Chandaka Returns

Buddhacarita, Chapter Six: Chandaka Returns

In but a moment the night had passed, and every creature's eyes opened to the light; and there, among the trees of the forest, the prince caught sight of the dwelling of the seer Bhārgava.

The forest streams ran utterly clear and open, and the birds and beasts there lived on close terms with people; seeing this, the prince's heart filled with joy, and the weariness of his body eased of itself.

Surely this was an auspicious sign, certain to bring some benefit never known before; and seeing this seer, one worthy of reverence and offering, he took care as well to compose his own bearing, and put away every last trace of pride.

Dismounting from his horse, he stroked its head: "You have now carried me across."

"Your gentle eyes have looked on Chandaka as though washing him in cool, clear water; your swift legs have run as if flying, while you, Chandaka, have always kept pace close behind the horse.

I am moved by your deep devotion and your diligence, never once flagging or growing weary; I need not reckon with anything else — I take hold only of the sincerity in your own heart.

A heart of true reverence, and a body equal to such labor — these two, together, I see now for the first time; for often a person may have the utmost sincerity of heart, yet find his own bodily strength unequal to the task,

or have strength enough for the task while his heart does not truly reach it. You alone, today, have both complete: casting aside every worldly glory and gain, you have pressed forward, step by step, to follow after me.

Who is there who does not turn toward his own advantage? Where there is no advantage, even kin fall away from one another. Yet you have followed me now in vain, seeking no reward at all in this present life.

A wife bears and raises children so that the family line may continue; and the reason one serves and honors a king is to repay the debt of his own upbringing.

Everyone, in every case, seeks their own gain — you alone have turned your back on gain, and set out with me regardless.

I need not trouble you with lengthy words; let me tell you now, briefly: your service to me is now complete. Mount the horse, then, and return.

Through this long night I have journeyed, and what I sought I have now, at this very place, attained."

He then took off his jeweled necklace, and gave it to Chandaka: "Keep this entire, as a gift to you, to ease your own grief and sorrow.

And this crown, set with its maṇi jewel, whose radiance has shone upon my own body" — he took it off as well, and placed it in Chandaka's hand, bright as the sun lighting up Mount Sumeru.

"Chandaka, take this jewel, and return to where my father the king is. Present the jewel and bow at the king's feet, to show him my own reverent heart.

For my sake, entreat the king to let go of his love and longing — for it is in order to escape birth, old age, and death that I have now entered this forest of ascetic practice.

Nor do I do this seeking rebirth in heaven; it is not that I am without feeling or longing for him, and I hold no resentment or bitterness in my heart either — I wish only to set aside grief and sorrow.

Through this long night of saṃsāra, love and affection have gathered together, and there must, in the end, always be a parting from them; and it is precisely because there must be such a parting that I now seek the very cause of liberation.

Should I attain liberation, there would then be no time left at which I must ever again part from those I love. It is to cut off sorrow that I have gone forth — let him not, on my account, give rise to sorrow for his son. The five desires are themselves the very root of sorrow — it is those who cling to desire who ought rightly to be the object of sorrow.

My ancestors, every one of them mighty kings, held their resolve firm and unshaken; and I, inheriting what remains of their legacy, find that the Dharma alone, and nothing else, is fit to be taken up.

When a wife dies, her wealth and possessions all pass on to her children; her children, for the most part, covet these worldly gains, while I, for my part, delight in the wealth of the Dharma alone.

And should it be said that one's youth is no time for wandering in search of learning — know instead that in seeking the true Dharma, there is no time at all that is not the right time.

Impermanence knows no fixed hour, and the enemy, death, forever lies in wait — and it is for this very reason that I have resolved, this very day, that now is the time to seek the Dharma.

All that I have just told you, proclaim it in full on my behalf; my only wish now is that my father the king cease to hold me in his longing thoughts.

And if, by disparaging me in whatever way seems fitting, you can help the king cut off his attachment, then do not, out of consideration for me, hold back your words — even if it means he keeps thinking of me without end."

Receiving this command, Chandaka, his heart choked and confused with grief, joined his palms and knelt down, and answered the prince: "Should I proclaim your words exactly as commanded, I fear it will only deepen his grief and sorrow all the more — his grief and sorrow will sink deeper still, like an elephant sinking into a deep bog.

That your love and affection must now be sundered for certain — is there any person of feeling who would not grieve at this?

Even gold and stone can be shattered — how much more, then, a heart already drowning in sorrow?

The prince has lived long in the depths of the palace, delicate and soft of body, knowing little hardship — how could you possibly bear to throw yourself into a forest of brambles and thorns, enduring such ascetic hardship?

When you first ordered me to fetch the horse, my own heart was deeply uneasy; but the gods themselves drove and pressed me, commanding me to make swift preparation.

What can it possibly mean, that the prince should resolve to abandon the depths of the palace in this way?

The whole realm of Kapilavastu, everywhere within its borders, will now be plunged into grief and anguish.

The father king is already advanced in years, and his love for his son runs deep — for you to resolve now to abandon him and go forth is simply not fitting.

To hold there is no father or mother at all would be a view so twisted it needs no further discussion.

Gautamī raised you, nursing you at her own breast until her body was worn thin and dry — such kindness and love are not easily forgotten; do not become a man who turns his back on such a debt.

As for the mother who nurtured you as an infant, and the noble family able to serve you so well — to attain such excellence and then abandon it is itself no mark of an excellent man.

Yaśodharā's excellent son is meant to inherit the kingdom and uphold the true Dharma, and yet his years are still so few — this too is not something that should be abandoned.

I have already gone against my duty in letting you leave your father the king, your kinsmen, and your whole household — do not, I beg you, abandon me as well; I truly cannot bear to leave your honored side.

My heart feels as though it were plunged into boiling water and fire — I could not bear to return to the kingdom alone.

If I now abandon the prince here in this empty wilderness and return by myself, I would be no different from Sumantra, who abandoned Rāma in the forest — and if I return to the palace alone like this, what could I possibly say to the king?

The whole court would rebuke me with one voice — what words could I possibly give in answer?

The prince has told me to disparage him however seems most fitting —

but how could I possibly speak falsely of one so full of the Sage's own virtue?

My own deep shame would keep my very tongue from moving; and even should I manage to say something, who in all the world would believe it?

One might as well claim the moonlight itself gives off heat, and expect the world to believe it — could anyone possibly believe that what the prince has done is contrary to the true Dharma?

The prince's heart is gentle and soft, ever compassionate toward all beings — for him to abandon those he loves so deeply runs against the very heart he has always shown before.

I beg you, reconsider, and return to the palace, if only to ease this foolish sincerity of mine."

The prince, hearing Chandaka's sorrowful and earnest remonstration, found his own heart settle only more firmly still, and said to him again: "You now suffer this pain of parting on my account alone; you ought to set aside this sorrowful thinking, and comfort your own heart instead — every being follows its own separate path, and parting from what one loves is simply the ordinary way of things.

Even if today I did not abandon my kinsmen, when death comes and body and spirit are sundered, how could I possibly hold on to them then?

My own loving mother carried me in her womb, cherishing me deeply and forever bearing her own hardship for my sake.

Yet the moment I was born, her life came to its end, and she never once had the chance to see me raised — the living and the dead follow entirely different roads; where, then, could I go now even to seek her?

In the wide wilderness, tall trees stand thick with birds gathered together in flocks; at dusk they come together to roost, and by morning they are certain to scatter apart — and parting, in this world, is no different.

Drifting clouds rise up over the high mountains, gathering from every direction to fill the empty sky, and in but a moment disperse again — and the way of human affairs is no different either.

The world is, by its very nature, already parted from itself; whatever bonds of love and affection gather for a time are like the gathering and scattering within a dream — one ought not to reckon such things as truly one's own kin.

It is like a tree that grows in spring, its branches and leaves gradually thickening and flourishing, only for the autumn frost to strip them bare in the end — even the branches and leaves of a single tree part from one another in this way; how much more, then, should people, who come together only for a time, expect their own kin to remain together forever?

You should set your grief and suffering to rest now, and follow my instruction to return; even in returning, your thoughts may still remain with me — go back now, and there will yet be a time to return here again.

Should the people of Kapilavastu, hearing that my heart is now resolved, still look back and think of me with longing, you must proclaim these words of mine to them: once I have crossed over the sea of birth and death, I shall then, in time, return; and should this wish of mine fail to come to pass, let it be known that my body has perished somewhere among these mountains and forests."

The white horse, hearing the prince speak these truthful words, bent his knees and licked at his feet, breathing out a long, deep sigh, tears streaming without pause.

The prince, with his hand marked with the wheel and webbed like a net, stroked gently at the crown of the white horse's head: "Do not give way to grief and sorrow — I now offer you my own thanks and apology. The labor of a fine horse such as you has now, with this, reached its completion; the suffering of the lower paths has, for you, come now to its long rest, and a wondrous fruit appears for you this very day."

The jeweled and finely adorned sword that Chandaka always carried at his side — the prince now drew this very blade, radiant as a dragon's own light, and, gathering up his dark hair beneath its jeweled crown, cut it off all at once, casting it up into the open sky.

It rose and hung suspended in the still, empty air, drifting like a phoenix in flight, until the gods of Trāyastriṃśa heaven came down and took up the hair, carrying it back to their own heavenly palace.

They had always longed to serve and honor his very feet — how much more so, now, when they had obtained even the hair from the crown of his head?

They resolved to offer it every devotion with their whole heart, until the true Dharma itself should come to its very end.

The prince then reflected to himself: every fine ornament has now been removed, and yet these plain silk garments alone are still not the proper attire of one who has gone forth.

At that moment a Pure Abode god, knowing the thought in the prince's heart, transformed himself into the likeness of a hunter, bow in hand and sharp arrows at his belt, his body clothed in a kāṣāya robe, and came directly before the prince.

The prince, considering this robe — dyed in its proper color, a pure and fitting garment, the very mark honored by sages and immortals — thought that it was not at all fitting for a hunter to wear.

He called the hunter forward, and said to him in gentle words: "It seems you do not hold this garment of yours very dear — let us exchange it, then, for the robe I now wear upon my own body."

The hunter said to the prince: "It is not that I do not value this robe — I use it precisely to deceive the herds of deer, luring them to come within my reach.

But if it is truly what you need, then let us make this exchange now."

Once the hunter had exchanged the robe, he returned at once to his own heavenly form; and the prince and Chandaka, seeing this, were struck with wonder, and thought: this must surely be no ordinary garment at all — it is certainly not the clothing of any mortal man.

Their hearts filled with great joy, and their reverence for the robe doubled at once; and so the prince took his leave of Chandaka, and put on the kāṣāya robe.

Like a blue-crimson cloud encircling the disk of the sun or moon, he walked forward calmly and deliberately, and entered the cave of the ascetic seers.

Chandaka watched after him, until he gradually vanished from sight entirely — the prince, having now cast aside his father the king, his household, and Chandaka himself, cherished only this kāṣāya robe, and entered the forest of ascetic practice.

Chandaka raised his head and cried out to heaven, then collapsed to the ground in bewildered grief; rising again, he embraced the neck of the white horse, and, all hope now gone, made his way back along the road.

He walked on haltingly, turning to look back again and again — his body moving forward while his heart raced back the other way — sometimes sunk in thought as though he had lost his very soul, sometimes bowing his head low with his whole body slumped, sometimes stumbling and falling only to rise again, weeping bitterly the whole way home.