The Birth at Lumbinī

Chapter One: The Birth

Descended from the line of the sugarcane kings was Śuddhodana, unsurpassed among the Śākyas — a king whose wealth was pure and whose virtue was whole, and so he was named "Pure Rice." All living beings looked up to him with joy, the way they look up at the moon on the night of its first rising.

The king was like Indra, lord of the gods, and his queen was like Śacī, Indra's own consort — her resolve steady as the earth, her mind as clean as a lotus. "Māyā" was only a borrowed likeness for her name; in truth she had no equal at all.

Into that queen, radiant as an elephant among queens, the spirit descended and took up residence in the womb.

The mother was entirely free of sorrow and care; no thought of illusion or falsehood arose in her. She wearied of the clamor of the crowded world and loved instead to dwell in the quiet of the forest.

Lumbinī, that finest of gardens, had flowing springs and flowers and fruit in abundance — a stillness suited to meditation — and so she asked the king's leave to go and wander there.

The king, understanding what she wished for, felt in himself a wonder he could not quite name, and ordered the whole household, within and without, to make its way together to that garden grove.

At that time Queen Māyā, knowing of herself that the time of birth had come, lay down at ease upon a magnificent couch, attended by a hundred thousand serving women.

It was then the eighth day of the fourth month, the air clear and mild and perfectly tempered. Having kept the fast and cultivated purity of conduct, she brought forth the bodhisattva from her right side — for his great compassion meant to save the world, and so he would not let his mother suffer in bearing him.

King Urubilva was born from his mother's thigh; King Kapila, from her hand; King Mandara, from the crown of her head; King Kakṣīvat, from her armpit.

So too was it with the bodhisattva: he was born issuing from the right side. Little by little he emerged from the womb, his radiance shining out on every side, as though he had simply fallen from open space rather than come by the ordinary gate of birth.

Through immeasurable ages he had cultivated virtue, and he knew of himself that this birth was undying. Composed and unshaken, he shone forth already, wondrous and dignified in bearing.

Radiant, he appeared out of the womb like the sun at its first rising — dazzling to behold in its brilliance, and yet doing no harm at all to the eye that beheld it.

One could gaze at him directly and never be dazzled, the way one gazes at the moon in open sky. His own body cast its own light, outshining even the sun the way the sun outshines a lamp — and the bodhisattva's body, truly of gold, shone out over everything in just this way.

With a mind wholly settled and unconfused, he walked seven measured steps in perfect composure. Beneath his feet the ground lay level and smooth, marked with soles as luminous as the seven stars.

Walking with the gait of the lord of beasts, the lion, he surveyed the four directions, and — having already penetrated the truth of things — was able to speak these very words:

"This birth is a buddha's birth, and so it is my final birth. This alone — this one birth — shall I use to carry every being across."

At that very moment, in open space, two streams of pure water poured down together, one warm and one cool, bathing his crown and bringing ease to his body.

He was laid to rest in a jeweled palace hall, set upon a couch of lapis lazuli, while the heavenly kings, with hands like golden flowers, held up the couch's four legs.

The gods in the sky above held jeweled canopies in attendance, and, sustained by his majestic power, sang his praises, urging him on toward the attainment of buddhahood.

The nāga kings rejoiced, thirsting after this supreme dharma; having once served the buddhas of ages past, they now had the good fortune to encounter this bodhisattva as well.

Scattering mandārava blossoms, they gave themselves wholly to joyful offering, for the Tathāgata had arisen in the world, and the gods of the Pure Abodes rejoiced.

Having already cast off the pleasures of craving, they took their delight in the Dharma alone — for sentient beings, sunk in the sea of suffering, would now be granted liberation because of him.

Sumeru, king of jeweled mountains, holds this great earth firm and steady; yet when the bodhisattva arose in the world, the wind of his merit stirred everything, and the whole earth quaked and trembled, as wind churns up waves beneath a boat.

Fine powdered sandalwood incense and the hidden treasuries of lotus blossoms among every kind of jewel were carried streaming through the sky on the wind, falling in glorious profusion; and robes of heaven drifted down from above, bringing a wondrous bliss to whatever they touched.

The sun and moon kept their ordinary courses, yet their brightness doubled and grew more brilliant still. Every fire in the world blazed up of itself with no fuel to feed it, and clear, cool wells sprang up of their own accord, one after another.

The serving women of the inner palace marveled at what they had never seen before, and rushed together to drink and bathe in the water, every one of them filled with a sense of ease and well-being.

Countless bhūta spirits, delighting in the Dharma, gathered like clouds, filling every grove and every tree throughout the garden of Lumbinī.

Extraordinary and wondrous flowers bloomed out of their season; every manner of violent and savage creature gave rise, all at once, to a heart of loving-kindness; and every illness in the world, untreated, cured itself.

The clamoring cries of birds and beasts fell hushed into stillness; every river ceased its flowing, and every muddied water grew clear; no cloud veiled the sky, and the drums of heaven sounded of themselves.

Every realm, everywhere in the world, attained peace and ease and comfort — as when a country ravaged by calamity suddenly gains a wise and worthy ruler.

The very reason the bodhisattva was born was to deliver the world from its manifold sufferings — and it was for this reason alone that Māra, king of the heavens, was shaken with great anguish and dread.

The father king, seeing the son who had been born to him — a wonder such as he had never before beheld — found even his usual steadiness of temperament give way; his very countenance changed. Two breaths rose together, contending in his chest: one of joy, and, close behind it, one of dread.

The queen, seeing her son born by no ordinary way, felt all a woman's native timidity rise up in her; she trembled, her heart holding both ice and fire at once, unable to tell whether the sign portended fortune or misfortune — and so it was that dread, rather than joy, grew stronger in her still.

The elder matrons of the household, in their confusion, prayed all at once to whatever gods each one served, each invoking the deity she was accustomed to, that the young prince might be kept safe.

Now there lived, in that same forest, a brahmin learned in the reading of bodily marks — dignified in bearing, wide in learning, renowned for his eloquence — and when he saw the marks upon the child, his heart filled with a joy such as he had never known, and he could not contain his own delight.

Knowing that the king's heart was full of dread, he addressed the king truthfully: "Whoever is born into this world seeks, above all, an extraordinary son.

You, great king, are now like the moon at its fullness; you ought to feel the greatest joy. The extraordinary son born to you this day is certain to bring glory and honor to your whole line.

Set your heart at ease and rejoice; give rise to no further doubt or misgiving. Auspicious signs have gathered upon your household and your kingdom both — from this day forward, all shall turn toward prosperity and rest.

This extraordinary son who has been born to you is certain to become the world's own savior. This body alone, among the highest of beings, bears a radiance of gold, wondrous and shining — and marks as fine as these are certain, in the end, to bring him to unsurpassed, perfect awakening.

Or, should he instead take his pleasure in the ways of the world, he is certain to become a wheel-turning king, universal lord of this whole great earth, ruling with courage under the true Dharma, master of all four continents, sovereign over every other king who lives.

Just as, of all the lights of the world, the light of the sun is supreme — so too, should he dwell instead in mountain forests, devoting his whole mind to the search for liberation,

he will accomplish a true and complete wisdom that shines out over the entire world — the way Mount Sumeru stands as sovereign over every other mountain there is.

Of every kind of treasure, gold is supreme; of every kind of flowing water, the ocean is supreme; of every constellation, the moon is supreme; of every source of light, the sun is supreme — and should a Tathāgata dwell in this world, he is supreme among all beings who walk on two feet.

His clear eyes are long and wide, their upper and lower lashes fine and long; his steady gaze holds the deep blue-black color of a radiant half-moon shape — how could a mark such as this be anything other than the mark of a perfectly balanced and supreme eye?"

At this the king said to the two brahmins: "If it is truly as you say — if these are marks as extraordinary as this — then for what reason, by what chain of causes, did they never once appear upon any king before me, and appear only now, in my own time?"

The brahmin answered the king: "You ought not to speak in such a way.

Learning and wisdom, renown and accomplishment — these four things do not depend on what came before them.

Whatever is born of the nature of things arises from its own causes and conditions, each in its own turn. Let me offer you some examples now; may the great king listen closely.

Bhṛgu and Aṅgiras — these two lineages of seers — across ages of great antiquity, each in turn produced sons who differed entirely from what had come before.

Bṛhaspati and Śukra were able to compose treatises on statecraft, and this gift did not descend to them from any ancestral line.

Among the seer Sarasvat's own descendants, the transmission of scripture and treatise had long since broken off — and yet from him was born Bhāradvāja, who took up and clarified scripture and treatise once again.

The understanding that appears in the present moment need not come by way of any ancestor at all: the seer Vyāsa composed a great many scriptures and treatises, and yet his final heir, Śuka, went on to gather together a vast body of verses and chapters of his own.

The seer Atri had no knowledge of medical treatises at all, and yet the Ātreya born after him proved skilled at curing every kind of illness.

The seer Kauśika, twice-born though he was, had no familiarity whatsoever with the doctrines of the outsiders — and yet the King Kātyāyana who came after him understood every one of the outsiders' teachings completely.

The founding line of the sugarcane kings could not hold back the ocean's tide — yet by the time of King Sagara, who fathered a thousand princely sons, they were able to master the great ocean's very tides and keep them from ever exceeding their appointed bounds.

The seer Jñānaka attained the way of meditation with no teacher at all.

Whoever attains renown of any kind attains it, in every case, from his own strength alone — sometimes surpassing what came before and later falling short of it, sometimes falling short at first and later surpassing it.

Kings and sages of every sort need not inherit their gifts from their own ancestral line — and this is exactly why, in every realm of the world, one ought never to weigh what came before against what comes after.

Great king, this being so, you ought to give rise to a joyful heart — and because your heart is joyful, be forever free of doubt and confusion."

Hearing what the sage had told him, the king rejoiced, and increased his offerings all the more.