Taking Leave of the Licchavis

Buddhacarita, Chapter Twenty-Four: Taking Leave of the Licchavis

The venerable Ānanda, seeing the great earth shake everywhere at once, felt his heart seized with fright, the very hairs of his body standing on end, and asked the Buddha what the cause of this might be.

The Buddha said to Ānanda: "I have retained a span of only three more months of life, having relinquished every other portion of my remaining existence — and it is for this reason that the great earth trembled."

Ānanda, hearing the Buddha's own words, wept, tears streaming down mingled together — like a mighty elephant shaking a sandalwood tree so violently that the very sap of that tree, forced out by the disturbance, runs down like flowing tears.

"It is because I hold you, my great and honored teacher, so dear, and because your kindness runs so deep, and because I have not yet departed from craving myself, and for these very four reasons together, that my own grief and sorrow overwhelm me now.

Now that I have heard the World-Honored One's own fixed and settled teaching concerning his final nirvāṇa, my whole body feels withered and spent; I have lost my own bearings and even my ordinary voice fails me; every Dharma I have ever heard has slipped entirely from my mind, and in my wild distress I feel as though heaven and earth themselves had vanished.

How strange indeed — that the very savior of the world should pass into extinction with such sudden swiftness! It is as though one dying of cold suddenly found water, only to have it freeze at once; or one dying of thirst suddenly found fire, only to have it go out the very next moment.

Lost and confused in the vast wilderness of the afflictions, with no sense at all of which way to turn, one suddenly encounters a fine and skillful guide — only to lose him again before the crossing is even complete.

It is like a man crossing a vast desert, parched with thirst and long deprived of water, who suddenly comes upon a cool and refreshing pool — only to find, the very moment he rushes toward it, that it has already run entirely dry.

Those deep blue-black lashes, that steady gaze which clearly perceives past, present, and future all at once, that wisdom which illuminates even the deepest darkness — how could such darkness possibly overtake it so swiftly?

It is like a seedling in drought-stricken soil, looking up in hope as clouds gather, longing for rain — only to have a violent wind scatter those very clouds away in an instant, leaving all hope lost, its field left barren and empty still.

Ignorance is itself a great darkness in which every sentient being loses its own way entirely — and now that the Tathāgata's own lamp of wisdom, once kindled, is suddenly to be extinguished, by what means will anyone find their way out at all?"

The Buddha, hearing Ānanda's own bitter lament, his feelings so sorrowful and intense, comforted him with gentle words, and taught him the true Dharma.

"If a person truly understands the nature of things as they are, he ought not to dwell in grief and sorrow at all — for every conditioned thing, without exception, is subject to the law of dissolution.

I have already taught you that whatever comes together by its very nature must eventually part again, and that the bond of love and affection is, by its very nature, never permanent — you ought, then, to set aside this heart of grief and longing.

Every conditioned thing is, by its very nature, in constant flux, its arising and ceasing entirely beyond anyone's own control; to wish that such a thing might endure forever is, in the end, simply not possible.

Were any conditioned thing truly able to remain forever unchanging, this itself would already be liberation — what more, then, would there be left to seek?

What, then, do you, and every other sentient being besides, still seek from me now? Whatever you and the rest of them ought rightly to attain, I have already explained to you in full — what further use, then, is there for this mere body of mine?

It is the wondrous Dharma-body alone that endures forever; my true abiding and my true stillness rest in this alone, and this is the only thing that truly matters. Yet I have never once, in all my dealings with sentient beings, grown weary of them at all. You ought now to cultivate a sense of weariness and renunciation, and dwell securely instead upon your own island.

Know that to dwell upon your own island means to apply yourself single-mindedly and diligently, through skillful means, cultivating a quiet solitude, relying on no other person's faith but your own.

Know that to dwell upon the island of the Dharma means to hold to the sure and steady lamp of clear wisdom, capable of extinguishing the darkness of ignorance, and to closely observe the four foundations of mindfulness.

Having attained this most excellent Dharma, apart from self and from anything belonging to a self, one sees this body for what it truly is: a frame of bones smeared over with skin and flesh, drenched in blood and bound together by sinew.

Contemplating it honestly, one sees that it is entirely impure — how, then, could one possibly take delight in such a body? Every feeling arises dependent on its own conditions, no different from a bubble upon the surface of water, arising and ceasing in impermanence and suffering — and so one ought to depart entirely from any notion of finding true pleasure in it.

Mind and consciousness themselves arise, abide, and cease, renewing themselves moment by moment without a single instant's true rest. Reflecting deeply on this quiescent extinction, every notion of permanence is at last entirely dispelled.

Every formation arises from causes and conditions, gathering and scattering without ever remaining constant together. It is the foolish who give rise to the notion of a self; the wise hold to no such self, nor to anything belonging to a self, at all.

Reflecting on and correctly observing these four foundations in this way is itself the one true vehicle, by which every kind of suffering is entirely extinguished.

Should one be able to dwell firmly in this true and correct contemplation, then whether the Buddha's own body exists or has passed away makes no difference at all — for this very Dharma remains forever inexhaustible regardless."

As the Buddha spoke this wondrous Dharma, comforting Ānanda in this way, the Licchavis, hearing of it, gathered together in fear and alarm.

Setting aside every mark of their own worldly dignity, they hurried to where the Buddha was, and, having paid him homage, sat down to one side, wishing to ask him something yet unable to give it voice.

The Buddha, already knowing what was in their hearts, spoke to them first, according to what was fitting: "I observe now that your own hearts hold some unusual thought — that you have set aside your worldly affairs and concerns, and now hold the Dharma alone in your affections.

You now wish to receive from me what I have to teach — but whatever you may come to hear or know, take care never to give rise to grief and sorrow over whether I myself exist or have passed away.

Impermanence is itself the very nature of every conditioned thing, restless and given to constant change, without any true stability or lasting benefit, and with no mark of enduring long at all.

The great sage-kings of ages past — the seer Vasiṣṭha and others like him, King Māndhātṛ the wheel-turning sovereign, and many more besides who could be compared to them —

every one of these excellent figures of former times, mighty as Īśvara himself, has long since been ground away to nothing, with not a single one remaining today.

The sun, the moon, and Śakra himself, lord of the gods, numerous as they are, all return in the end to dissolution, with none among them enduring forever.

Even the buddhas of ages past, numerous as the sands of the Ganges, whose wisdom illuminated the whole world, have every one of them been extinguished, like a lamp going out.

And the buddhas of ages yet to come will, likewise, pass away in exactly this same manner — how, then, could I alone possibly be any exception? I too must now enter final nirvāṇa.

Those among you still to be delivered ought now to press forward on your own path; may you find continued happiness here in Vaiśālī, and settle your own hearts at peace.

This world offers nothing to truly rely upon, and the three realms of existence hold nothing worth taking delight in — you ought instead to bring your own grief and sorrow to rest, and give rise to a heart free of desire."

Having thus resolved upon this final parting, he set out to wander toward the north, traveling slowly along the long road, like the sun sinking gradually behind the western mountains.

At that time the Licchavis, weeping and lamenting, followed him along the road, looking up to heaven and crying out in sorrow: "Alas, how strange a thing this is!

His very form, like a mountain of true gold, every mark upon it perfectly adorned — must this, too, soon crumble and fall to ruin? How merciless a thing impermanence truly is! We have thirsted so long, parched by birth and death, for the Tathāgata, this very mother of wisdom — and now, all at once, he sets it down and leaves us; with no one left to save us, what suffering awaits us now?

Sentient beings have dwelt so long in darkness, walking only by the borrowed light of his wisdom — how, then, could this very sun of wisdom suddenly conceal its own light in this way?

Ignorance is itself a swift and violent current, sweeping sentient beings helplessly along — how, then, could the very bridge of the Dharma suddenly collapse in but a single day?

This compassionate king of physicians, whose peerless wisdom is itself the finest medicine, healing the sufferings of every sentient being — how could he suddenly depart so far away from us?

This wondrous banner of compassion, adorned with wisdom itself, its very heart bound fast as diamond, a sight the world could never tire of beholding, honored and revered as the most excellent of banners — how could it suddenly collapse in but a single day?

How meager indeed is the fortune of sentient beings, circling on through the current of birth and death — that the very gate of liberation should suddenly close upon them, leaving this long suffering with no time of escape in sight at all."

The Tathāgata comforted them as best he could, and, cutting himself free of their grief, took his long and final leave of them.

Mastering their own hearts and bearing their grief and longing as best they could, withered like the kiṃśuka flower, they lingered on, moving slowly and reluctantly, following along the road in sorrowful distraction — like people who, having buried their own kin, turn back home again after the final farewell at the grave.