Father and Son Meet Again

Buddhacarita, Chapter Nineteen: Father and Son Meet Again

In the kingdom of Magadha, the Buddha converted every kind of different heterodox path, all of them brought under the one true flavor of the Dharma, like the sun outshining every star in the sky.

Setting out from that citadel of five mountains, he traveled together with his thousand disciples, his whole retinue following before and behind him, toward Mount Nyagrodha.

As he drew near Kapilavastu, a thought of repaying kindness arose in him, and he resolved to offer the Dharma itself, as a form of true reverence, to his father the king.

The king's own teacher and his ministers had already sent scouts ahead, who kept constant watch on either side of the road, observing every stage of his approach.

Learning that the Buddha meant to return to his own country, they hurried back to report to the king first: "The prince, having journeyed far to study the path, now returns, his wish fulfilled."

The king, hearing this, rejoiced greatly, and at once had his own carriage made ready to go out and meet him, the whole kingdom's people, high and low, following the king as he went.

Drawing gradually closer, he saw the Buddha from a distance, his radiant form now doubled in splendor beyond what it had been before, standing amid the great assembly like Brahmā himself, lord of that heaven.

He descended from his carriage and approached slowly, fearing to create any obstacle to the Dharma; gazing upon his son's face, his heart leapt with an inward joy, and yet his mouth could find no words to speak at all.

He thought to himself: I remained caught in the burdens of worldly life, while my son has transcended it all and ascended to the rank of a sage — though my son now holds the most honored place upon the path, I do not even know by what name I ought now to address him.

I have thirsted for this moment through so long a stretch of longing, and yet today I find no way to give voice to it at all — my son now sits here in silence, at perfect ease, his countenance entirely unchanged.

This long separation, met with no visible feeling at all, leaves my own heart grieving all alone — like a man long parched with thirst who comes upon a clear, cool spring along the road,

and rushes forward eager to drink, only to find, on reaching it, that the spring has suddenly run dry. So it is for me now, seeing my son again: his very same radiant countenance remains,

and yet his heart feels distant, his bearing exalted beyond reach, with no trace left in it of any warm, sheltering affection — my own feeling checked and my hope left hollow and unanswered, like a thirsty man staring at a dried-up spring.

Before I saw him, my thoughts raced with a thousand imaginings; now that he stands before my very eyes, I find no joy in it at all — like a man who, longing for a parted loved one, suddenly comes instead upon nothing but a painted image of their face.

He was destined to rule as king over all four continents, just as King Māndhātṛ once did — yet now he goes about begging for his own food; what glory can there possibly be in such a path as this?

Calm and still as Mount Sumeru, his radiant form bright as the sun, walking with the measured gait of a king among oxen, roaring fearlessly with the very roar of a lion — and yet he accepts no share of the four continents at all, sustaining his own body instead by begging alms.

The Buddha, knowing that his father's heart still clung to the thought of him as his own son, and wishing to open that heart — as much for the sake of all beings watching as for his father alone — rose by his own spiritual power into the empty sky, cradling the sun and moon in his two hands, and moved about in the air performing every manner of miraculous transformation: dividing his own body into countless forms and then merging them back into one; entering water as though it were solid earth, and entering earth as though it were water; passing through stone walls without any obstruction to his body at all, and pouring forth water and fire from his left and right sides at once.

The father king, filled with great joy at this, felt every trace of estrangement between father and son dissolve away entirely; and the Buddha, seated upon a lotus throne in the open sky, taught the Dharma to the king: "I know that your heart's own compassionate affection has only deepened your grief and sorrow on my account — this tangled, clinging love for your son ought now, swiftly, to be dissolved.

Set this attachment to rest, and let your heart grow still, and receive from me instead the very way a son ought to care for his father — a thing no son has ever yet offered before, and which I now offer to you, my father, for the first time.

What a father has never before received from his own son, you shall receive from your son today — this is a wonder rare even among the greatest of human kings, rare even among the kings of heaven: this most excellent path of immortality I now offer up to you, great king.

Each being is born according to its own karmic action, and that karmic action, in turn, determines its own fruit and consequence — you ought, then, to understand well this causal law of karma, and diligently cultivate the very karma that carries one across this world; observing the world with true clarity, one finds that karma alone is a being's own true and faithful companion.

Kinsmen, and even one's own body, though bound by the deepest love and longing, cannot follow when the spirit departs alone at the end of life — only karma, that true and faithful companion, follows after it still.

Circling through the five destinies, the three kinds of karmic action give rise to three different kinds of rebirth, and it is craving and desire that serve as their cause, producing every kind of distinct and varied result.

You ought now to exert your fullest effort to purify the karma of body and speech, cultivating this diligently day and night, until every disordered thought comes to rest and the mind grows perfectly still.

This alone is truly one's own benefit; apart from this, nothing at all is truly one's own — you ought to understand that existence within the three realms is exactly like the waves of the ocean, rising and falling without end.

Since such existence is so hard to find true joy in and so hard to draw near without harm, one ought to cultivate instead the fourth kind of karmic action, the one that leads beyond it — for the wheel of birth and death, turning through the five destinies, is no different from the stars themselves, wheeling on and on through the sky.

Even the gods themselves are subject to change and decline — how, then, could anything among human beings possibly remain constant and unchanging?

Nirvāṇa alone is the truest peace, and the bliss of meditative stillness is supreme among every kind of pleasure there is.

The five-desire pleasures of a human king are fraught with danger and full of terror, no different from sharing one's own dwelling with a venomous serpent — what joy could there possibly be in such a thing, even for a single moment?

The clear-sighted see this world as though surrounded on every side by a raging fire, full of terror and without a moment's true peace, and so seek to escape birth, old age, and death entirely.

The inexhaustible place of quiescent stillness is where the wise make their dwelling; there one needs no sharp weapon, no elephant, horse, or war-chariot at all — for in subduing greed, hatred, and delusion, one becomes an enemy unmatched by anyone in the whole world.

Knowing suffering, cutting off its cause, realizing its cessation, and cultivating the skillful means to that end — awakening fully to these four noble truths dispels the very terror of the evil destinies."

Having first displayed these wondrous spiritual powers, and thereby brought joy to the king's own heart, and seeing that his faith and delight had already grown deep enough to make him a fit vessel for the true Dharma, the king joined his palms and praised him: "How wondrous, that your vow has now borne its fruit! How wondrous, that you have escaped this great suffering! How wondrous, that you have brought such benefit to me!

Though I once suffered only deepened grief and sorrow on your account, it is precisely through that very grief that I have now gained this benefit — how wondrous, that today, at last, the fruit of having borne a son such as you has come to its full completion!

It was right that you cast aside the finest of pleasures; right that you diligently took up such hardship; right that you departed from the glory of your own kin; right that you cut off the bonds of love and affection.

The sage-kings of ages past labored in vain, gaining nothing at all for it — yet you have now fully attained that very place of true coolness and peace, bringing peace to yourself and, through it, to others as well, delivering sentient beings through your own great compassion.

In times past, dwelling in this world merely as a wheel-turning sovereign, I possessed no such sovereign spiritual power of my own to open my heart in this way, nor did I have this wondrous Dharma to bring me the joy I feel today.

Had you become a wheel-turning king instead, the thread of birth and death would never have been cut — but now that you have severed birth and death entirely, the great suffering of this cycle has been extinguished, and you are able, for the sake of every kind of sentient being, to proclaim widely this Dharma of immortality.

Such wondrous spiritual powers as these, and wisdom so profound and vast, bringing the suffering of birth and death to a permanent end — this places you above every god and human being alike; even had you remained upon the throne of a sacred king, you could never, in the end, have attained a benefit such as this."

Having praised him in this way, his love for the Dharma deepening into still greater reverence, the king, though holding the honored rank of father, humbled himself and bowed his head in respectful homage.

The people of the kingdom, witnessing the Buddha's own spiritual power, hearing him teach this profound and wondrous Dharma, and seeing besides the reverence the king himself showed him, joined their palms and bowed their heads to the ground, every one of them struck with wonder — and, growing weary of the burdens of worldly life, a wish to go forth from home rose up in them all.

The princes of the Śākya clan, their hearts awakening to the fruit of the path now accomplished, grew weary of every worldly glory and pleasure, and, leaving their own kin behind, went forth from home.

Ānanda, Nanda, Kimbila, Aniruddha, Bhaddiya-Upananda, and Devadatta — these foremost among them, together with the rest of the Śākya princes, all followed the Buddha's teaching and received the Dharma as his disciples.

The sons of the ministers who governed the kingdom, with Udāyin foremost among them, went forth from home together with the princes, one after another in turn.

And there was, too, the son of a barber, named Upāli, who, seeing these princes and ministers' sons go forth in this way, felt his own heart moved and opened, and likewise received the way of going forth from home himself.

The father king, beholding his own son's spiritual power and manifold virtues, himself entered as well into the clear stream of the true gateway of the Dharma of immortality.

Setting aside his royal throne and his rule over the kingdom, and devoting himself single-mindedly to the Dharma of immortality, he dwelt in quiet solitude, cultivating stillness, taking up within his own palace the practice of a royal sage.

The Tathāgata, having thus gathered in his own kinsmen and old acquaintances, walked the road with a countenance of gentle joy, his own relations following behind him in delight.

When the proper hour for begging alms arrived, he entered the city of Kapilavastu; and the men and women of the city, astonished and delighted, cried out together: "Siddhārtha, having studied the path, has returned to us, his study now complete!"

Word passed from house to house, and people great and small rushed out to see him, crowding together shoulder to shoulder at every door and window, craning their necks for a glimpse.

Seeing the Buddha's own excellent bodily marks, his radiance shining brilliantly, wearing the kāṣāya robe on the outside while his own inner light shone through it as well, like the round disk of the sun with its light meeting from within and without at once, those who beheld him felt both grief and joy at once, joining their palms with tears streaming down their faces.

Seeing the Buddha's own measured gait, his form composed and every faculty gathered inward, his wondrous body displaying the very deportment of the Dharma, some were moved to a deepening reverence and sorrow at once, seeing his shaved head and disfigured beauty, his body now clothed in dyed robes.

His bearing remained dignified and graceful even so, his form composed as he walked with his eyes cast down toward the ground.

"He who ought to be shaded by a canopy of feathers and jewels, his hands holding the reins of a flying dragon-steed — how is it that he now braves the dust of the road, bowl in hand, begging for alms?

His skill was enough to subdue any enemy, and his beauty enough to delight every palace woman; adorned in fine robes and crowned with the heavenly diadem, every commoner would once have bowed their heads before him — why, then, has he bent so fine a form as this, restraining his own heart and constraining his own body in this way?

Having cast aside his wondrous robes of splendor and desire, his bare body now clothed in dyed cloth — what vision, what pursuit could possibly turn him into such an enemy of the world's own five desires?"

"He has abandoned his worthy wife and beloved son, taking his pleasure instead in solitary wandering, all alone — how hard this must be for that worthy consort of his, who has spent so many long nights nursing her own grief.

And now, hearing that he has gone forth, though at least she knows his very life has been preserved — I wonder, has King Śuddhodana himself even yet managed to see this son of his face to face?

Seeing his own son's once-wondrous form now disfigured by this going forth — even an enemy would feel pity at such a sight; how, then, could a father possibly find any peace in seeing it?

And his beloved son Rāhula, forever weeping in sorrowful longing for him — to see him show no thought at all of comforting his own child, what use, then, is all this study of the path?"

"Every reader of auspicious marks once declared, at the prince's own birth, that he bore every mark of a great being, and was destined to rule and be sustained by all within the four seas — yet seeing what he has actually done now, all of that was nothing but empty talk."

Such were the many and varied things people said, in confused and scattered gossip all around him; yet the Tathāgata's own heart held no attachment to any of it, feeling neither joy nor sorrow at any of these words, moved instead only by compassion and pity for these very beings, wishing to free them from their own poverty and suffering, and to nourish the good roots within them, both for this life and for the ages yet to come.

To make plain his own freedom from desire, and to dispel as well any worldly slander against him, he entered the poorer quarters of the city to beg for alms, accepting whatever he received, fine or coarse alike, choosing no household by its wealth or poverty, and returned to the mountain forest once his bowl was full.