Sorrow

Buddhacarita, Chapter Three: Sorrow

Beyond the palace walls lay gardens and groves, flowing springs and cool, clear pools, every kind of flowering and fruiting tree standing in rows, their deep shade hanging low.

Rare and unusual birds of every kind darted and played among them; flowers of the four sorts, of water and of land, glowed in their colors and streamed forth a wondrous fragrance.

The palace women, as they played their music, sang the prince the praises of this place, and the prince, hearing the music, found himself moved to admire that garden greatly.

A deep and eager joy rose within him, and he longed to go out and see it for himself — like a wild elephant kept in chains, forever yearning for the open, empty wilderness.

The father king, hearing that the prince wished to go out to that garden, at once ordered his ministers to make every preparation, arraying the full ceremonial escort.

They leveled and smoothed the king's own road and cleared away everything unsightly or unclean along it — every person old, sick, maimed, feeble, or reduced to poverty and suffering — so that nothing might arise to trouble the heart of this young prince who so loved his pleasures.

When every preparation stood complete, the prince came to ask leave and bow farewell; and the king, seeing his son approach, stroked his head and gazed long upon his face, grief and joy tangled together in his heart — his mouth granted leave, but his heart still held him back.

A carriage adorned with every kind of jewel, drawn by four matched, well-paced steeds, was made ready; and a young man of good family, skilled in every art, fine of feature and dressed in garments fresh and radiant, rode beside him to hold the reins.

Every street and lane was strewn with scattered flowers, and jeweled canopies screened the roadside; walls and trees lined the way on either side, adorned with jeweled vessels, and silken parasols and banners fluttered in bright profusion on the wind.

Onlookers crowded the length of the long road, leaning forward, their gazes meeting his in a single unbroken current, staring without so much as a blink — like rows of blue lotus flowers all turned the same way.

Ministers and subjects followed in his train entirely, like stars following the lord of the constellations, and with one voice, in wonder, they praised the occasion as a marvel the world had never before seen.

The noble and the humble, the rich and the poor, the old and the young and those in their middle years, all alike paid him reverent homage, wishing him nothing but good fortune.

In the walled towns and the farming villages, hearing that the prince was to pass by, high and low alike came without waiting to be summoned, waking or sleeping, telling no one, so eager were they.

They had no time to gather in their livestock, no time to secure their money and valuables, no time even to shut their doors, but ran headlong to the roadside.

From towers and terraces, from embankments and trees, from every window and lane, people leaned out, vying with one another for a clear view, staring without ever growing weary of the sight.

Those watching from high places felt as though they might throw themselves down; those on foot felt as though they walked on empty air — so utterly absorbed were they, without even noticing it themselves, that body and spirit seemed to take flight together.

Reverent and solemn in their bearing, they gave rise to no thought of idle frivolity, gazing instead upon his full, rounded limbs, his form radiant as an opening lotus, and thinking: may he, now setting out for the garden, one day become a sage who has perfected the true Dharma.

The prince, seeing the road so finely prepared, the great crowd in splendid array escorting him, his own robes and carriage gleaming bright, felt his heart fill with joyful delight.

The people of the kingdom, beholding the prince, his majestic bearing surpassing even his magnificent escort, felt just as the multitude of gods once felt on beholding the birth of their own heavenly prince.

At that moment the lord of the Pure Abode gods suddenly appeared at the roadside, having taken on the transformed likeness of a man worn down by old age, meaning to rouse in the prince a heart that would turn away from the world.

Seeing the old man, the prince, astonished, asked his charioteer: "What manner of man is this? His head is white and his back is bent; his eyes are clouded, his body trembles and sways, and he leans his whole weight on a staff, his steps thin and feeble.

Has his body suddenly changed into this state, or is this simply how his nature has always been?"

The charioteer hesitated in his heart, not daring to answer with the plain truth; but the Pure Abode god lent him spiritual power, and made him speak these true words instead: "His complexion is changed, his very breath grown faint and weak; sorrow has grown great in him and joy has grown scarce; his memory fails him, and every one of his faculties has weakened — this is what is called the mark of old age.

This very man was once an infant, nursed and raised at his own mother's breast; he passed through the playful years of childhood, and then, in the fullness of youth, gave himself freely to the five desires; but with the years now spent, his form has withered and decayed, and today he lies broken by old age."

The prince let out a long sigh, and asked the charioteer further: "Is it only he alone who grows old in this way, or shall we too, in time, come to this?"

The charioteer answered again: "Even you, most honored one, have your share in this; as time passes, the body changes of itself, and this is certain to come — beyond any doubt at all. Among the young and vigorous, not one fails to grow old; the whole world knows this, and yet goes on seeking its pleasures all the same."

The bodhisattva, through ages of long cultivation of pure and undefiled works of wisdom, had planted wide and deep every root of virtue — and now, at last, the fruit of that vow was coming into flower.

Hearing this account of the suffering of old age, he trembled, and the very hairs of his body stood on end — as when the crash and roar of thunder sends every wild beast fleeing in terror.

The bodhisattva, too, was shaken in just this way, and heaved a long, deep breath, his mind fixed wholly on the suffering of old age; he bowed his head and stared unmoving ahead, thinking: given this suffering of old age, how can the people of the world still take such delight in things?

This mark of decay that old age brings spares nothing that lives, choosing among no class of being — though a body may now have the strength and beauty of youth, there is not one that will not, in time, be utterly transformed.

Having seen this plain evidence with my own eyes, how could I fail now to turn away from it in weariness?

The bodhisattva told his charioteer that they ought to turn the carriage back at once: with old age approaching in every single moment, what joy could any garden possibly hold?

Receiving this command, the charioteer drove back swift as the wind, the wheels flying as he turned them toward the palace once more.

The prince's mind now dwelt entirely on the state of decay and approaching dusk that is old age, as though he were returning instead to an empty graveyard; nothing he encountered could hold his affection any longer, and no place he might dwell could bring him even a moment's peace.

The king, hearing that his son had returned displeased, urged him to go out once more, and at once commanded his ministers to prepare the escort still more splendidly than before.

But the god again conjured a sick man to wait, watching for his moment, at the roadside — his body wasted thin, his belly swollen, his breath coming in long, labored gasps, his hands and feet shriveled and cramped, sobbing and moaning in pain.

The prince asked his charioteer: "And what manner of man is this one?"

He answered: "This is a sick man; the four great elements within him have all fallen into disorder. He is so weak and wasted that he can bear nothing at all, and depends entirely on others even to turn from side to side."

Hearing this, the prince at once felt a heart of deep pity rise in him, and asked: "Is it only this man who falls ill, or must everyone else come to this as well?"

The charioteer answered: "In this world, it is exactly the same for everyone — wherever there is a body, there must be affliction; only the foolish and deluded take pleasure in the passing morning."

Hearing this, the prince was seized with a great dread; his body and mind both shook, as the moon trembles when reflected on wind-tossed waves.

Dwelling within this great vessel of suffering, how could anyone possibly find peace of mind?

Alas — the people of this world, obstructed by their own ignorance and delusion, know no fixed hour when the thief of sickness will come for them, and yet go on giving rise to hearts full of pleasure and delight.

At this he turned the carriage back, sorrowful, his mind dwelling on the suffering of sickness — like a man who, having been beaten and injured, curls his body inward, waiting for the next blow to fall — and withdrew into the quiet stillness of his own palace, his whole desire now bent toward finding some way back to the world's own pleasures.

The king, hearing again that his son had returned early, asked what the reason was.

He was told that the prince had seen a sick man, and the king was as stricken with fear as if he had lost himself entirely.

He harshly rebuked those responsible for clearing the road, his heart knotted with distress though he spoke no word of it aloud, and increased still further the troupes of skilled women and their music, doubling its splendor beyond what it had been before.

By this means he hoped to delight the prince's eyes and ears, that he might take pleasure in worldly things and grow no more weary of his household — yet though sound and sight were pressed upon him day and night without pause, the prince's heart never once, from the very start, knew any real joy in them.

The king himself went out and searched the grounds, seeking a finer and more excellent garden still, and carefully selected serving women of the most ravishing beauty and countenance,

skilled in flattering guile and practiced in service, their charming looks able to beguile any man's heart; and he had the royal road further improved and guarded, so that nothing unclean could appear along it, and ordered his most capable charioteers to survey the route with care before choosing which way to take.

Now the Pure Abode god transformed himself once more, this time into a corpse, borne on a bier by four men, and appeared directly before the bodhisattva; no one else in the whole procession perceived it — only the bodhisattva and his charioteer saw it there.

The prince asked: "What sort of bier is this, hung with banners and flowers in mingled adornment, with mourners full of grief following behind, their hair loosed and streaming, wailing as they go?"

Instructed by the god, the charioteer answered: "This is a dead man.

Every one of his faculties has failed, his life has come to its end; his mind has scattered and his awareness has departed; his spirit has fled and his form has dried and stiffened, lying rigid now like a withered log.

His kinsmen and his friends, who once were bound to him by deep affection, now can no longer bear the sight of him, and cast him far away, out into an empty graveyard."

Hearing the word "death," the prince felt grief and pain tangle together in his heart.

He asked: "Does only this man die, or does the whole world come to this as well?"

The charioteer answered: "It is universally so — whatever has a beginning must surely have an end; the young and the old and those in their middle years alike — wherever there is a body, there is nothing that does not, in the end, break apart."

The prince's heart was struck with dread; his body sank forward against the rail of the carriage, and, his breath nearly failing him, he sighed: how greatly mistaken are the people of the world!

They see with their own eyes that the body wastes away and perishes, and still they go on living heedlessly, giving themselves over to indulgence.

Is the heart, then, not made of withered wood or stone, that it has never once given thought to impermanence?

He gave the order at once to turn the carriage back: this was no longer a time for pleasure-seeking — with life certain to end and death arriving at no fixed hour, how could anyone give free rein to the heart's own pleasure now?

The charioteer, bound by the king's own command, dared not turn back for fear of him, and instead drove straight on, swift and unswerving, until they arrived directly at the garden itself.

There, the groves and streams lay everywhere pure and clear, every fine tree in full and glorious bloom; rare birds and unusual beasts, flying and running, called to one another in joyful harmony, their brightness a delight to eye and ear alike — a place as fine as Nandana, the garden of heaven itself.