The Buddha Remains Through His Own Power

Buddhacarita, Chapter Twenty-Three: The Buddha Remains Through His Own Power

At that time, the Licchavi elders of Vaiśālī, hearing that the World-Honored One had entered their country and settled in the Āmra grove,

rode out there in carriages of plain white, beneath plain white canopies, dressed in plain white robes, though some among them wore blue, red, yellow, or green, each with his own distinctive style.

Their escorts spread out before and behind them, vying for position along the road; some wore heavenly diadems and robes embroidered with flowers, adorned with jeweled ornaments, their majestic bearing shining so brilliantly that they seemed to add new splendor to the grove itself.

Yet on arriving, they set aside every mark of their own worldly dignity, dismounting from their carriages to approach on foot; laying down their pride and composing themselves with reverence, they bowed their heads at the Buddha's own feet, the whole assembly surrounding him like a double halo around the sun.

Among the Licchavis there was one named Siṃha, chief among them all, whose virtue and bearing were themselves like a lion's, occupying the very post of a "lion minister" — yet he too set aside his own lion-like pride, and received instruction from the true Lion of the Śākyas.

"Every one of you possesses great majesty, renowned lineage, and fine and handsome bearing — able as you are to set aside worldly arrogance and receive the Dharma, your own excellence will only grow the more radiant for it; for wealth, beauty, and every fragrant ornament are nothing compared to the true adornment of moral discipline.

The prosperity and peace of your own kingdom depends entirely on your own glory — and the glory of your own person, and the peace of your own people, both rest on your ability to master and govern your own hearts.

Add to this a genuine delight in the Dharma, and your virtue will rise ever higher still — for it is no impoverished or humble land that manages to gather together so many worthy men as these.

You ought, day by day, to renew your own virtue, and care for the myriad people as your own charge, guiding them with clarity and righteousness, like a king among oxen fording a river at the head of his herd.

Should a person be truly mindful of both this present life and the life to come, he ought only to cultivate correct moral discipline, for its benefit brings peace in both lives at once.

Honored and respected by all, his renown spreading far and wide, the benevolent delight in becoming his friend, and his virtue flows on without limit, forever.

Just as the mountains and forests, and every precious jewel and stone, depend upon the earth itself to exist at all, so too does moral virtue serve as the very ground from which every other goodness arises.

A bird without wings cannot hope to soar through open sky; one crossing a river without a proper boat cannot hope to reach the other side — and a person without moral virtue will find it truly difficult indeed to cross over suffering.

It is like a tree bearing fine flowers and fruit, yet guarded by thorns too sharp to climb past — wide learning and physical beauty are exactly the same for one who has broken the precepts.

To sit composed within a magnificent hall, adorning one's own royal heart, complete in the merit of pure moral discipline — this alone allows one to follow after the great sage himself on his own path.

To wear dyed robes, or garments of feathers and fur, to coil one's hair into a topknot, or shave one's head and beard entirely, while failing to cultivate moral virtue, is only to wander further still into every kind of suffering and hardship.

Bathing three times a day and night, serving the sacred fire, cultivating every kind of harsh asceticism, abandoning one's own body to be devoured by wild beasts, or throwing oneself into water, fire, or off a cliff —

eating only fruit and roots, living on wind and river water alone, subsisting on breath alone with no food whatsoever — all of this, apart from true moral discipline, is nothing more than the practice of a mere animal, no fit vessel for the true Dharma; breaking the precepts only invites slander, and the benevolent will never draw close to such a person.

His own heart forever harbors dread, and a bad reputation follows him like his own shadow — bringing him no benefit at all in this present life, how could he possibly hope for peace in the life to come?

And so the wise ought to cultivate pure moral discipline, for in the vast wilderness of birth and death, discipline itself is the truest of guides.

To keep the precepts depends only on one's own effort, and this is no difficult thing at all — pure moral discipline is itself the very stairway that carries a person up to the heavens.

Whoever establishes himself firmly in pure moral discipline does so because his own afflictions have already grown thin — for every fault otherwise corrupts the heart, and causes the loss of every good and virtuous quality within it.

One must first depart from the notion of "mine" — for this very notion smothers every goodness, the way ash smothers a bed of coals, which still burns the foot the moment one steps upon it unaware.

Pride and arrogance cloud the heart the way heavy clouds hide the sun; conceit and laziness destroy any sense of shame and conscience; grief and sorrow weaken even the strongest resolve; old age and sickness ruin the beauty of youth — and self-conceit destroys every goodness in exactly this same way.

Even the gods and the asuras, caught in greed and jealousy, fall into strife and contention, losing every merit and virtue they possess — and all of this comes about entirely through the harboring of self-conceit.

To think oneself the greatest among the great, or one's own virtue equal to those who truly excel, or oneself excellent while others fall slightly short — this is nothing but the mark of a foolish man; for form and lineage are both utterly impermanent, in constant flux without a moment's rest, and, in the end, subject to the very law of dissolution — what use, then, is pride and arrogance at all?

Craving and desire are themselves a great affliction, feigning intimacy while secretly harboring enmity, a fierce fire kindled from within — the fire of craving is exactly the same.

The blaze of craving and desire burns even fiercer than the fire that consumes the world itself — for while a raging fire can be extinguished by water, craving and attachment are far harder to put out.

A raging fire that burns across the wilderness leaves grass that grows back again once it has passed — but once the fire of craving and desire has burned through the heart, the arising of the true Dharma there becomes exceedingly difficult.

Craving and desire seek worldly pleasure, and this pleasure only increases impure karmic action; and evil karma leads to the evil destinies — there is no enemy that surpasses craving and desire.

Craving gives rise to attachment, and attachment leads to the practice of every kind of desire; and the practice of desire brings on every kind of suffering — there is no root of evil that surpasses craving. Craving is itself a grave illness, one that only the medicine of wisdom can arrest, while the foolish remain helpless before it; and false and incorrect thinking only causes craving and desire to grow all the greater still.

Only the true contemplation of impermanence, suffering, impurity, and the absence of self and of anything belonging to a self — this alone, through genuine wisdom, is able to extinguish such false and misguided craving.

And so, with respect to every object of the senses, one ought to cultivate this true contemplation; and once true contemplation has arisen, one attains liberation from craving and desire.

Seeing another's virtue gives rise to craving and envy; seeing another's fault gives rise to anger and hatred — but once both virtue and fault alike are forgotten, both craving and anger are extinguished together.

Anger changes even the plainest countenance, capable of ruining even the finest and most handsome appearance; anger clouds even the clearest eye, harms one's own wish to hear the meaning of the Dharma, severs the very bonds of love and affection, and causes one to be despised by the whole world.

And so one ought to cast aside anger, and never follow after a wrathful heart; one who is able to master a heart gone wild with rage may rightly be called a skillful charioteer, the very one the world calls a master of the reins, holding firm control over his own team.

To give free rein to anger without restraint is to be burned, in the end, by the fire of one's own regret; for whenever a person gives rise to anger, he burns his own heart first of all, and only afterward does it spread to others — whether it burns them or not.

The suffering of birth, old age, sickness, and death already presses hard upon sentient beings — to add to it further the harm of anger and hatred is only to deepen enmity upon enmity.

Seeing the world so beset by such manifold suffering, one ought instead to give rise to a heart of compassion and loving-kindness — for the afflictions that arise in sentient beings differ in countless and immeasurable degrees."

The Tathāgata, through his own excellent skillful means, spoke to them in brief according to their own particular afflictions — just as a skilled physician of this world prescribes medicine according to the specific illness before him.

At that time the Licchavis, hearing this teaching of the Buddha, rose at once and bowed at his feet, receiving it with joy, their heads bowed in reverence.

They invited the Buddha and his whole assembly to accept a modest offering the following day.

The Buddha said to the Licchavis: "Āmrapālī has already extended the same invitation to me."

The Licchavis, feeling both moved and embarrassed at this, thought to themselves: how has she managed to claim this benefit ahead of us?

Yet, understanding that the Buddha's own heart held perfect impartiality toward all, they gave rise instead to a heart of shared rejoicing.

The Tathāgata, skillfully accommodating them according to what was fitting, comforted them and brought joy to their hearts; and they, thus subdued and matured, took refuge in him fully, like a serpent charmed by a powerful spell.

The night passed and dawn broke, and the Buddha, together with his whole assembly, went to Āmrapālī's own house; and once he had received her offering there, he went on to the village of Veṇuyaṣṭi, and there kept the rains retreat for that summer.

Once the three months of the retreat were complete, he returned again to Vaiśālī, and settled beside the Monkeys' Pool, sitting there among the trees of the grove.

He then radiated a great light everywhere, and this stirred Māra, king of the heavens, to come to where the Buddha was; joining his palms, Māra urged him: "Long ago, beside the Nairañjanā River, you made a true and solemn pledge — that once your work was accomplished, you would enter final nirvāṇa.

Your work is now accomplished — you ought now to fulfill that original intention of yours."

The Buddha then said to Māra: "The time of my final passing is not far off now — after three more months have passed, I shall enter final nirvāṇa."

Māra, knowing now that the Tathāgata's final passing had a fixed time set for it, and his own long-held wish now fulfilled, returned joyfully to his own heavenly palace.

The Tathāgata, seated beneath a tree, entered true absorption in samādhi, and there consciously relinquished the life-span allotted to him by his own past karma, sustaining his body thereafter only by his own spiritual power.

At this relinquishing of his own life-span, the whole great earth shook and trembled everywhere at once, and throughout the empty sky in all ten directions, a great fire blazed forth on every side.

The very peak of Mount Sumeru crumbled and collapsed, and stones and pebbles rained down from the sky; a wild wind rose up violently on every side, snapping trees everywhere, and the music of heaven itself gave off a mournful sound, so that even the gods forgot their own joy.

The Buddha, rising from this samādhi, declared to all sentient beings: "I have now relinquished my own life-span, sustaining this body only through the power of samādhi — this body is now like a worn and broken-down cart, with no further cause left to carry it onward. I have already escaped the three realms of existence entirely, like a bird breaking free of its own egg to be born."