Nirvāṇa (II)

Having given this instruction, he arrived at the city of Pāvā, where the Malla people there made every kind of offering to him.

At that time there was an elder's son named Cunda, who invited the Buddha to his own house, and there offered him his very last meal.

Having eaten this meal and taught the Dharma, he went on toward the city of Kuśinagara, crossing two rivers, the Kakutthā and the Hiraṇyavatī.

There he found a grove of sal trees, a peaceful and quiet place, and entered the Hiraṇyavatī, the "Golden River," to bathe, his body shining there like a very mountain of true gold.

He instructed Ānanda: "Between those twin trees over there, sweep and cleanse the ground thoroughly, and set out a rope-strung couch for me.

This very night, at its middle watch, I shall enter final nirvāṇa."

Ānanda, hearing the Buddha's own command, felt his breath catch and his heart fill with grief; weeping as he went, he carried out the instruction, and, once the couch was arranged, returned to report that it was ready.

The Tathāgata went to the rope-strung couch and lay down upon it, his head to the north, on his right side, resting his head upon his own hand with his feet placed one upon the other, just as a lion-king reclines — his very last body, having now finished with suffering, lying down there this once, never to rise again.

His disciples gathered around him in mournful lament, grieving that the very eye of the world was about to close; the wind fell still, the streams in the grove grew silent, and every bird and beast fell hushed without a single sound.

The very trees wept sap like tears, and their flowers and leaves fell out of season; every god and human being not yet free of desire was thrown into the greatest dread and alarm.

It was like a traveler crossing a vast marshland, the road perilous and the village not yet reached, fearing only that he might never arrive at all, his heart full of dread and his steps hurried and anxious.

The Tathāgata, having now lain down for the last time, said to Ānanda: "Go and tell the Malla people that the time of my nirvāṇa has come.

Should they fail to see me one last time, they will carry a lasting regret, and suffer greatly for it."

Ānanda, receiving the Buddha's command, wept as he went along the road, and told the Malla people there: "The World-Honored One's time has come."

The Mallas, hearing this, were seized with the greatest dread; men and women rushed out at once, weeping and crying aloud as they made their way to the Buddha, their clothes disheveled, their hair unbound, their bodies covered in dust and streaming with sweat. Wailing as they went, they arrived at the grove as though the very fortune of heaven itself had run out, and, weeping, bowed at the Buddha's feet, their bodies wasted with grief and sorrow.

The Tathāgata comforted them, saying: "Do not let yourselves waste away in grief — this is a moment that calls, rather, for shared rejoicing; it is not fitting to give way to sorrow now.

What I have planned across such long ages, I am only now, at last, about to attain — having already crossed beyond the very realm of the faculties and their objects, into the inexhaustible place of true coolness and peace.

Departing from earth, water, fire, and wind, in quiescent stillness beyond all arising and ceasing, forever free of every affliction — why, then, should you grieve on my account?

Long ago, at Mount Gayā, I had already resolved to relinquish this very body — yet, for the sake of certain causes and conditions, I have remained in the world until this very day.

To guard this fragile and perilous body has been like sharing my own dwelling with a venomous serpent — and now, entering this great quiescence, every condition tied to such suffering is finally brought to its end.

Never again to take up another body, every future suffering now brought to its long and final rest — you, then, ought no longer to feel any dread on my account at all."

The Mallas, hearing the Buddha speak of entering this great and final stillness, felt their own minds thrown into confusion, their eyes darkened as though beholding a vast and impenetrable darkness.

Joining their palms, they said to the Buddha: "That you, Buddha, are departing from the suffering of birth and death, into the eternal bliss of quiescent extinction — in this alone we truly do rejoice with you.

It is like a man escaping from his own burning house, safely emerging from the raging flames — even the gods would rejoice at such an escape; how much more so, then, should we, mere mortals, rejoice for you?

Yet once the Tathāgata has passed away, sentient beings will have nothing left to look upon, forever deprived of your protection and care — and it is for this reason that grief and sorrow arise in us.

It is like a company of merchants traveling far across a vast wilderness, with only a single guide to lead them, who suddenly dies partway along the road — the whole company left with nothing to rely upon; how could they possibly fail to grieve?

To have realized, in this very life, direct knowledge of all things, and yet to fail to secure some lasting benefit from it for those left behind, would be a thing the whole world would rightly laugh at —

like passing through a mountain full of treasure, and yet, in one's own foolishness, guarding nothing but poverty and hardship instead."

In this way the Malla people poured out their grief before the Buddha, just as an only child might pour out his sorrow before his own loving father.

The Buddha, with well-chosen and skillful words, revealed to them the ultimate truth of the matter, saying to the assembled Mallas: "It is truly as you say — the seeking of the path requires diligent effort; it is not attained merely by seeing me in person.

Whoever practices in accordance with what I have taught will attain freedom from the whole net of suffering.

The practice of the path rests in the heart alone — it does not depend on actually seeing me at all.

It is like a sick person who, relying on a proper prescription, takes the right medicine — every illness is thereby naturally cured, without needing to see the physician who prescribed it in person.

To fail to practice as I have taught, while merely gazing upon me in person, brings no benefit at all.

Even one far removed from me in distance, if he practices the Dharma, remains close to me indeed; while one who dwells right alongside me, yet fails to follow the Dharma, ought to be understood as being, in truth, far removed from me.

Master your own minds, and do not fall into carelessness — apply yourselves diligently to the cultivation of right conduct.

A person born into this world is beset, through the long night of existence, by every kind of suffering, disturbed and unable to find any peace within himself, like a lamp flickering in the wind."

Hearing the Buddha's own compassionate teaching, the Malla people felt moved within, and, wiping away their tears, forced themselves to master their own grief and returned to their homes.