The Distribution of the Relics (I)

Buddhacarita, Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Distribution of the Relics

The Malla people, honoring the relics with reverent service, made offerings of the most excellent fragrant flowers, the highest form of veneration they could give.

At that time the kings of seven neighboring realms, hearing that the Buddha had already entered final nirvāṇa, each sent an envoy to the Malla people, requesting a share of the Buddha's relics.

The Malla people, holding the Tathāgata's own body in the deepest reverence, and, besides, relying on their own strength and valor, gave rise to a heart of pride and arrogance, declaring that they would sooner give up their own lives than give up the Buddha's relics.

The envoys returned empty-handed, and the seven kings, filled with great fury, raised armies like gathering storm clouds and marched on the city of Kuśinagara.

The people who had gone out from the city returned in terror, telling the Malla people: "Armies and cavalry from every kingdom are approaching — elephants, horses, chariots, and foot soldiers surrounding the city of Kuśinagara.

Every garden and grove outside the city, every spring, pond, flower, and fruit tree, has already been trampled by the advancing troops, every beautiful sight there utterly destroyed."

The Malla people climbed the city walls to look, and, seeing their own livelihood already ruined, prepared their own weapons of war to meet the enemy — bows, crossbows, catapults hurling stones, and flaming torches launched one after another.

The seven kings surrounded the city, their armies each elite and well-trained, their banners and insignia shining brilliantly, like the light of the seven luminaries themselves, their bells and drums crashing like thunder, their martial spirit rising thick as gathering clouds.

The Malla people, roused to great fury, threw open their gates and challenged the enemy to battle; yet the elder men and women among them, those whose hearts held faith in the Buddha's own Dharma, were struck with dread, and made a sincere plea that the enemy be subdued rather than harmed, urging their own kinsmen not to let the battle actually be fought.

The warriors on both sides stood clad in heavy armor, brandishing spears and swords, bells and drums clashing in confused uproar — weapons already raised, though the blades themselves had not yet met.

There was a brahmin named Droṇa, of wide learning and excellent judgment, humble and modest, revered by everyone.

With a heart of compassion and a delight in the true Dharma, he said to the kings: "Observing the layout and defenses of this city, a single man alone could hold it against attack.

How much more so, then, when its people have joined their hearts and their strength together — could you truly hope to subdue them at all?

And even should you succeed in destroying them utterly, what honor or renown would there be in that?

Once sharp blades have crossed, there is no possibility that both sides emerge unscathed — even in overpowering the other, both sides will surely suffer injury.

Battle is full of sudden reversals, its outcome exceedingly hard to predict in advance — sometimes the strong overcome the weak, and sometimes the weak overcome the strong instead.

A strong man who treats a venomous serpent lightly — will he not still be bitten and harmed by it regardless?

There are those who, though seemingly soft and weak by nature, are urged on and emboldened by a whole crowd of women behind them.

Facing battle, even such a person may become a fierce warrior, like a fire fed with oil — never underestimate a seemingly weak enemy, nor assume he can accomplish nothing at all; for one's own bodily strength alone is not something to be relied upon — it is nowhere near as strong as the power of the Dharma itself.

In ages past there was an excellent king named Kalandaka, who, sitting calmly and giving rise to a heart of compassion, was able to subdue even his greatest enemy by that alone.

Even a king who rules over all four continents, whose renown and wealth are vast beyond measure, must in the end see it all come to nothing, like an ox that drinks its fill and then simply wanders off.

One ought to resolve matters through the Dharma, through righteousness, through peaceful and skillful means — for victory won through battle only deepens the enmity between two sides, while victory won through reconciliation leaves no further trouble behind it at all.

To bind yourselves now in a blood-feud of this kind is a thing that ought never to be permitted — for if it is truly the Buddha you wish to honor, you ought instead to follow his own teaching of patient forbearance."

Thus did the brahmin speak his sincere and settled convictions in full, offering fearless counsel grounded in righteousness and reconciliation.

At this the kings said to the brahmin: "You have spoken well and at exactly the right moment, with wisdom and benefit both, sincere and heartfelt words that accord with the Dharma and rest on solid reasoning.

Yet hear now what I have to say in turn, concerning the very way of kings: sometimes kings go to war over the five desires, harboring grudges and contending for supremacy; sometimes they go to war merely for sport, with no urgent cause behind it at all — but we ourselves now go to war for the sake of the Dharma itself; why, then, should this seem strange at all?

Even ordinary people of this world submit and yield when confronted with mere pride that runs contrary to righteousness — how much more so, then, should we, when the Buddha himself was entirely free of pride, and taught others to humble themselves in just this way, fail to give even our own lives in offering to him?

In ages past, the great lords Bhīṣma and Ānanda once went to war and destroyed one another over a single beautiful woman — how much more so, then, should we, seeking now only to honor a teacher pure and free of desire, cling instead to our own bodies and lives, and refuse to contend for this with all our strength? The former kings Kaurava and Pāṇḍava once warred against one another, destroying each other in turn, purely out of greed for gain — how much more so, then, should we, honoring a teacher entirely free of greed, still cling greedily to our own lives?

The sage Rāma's own son, in his fury at the thousand-armed king, destroyed his whole kingdom and slaughtered its people, purely out of anger and hatred — how much more so, then, should we, honoring a teacher entirely free of anger and hatred, still cling to our own bodies and lives?

Rāma, for Sītā's sake, slaughtered whole kingdoms of demons — how much more so, then, should we, lacking even so gracious a teacher as this, fail to give up our own lives for his sake?

The two demons Ari and Bhoga remained locked in perpetual enmity, causing great harm to sentient beings purely out of their own foolishness and delusion — how much more so, then, should we, honoring a teacher of true wisdom, still cling to our own bodies and lives?

So many such cases as these exist, of people destroying themselves for causes with no true righteousness behind them at all — how much more so, then, should we, faced with the teacher of gods and humans, revered throughout the whole world, calculate the worth of our own lives and fail to strive diligently to honor him?

If you truly wish to put an end to this conflict, then go, on our behalf, into the city, and persuade them to relent and come to understanding, so that our own wish might be fulfilled.

Because of your own words, spoken in accordance with the Dharma, our hearts have already grown a little calmer — like a fierce and venomous serpent temporarily subdued by the power of a spell."

The brahmin, receiving the kings' own instruction, entered the city and went to the Malla people, greeting them and speaking to them earnestly: "The kings gathered outside, foremost among men, hold sharp weapons in their hands, their bodies clad in heavy armor, their elite troops shining bright as the sun, roused with the very courage of lions, all intent on destroying this city.

Yet it is for the sake of the Dharma that they still fear to act against the Dharma — and it is for this very reason that they have sent me here, wishing to convey something to you.

I myself seek neither land nor wealth, and I come with no thought of pride or arrogance, nor any grudge or resentment in my heart — I have come here solely out of reverence for this great sage. You ought to understand my true intent — why, then, should we remain so bitterly opposed to one another?

Since you and I both hold him in the same reverence, we are, in truth, brothers in the Dharma — let us honor the World-Honored One's own remaining spirit together, with a single, united heart.

To be miserly with one's own wealth is no great fault — but to be miserly with the Dharma itself is the very gravest of faults, one the whole world holds in contempt.

Even one who is firmly resolved not to negotiate at all ought still to observe the proper courtesy due a guest — for there is no principle among kṣatriyas that says one should simply shut one's gates and defend oneself alone."

In this way did Droṇa explain to them fully this policy, and what fortune or misfortune it might bring.