Free of Desire

Buddhacarita, Chapter Four: Free of Desire

When the prince entered the garden, the women all came out to greet him; every one of them, thinking this a rare chance not to be missed, vied to press her most alluring and heartfelt charm upon him, each exhausting her whole art and bearing, attending on him however seemed most fitting.

Some took hold of his hands and feet; some stroked his whole body; some spoke to him with laughter and light words; some put on a look of tender sorrow — all of it contrived to please the prince, and stir in him a heart of longing and delight.

The women, seeing the prince's radiant face, his form like a very god's, needing no ornament at all — his plain, unadorned body already surpassing every adornment — gazed on him with one accord, saying to themselves that the moon-god's own son had come down among them.

Yet for all their manifold contrivances, the bodhisattva's heart would not be moved, and, glancing at one another, they fell silent, overcome with shame.

There was a brahmin's son named Udāyin, who said to the palace women: "Every one of you is beautiful, clever, and skilled in many arts — though beauty and vigor themselves do not last forever — and beyond this you understand the world's own hidden and secret means of stirring desire; your looks are a wonder rarely seen, fit to rival even a king's own daughter.

Even the gods, on seeing you, have forsaken their own queens, and even sages and immortals have been overturned by you — how then could a mere human prince fail to be moved by your charms?

The prince here, though he holds his heart firm and resolute, his purity and virtue whole and complete, still cannot in the end withstand the power that women hold.

In ages past, the courtesan Sundarī was able to bring down a great seer, leading him into the practice of lust until she could set her very foot upon the crown of his head.

The long-suffering ascetic Gautama, too, was undone by a heavenly queen — Viśvāmitra's own son, given over to the practice of desire, was simply swept along with the current.

The Brahmā-seer Viśvāmitra himself cultivated the way for ten thousand years, and yet, falling deeply in love with a heavenly queen, was utterly broken in the space of a single day.

If beauties such as these could overpower the holy conduct of the greatest sages, how then could your own skills possibly fail to move a mere prince?

You must apply yourselves with still greater effort and cunning, and not let the royal line be cut off — for though a woman's nature is accounted lowly, her honor and glory can rival even that of the greatest gods.

Why not exhaust every art you have, and make him give rise to a heart of true attachment?"

Hearing what Udāyin had told them, the women were filled with delight, their eagerness redoubled — like a fine horse spurred on by the whip — and they went again before the prince, each one bringing forward every art she had.

Singing and dancing, laughing and speaking, arching their brows and baring their white teeth, casting sidelong glances from beautiful eyes, letting their thin robes fall open to reveal their bare forms —

swaying seductively as they walked with slow, deliberate steps, feigning intimacy as they drew gradually closer — desire filled their hearts in earnest now, and, carrying out besides the great king's own instructions, they abandoned all restraint, indulging in shameless and hidden liberties, forgetting entirely any sense of modesty.

Yet the prince's heart remained firm and resolute, his composure never once altering — like a great dragon-elephant surrounded by a herd of common elephants, whose heart no crowd of them could ever disturb, so that even in the midst of the multitude he remained as though dwelling alone in quiet solitude.

Just as Indra, lord of the gods, is surrounded by his heavenly women, so the prince, there in the garden, found himself surrounded in exactly the same way.

Some arranged his robes; some washed his hands and feet; some anointed his body with perfume; some adorned him with garlands of flowers.

Some strung jeweled necklaces for him; some pressed close and embraced his body; some arranged his pillows and bedding; some leaned in close to whisper secretly to him.

Some teased him with worldly banter; some spoke openly of matters of desire; some took on poses of open desire themselves — all of it contrived to stir his heart.

But the bodhisattva's mind was pure, firm, and resolute, exceedingly hard to shift; hearing all that the women said to him, he felt neither distress nor delight.

Instead, a still deeper weariness and reflection rose in him, and he marveled at this as a strange and wondrous thing — only now did he come to understand just how fierce the desire that burns in women truly is.

Not knowing that youthful, vigorous beauty is destroyed in but a moment by old age and death — how pitiable, this great delusion, that ignorance should so thoroughly cloud their hearts!

One ought to keep old age, sickness, and death always in mind, striving diligently day and night — with the very blade of death already resting against one's own neck, how can anyone still laugh and play?

To see old age, sickness, and death befall others, and yet fail to examine one's own case in just the same way — this is no different from a person made of mud or wood: what capacity for thought or reflection can such a being truly have?

It is like two trees standing together in an empty wilderness, their flowers and leaves both flourishing alike — when the first is cut down, the second feels no fear at all, having no thought that its own turn might come.

These people here are, in just this same way, without any true mind at all.

At that time Udāyin came to where the prince sat, and, finding him quietly absorbed in meditation, his heart entirely free of any thought of the five desires, said to him: "The great king charged me beforehand to be a good friend to you, his son, and so I must now offer you my sincere counsel.

Friends are of three kinds: one who removes what does not benefit us, one who accomplishes what does benefit us, and one who does not abandon us when misfortune comes.

Since I already bear the name of your good friend, it would be unworthy of a true man for me to withhold what is in my heart and not say it in full — for how else could I earn the name of that threefold benefit?

And so I will now speak the truth plainly, to show you the sincerity of my own heart.

To be in the very flower of one's youth, with beauty and virtue both at their fullest, and yet to place no value on women — this is not the mark of a truly superior man.

Even where the heart holds no genuine feeling, it is fitting to accept them by way of skillful means; one ought to give rise to a soft and yielding heart, and go along with what pleases them.

Nothing surpasses women in the power to increase both desire and pride; and so, even where the heart itself now turns away, the proper course is still to follow along by way of skillful means.

To go along with a woman's heart is itself a pleasure, and this yielding is itself a kind of adornment; a man who holds himself apart from such yielding is like a tree that bears no flower and no fruit at all.

Why should one go along with them in this way? Because it is by this that one wins them over and holds them close — having already attained a state so hard to attain, one ought not to give rise to any thought of treating it carelessly.

Desire is the very foremost of things, which even the gods themselves cannot set aside — even Śakra, lord of the gods, once carried on a secret affair with the wife of the seer Gautama.

The seer Agastya, through long nights of arduous ascetic practice, sought to win a heavenly queen for himself — though in his case, in the end, his wish did not come to pass.

The seer Bharadvāja, and the moon-god's own son; the seer Vasiṣṭha, and Kapiñjala as well — many such as these, in numbers beyond counting, have all been undone by women. How much more so, then, when the very object of your desire already lies within your own reach — why should you not simply take your pleasure in it?

Through the roots of virtue you planted in ages past, you have now obtained these many wondrous things, at which the whole world delights and to which it clings — why then does your own heart, instead, refuse to prize them?"

The prince, hearing his friend Udāyin's sweet words and sharp, eloquent reasoning, so skilled in describing the ways of the world,

answered him: "Udāyin, I am moved by the sincerity of what you say, and so I will now speak to you in turn — I ask only that you listen closely.

It is not that I make light of these fine surroundings, nor that I fail to know the pleasures other people take in them; it is only that, seeing the mark of impermanence in them, I give rise instead to a heart troubled by their affliction.

If these things remained forever as they are, free of the suffering of old age, sickness, and death, I too would rightly take my pleasure in them, and never once give rise to a heart of weariness or renunciation.

If the beauty of women could remain, in the end, entirely free of decay and change, then even though attachment and desire would still be a fault, one might still find something there worth holding on to.

But since every person is subject to old age, sickness, and death, one ought rightly to take no pleasure even in one's own such state — how much less, then, should one give rise to a heart of attachment toward another?

To give rise to a heart of love and delight toward the impermanent realm of the five desires, and toward one's own body as well, which is exactly the same — this is no different from the beasts.

As for the sages you have cited, who gave themselves over to the practice of the five desires — they themselves are precisely what deserves to be regarded with weariness and concern, for it was exactly through the practice of desire that they were destroyed.

And as for those you call superior men, who took their pleasure and delight in the realm of the five desires — they too were destroyed in exactly the same way; one ought to understand that this alone shows they were not, in truth, superior at all.

And if you say this is merely a matter of provisionally going along with them by way of skillful means — but once one has practiced it, it becomes genuine attachment in truth, so how could this still be called mere skillful means?

To go along with them falsely and deceptively is something I will not do; and to go along with them in genuine sincerity — this would itself be contrary to the true Dharma.

This heart of ours is difficult to restrain; the moment it engages with a thing, attachment arises at once, and once attached, one can no longer see the fault in it at all — how, then, could one go along with it merely as a matter of skillful means?

To go along with a thing outwardly while the heart itself remains opposed to it within — I do not see how such a thing is even possible.

To let old age, sickness, and death — this great accumulated mass of suffering — cause me to fall into their midst all the same: this is no counsel a true and wise friend would ever give.

Ah, Udāyin — you are, in truth, a man of great daring.

The afflictions of birth, old age, sickness, and death are sufferings altogether to be feared; one sees with one's own eyes that everything decays and perishes, and yet still takes pleasure in chasing after it.

As for me, I have now fallen to such a low and feeble state, my heart grown so narrow and constricted, that in dwelling on old age, sickness, and death, and how suddenly and unexpectedly they arrive,

I have forgotten even sleep, day and night — how, then, could I possibly take up the practice of the five desires?

Old age, sickness, and death blaze on, certain to arrive beyond any doubt — and to remain, even so, unaware of any cause for sorrow or concern: this is truly to have a heart of wood or stone."

The prince, for Udāyin's sake, set forth by every skillful and ingenious means how desire is itself a source of the deepest affliction, until, without either of them noticing, the sun had already set.

At that, the whole company of palace women, along with their music and their finery, found every one of their arts entirely without effect, and returned to the city in shame.

The prince, seeing the garden's whole splendid array now fallen idle, the women all withdrawn, the place left utterly empty and still, felt his sense of impermanence redouble within him, and, his head bowed, made his own way back to the palace.

The father king, hearing that the prince's heart had now become entirely severed from the five desires, was seized with the greatest anguish, as though a sharp thorn had pierced straight through his heart.

He summoned all his ministers at once, and asked what measures might now be devised.

Every one of them answered that the five desires were no longer capable of holding the prince's heart.