry the burden of a year, and more. And now, monsoon was upon them.

  Monsoon in India has a special, indescribable quality. It elicits strong responses from everyone, both negative and positive; never does it leave one indifferent. Yashodhara had been lonely for seven years. The rains only magnified her loneliness. Most of the time, she would look out of the window distractedly. The scene changed hour by hour. The clouds assumed different shades of darkness. Sometimes, they seemed to be pregnant, just before the rains. Sometimes they were pensive, slowly floating out of vision. Sometimes they rained furiously, as if avenging some great wrong. Yashodhara seemed to be reading signs in the movement of the clouds—but she knew that there weren’t any.

  At night, Rahul used to sleep next to her. When there was thunder and lightning, he would cling to her out of fear. She comforted him, and straightened his blanket.

  Every night—she used to get some sleep in the last quarter of the night—she would see the same dream: she was busy supervising the cooks when a sanyasi stood before the gate with his alms bowl. She would take some rice and dal in a large vessel and personally go into the courtyard to serve the sanyasi. She would fill his bowl, and then, she would look up at his face. The sanyasi was her husband. After he had been served, he would walk on, silently, his face completely expressionless.

  The same dream, every night.

  The monsoon passed.

  The year passed.

  Another monsoon passed.

  Why was Buddha reluctant to visit his hometown? Did he feel some kind of dread? After all it was far from Rajagriha to Kapilavastu—about six hundred kilometres. Since Buddha was to travel on foot with his retinue of monks, it might take him many months to cover the distance. But the fact that Buddha was willing to undergo this fatiguing long march points to his keenness on this visit. Who did he want to see? His father? Least likely. His former wife Yashodhara? Not very likely. His son Rahul? Most likely. But more importantly, he could evangelize in Kapilavastu.

  Kaludayin went back to Buddha’s camp at Rajagriha. For one thing, he had joined Buddha’s sangh, and was obliged to be present for the sangh’s activities. Secondly, and more importantly, he wanted to make sure that Buddha kept his promise.

  As soon as the monsoon ended, Buddha started for Kapilavastu. After the rains, everything was green and pleasant and the journey was generally enjoyable. A historian describes the progress of Buddha:

  The Master generally goes on alone or occasionally in conversation with one of his supporters. Five steps in front are a few resolute disciples who clear the way for him and guard him against pestering watchers, and behind him come the rest, some in attitudes of devoted attentiveness or mental concentration, others tired and resigned … Buddha walked barefoot and did not carry a stick. In ancient India sticks were regarded as weapons, and Gautam refrained from using them.

  After the first quarter of the journey, the retinue had to cross the Ganga. Buddha was exhilarated by the wide exp
anse of the Ganga. It created in his mind a sense of serenity and peace.

  What were Buddha’s feelings as he approached his hometown, Kapilavastu? Eagerness? Enthusiasm? Dread? Uncertainty? Were his feelings all mixed up?

  An unworldly man, a tapaswi, is supposed to be without emotion. Was Buddha free from emotion? If he had no emotion, why did he make the six hundred kilometre journey? Merely out of a cold sense of duty? Was there no emotional motivation? When, after a hard struggle, he achieved bodhi or enlightenment, his words at the numinous event were: ‘Rebirth for me is destroyed. Done is what had to be done. There is no more being for me!’ These are words of exhilaration, jubilation. This is emotion, high emotion.

  Buddha got angry sometimes. A monk misinterpreted his teaching: ‘From whom have you learned, foolish man, that I have explained the dhamma in this way? Foolish man … you foolish man …’ The angry phrase is used three times in this tirade.

  Buddha, as a rule, kept away from hatred or enmity. Except for rare occasions like the above, he maintained mental balance and stability of feelings. Equanimity, upekkha, was a prized virtue. It was complemented by loving-kindness, metta.

  Buddha was human. He was not a stone god.

  The master and his retinue were in Kapilavastu. Custom forbade Buddha, a wandering monk, to pay an unsolicited call on Raja Shuddodan. Therefore, he camped in the Nigrodh grove, a place in front of the city where the sramans and ascetics stayed. The grove had old banyan trees which provided plenty of shade. The raja was not immediately told of the arrival of his son. Buddha stuck to his routine. No special exhibition of feelings. For eight years the son had been away—yet he did not run to his father’s house and hug him! Equanimity, indifference. But Buddha was no ordinary mortal.

  The next morning, Siddharth had been going round the streets of Kapilavastu with his alms bowl. The palace servants told the king that his son was in town.