Life in the Palace

Buddhacarita, Chapter Two: Life in the Palace

At that time, in King Śuddhodana's household, because of the birth of this holy son, every kinsman and every named clansman, every minister of the court alike, proved wholly loyal and true.

Elephants and horses, jeweled chariots and carriages, the wealth of the realm and vessels of the seven treasures — day by day these grew ever more abundant, gathering of themselves as though summoned by the occasion.

Immeasurable hidden treasuries rose up of themselves out of the very earth, and, in the pure snow mountains, herds of wild white elephants,

came of their own accord though none had called them, tamed of themselves though none had broken them; and every manner of dappled and parti-colored horse, their forms of the utmost elegance,

their manes vermilion, their tails fine and long, leapt and bounded as though flying — creatures born, too, in the wilderness, arrived of their own accord at just this time.

Cattle of pure, unmixed color, well-trained, sleek, and shapely, walking with even gait, giving forth rich, fragrant milk, gathered together of themselves like clouds at just this time.

Those who had once hated one another grew calm of heart; the ordinary grew still more generous and warm; the already sincere grew closer still in friendship; and every manner of disorder and rebellion dissolved entirely away.

Gentle winds brought rain in its proper season; thunder never once cracked or split the sky; crops sown out of their usual time still ripened, and the harvest gathered in redoubled abundance.

The five grains grew fresh and fragrant, light and easily digested, and every woman great with child found her own body at ease and well.

Apart from those who belonged to the four noble classes, all the rest of the people of the world found their own means of livelihood entirely sufficient, with no thought left over to seek anything further.

None felt arrogance, none felt miserliness or envy, and none felt anger or malice either; every man and woman alike seemed to have returned to the innocence of the first age of the world.

Shrines to the gods and temple halls, gardens and groves, wells and pools — every one of these, as though they were things belonging to heaven itself, sprang up of their own accord in season.

Throughout the whole realm there was no hunger, and warfare and plague both came to rest; among the people of the country, kinsmen and neighbors loved and honored one another.

They took their pleasure in love bound to the Dharma, and no thought of defiled desire arose in them; they sought their wealth by righteous means, with no covetous thought of gain.

They gave generously for the Dharma's own sake, with no thought of return; they cultivated the four kinds of divine conduct, and extinguished every thought of anger and harm.

In ages past, when King Mannu Ka begot his son Prince Sūryagarbha, the whole kingdom was covered in auspiciousness, and every evil, all at once, came to rest.

Now that the king had begotten this prince, his virtue proved to be of exactly this same kind; and so, that his name might hold the whole of these many virtues together, he was called Siddhārtha.

At that time Queen Māyā, seeing the son she had brought into the world — his features as fine as a heavenly child's, every beauty complete in him — was overcome by a joy she could not contain, and, her life at its end, was reborn in the heavens above.

Mahāprajāpatī Gautamī, seeing the prince, this heavenly child, his virtue and countenance a wonder unmatched in all the world — and knowing that his own mother had died at his very birth — cherished and raised him as her own son, and he, in turn, honored her exactly as he would honor his own mother.

Just as the light of sun, moon, and fire begins faint and gradually spreads wide, so the prince, growing day by day, found his virtue and his countenance both growing in exactly this same way.

Priceless sandalwood incense, the famed treasure of Jambūnada gold, elixirs to guard the body handed down by sages and immortals, and strings of jewels — all these adorned his person.

The lesser kingdoms bound to his father's realm, hearing that the king had begotten a son, sent tribute of every rare and precious thing — oxen and sheep, deer, horses, and carriages, jeweled vessels and ornaments — each seeking to add to the prince's delight.

Though he had every manner of fine adornment and every plaything a small child could want, the prince's temperament was composed and grave; his form was still that of a child, but his mind was already that of an elder.

His heart dwelt in a realm higher and finer than his surroundings, untouched by glory or splendor; and whatever art or skill he studied, he surpassed his own teachers the very first time he heard it taught.

Seeing how brilliant and accomplished he was, the father king grew deeply concerned that his son's reach already exceeded the ordinary world, and so made wide inquiry among the great and renowned families for a household schooled in proper conduct and ritual propriety.

There he found a woman of fine and dignified appearance, named Yaśodharā, and had her wedded to the prince as his consort, hoping to draw him in and hold fast his heart.

Yet the prince's own resolve reached lofty and far, his virtue full and his countenance serene and clear — like Śanaiścara Kumāra, eldest son of Brahmā himself.

His worthy consort, of beautiful form, graceful and refined in every bearing, splendid as a queen of the gods, shared his days and nights with him in joy.

For their sake a pure and spacious palace was raised, magnificent and adorned with the utmost splendor, its towers rising high into open space, remote and lofty as an autumn cloud, its warmth and coolness suited perfectly to every season, so that a fitting dwelling could be chosen whatever the time of year.

Surrounded by troupes of skilled women who played for him music fit for heaven, he was kept far from anything coarse in sound or sight, lest such things give rise in him to any thought of world-weariness.

As in the heavens, where a gandharva's own palace of jewels arises of itself, and its musician-women play heavenly strains that dazzle both heart and eye —

so it was, in exactly this same way, with the bodhisattva dwelling in his lofty palace and its music.

The father king, for his son's sake, lived quietly and cultivated a purity of his own virtue: he governed with the transformative power of benevolence and the true Dharma, drew close to the worthy and kept the wicked at a distance, and let no thought of mere attachment stain his own heart. Toward desire he raised up thoughts as vigilant as against poison; he gathered in his own feelings and disciplined every one of his faculties, extinguishing every trace of frivolous or restless intent; with a gentle countenance he listened well to every dispute brought before him, and taught with compassion so as to weary his people of worldly craving itself.

He proclaimed and instructed the outsiders of every school, cut off every scheme of treachery and rebellion, and taught his people the very means of saving the world, so that the whole of his people attained peace and ease.

Just as he wished his own son kept safe and at rest, so too did he wish it for all his people; he served the sacred fire and paid homage to every deity, and, joining his palms, drank the light of the very moon in reverence.

He bathed his body in the waters of the Ganges, and washed his heart in the waters of the Dharma; and the good fortune he prayed for was never for himself alone, but for his son and for all his people together.

Words of affection are not without their own meaning; words of righteousness are not without their own affection. Words of affection are not without their own truth; words of truth are not without their own affection.

Yet because he held a sense of shame and conscience, he could not always speak plainly and exactly as things stood; whether a matter was welcome to him or not, he never let it be governed by a thought of greed or of anger.

His resolve dwelt in silence and stillness, and he settled disputes fairly and without partiality; he held that this was worth more, as a source of merit, than the holding of any sacrificial rite to the gods.

Seeing that a crowd had come with many requests, he gave more generously than they had even hoped for, his heart entirely free of any thought of contention, subduing every enemy and rival by virtue alone.

Regulating the one, he guarded the seven; setting the seven aside, he restrained the five; attaining the three, he understood the three; knowing the two, he let the two go.

When a plea for mercy was made even by one whose crime deserved death, he extended a ruler's own compassion, never once adding a harsh or cruel word, but instructing with gentle speech instead; he made it his constant care to give of his own wealth, showing people the very path to their own livelihood, and to receive instruction in the ways of sages and immortals, extinguishing every trace of resentment and anger in himself — so that his name and his virtue spread everywhere, and every evil in the world was, because of him, brought entirely to an end.

As the master craftsman himself cultivates a manifest virtue, so the whole realm under him takes up the same practice in turn — just as, when a person's own mind is calm and at rest, the four limbs and every one of the senses follow naturally along.

In time, Prince Siddhārtha and his worthy consort Yaśodharā, both now grown gradually to maturity, conceived and gave birth to a son, Rāhula.

King Śuddhodana reflected to himself: now that the prince himself has a son, the succession will continue on across the generations, and the true transformation of the realm will have no end.

Now that the prince has a son of his own, he will love this son exactly as I love him, and will no longer entertain any thought of leaving home — he will only devote his strength to the cultivation of goodness.

My own heart now finds the greatest peace, a joy no different from being born into heaven itself — just like the way of life the sage-kings themselves once followed, back at the very beginning of this age.

They loved to carry out pure and undefiled deeds, offering sacrifice without taking life, blazing forth in the cultivation of excellent works — a king excelling others, and their holy conduct excelling as well.

Their lineage and their wealth excelled others, their courage and their accomplishments excelled others, shining out over the world the way the sun shines with a thousand rays of light.

The very reason one becomes a king at all is to bring glory to one's own son; glorifying one's son brings honor to one's lineage; an honored lineage becomes renowned; a high renown leads to rebirth in heaven; and once reborn in heaven and its joys attained, one's joy comes to rest in the increase of wisdom, in awakening to the way and spreading abroad the true Dharma, so that, from that place of prior excellence and renown, one takes up and puts into practice every manner of wondrous path.

My only remaining wish is that the prince, out of love for his own son, never abandon his home — for it is true of every king in every land that when a son is born to them while they themselves are still young,

they take care that the good order of the kingdom not be undone by a heart given over to self-indulgence, given loose rein to worldly pleasure, unable then to carry on the royal line.

Now that the king himself has a son born to him, let him follow his own heart and give himself freely to the five desires; my only hope is that he takes delight in worldly glory, and has no wish to devote himself to seeking the way.

For even the bodhisattva-kings of ages past, however deep and firm their resolve toward the path, still, of necessity, first took their share of worldly glory and pleasure, begot a son to carry on the family line, and only afterward entered the mountain forests to cultivate the way of stillness and silence.