In Praise of Nirvāṇa (I)

Buddhacarita, Chapter Twenty-Seven: In Praise of Nirvāṇa

At that time a heavenly being, riding in a palace-chariot drawn by a thousand white swans, looked down from the open sky above and beheld the Buddha's own parinirvāṇa.

He spoke then, for the sake of all the gods gathered there, this extended verse on impermanence: "Every nature is impermanent, swift to arise and swift to pass away.

Wherever there is birth, suffering accompanies it — only in quiescent extinction is there any true bliss at all.

The accumulated fuel of karmic action blazes up as the fire of wisdom.

One's own renown rises like smoke into the very sky — until the rain of time falls and extinguishes it, just as the fire that ends an age is itself, in the end, put out by the flood that follows it."

There was also a Brahmā-seer among the heavenly beings, himself a sage of ultimate truth, who, dwelling in the most excellent bliss of the heavens yet untainted by any attachment to its reward, praised the Tathāgata's own quiescent extinction, his heart settled and his voice steady, saying: "Observing the dharmas of past, present, and future alike, there is not one among them, from beginning to end, that does not eventually come apart.

He who had penetrated ultimate truth, unmatched by anyone else in this world, a man of wisdom and true insight, the very protector and savior of the world — even he has now been undone by impermanence. Who, then, could ever hope to endure forever?

How pitiable, that throughout this whole world, sentient beings should fall, again and again, onto such a crooked and mistaken path."

At that time Aniruddha — Aniruddha who, in this world, was once "Unbridled" (Anuruddha), and who, having now extinguished that former unbridled nature, was truly "Beyond Restraint" (Nirodha) with respect to birth and death itself — praised the Tathāgata's own quiescent extinction, lamenting that sentient beings remain blind and in darkness, and that every aggregate of conditioned formations is impermanent, drifting like a light and insubstantial cloud.

Swift to arise and swift to pass away, nothing the wise could ever hold on to — impermanence is itself a vajra club, capable of shattering even Meru, king of mountains, itself.

How base and unworthy, this restless and fickle world, forever breaking apart, never once truly solid — impermanence is itself a fierce and violent lion, capable of destroying even the greatest dragons, elephants, and sages.

Even the Tathāgata's own vajra-like banner has now been undone by impermanence — how much more so, then, should one not yet free of desire fail to feel dread at this?

The single sprout of the six seeds, watered by a single rain; the deep root drawn by its four channels; the two-forked stem with its five kinds of fruit; the great tree of the afflictions, one and the same substance across past, present, and future — even the great elephant that is the sage, having uprooted this tree entirely, still could not escape impermanence itself.

It is like the cakravāka bird, delighting in water, that swallows down even a venomous serpent with ease, only to die the moment it meets a great and sudden drought, deprived of the very water it depended on.

Or like a fine warhorse, valiant in battle, that returns home safely once the battle is won, and yet, like a fire that blazes only as long as its fuel lasts, is extinguished of itself the moment that fuel is spent.

The Tathāgata, in just this same way, returned to nirvāṇa once his own work was accomplished — like the bright light of the full moon, which had once dispelled darkness everywhere for the sake of the whole world.

Every sentient being had once been illuminated by that very light, until it was hidden again behind Mount Sumeru — the Tathāgata, in just this same way, had once illuminated the deepest darkness with the light of his own wisdom.

Having dispelled darkness for the sake of all sentient beings, he has now hidden himself behind the very mountain of nirvāṇa — yet his renown, like a light more excellent still, continues to illuminate the whole world regardless.

Extinguishing every darkness without ever once pausing, like a swift-flowing current, skillfully driving his own seven swift steeds, with his whole army and retinue accompanying him in procession —

this radiant sun-god has now entered the very Mount of Sunset itself; the sun and moon both now obscured by the five kinds of eclipse, sentient beings have lost their own source of light.

It is like the moment after a fire-offering to the gods has been completed, leaving behind only scorched, black smoke — the Tathāgata has now likewise concealed his own radiance, and the world has, in just this same way, lost its own glory.

Having cut off every hope born of love and attachment, he had once answered fully the hopes of every sentient being — and now that their hopes have been fully satisfied and his own work is complete, every such hope has come, at last, to its end.

Freed from the very bondage of a body caught in the afflictions, he has attained the true path itself, departing from the confusion of the crowded multitude to enter a place of true quiescent stillness.

Roaming freely through the sky by his own spiritual power, he has now cast aside this very vessel of suffering; the heavy darkness of ignorance has been entirely dispelled by the light of his own wisdom.

The very dust of the afflictions has been washed clean by the water of his wisdom, and he shall never again return, having reached forever the place of true quiescent stillness.

Having extinguished birth and death entirely, he was revered by all; he brought delight in the Dharma to all, and filled all with his own wisdom.

He brought comfort to all, and his virtue flowed forth to all; his renown reached all, its light still shining even to this very day.

Toward all those who vied for excellence and virtue, he held a heart of deep compassion; he felt no elation at the four kinds of worldly gain, nor any sorrow at the four kinds of worldly loss.

Skillfully mastering his own senses, every one of his faculties remained perfectly clear and unclouded; his mind settled and impartial in its contemplation, he remained untainted by any of the six sense-objects at all.

What he attained was something never before attained, gaining what no other person could ever gain — and with the very water of true renunciation, he satisfied the parched thirst of all.

He gave what no one else could give, and expected nothing in return for it; his body, quiescent and wondrous in every mark, knew fully the thoughts and intentions of all beings.

Unmoved by either favor or disfavor, his own strength surpassing every possible enemy — he who was the very medicine for every illness has now, himself, been undone by impermanence.

Every kind of sentient being delights in the Dharma in its own different way, and he answered every one of their needs fully, satisfying every one of their wishes completely.

This great and holy donor of wisdom has now departed, never to return, like a fierce worldly fire that, once its fuel is spent, blazes up no more.

Untainted by the eight worldly conditions, he subdued the five difficult-to-tame classes of being; through the three he saw the three, and, departing from the three, accomplished the three.

Concealing the one, he attained the one; transcending the seven, he entered his own long sleep — this is the ultimate path of quiescent extinction, revered by every sage and worthy one.

Having already cut off the very obstruction of the afflictions, those who revered him have already crossed beyond suffering; those parched and famished with thirst, he gave to drink the very dew of immortality.

Clad in the heavy armor of patient forbearance, he subdued every form of anger and rage; the subtle and wondrous meaning of this most excellent Dharma brought delight to the hearts of all.

To those who cultivated goodness in this world, he planted within them the very seed of holiness; those who practiced rightly and those who did not, he embraced with perfect equanimity, never once abandoning either.

Turning the unsurpassed wheel of the Dharma, joyfully received throughout the whole world, those who had planted, in ages past, the very cause of delighting in the Dharma, all attained liberation through it.

Wandering freely among human beings, he delivered every being not yet delivered; those who had not yet seen the truth, he caused, every one of them, to see the truth at last.

To those who followed the paths of other traditions, he gave this profound teaching: that birth and death are impermanent, without any true master over them, and holding no genuine happiness at all.

Raising up the great banner of his own renown, he shattered the whole army of Māra's demons; advancing or withdrawing with neither elation nor sorrow, he set little store by mere birth, and praised instead quiescent extinction.

Those not yet delivered, he delivered; those not yet liberated, he liberated; those not yet at peace, he brought to peace; those not yet awakened, he awakened.

The sage's own path of quiescent stillness was meant to draw in every sentient being — yet sentient beings turned instead against this holy path, taking up every kind of wrong and improper conduct.

It is like the very ending of a great age of the world, when the one who upholds the Dharma falls into his own long sleep, while dense clouds crack with thunder, and trees are torn down by a sudden, drenching rain.

A young elephant may trample down a thorny thicket and, once trained, prove of great benefit to people — yet once the clouds disperse and the elephant grows old and worn, it can no longer accomplish anything at all.

Breaking apart false views and establishing true ones, he delivered the world, crossing over those who could be crossed, having already destroyed every heterodox theory, and attaining thereby the very path of true sovereignty and freedom.

Now that he has entered this great quiescence, the world is left with no one to protect it.

Māra's own great army of demons, brandishing their weapons and shaking heaven and earth, once sought to harm this great sage, and yet could never so much as shake him in the least — how, then, could he suddenly, in but a single morning, be undone instead by mere impermanence?