Answering King Bimbisāra (II)

[Even those who] bind their own bodies and cast themselves into water or fire, or hurl themselves from high cliffs, seeking thereby the pleasures of heaven — all this labor is in vain, and gains them nothing at all.

Sunda and Upasunda, the two Asura brothers, born together and once devoted to one another in love, ended up destroying each other over desire; their bodies perished and their names were wiped out together, and all of this came about entirely on account of craving and desire.

Craving and attachment reduce a person to the lowest baseness, driven on as though by whip and lash; the base hopes born of craving and desire wear down body and spirit alike through one long night without end.

The musk deer dies for its craving of sound, the bird dies for its craving of color, and the fish in the depths is caught by its craving for the baited hook — every one of them is trapped, in the end, by desire alone.

Examining closely the very necessities of life, one finds that none of them constitutes any true freedom at all: one eats only to cure the affliction of hunger, one drinks water only to relieve thirst.

One wears clothing only to ward off wind and cold, one lies down only to remedy the need for sleep; one seeks a carriage only because walking has grown tiresome, one seeks a bed or a seat only because standing has grown wearisome.

One bathes only to remove dirt and grime — every one of these acts, in every case, exists only to bring some particular suffering to rest; and so one ought to understand from this that the five desires themselves grant no true freedom at all.

It is like a man suffering from a fever, seeking out every kind of cooling remedy; he seeks it only to bring his own suffering and affliction to an end, yet the foolish call this "freedom."

And these very necessities of life do not, in fact, bring suffering to any lasting rest at all — they may even increase the very conditions of suffering further, and so they cannot be called any true freedom either.

Warm clothing is no constant source of pleasure — once its proper season has passed, it too becomes a source of suffering; even moonlight, cool and pleasant in summer, only deepens the misery of the cold in winter.

Even the eight worldly conditions themselves hold no fixed or certain mark at all; the very marks of suffering and pleasure are never fixed — what real difference, then, is there between a servant and a king?

[It may be said that] when a king issues a command, the multitude obeys it, and it is for this that a king is accounted the more excellent of the two — yet the very issuing of such commands is itself a form of suffering, no different from a burden one must still bear the weight of.

Weighing and measuring the whole world's affairs in every direction, every kind of suffering gathers upon a king's own person: as a ruler, he draws much resentment and hatred; even those close to him may in time become a source of trouble; and to stand entirely alone, without a single true intimate — what joy could there possibly be in that?

Even one who rules as king over all four continents makes use, in the end, of no more than a single measure of anything at himself; to labor and strive after ten thousand different things — what real benefit does this bring to the one who bears all that useless toil?

It is far better simply to put an end to craving and grasping altogether, and find true peace in setting all such striving to rest.

Whether one dwells as a king amid the pleasures of the five desires, or dwells instead, without any kingdom at all, in the joy of quiet stillness — since the joy in either case amounts to exactly the same thing, what use, then, is the throne of a king at all?

Do not, then, devise some skillful scheme to lead me back into the five desires — what my own heart truly aspires to is the cool, clear, and open path of liberation.

I know that you wish only to benefit me, and to help bring about what I myself seek — yet I do not fear any enemy, and I do not seek the bliss of rebirth in heaven either.

My heart holds no thought at all for worldly gain — it was for this very reason that I cast aside even the heavenly diadem itself, and it is for this same reason that I must now, in going against your own generous intent, decline to follow the purpose of your offer.

Having just escaped the very mouth of a venomous serpent, how could I possibly turn around and take hold of it again?

Holding a burning torch that scorches one's own hand — how could one not cast it aside at once?

A man with sight who envies the blind, one already freed who seeks bondage again, the wealthy man who wishes for poverty, the wise man who takes up folly — should such people as these ever truly exist in this world, then perhaps I too might come to delight in ruling a kingdom.

Wishing to cross beyond birth, old age, and death, I discipline my own body and go about begging for alms; keeping my desires few and dwelling in solitude, I seek thereby to escape the evil destinies in the life to come — this alone brings true peace in both this life and the next, so you need not, then, grieve on my account.

You ought instead to grieve for those who rule as kings, whose hearts remain forever parched and unsatisfied — finding no true peace even in this present life, and destined to receive a bitter reward in the life to come besides.

You yourself, of so renowned a lineage, observing every courtesy proper to a truly great man, have shown me the depth of your own generous heart, wishing me to share equally in the joys and pleasures of this world.

Let me, in turn, repay your kindness by urging upon you the very benefit I myself have found: it is only in cultivating the three excellent kinds of joy that one may rightly be called a truly great man of this world.

Yet even this remains something less than the highest good, since such joys are pursued endlessly and never reach any true satisfaction; only one who has gone beyond birth, old age, and death entirely deserves, in the fullest sense, to be called a truly great man.

You have said that the young are restless and impulsive, and that one ought to go forth only in old age — yet I observe that those advanced in years find their own strength diminished, unequal to the task, and no match at all for the fierce resolve and settled determination found in the full vigor of youth.

The thief of death carries his blade always at the ready, forever watching for his opportunity to strike — how, then, could he possibly be counted on to wait until old age, allowing one to fulfill this resolve and go forth only then?

Impermanence is itself a hunter, his bow old and worn yet his arrows still sharp and deadly, forever watching, out in the wilderness of birth and death, for the deer that are all sentient beings; the instant he finds his opening, he cuts short their very lives — who, then, could ever be assured of living out his full span of years?

Whatever a person undertakes, whether it concerns what arises or what passes away, ought to be pursued with diligent effort at every stage of life alike — in youth, in old age, and in one's middle years equally.

As for holding great sacrificial assemblies and rites — these, too, arise entirely from ignorance and delusion; one ought instead to honor the true Dharma, rather than take life in order to offer sacrifice to the gods — for to harm living beings in the pursuit of one's own merit is the mark of a person entirely without compassion.

Even should the taking of life bring about some fixed and certain benefit, one still ought not to kill for it at all — how much less, then, should one harm living beings in pursuit of a benefit as uncertain as this, through mere sacrificial rites?

If one lacks moral discipline, learning, and wisdom, and does not cultivate meditative absorption and quiet stillness, one ought not, then, to follow the world's own custom of holding grand sacrificial assemblies at all.

Even killing for the sake of some pleasure in this present life is something the wise ought never to do — how much more so, then, killing living beings in the pursuit of merit in some life yet to come?

The conditioned fruits found throughout the three realms of existence are none of them anything I myself take delight in; every realm of rebirth is itself a thing in constant flux, like wind, like water, like drifting grass — and it is for this very reason that I have come this great distance, seeking nothing less than true liberation itself.

I have heard that there is one named Ārāḍa, skilled in explaining the path of liberation, and I mean now to go to him — to the dwelling of that great sage and seer.

Having spoken these earnest words, cutting short further discussion of my own suffering, let me now offer you my thanks and take my leave; may your own kingdom remain forever secure and at peace, well guarded as Śakra's own realm is guarded.

May the light of your own wisdom shine out over the whole world, bright as the fullness of the sun's own light.

As the most excellent lord of this earth, guard your own life with an upright heart, and, ruling your people through true transformation, protect your own subjects as your own children, governing the whole world by the true Dharma.

Ice and snow hold fire as their natural enemy, yet fire itself gives rise to a column of smoke, and this column of smoke gathers into drifting clouds, and these drifting clouds, in turn, give rise to great rains — and there is a certain bird that drinks the rain while flying in the open sky, yet lets not a single drop fall upon its own body.

To take life is to build for oneself a house of grievous enmity, and to dwell in that house is only to invite still graver enmity through further killing — should there be one who has already committed the grievous enmity of taking life, you ought now to subdue him with compassion, and grant him thereby a true liberation — just as that bird drinks the rain and yet remains untouched by it."

At this the king joined his palms in reverence, his heart filled with joyful admiration for the prince's own virtue.

"May you swiftly accomplish exactly what you now seek — and once you have swiftly accomplished it, may you then return and receive me as your own disciple."

The bodhisattva silently assented in his own heart, resolving to grant the king his wish in due course; and with these words of parting spoken, he set out along the road toward Ārāḍa's own dwelling.

The king and his whole retinue, joining their palms, escorted him for a while along the way, every one of them filled with a sense of wonder, before finally turning back to return to Rājagṛha.