In Praise of Nirvāṇa (II)

Gods and humans gathered together everywhere, like clouds filling the whole of the open sky, seized with the greatest dread and anxiety, fearing this now unbounded cycle of birth and death.

No place in this world, whether near or far, once escaped the illumination of his own heavenly eye; every workings of karma and its retribution were plain and clear to him, as though he were watching a reflection in a mirror.

His heavenly ear, of surpassing keenness, missed nothing however distant; ascending to the sky, he taught the gods, and walking freely on earth, he transformed the realm of humans.

He could divide his own body into many, or merge them back into one; he could walk across water without being wetted by it at all; and he could recall his own past lives across ages beyond counting, without ever once forgetting them.

He knew the objects that each of the faculties moves through, and each being's own particular thoughts within them; he possessed the penetrating wisdom to know the very minds of others, knowing everything there was to know; his spiritual powers, born of pure and subtle wisdom, observed all things with perfect equanimity; having exhausted every defiling outflow entirely, and every task of his now complete, his wisdom set aside even the remaining trace of conditioned existence, and, resting that very wisdom, he entered his own long sleep.

Sentient beings of the most stubborn and unyielding heart grew gentle and pliant the moment they beheld him; sentient beings of the dullest faculties found their own wisdom sharpened and made keen the moment they beheld him; those burdened with immeasurable faults of evil karma each found their own way through, the moment they beheld him — and now that he has suddenly entered this long sleep, who will ever again make such virtues manifest?

The world is left with no one to protect it, its hope cut off and its very breath extinguished — who now will sprinkle it with the cool, refreshing water that revives it? His own work now complete, his great compassion, too, has come to its long and final rest.

The net of ignorance and delusion that binds this world — who now will tear it apart?

Facing the swift current that carries all toward birth and death — who now will teach a way to turn it back?

For the confused and deluded hearts of sentient beings — who now will teach the path of quiescent stillness?

Who now will show the place of true peace and security? Who now will reveal the ultimate meaning of things?

For sentient beings enduring such great suffering — who now will be their compassionate father and save them?

It is like a great litigant who has lost his own resolve to argue his case, or a fine horse that has lost its own spirited bearing, or a land that has lost its own majesty, or a king who has lost his own kingdom — the world without a buddha is exactly the same as all of these.

Like a scholar of wide learning left without eloquence, or a physician left without wisdom, or a human king who has lost the very radiance of his own royal countenance — so too, with the Buddha's passing, has the whole world lost its own glory.

Like a team of fine steeds that has lost its skilled charioteer, or a boat that has lost its own helmsman, or an army of three divisions that has lost its own valiant general, or a company of merchants that has lost its own guide, or a sick man who has lost his own good physician, or a sage-king who has lost his own seven treasures, or the multitude of stars that has lost the bright moon among them, or one who cherishes his own life and yet has lost it all the same — the world, in exactly this same way, has lost its own great light with the Buddha's passing.

In this way did the arahants, their own work fully accomplished and every defiling outflow entirely exhausted, still, knowing the kindness they owed him and wishing to repay it, pour out this tangled, sorrowful lament, praising his virtues and setting forth the world's own suffering.

Those not yet free of desire wept, unable to master their own grief; while those who had already exhausted every defiling outflow lamented only the suffering inherent in arising and ceasing itself.

At that time the Malla people, hearing that the Buddha had already entered nirvāṇa, wept and wailed in confused uproar, like a flock of swans set upon by a hawk, and came together to the twin sal trees, beholding the Tathāgata now in his long sleep, his countenance no longer showing any sign of waking; they beat their own breasts and cried out to heaven, their confused clamor like a herd of cattle bellowing at the sight of a lion seizing one of their own calves.

Among them was one Malla who had already come to delight in the true Dharma; gazing steadily at this holy king of the Dharma, he saw that he had now entered this great quiescence.

He said: "Sentient beings lie everywhere asleep, and it was the Buddha who once woke them to awareness — yet now he himself has entered this great quiescence, his own long sleep now final and complete.

He raised up, for the sake of all, the very banner of the Dharma — and now, in but a single day, it has collapsed; the Tathāgata was himself the very sun of wisdom, his great awakening the source of its light.

His diligent effort was its very heat, his wisdom radiant with a thousand rays, dispelling every darkness entirely — how, then, could such a long darkness return again now?

This single wisdom illuminated past, present, and future at once, serving as the very eye of every sentient being — and now that it has suddenly gone blind, the whole world is left with no way of knowing which path to take.

In the great river of birth and death, its towering waves formed of greed, hatred, and delusion, the very bridge of the Dharma has now, in a single day, collapsed — and sentient beings will now sink and drown in it forever."

Among the Malla people, some wept and wailed aloud; some grieved silently, without a sound; some threw themselves to the ground; some sat in silent meditation; some moaned on and on in their own bewildered anguish.

They prepared a bier of gold and silver, adorned with fragrant flowers, and placed the Tathāgata's own body upon it, covering it with a jeweled canopy above, complete with banners, streamers, and parasols, and every kind of musical instrument; and the Malla men and women, in solemn procession, made their offerings as they escorted him.

The gods scattered fragrant flowers, and heavenly music sounded from the sky; humans and gods together grieved as one, their voices joined together in shared sorrow.

Entering the city, the men and women, young and old alike, completed their own offerings; and the procession then went out through the Dragon-Elephant Gate, crossed over the Hiraṇyavatī River, and arrived at the very shrine where the buddhas of ages past had entered their own final nirvāṇa.

They piled up gośīrṣa sandalwood and every other kind of fine fragrant wood, and placed the Buddha's own body upon it, anointing it with fragrant oils; and when they set fire beneath it, the pyre would not catch flame, though they tried three times over.

At that time Mahākāśyapa, who had been dwelling in Rājagṛha, learned that the Buddha was about to enter nirvāṇa, and set out from there with his own followers.

With a pure heart he made a solemn vow: that he might yet be granted the chance to see the World-Honored One's own body one last time.

It was on account of this very sincere vow that the fire had gone out and would not catch flame.

Once Kāśyapa and his followers arrived, grieving as they gazed upon that sacred countenance, and paid reverent homage at the Buddha's own two feet, only then did the fire finally catch and burn.

The inner fire of the afflictions having already been extinguished within him, the outer fire could not truly burn him at all — though it burned away his outer skin and flesh, his true, vajra-like bones remained.

Once the fragrant oil had been entirely consumed, his bones were gathered into a golden urn — and just as the very realm of the Dharma itself is inexhaustible, so too were these bones themselves inexhaustible.

This vajra-like fruit of his own wisdom, as immovable as Mount Sumeru itself, could not be shifted even by the great and mighty garuḍa bird — and yet now it rests within a jeweled urn, moving on in response to the needs of the world.

How wondrous, this power found even in this world — able to turn even the Dharma of quiescent extinction into something that continues on; his renowned virtue spreads abroad widely, filling every one of the ten directions.

Having followed the way of the world into his own long quiescent extinction, only these remaining bones are left behind — yet their own great light still illuminates the whole world, and every sentient being continues to be lit by it.

In a single day his own radiance was hidden away, leaving only these bones behind in an urn — yet the sharp, vajra-like wisdom they represent still destroys the very mountain of the afflictions and their suffering.

Though every kind of suffering gathered upon his own body, his vajra-like resolve remained at perfect peace throughout — and it is this same resolve that brings about the removal of suffering for every being who endures such great suffering.

And now this very vajra-like body has been consumed by fire.

These same Malla people, valiant and mighty beyond compare in this world, capable of subduing every enemy's own suffering and offering refuge to those in need —

even they, whose own resolve remained unshaken when their own loved ones met with hardship, now, seeing the Tathāgata's own passing, were overcome entirely with grief and wept.

Their bodies once vigorous and full of spirited pride, walking once with an arrogant, heaven-treading gait — now, their hearts pressed down by grief and suffering, they entered their own city as though entering an empty wilderness, carrying the relics into the city, making offerings throughout every street and lane, and placing them at last within a high tower, where gods and humans alike came to honor and serve them.