In the city of Bhaddiya in the country of Aṅga there lived a rich man named Meṇḍaka. In an earlier life, in a time of famine, he had given the last provisions belonging to him and his family to a paccekabuddha, a privately enlightened one. For this sacrifice, this self-conquest, he obtained supernatural merit in his present life: the provisions in his house were never exhausted, however much he consumed them or gave them away, and his fields carried a rich harvest without interruption. It was not Meṇḍaka alone who possessed supernatural merit. His wife, his son and daughter-in-law, and his slave had all shared in the same past deed of self-abnegation in that earlier life, and as a result they had all acquired miraculous powers in their present life. Their shared participation in that noble deed had become a bond uniting them in successive existences as they transmigrated through the round of rebirths.
The son Dhanañjaya and his wife Sumanādevī had a young daughter named Visākhā, who was also a repository of past merits. In a previous life, one hundred thousand aeons earlier, she had formed the aspiration at the feet of the Buddha Padumuttara to become the chief patroness of a Buddha and his Sangha. To fulfil this goal she had performed virtuous deeds under many previous Buddhas, accumulating the spiritual perfections required of a great disciple. Now that merit had matured and was about to yield its fruit.
One day, when Visākhā was seven years of age, the Buddha arrived in the city of Bhaddiya accompanied by a great retinue of monks. When Meṇḍaka heard that the Awakened One had come, he sent for his beloved granddaughter and said to her: “Dear girl, this is a happy day for us, for the Teacher has arrived in our own city. Summon all your maidservants and go out to meet him.”
Visākhā did as she was told. She approached the Blessed One, paid homage to him, and stood to one side. The Buddha then taught the Dhamma to her and her entourage, and at the end of the discourse Visākhā and all her five hundred maid-servants were established in the fruit of stream-entry. Meṇḍaka too listened to the Dhamma—along with his wife, his son and daughter in-law, and his slave—and all attained to stream-entry. At that time the country of Aṅga belonged to the kingdom of Magadha, which was ruled by the devout King Bimbisāra. When King Pasenadi of Kosala heard that five people of supernatural merit were living in the neighbouring kingdom, he requested King Bimbisāra, his friend and brother-in-law, to send one of these people to his own country, the state of Kosala, so that his subjects would have the opportunity to witness a shining example of virtue. Thus Meṇḍaka’s son Dhanañjaya, along with his family, moved to the country of Kosala and built a beautiful city named Sāketa near the capital Sāvatthī. There Visākhā grew up in the midst of this saintly family where the Blessed One was highly venerated and his monks were frequently invited to receive alms and to preach the noble Dhamma. In Sāvatthī, the capital of Kosala, there lived a wealthy householder named Migāra, who had a son named Puṇṇavaddhana. When the son reached manhood his parents urged him to marry, but Puṇṇavaddhana insisted that he would take as wife only a girl who possessed the “five beauties”—beauty of hair, beauty of flesh, beauty of teeth, beauty of skin, and beauty of youth. His parents employed a team of brahmins to explore the entire country looking for a girl who could meet their son’s stringent requirements. The brahmins travelled to all the great towns and cities, searching diligently, but they could not find a single maiden endowed with all five kinds of beauty.
On their return journey, when they reached Sāketa, they saw Visākhā, who at that time was fifteen or sixteen years of age. They were struck immediately by her beautiful features, which measured up to four of their young lord’s expectations; the one feature they could not see was her teeth. To obtain a glimpse of this, they decided to engage her in conversation. When they spotted her, Visākhā and her companions were on their way to the river to bathe. Just then a thunderstorm burst. The other girls ran away hastily to avoid getting wet, but Visākhā continued to walk with great dignity and poise. The brahmins approached her and asked why she did not run for shelter like the others.
She answered: “Just as it is unbecoming for a king to run from the rain like an ordinary man, so it is unbecoming for a young girl of good family to run from the rain. Besides, as an unmarried girl I have to take care of myself, as if tending merchandise offered for sale, so that I may not suffer damage and become useless.” The brahmins were so impressed by their conversation with this girl that they went to her father and asked for her hand in marriage for their lord’s son. Dhanañjaya agreed to the proposal, and soon afterwards the householder Migāra with his son Puṇṇavaddhana and his whole family went to fetch the bride.
When King Pasenadi of Kosala heard of it, he joined the group together with his entire court. All these people were entertained joyfully and lavishly in Sāketa by the bride’s father. Meanwhile goldsmiths were manufacturing the jewellery for the bride. After three months the jewellery was not yet completed, but the firewood was used up cooking meals for so many guests. For two weeks old houses were demolished and the wood used for cooking. The jewellery was still not complete. The people of Sāketa then took clothes out of their wardrobes, soaked them with oil, and used them to kindle the cooking fires. After another two weeks the jewellery was complete, and the whole splendid assembly began the return journey. Dhanañjaya gave to his daughter as dowry many hundreds of carts laden with silk, gold, silver, and servant girls. He also gave her a herd of cattle so large that all the roads in the city were choked. When these cattle left the stables, the remaining cows also tore their ropes and joined the travelling herd. People from fourteen villages belonging to Dhanañjaya wanted to follow Visākhā to her new home, so much was she liked everywhere.
Such abundant wealth and such a large retinue Visākhā had obtained through acts of merit in many earlier lives, since she had already served the Buddha Padumuttara countless aeons ago. When Visākhā took leave of her father, he gave her ten maxims of advice in metaphorical form and admonished her always to keep the virtue of generosity in high regard. He also appointed eight confidential advisers to examine carefully any complaint that might be raised against his daughter. The ten maxims her father gave her are as follows: (1) do not carry outside the indoor fire, (2) do not take inside the outdoor fire, (3) give only to those that give, (4) do not give to those that do not give, (5) give both to those that give and do not give, (6) sit happily, (7) eat happily, (8) sleep happily, (9) tend the fire, and (10) honour the household divinities.
Their implied meaning is as follows: (1) the wife should not speak ill of her husband and parents-in-law to others; neither should their shortcomings or household quarrels be reported elsewhere; (2) a wife should not listen to the reports and stories of other households; (3) things should be lent only to those who return them; (4) no article should be lent to those who do not return them; (5) poor relatives and friends should be helped even if they do not repay; (6) a wife should sit in a becoming way; on seeing her parents-in-law or her husband, she should keep standing and not sit; (7) before partaking of her meals, a wife should first see that her parents-in-law and husband are served, and should also see that her servants are well cared for; (8) before going to bed at night, a wife should see that all doors are closed, that the furniture is safe, that the servants have performed their duties, and that her parents-in-law have retired; as a rule a wife should rise early in the morning and, unless unwell, she should not sleep during the day; (9) parents-in-law and husband should be regarded as fire; and one should deal carefully with them as one would with fire; and (10) parents-in-law and husband should be regarded as divinities.
On the day she arrived in Sāvatthī, the city of her husband, Visākhā was showered with various presents sent from people of all ranks according to their status and ability. But so kind and generous was she that she distributed them among the donors themselves with a kind message and treated all the residents of the city as her own kinsfolk. By this noble gesture she endeared herself to all the people of the city on the very first day that she came to her husband’s home. There is an incident in her life which reveals her dutiful kindness even toward animals. Hearing that her well-bred mare had given birth to a foal in the middle of the night, immediately Visākhā rushed to the stable with her female attendants bearing torches in their hands, and attended to all the mare’s needs with the greatest care and attention. Her father-in-law, Migāra, being a staunch follower of an order of naked ascetics, never invited the Buddha to his house for alms, even though the Master frequently dwelt at a nearby monastery. Shortly after the wedding, to obtain merit, he invited a large company of naked ascetics for alms, whom he treated with deep respect and presented with fine foods.
On their arrival he told his new daughter-in-law, “Come, dear, and render homage to the arahants.” Visākhā was delighted to hear the word “arahants” and hurried to the hall, expecting to see Buddhist monks. But she saw only naked ascetics devoid of all modesty, a sight that was unbearable for such a refined lady. She reproached her father-in-law and retired to her quarters without entertaining them. The naked ascetics took offence and reproached the millionaire for having brought a female follower of the ascetic Gotama to his house. They asked him to expel her from the house immediately, but Migāra, with much effort, managed to pacify them.
One day, while Migāra was eating rich rice porridge mixed with honey in a golden bowl, a Buddhist monk came to the house in quest of alms. Visākhā was fanning her father-in-law. She stepped to the side so that Migāra could see the monk and give him alms; but though the monk was in full view, Migāra pretended not to notice him and continued with his meal. So Visākhā told the monk, “Pass on, venerable sir. My father-in-law is eating stale food.”3 Migāra was furious at this remark and wanted to throw his daughter-in-law out of the house, but the servants—who had been brought to the house by Visākhā herself—refused to carry out his orders. The eight advisors, to whom Migāra’s complaint against Visākhā was put, concluded on examination of the matter that Visākhā was blameless.
After this incident Visākhā informed her husband’s family that she would be returning to her parents. Migāra asked her forgiveness, and Visākhā consented to stay, on the condition that she would be permitted to invite the Buddha and the order of monks to the house. Reluctantly he gave his consent, but following the advice of the naked ascetics he did not serve the monks personally. Just to be polite, he appeared shortly after the meal and then concealed himself behind a curtain while listening to the Buddha’s sermon. However, the Buddha’s words moved him so deeply that, while sitting there hidden from view, he penetrated the ultimate truth about the nature of existence and attained to stream-entry. Filled with overwhelming gratitude he told Visākhā that from now onwards he would respect her like his own mother, and accordingly he called her Migāra-mātā, which means “Mother of Migāra.”
He then went up to the Blessed One, prostrated at his feet, and declared his allegiance to the Triple Gem. Visākhā invited the Buddha for the next day’s meal, and on that occasion her mother-in-law too attained stream-entry. From that time on the entire family became staunch supporters of the Enlightened One and his community of monks and nuns. In course of time Visākhā gave birth to no fewer than ten sons and ten daughters, and all of them had the same number of descendants down to the fourth generation. Visākhā herself lived to the remarkably high age of 120, but (according to the commentaries) all her life she retained the appearance of a sixteen-year-old girl. This was the result of her merit and her enjoyment of the Dhamma, which filled her completely throughout the day.
It is also said that she was as strong as an elephant and could work untiringly looking after her large family. She found time to feed the monks every day, to visit the monasteries, and to ensure that none of the monks and nuns lacked food, clothing, shelter, bedding, and medicines. Above all she still found time to listen to the Teaching of the Blessed One again and again.
Therefore the Blessed One said about her: “Visākhā stands foremost among my women lay supporters who serve as supporters of the Order” (AN 1, chap. 14). One illustration of this is specifically mentioned in the Vinaya Piṭaka. One day Visākhā left her valuable bridal jewellery in the hall after listening to the Dhamma, and it was taken into custody by Ānanda (Vin IV 161). She interpreted this lapse as an invitation to do good and decided not to wear this jewellery again, but to sell it and to give alms to the Order from the money obtained. But in the whole city of Sāvatthī there was no one who could buy this very precious jewellery. So she bought it herself out of her other property, and with the proceeds of the sale she built a large monastic establishment in the Eastern Park (Pubbārāma) before the city gate of Sāvatthī. It was called the Mansion of Migāra’s Mother (Migāramātu-pāsāda). It is often mentioned in the introduction to many Buddhist suttas, for the Blessed One frequently stayed there during the last twenty years of his life, just as he did in the Jetavana monastery built by his other great patron, Anāthapiṇḍika.
In the Pāli Canon several episodes from the life of Visākhā are reported. Once some noble disciples requested her to take their wives to see the Blessed One. She did so, but some of the women were drunk and behaved improperly. She asked the Blessed One how the evil of intoxicating drink originated, and he told her the Kumbha Jātaka (J 512): In the forest a man had found the juice of fermented fruits in the hollow of a tree, tasted it, and felt wonderfully elated. Again and again he provided himself with this enjoyment, so that he soon became a drunkard; he also enticed many of his friends and relatives to drinking, and they in turn spread the bad habit to others. The whole of India would soon have become addicted to liquor if Sakka, king of the devas, had not interceded. He appeared to the humans and explained to them the evil consequences of intoxicating drink.
On another occasion, when Visākhā sent some valuable gifts to her relatives in the country of Aṅga, the guards at the border wanted to levy a very high custom’s duty on them. She reported this to the king, but he left the matter unattended to, being occupied with affairs of state. Visākhā went to the Blessed One and asked his advice. TheBuddha spoke only a few short verses, which relieved her of her worry and anger: Painful is all subjection; Blissful is complete control; People are troubled in common concerns, Hard to escape are the bonds. (Ud 2:9)
Again, another time she went to see the Blessed One in the middle of the day, in spite of the hot sun: her favourite grandchild Dattā, who had always helped her to distribute alms, had suddenly passed away. When she told the Blessed One of her sorrow, he asked whether she wanted to have as many children and grandchildren as there were people in the city of Sāvatthī. She joyfully agreed. “But how many people die in Sāvatthī every day?” asked the Blessed One. She considered and said: “O Lord, in Sāvatthī ten or nine people, five or three, or two people, but at least one person is dying every day. Sāvatthī is never free from dying.” Being asked whether in this case she would ever be without sorrow, she had to admit that she would feel sorrow every single day.
The Blessed One said: “Those who have one hundred loved ones have one hundred sorrows, those who have ninety…five…four…three…two…one loved ones have one sorrow, but those who have no loved ones have no sorrow. These alone, I say, are without sorrow, without suffering, without desperation” (Ud 8:8). In three suttas in the Aṅguttara Nikāya the Blessed One answers questions put by Visākhā. On a full-moon day she came to her monastery and greeted the Buddha. Asked why she had come, she said she was keeping the Uposatha day, the day devoted entirely to learning and practicing the Dhamma. On this unspoken request for instruction the Blessed One gave a lengthy discourse (AN 3:70) on the two wrong ways and one right way to keep the Uposatha. The Uposatha of cowherds and ordinary householders consists of thinking about the enjoyments of tomorrow while observing ascetic rules today.
The Uposatha of the Jains consists of showing loving-kindness to some people, while at the same time boasting of one’s own freedom from sense enjoyments. The true Uposatha day of the noble ones consists of observance of the Eight Precepts and reflection on the greatness of the Blessed One, the Dhamma, and the Sangha, and on the devas and one’s own virtues.4 The Buddha went on to describe the happy and carefree life of the gods up to the Brahma-world, concluding: “Miserable is the glory of humans compared to such heavenly bliss.”
Another question of Visākhā concerned the qualities in a woman that lead to her rebirth in the company of “the graceful gods” (manāpakāyikā devā). In answer the Blessed One stated eight conditions (AN 8:47): (1) she is always an agreeable and pleasant companion to her husband, irrespective of his own conduct; (2) she honours and looks after the people who are dear to her husband—his parents and the wise men worshiped by him; (3) in her housework she is industrious and careful; (4) she supervises the servants well and cares for them properly, considers their health and their food; (5) she guards her husband’s property and does not dissipate his wealth; (6) she takes refuge in the Blessed One, the Dhamma, and the Sangha; (7) she observes the Five Precepts; and (8) she delights in generosity and renunciation.
A third question was: Which qualities in a woman would enable her to conquer this world and the next? The Blessed One answered: She conquers this world by industry, care for her servants, love for her husband, and guarding his property; the other world, by faith, virtue, generosity, and wisdom (AN 8:49). The promulgation of a number of rules for the Sangha is connected with Visākhā. Thus, for instance, one of her nephews had decided to join the Order as a monk. But when he requested acceptance into the Order in Sāvatthī the monks there told him that they had agreed among themselves not to ordain novices during the three months’ rains retreat, and therefore he should wait until the rains retreat was over. But when the rainy season had passed he had given up the idea of becoming a monk.
When Visākhā came to know of this, she went to the Blessed One and said: “The Dhamma is timeless, there is no time when the Dhamma cannot be followed.” The Blessed One prescribed that ordination should not be refused during the rainy season (Vin I 153). Once when the Blessed One and his monks were guests of Visākhā she requested him to grant her eight boons (Vin I 290–94). He replied that the Perfect One had gone beyond the fulfilling of boons. She said that she did not wish for something blameworthy but for allowable things. The Blessed One let her mention her wishes. She requested to give gifts to the Order in eight ways: (1) robes for the rains, (2) food for arriving monks, (3) food for monks setting out on a journey, (4) medicine for sick monks, (5) food for sick monks, (6) food for monks tending the sick, (7) regular distribution of rice gruel, and (8) bathing robes for nuns to bathe in the river.
The Blessed One then asked her for which special reasons she made these requests. She explained in detail: (1) some monks had been forced to walk half-naked in the streaming rain to preserve their robes and thus were mistaken for naked ascetics; therefore she wanted to give rains’ robes; (2) newly arrived monks in Sāvatthī, who did not know the town yet, had difficulty obtaining food, and had to walk for alms despite their weariness from their journey; therefore all arriving monks should be sent to her to receive food; (3) in the same way she would like to give a good meal to monks setting out on a journey; (4) and (5) sick monks have to suffer much, and may even die, if they lack suitable food and medicine; therefore she would like to cook food for the sick; (6) a monk tending the sick had to go on alms round for himself as well as for the sick monk; he could easily be late, and both would not be able to eat after noon because the meal time had already passed; therefore she wanted to provide food for monks tending the sick; (7) she had also heard how many benefits were connected with rice gruel in the early morning, so she would like to provide gruel to the Order; and (8) it was unsuitable for nuns to bathe without clothes, as had happened recently; therefore she would like to provide them with a suitable covering.
After Visākhā had thus explained in detail the external benefits of her wishes, the Blessed One asked her what inner benefits she expected. Her answer shows how subtly and profoundly she had grasped the distinction between outward acts of virtue and inner mental training. She replied: As to that, Lord, bhikkhus who have spent the rains in different regions will come to Sāvatthī to see the Blessed One. They will approach the Blessed One and question him thus: “Lord, the bhikkhu named so-and-so has died. What is his destination? What is his rebirth?” The Blessed One will tell how such a one had reached the fruit of stream-entry, or of once-returning, or of non-returning, or of arahantship.
I shall approach the bhikkhus and ask: “Lords, did that bhikkhu ever come to Sāvatthī?” If they answer that he did, I shall conclude that surely a rains cloth will have been used by that bhikkhu or visitors’ food or food for one going on a journey or food for the sick or food for a sick-nurse or medicine for the sick or the morning rice-gruel. When I remember it, I shall be glad. When I am glad, I shall be happy. When my mind is happy, my body will be tranquil. When my body is tranquil, I shall feel pleasure. When I feel pleasure, my mind will become concentrated. That will bring the development of the spiritual faculties in me and also the development of the spiritual powers and the enlightenment factors. This, Lord, is the benefit I foresee for myself in asking the eight boons of the Perfect One. Good, good, Visākhā!” the Enlightened One replied. “It is good that you have asked the Perfect One for the eight boons foreseeing these benefits. I grant you the eight boons.” So lived Visākhā, “Migāra’s Mother,” a model female lay devotee, endowed with unwavering confidence in the Triple Gem, securely settled in the fruit of stream-entry, bound for a happy rebirth and, in the end, for final deliverance from suffering.
MALLIKĀ: THE FLOWER-GIRL QUEEN
At the time of the Buddha, a daughter was born to the foreman of the guild of garland-makers in Sāvatthī. She was beautiful, clever, and well behaved and a source of joy to her father. Her name was Mallikā. One day, when she had just turned sixteen, she went to the public flower gardens with her girlfriends, taking three portions of fermented rice along in her basket for her meal.6 When she was just leaving by the city gate, a group of ascetics came into town to obtain alms. Their leader stood out: one whose grandeur and sublime beauty impressed her so much that she impulsively offered him all the food in her basket. That great ascetic was the Buddha, the Awakened One.
He let her put her offering into his bowl. After Mallikā-without knowing to whom she had given the food—had prostrated at his feet, she walked on full of joy. The Buddha smiled. Ānanda, who knew that the Enlightened One does not smile without a reason, asked why. The Buddha replied that this girl would reap the benefits of her gift this very same day by becoming the queen of Kosala. This sounded unbelievable. How could the king of Kosala elevate a woman of low caste to the rank of queen? In the India of those days, with its very strict caste system, this seemed quite impossible. The ruler over the united kingdom of Benares and Kosala in the Ganges Valley was King Pasenadi, the mightiest monarch of his day.
At that time he was at war with his neighbour, Ajātasattu, the parricide king of Magadha. The latter had won a battle and King Pasenadi had been forced to retreat. As he was returning to his capital on his horse, just before he entered the city he heard a girl sing in the flower gardens. It was Mallikā, who was singing melodiously because of her joy in meeting the illustrious sage. The king was enchanted by the song and rode into the gardens. Mallikā did not run away from the strange warrior, but came nearer, took the horse by its reins, and looked straight into the king’s eyes. He asked her whether she was already married and she replied in the negative.
Thereupon he dismounted, lay down with his head in her lap, and let her console him about his ill luck in battle. After he had recovered, he let her mount his horse behind him and took her back to the house of her parents. In the evening he sent an entourage with much pomp to fetch her and made her his principal wife and queen. From then on she was dearly beloved to the king. She was given many loyal servants and in her beauty she resembled a goddess. It became known throughout the whole kingdom that because of her simple gift she had been elevated to the highest position in the state and this induced her subjects to be kind and generous toward their fellow men. Wherever she went, people would joyously proclaim: “That is Queen Mallikā, who gave alms to the Buddha.”
After she had become queen, she soon went to visit the Enlightened One to ask him something that was puzzling her: how it came about that one woman could be beautiful, wealthy, and of great power; another beautiful but poor and powerless; yet another ugly, rich, and very powerful; and finally, another ugly, poor, and powerless. These differences can constantly be observed in daily life. But while the ordinary person is satisfied with such commonplace explanations as fate, heredity, and chance, Queen Mallikā wanted to probe deeper, for she was convinced that nothing happens without a cause.
The Buddha explained to her in great detail that the qualities and living conditions of people everywhere reflect the moral nature of their deeds in earlier lives. Beauty was caused by patience and gentleness, prosperity by generosity, and power by never envying others but rather by rejoicing in their success. Whichever of these three virtues a person had cultivated would show up as their “destiny,” usually in some mixture of the three. Only rarely would a person be favourably endowed with all three attributes. After Mallikā had listened to this discourse, she resolved in her heart to be always gentle toward her subjects and never to scold them; to give alms to all monks, brahmins, and the poor; and never to envy anyone who was happy. At the end of the Buddha’s talk she took refuge in the Triple Gem and remained a faithful disciple for the rest of her life (AN 4:197).
Mallikā showed her great generosity not only by giving regular alms but also by building a large, ebony-lined hall for the Sangha, which was used for religious discussions (MN 78; DN 9). She exhibited her gentleness by serving her husband with the five qualities of a perfect wife: by always rising before him, by going to bed after him, by always obeying his commands, by always being polite, and by using only kind words. Even the monks praised her gentleness in their discussions about virtue. Soon she was to prove that she was also free of jealousy. The king had decided to marry another wife and brought a cousin of the Buddha home as his second chief queen.
Although it is said that it is in the nature of a woman not to allow a rival into her home, Mallikā related to the other wife without the slightest malice (AN 6:52). Both women lived in peace and harmony at the court. Even when the second wife gave birth to a son, the crown prince, and Mallikā had only a daughter, she was not envious. When the king voiced disappointment about the birth of that daughter, the Buddha said to him that if a woman was clever, virtuous, well behaved and faithful, she was superior to a man. Then she might become the wife of a great king and give birth to a mighty ruler (SN 3:16). When the daughter, Princess Vajirā, grew up, she in fact became queen of Magadha. After Mallikā had become a faithful lay devotee of the Buddha, she also won her husband over to the Dhamma. That happened as follows: One night the king had a succession of sixteen disturbing dreams during which he heard gruesome, unfathomable sounds from four voices, which uttered: “Du, Sa, Na, So.”
He woke up in the middle of the night, gripped by terror, and sitting upright, trembling, he awaited the sunrise. The next day, when his brahmin priests asked him whether he had slept well, he related the terror of the night and asked them what he should do to counteract such a menace. The brahmins declared that he would have to offer a great sacrifice to pacify the evil spirits, and out of fear the king agreed to this suggestion. The brahmins rejoiced, thinking of the gifts they would surely reap for conducting the sacrifice, and they busily began to make preparations. They had a sacrificial altar built and many animals tied to posts as victims for the offering. For greater efficacy, they demanded the sacrifice of four human beings as well, and these also awaited their death, tied to posts. When Mallikā became aware of all this activity, she went to the king and asked him why the brahmins were running about so busily full of joyous expectation.
The king replied that she did not pay enough attention to him and did not know his sorrows. Thereupon he told her of his dreams. Mallikā asked the king whether he had also consulted the first and best of brahmins about the meaning of the dreams: the Buddha, the foremost in the world of gods and humans, the best of all brahmins. King Pasenadi decided to ask the Awakened One’s advice and went to the Jetavana monastery. He related his dreams to the Buddha and asked him what would happen to him. “Nothing,” the Awakened One replied, and explained the meaning to him. The sixteen dreams, he said, were prophecies showing that living conditions on earth would deteriorate steadily due to the increasing moral laxity of the kings.
In a meditative moment, King Pasenadi had been able to see future occurrences within his sphere of interest because he was a monarch concerned with the wellbeing of his subjects. The four voices which he had heard belonged to four men who had lived in Sāvatthī and had been seducers of married women. Because of that they were reborn in hell and for thirty thousand years they drowned in red-hot cauldrons, coming nearer and nearer to the fire, which intensified their unbearable suffering. During another thirty thousand years they slowly rose up in those iron cauldrons and had now come to the rim, where they could once again at least breathe the air of the human realm. Each one wanted to speak a verse, but because of the gravity of the deed could not get past the first syllable. Not even in sighs could they voice their suffering, because they had long lost the gift of speech. The four verses, which start in Pāli with du, sa, na, and so, were recognized by the Buddha as follows: Du: Dung-like life we lived, No willingness to give. Although we could have given much, We did not make our refuge thus.
Sa: Say, the end is near? Already 60,000 years have gone; Without respite the torture is In this realm of hell.
Na: Naught, no end near. Oh, would it end! No end in sight for us. Who once did misdeeds here For me, for you, for both of us.
So: So, could I only leave this place And raise myself to the human realm, I would be kind and moral too, And do good deeds abundantly.
After the king had heard these explanations, he became responsive to the request of the compassionate queen. He granted freedom to the imprisoned men and animals and ordered the sacrificial altar to be destroyed (J 77, 314). The king, who had become a devoted lay disciple of the Buddha, visited him one day again and met a wise and well-learned layman there. The king asked him whether he could give some daily Dhamma teaching to his two queens and the other ladies of the palace. The layman replied that the teaching came from the Enlightened One and only one of his ordained disciples could pass it on to the women.
The king understood this and requested the Buddha to give permission to one of his monks to teach. The Buddha appointed the Venerable Ānanda for this task. Queen Mallikā learned easily in spite of her uneducated background, but Queen Vasabhakhattiyā, cousin of the Buddha and mother of the crown-prince, was unconcentrated and learned with difficulty (Vin IV 158). One day the royal couple looked down upon the river from the palace and saw a group of the Buddha’s monks playing about in the water. The king said to Queen Mallikā reproachfully: “Those playing about in the water are supposed to be arahants.” Such was the reputation of this group of the so-called seventeen monks, who were quite young and of good moral conduct.
Mallikā replied that she could only explain it thus, that either the Buddha had not made any rules with regard to bathing or that the monks were not acquainted with them, because they were not among the rules which were recited regularly. Both agreed that it would not make a good impression on laypeople and on those monks not yet secure if those in higher training played about in the water and enjoyed themselves in the way of untrained worldly people. But King Pasenadi wanted to avoid blackening those monks’ characters and just wanted to give the Buddha a hint, so that he could lay down a firm rule. He conceived the idea to send a special gift to the Buddha to be taken by those monks. They brought the gift and the Buddha asked them on what occasion they had met the king. Then they told him what they had done, and the Buddha laid down a corresponding rule (Vin IV 112).
One day when the king was standing on the parapet of the palace with the queen and was looking down upon the land, he asked her whether there was anyone in the world that she loved more than herself. He expected her to name him, since he flattered himself to have been the one who had raised her to fame and fortune. But although she loved him, she remained truthful and replied that she knew of no one dearer to her than herself. Then she wanted to know how it was with him: Did he love anyone—possibly her—than himself? Thereupon the king also had to admit that in his case too self-love was predominant. But he went to the Buddha and recounted the conversation to find out how a sage would consider this.
The Buddha confirmed their statements, but drew from them a lesson in compassion and nonviolence: Having traversed all quarters with the mind, One finds none anywhere dearer than oneself For others too each holds himself most dear; Hence one who loves himself should not harm others. (SN 3:8; Ud 5:1) One day a man came to the Buddha utterly distraught over the death of his only child. He could not eat, could not work; he had become depressed, and spent all his time in the charnel ground, crying out, “Where are you, my only child? Where are you, my only child?” The Buddha taught him a tough lesson: “Those who are dear bring sorrow, lamentation, pain, grief, and despair”—the suffering that results from attachment. Though his own experience bore out the Buddha’s words, the man resented this maxim and left in an angry mood. The conversation was reported to the king, and he asked his wife whether it was really true that sorrow could result from love. “If the Awakened One has said so, O king, then it is so,” she replied devotedly. The king demurred that she accepted every word of the Buddha’s like a disciple from a guru. Thereupon she sent a messenger to the Buddha to ask if the report were true and to obtain more details.
The Buddha confirmed it and gave a fuller explanation. But Mallikā did not pass the Buddha’s reply on directly to the king. Instead she used an indirect approach. She asked him whether he loved his daughter, his second wife, the crown prince, herself, and his kingdom. Naturally he confirmed this: these five were dear to him and deeply loved. But if something happened to these five, Mallikā inquired, would he not feel sorrow, lamentation, pain, grief, and despair, which comes from such love? Then the king understood and realized how wisely the Buddha could penetrate all existence: “Very well then, Mallikā, continue to venerate him.”
And the king rose, uncovered his shoulder, prostrated deferentially in the direction where the Blessed One was residing, and saluted him three times: “Homage to the Blessed One, the Arahant, the Fully Awakened One!” (MN 87). But their lives together did not remain altogether free of conflict. One day an argument arose between the couple about the duties of the queen. For some reason the king had become angry at her and was treating her as if she had disappeared into thin air. When the Buddha arrived at the palace the next day for his meal, he asked about the queen, who had always been present earlier. Pasenadi scowled and said: “What about her? She has gone mad because of her fame.”
The Buddha replied that he himself had raised her up to that position and should therefore be reconciled with her. Somewhat reluctantly the king had her called. The Buddha then praised the blessing of amity and their rift was forgotten as if it had never occurred (J 306). Later, however, a new round of friction set in between the couple, and again the king would not look at Mallikā and pretended she did not exist. When the Buddha became aware of this he asked about her, and Pasenadi again said that her good fortune had gone to her head. Immediately the Awakened One related an incident from a former life when both were heavenly beings, a deva couple, who loved each other dearly. One night they were separated from each other because of the flooding of a stream. They both regretted this irretrievable night, which could never be replaced during their life span of a thousand years. And for the rest of their lives they never parted from each other’s company and always remembered to use this separation as a warning so that their happiness would endure until the end of their days.
The king was moved by this story and became reconciled to the queen. Mallikā then spoke this verse to the Buddha: With joy I heard your varied words, Which were spoken for our welfare; With your talk you dispelled my sorrow, May you live long, my ascetic, bringer of joy! (J 504)
A third time the Buddha told of a former life of the royal couple when Pasenadi was a crown prince and Mallikā his wife. When the crown prince became afflicted with leprosy and had to relinquish his claim to the throne, he resolved to withdraw into the forest by himself so as not to become a burden to anyone. His wife, however, refused to desert him but accompanied him and looked after him with touching attention. Rather than lead a carefree life in pomp and splendour, she chose to remain faithful to her repulsive husband. Through the power of her virtue she was able to effect his recovery. But when the king ascended to the throne and she became his queen, he promptly forgot her and enjoyed himself with the dancing girls.
Only when the king was reminded of his queen’s good deeds did he change his ways. He asked her forgiveness and lived together with her in harmony and virtue (J 519). Queen Mallikā committed only one deed in this life which had evil results and which led her to the worst rebirth. Once, when she was drying herself after a bath, her pet dog approached her from behind and mounted her. Instead of driving the dog away, she allowed it to continue. The king had caught a glimpse of this bizarre incident through an open window and later scolded Mallikā for her transgression. However, rather than admit her guilt, the queen insisted on her innocence and convinced the king that his eyes had played a trick on him. When Mallikā died her twofold transgression—her sexual contact with the dog and her mendacious attempt to free herself from blame— caught up with her and brought about a rebirth in hell. This evil, however, lasted for only seven days, after which it was overpowered by Mallikā’s great merits.
At the time of her death King Pasenadi was listening to the Buddha give a Dhamma talk. When the news reached him he was deeply shaken, to such an extent that his grief could not be assuaged even by the Buddha’s reminder that there was nothing in the world that could escape decay and death (AN 5:49). His attachment—“from love comes sorrow”—was so strong that he went to the Buddha every day to find out about the future destiny of his wife. If he had to get along without her on earth, at least he wanted to know about her rebirth. But for seven days the Buddha distracted him from his question through fascinating and moving Dhamma discourses, so that he remembered his question only when he arrived home again. Only on the seventh day would the Buddha answer his question and said that Mallikā had been reborn in the Tusita heaven, “the heaven of the blissful devas.”
So as not to add to the king’s sorrow, he did not mention the seven days she had spent in hell. Although it was a very short-termed sojourn there, one can see that Mallikā had not yet attained stream-entry during her life on earth, since a stream-enterer cannot take rebirth below the human level. However, this experience of infernal suffering together with her knowledge of the Dhamma must have quickened Mallikā’s ripening for the attainment of stream-entry.
KHEMĀ: OF GREAT WISDOM
Just as the Buddha has appointed two chief disciples in the order of monks, Sāriputta and Moggallāna, he likewise named two women his foremost disciples in the Bhikkhunī Sangha, the order of nuns. These two were the bhikkhunīs Uppalavaṇṇā and Khemā, the former excelling in psychic power, the latter in wisdom (AN 1, chap. 14). The Buddha has held up these two as the models and examples for all the nuns to emulate, the standard against which other nuns could evaluate themselves (SN 17:24). The name “Khemā” means security and is a synonym for Nibbāna. The nun Khemā belonged to a royal family from the land of Magadha. She was extremely beautiful and fair to behold, and when she reached marriageable age she became one of the chief consorts of King Bimbisāra.
This king was a stream-enterer and a generous benefactor of the Blessed One. He has donated his own Bamboo Grove to the Sangha and constantly looked after the monks with great solicitude. But although Khemā often heard about the Buddha from the king, she resisted going to see him, fearful that he would find fault with her beauty of form and preach to her about the vanity of sensual pleasures, to which she was tightly attached. The king, however, found a way to induce her to listen to the Teaching.8 He hired a troop of singers to sing songs to her in praise of the harmony, peacefulness, and beauty of the Bamboo Grove monastery, and because Khemā loved the beauties of nature she decided to visit there. Decked out in royal splendour with silk and sandalwood, she went to the monastery and was gradually drawn to the hall where the Buddha was preaching.
The Buddha, who read her thoughts, created by his psychic powers a beautiful young woman standing beside him fanning him. Khemā was enthralled by this lovely woman and thought to herself, “Never before have I seen such a woman. I myself do not come within even a fraction of her beauty. Surely those who say the ascetic Gotama disparages beauty of form must be misrepresenting him.” The Buddha then made this created image gradually change from youth to middle age, and then to old age, with broken teeth, grey hair, and wrinkled skin, until it finally fell to the ground lifeless. Only then did she realize the vanity of external beauty and the fleeting nature of life. She thought, “Has such a body come to be wrecked like that? Then my body too must share that fate.”
The Buddha read her mind and said: Khemā, behold this mass of elements, Diseased, impure, decaying; Trickling all over and oozing, It is desired only by fools.
At the conclusion of the stanza Khemā was established in the fruit of stream-entry. But the Buddha continued to teach her, concluding his sermon with another verse: Those enslaved by lust drift down the stream As a spider glides on its self-spun web. Having cut off even this, the wise wander Indifferent to the pleasures they’ve renounced. (Dhp 347)
Khemā penetrated the sermon fully, and right on the spot, while still dressed in her royal attire, she attained arahantship together with the analytical knowledges. Thereafter, having received her husband’s permission, she joined the order of nuns. An ordinary person, hearing Khemā’s story, sees only the wonder of the present happening. A Buddha, however, can see beyond this and knows that this woman did not come to full liberation by chance or good fortune. Such an attainment, almost like lightning, is only possible for one whose seed of wisdom has tong been ripening and whose virtue is fully matured. In past aeons, Khemā had planted the roots of merit under many former Buddhas. Due to her innate attraction toward the highest truth, she always came to birth wherever a Buddha, a Bearer of Truth, lived. It is said that already one hundred thousand aeons ago she had sold her beautiful hair to give alms to the Buddha Padumuttara.
During the time of the Buddha Vipassi, ninetyone aeons ago, she had been a bhikkhunī and a teacher of the Dhamma. Further, it is told that during the Dispensations of the three Buddhas of our happy aeon, the predecessors of our Buddha Gotama, she was a lay disciple and gained happiness through building monasteries for the Sangha. While most beings drift around in heavenly or infernal realms during the lifetime of a Buddha, Khemā always tried to be near the source of wisdom. When no Buddha appeared in the world she would be reborn at the time of paccekabuddhas or in proximity to the Bodhisatta, the future Buddha Gotama.
In one birth (J 354) she was the wife of the Bodhisatta, who always exhorted his peaceful family thus: According to what you have, give alms; Observe the Uposatha, keep the precepts pure; Dwell upon the thought of death, mindful of your mortal state.
For in the case of beings like us, Death is certain, life uncertain; All existing things must pass, subject to decay. Therefore be heedful day and night.
One day Khemā’s only son in this life was suddenly killed by the bite of a poisonous snake, yet she was able to keep total equanimity: Uncalled he hither came, unbidden soon to go; Even as he came, he went. What cause is here for woe? No friend’s lament can touch the ashes of the dead: Why should I grieve? He fares the way he had to tread. Though I should fast and weep, how would it profit me? My kith and kin, alas! would more unhappy be. No friend’s lament can touch the ashes of the dead: Why should I grieve? He fares the way he had to tread.
Another time she was the daughter-in-law of the Bodhisatta (J 397), many times a great empress who dreamed about receiving teachings from the Bodhisatta and then actually received such teachings (J 501, 502, 534). It is further recounted that when she was a queen her husband the king was the future Sāriputta. This husband in former lives was a righteous king who upheld the ten royal virtues: generosity, morality, renunciation, truthfulness, gentleness, patience, amity, harmlessness, humility, and justice. Because of these virtues the king lived in happiness and bliss. Khemā, too, lived in accordance with these precepts (J 534). It was only because Khemā had already purified her heart in many past lives that she was mature enough, on her first meeting with the Buddha, to realize the ultimate truth in the twinkling of an eye.
Khemā’s transformed attitude to sensuality is starkly revealed to us by a dialogue in verse, recorded in the Therīgāthā, in which she fends off the advances of a charming seducer. According to the commentary, the seducer is actually Māra, the Tempter, who had approached intending to divert her from her quest for liberation—vainly, as she was already an arahant:
“You are so young and beautiful, And I myself am in the bloom of youth. Come, noble lady, let us rejoice In the music of a fivefold ensemble.”
“I am repelled and humiliated By this putrid fleshly body, Afflicted by illness, so very fragile; I have uprooted sensual craving.
Sensual pleasures are now like sword stakes, The aggregates are their chopping block. That which you call sensual delight Has become for me no delight at all.
Everywhere delight has been destroyed, The mass of darkness has been shattered. Know this, O Evil One— You are defeated, Exterminator.” (Thī 139–42)
The Buddha praised Khemā as the nun foremost in wisdom (etadaggaṃ mahāpaññānaṃ). A dialogue that has come down in the Saṃyutta Nikāya (44:1) confirms this, illustrating how her wisdom made a deep impact on King Pasenadi. The king was travelling through the countryside of Kosala and arrived one evening at a small township. Wishing to have a conversation about spiritual matters, he ordered a servant to find out whether there was a wise ascetic or brahmin in the town. The servant inquired everywhere. He could not find any ascetic or brahmin for his master to converse with, but he learned that a bhikkhunī, an ordained disciple of the Buddha, was dwelling in the town. It was the saintly Khemā, who was famed everywhere for her wisdom, deep insight, great learning, and perspicacity in discussion.
When the king received this report he went to her, greeted her with respect, and questioned her about the after-death condition of a Tathāgata, a liberated sage: “Does a Tathāgata—a Perfect One—exist after death?” “The Exalted One has not declared that a Tathāgata exists after death.” “Then a Tathāgata does not exist after death?” “That, too, the Exalted One has not declared.” “Then a Tathāgata both exists and does not exist after death?” “Even that, the Exalted One has not declared.” “Then does a Tathāgata neither exist nor not exist after death?” “That, too, the Exalted One has not declared.”
Thereupon the king wanted to know why the Buddha had rejected these four questions. To understand the reason we must first understand what these four views imply. The views concern a Tathāgata, which here means not only a supreme Buddha but any liberated sage. The four views, however, conceive the Tathāgata in terms of the category of selfhood; assuming that the liberated being is a substantial self, they formulate contradictory theses on the fate of that self. The first view, which is conditioned by the craving for existence, maintains that those who have reached the highest goal continue on after death in some metaphysical dimension, either as distinct individuals or as absorbed into some transpersonal spiritual essence. This answer is the one given by most religions, including several later interpretations of Buddhism.
The second answer—that a Tathāgata does not exist after death— reflects the craving for nonexistence, for annihilation. The theorist regards the Perfect One as a truly existent self whose fate at death is complete annihilation. From this perspective deliverance is nothing more than the absolute dissolution of a real self. The third answer seeks a compromise: everything impermanent in a Tathāgata would be annihilated at death, but the permanent essence, his soul, would remain. The fourth answer tries to escape the predicament by formulating a “neither-nor” solution—a sceptical approach that still implicitly accepts the validity of the Tathāgata as a real self. All four formulas have been rejected by the Buddha as wrong views. They all presuppose that there is an “I” distinct from the world—an “I” which is either raised to eternal life or annihilated in the abyss of nothingness—while in reality “I” and “world” are mere abstractions posited on the basis of the five aggregates that constitute the process of experience.
Only the Enlightened Ones and their wise disciples can actually see this as it is. Those who do not share this insight assume one of the four speculative views. They suppose either that an “I,” an essentially permanent “self,” is wandering through saṃsāra, the round of birth and death, gradually ascending higher and higher until it is liberated into the divine essence; or they conclude that liberation is simply the destruction of a real self; or they attempt to formulate a syncretic position; or they fall into scepticism. The Buddha, however, teaches that there is no real “I” or “self” to be either projected into eternity or utterly destroyed; such a substantial self has never existed and thus has never wandered through saṃsāra. What we call “I” and what we call “world” are in reality a constantly changing process, always in flux. This process throws up the ‘illusions of “I” and “world,” which then become objects of speculation regarding their past origin and future destiny.
The way to liberation requires that we stop speculating about the “I,” abandon our habitual views and formulas, and directly examine the phenomena on the basis of which views of self are formulated: the concrete processes of mind and body. Liberation is to be won, not by fashioning metaphysical hypotheses, but by observing with mindfulness the arising and passing away of the five aggregates: form, feeling, perception, volitional formations, and consciousness. All these phenomena have arisen due to causes; therefore they are impermanent and subject to dissolution. But whatever is impermanent and subject to decay cannot be a self. Since the five aggregates are subject to destruction—since they become sick, disintegrate, and pass away—they are not “my” self, they are not “mine”; they are merely empty phenomena occurring through conditions.
Because all views of self are only mental constructions, products of speculative thought, any designation of the Enlightened One after death is an illusion born from a compulsive urge for conceptual certainty. Whoever has followed the Buddha’s Teaching, as Khemā did, is greatly relieved to see that the Buddha did not teach the destruction of an existing entity, the annihilation of a self. We live in a world of perpetual destruction and uncontrollable transiency, in the realm of death, and whatever we look upon as “I” and “mine” is constantly vanishing. It is only by renouncing these things that we can reach a refuge of true peace and security. Thus the Blessed One proclaimed: “Open are the doors to the Deathless. Let those with ears send forth faith.”
In her discussion with King Pasenadi, Khemā illustrated her point with a simile. She asked the king whether he had a skillful mathematician or statistician who could calculate for him how many grains of sand are contained in the river Ganges. The king replied that this was not possible, for the grains of sand in the Ganges were innumerable and incalculable. The nun then asked him whether he knew of anyone who could figure out how many gallons of water are contained in the great ocean. That, too, the king considered impossible, for the ocean is deep, immeasurable, hard to fathom. Just so, said Khemā, is the Tathāgata. Whoever wishes to define the Perfect One can only do so through the five aggregates, yet those who have reached awakening no longer hold to any of them as their personal identity: “The Tathāgata is released from reckoning by form, feeling, perception, volitional formations, and consciousness; he is deep, immeasurable, hard to fathom like the great ocean.”
Therefore it is not appropriate to say that after death the Tathāgata exists or does not exist, or that he both exists and does not exist, or that he neither exists nor does not exist. None of these designations can define the undefinable. The king rejoiced in the penetrating explanation of the nun Khemā. Later he met the Buddha and asked him the same four questions, and the Master replied exactly as Khemā had done, using the very same words. The king was amazed and recounted his conversation with the holy nun Khemā, the woman disciple who excelled in wisdom.
BHADDĀ KUṆḌALAKESĀ: THE DEBATING ASCETIC
In Rājagaha, the capital of the kingdom of Magadha, there lived a girl of good family named Bhaddā, the only daughter of a rich merchant.10 Her parents kept her confined to the top floor of a seven-story mansion, for she had a passionate nature and they were afraid that her awakening sexuality would lead her into trouble. One day Bhaddā heard a commotion down below in the street, and when she looked out the window she saw a criminal being led to the place of execution. He was a young man of station who had become a thief and was caught committing a robbery. As soon as Bhaddā set eyes upon him, love arose in her heart, and she lay down on her bed, refusing to eat unless she could have him for her husband. Her parents tried to dissuade her from such folly, but she would see no alternative. Thus her rich father sent a generous bribe to the guard and asked him to bring the man to his mansion.
The guard did as he was instructed, substituting a local derelict for the robber. The merchant gave the robber to his daughter in marriage, hopeful that his character might alter through this sudden change of fortune. Soon after the wedding, however, the bridegroom became obsessed with a desire to take possession of his wife’s jewellery. Thus he told her that while he was being led to the execution block he had vowed that if he could escape death, he would make an offering to a certain mountain deity. He urged Bhaddā to put on all her finest ornaments and accompany him to this deity’s haunt, a cliff off the top of a steep mountain.
When they came to the cliff, called Robbers’ Precipice because it was here that the king would have criminals thrown to their death, her husband demanded that Bhaddā hand over all her jewellery to him. Bhaddā saw only one way to escape this predicament. She asked her husband permission to pay final obeisance to him, and as she embraced him she threw him over the cliff, to be dashed to pieces down below. Burdened by the enormity of her deed, Bhaddā had no desire to return to lay life, for sensual pleasures and possessions no longer had any meaning for her. Therefore she decided to become a wandering ascetic. First she entered the order of the Jains, and as a special penance her hair was torn out by the roots when she ordained. But it grew again and became very curly, for which reason she was called Kuṇḍalakesā, which means “Curly-hair.”
The teaching of the Jain sect did not satisfy her, so she became a solitary wanderer. Travelling through India, she visited many spiritual teachers, learned their doctrines, and thereby obtained an excellent knowledge of religious texts and philosophies. She became especially skilled in the art of debate and in a short time became one of the most famous debaters in India. Whenever she entered a town, she would make a sand-pile and stick a rose-apple branch into it, announcing that whoever would engage in debate with her should notify her by trampling upon the sand-pile. One day she came to Sāvatthī and again erected her little monument. At that time the Venerable Sāriputta was staying at the Jetavana monastery. He heard of the arrival of Bhaddā and, as a sign of his willingness for debate, he told several children to go and trample on the sand-pile. Thereupon Bhaddā went to Jetavana, confident of victory, accompanied by a large number of people. She put a number of questions to Sāriputta, and he answered them all until she had nothing more to ask.
Then Sāriputta questioned her. Already the first question affected Bhaddā profoundly, namely, “What is the one?” She remained silent, unable to determine what the elder could have intended. Surely, she pondered, he did not mean “God,” or “Brahman,” or “the Infinite.” But what was it then? The answer should have been “nutriment,” because all beings are sustained by food. Admitting defeat, Bhaddā asked Sāriputta for the answer, but he said that he would tell her only if she entered the Buddhist Order. The elder then sent her to the bhikkhunīs and had her ordained, and after a few days she attained arahantship.
Such is the version of Bhaddā’s meeting with the Dhamma that has been recorded in the Dhammapada Commentary, but Bhaddā’s verses in the Therīgāthā present a different picture: Formerly I travelled in a single cloth With plucked hair, covered with mud, Imagining flaws in the flawless And seeing no flaws in what is flawed. Having come out from my daytime dwelling, On the mountain Vulture’s Peak I saw the spotless Enlightened One Accompanied by the Bhikkhu Sangha. Then I humbly bowed down on my knees And in his presence saluted him. “Come, Bhaddā,” he said to me— And that was my ordination. (Thī 107–9)
In this version the meeting between Bhaddā and the Buddha takes place, not at Sāvatthī, but at Vulture’s Peak near Rājagaha, and Bhaddā receives ordination, not by the established procedure of a formal ceremony, but simply by the Buddha’s invitation to her to become a bhikkhunī. The discussion that took place between them is not recorded in the verses themselves, but Bhaddā must have attained realization very quickly; for the Buddha later declared her to be the foremost of the bhikkhunīs with respect to quickness of understanding (khippābhiññā). The Therīgāthā Commentary, in commenting on the verses, attempts to reconcile the verses and the old commentarial tradition.
According to this version, after Bhaddā admitted defeat to Sāriputta, she paid homage to him and he brought her into the presence of the Buddha. Then the Teacher, aware that her wisdom was ripe, spoke to her a verse of the Dhammapada: Though one hears a thousand verses Made of lines devoid of meaning, Better is a single meaningful line By hearing which one is set at peace. (Dhp 101)
At the conclusion of the verse she attained arahantship together with the analytical knowledges (paṭisambhidā-ñāṇa). Thereupon she requested the going forth. The Buddha consented to this and sent her to the order of nuns, where she received formal ordination. The Apadāna offers still another perspective on Bhaddā’s awakening. After Bhaddā had gone forth as a Jain nun she studied that philosophical system.
One day, while she was sitting alone reflecting on that doctrine, a dog approached her with a mutilated human hand in its mouth, which it deposited right in front of her. When Bhaddā saw this, and noticed that the hand was crawling with worms, she received a deep spiritual shock. In a state of excitement she asked who could explain to her the significance of that incident. Her inquiries led her to the Buddhist monks, who brought her to the Master: He then taught me the Dhamma, The aggregates, sense bases, and elements, The Leader told me about foulness, Impermanence, suffering, and nonself, Having heard the Dhamma from him, I purified the vision of the Dhamma. When I had understood true Dhamma, (I asked for) the going forth and ordination. Requested, the Leader then said to me, “Come, O Bhaddā!” Then, having been fully ordained, I observed a little streamlet of water. Through that stream of foot-washing water I knew the process of rise and fall. Then I reflected that all formations Are exactly the same in nature. Right on the spot my mind was released, Totally freed by the end of clinging. The Victor then appointed me the chief Of those with quick understanding. (Ap II, 3:1, vv. 38–46)
The last couplet refers to the occasion when the Buddha declared Bhaddā the nun foremost in quickness of understanding (AN 1: chap. 14). This was a quality she shared with the monk Bāhiya, who reached arahantship in an instant when the Buddha told him: the seen there should be for you only the seen, in the heard only the heard, in the sensed only the sensed, in the cognised only the cognised” (Ud 1:10). Both had grasped the highest truth so quickly, and had penetrated it so deeply, that in a split-second they ascended from the stage of a worldling to arahantship. Bhaddā’s later life was spent travelling over the North Indian countryside, preaching the Dhamma and guiding others to the same goal of deliverance that she herself had reached: Free from defilements, for fifty years I travelled in Aṅga and Magadha. Among the Vajjis, in Kāsi and Kosala, I ate the alms-food of the land. That lay-supporter—wise man indeed— Who gave a robe to Bhaddā, Has generated abundant merit, For she is one free of all ties. (Thī 110–11)
KISĀGOTAMĪ: THE MOTHER WITH THE DEAD CHILD
There lived in Sāvatthī a girl named Gotamī, in poor circumstances, the daughter of an impoverished family. Because she was very thin and haggard (kisā), everyone called her Kisāgotamī, Haggard Gotamī. When one saw her walking around, tall and thin, one could not fathom her inner riches. One might truly say of her: Her beauty was an inner one, One could not see its spark outside. Due to her poverty and unattractiveness Kisāgotamī was unable to find a husband, and for her this was a cause of deep dejection. But one day it suddenly happened that a rich merchant chose her as his wife, for he appreciated her inner wealth and considered it more important than her family background or outer appearance. However, the other members of her husband’s family despised her and treated her contemptuously. This animosity caused her great unhappiness, especially because of her beloved husband, who found himself caught between love for his parents and love for his wife.
But when Kisāgotamī gave birth to a baby boy, the husband’s whole clan finally accepted her as the mother of the son and heir. Her relief was immense and she felt that a great burden had fallen from her back. Now she was totally happy and contented. Beyond the usual love of a mother for her child, she was especially attached to this infant because he was the guarantee of her marital bliss and peace of mind. Soon, however, her happiness showed itself to be built on an illusion, for one day her little son suddenly fell ill and died. The tragedy was too much for her.
She worried that her husband’s family would again despise her, saying she was kammically unable to have a son, and other people in the town would say, “Kisāgotamī must have done some very despicable deeds to merit such a fate.” Even her husband, she feared, might now reject her and seek another wife from a more favourable background. All such imaginings revolved in her mind and a dark cloud descended upon her. Refusing to accept the fact that the child was dead, she convinced herself that he was only sick and would recover if she could find the right medicine for him. With the dead child in her arms, she ran away from her home and went from house to house asking for medicine for her little son. At every door she begged: “Please give me some medicine for my child.” And always people replied that medicine was useless, for the child was dead. She, however, refused to accept this, and passed on to the next house, still convinced that the child was only ill.
While many scorned her and others mocked her, at last she met, among the many selfish and unsympathetic people, a wise and kind man who recognized that she had become mentally deranged because of her grief. He advised her to visit the best physician, the Buddha, who would surely know the right remedy. She immediately followed his advice and hurried to Jetavana, Anāthapiṇḍika’s monastery, where the Buddha was staying. Arriving in renewed hope, with the child’s corpse in her arms, she ran up to the Buddha and said to him, “Master, give me medicine for my son.” The Awakened One replied kindly that he knew of a medicine, but she would have to procure it herself. Eagerly, she asked what it could be. “Mustard seeds,” he replied, astounding everyone present. Kisāgotamī inquired where she should go to obtain them and what kind to get.
The Buddha replied that she need bring only a very small quantity from any house where no one had ever died. She trusted the Blessed One’s words and went to the town. At the first house she asked whether any mustard seeds were available. “Certainly,” was the reply. “Could I have a few seeds?” she inquired. “Of course,” she was told, and some seeds were brought to her. But then she asked the second question, which she had not deemed quite as important: “Has anyone ever died in this house?” “But of course,” the people told her. And so it was everywhere. In one house someone had died recently, in another house a year or two ago; in one house a father had died, in another a mother or a son or a daughter. She could not find any house where no one had ever died. “The dead,” she was told, “are more numerous than the living.”
Towards evening she finally realized that she was not alone in being stricken by the death of a loved one: this was the common human fate. What no words had been able to convey to her, her own experience of going from door to door had made clear. She understood the law of existence, the law of impermanence and death within the ever recurring round of becoming. In this way, the Buddha was able to heal her obsession and bring her to an acceptance of reality. Kisāgotamī no longer refused to believe that her child was dead: she understood that death is the destiny of all beings. Such were the means by which the Buddha could heal grief-stricken people and bring them out of their overpowering delusion, in which they perceived the whole world from the narrow perspective of their own personal loss.
Once, when someone was lamenting the death of his father, the Buddha asked him which father he meant: the father of this life, or of the last life, or of the life before that. For if one wanted to grieve, then it would be just as well to grieve for the other fathers, too (Pv 8; J 352). Another rime a grief-stricken person came to his senses when the Buddha pointed out to him that his son would be reborn and that he was only lamenting for an empty shell (Pv 12; J 354). After Kisāgotamī had emerged from her delusion, she took the child’s lifeless body to the cemetery, buried it, and then returned to the Enlightened One. When she came to him he asked her whether she had gotten the mustard seeds. “Done, venerable sir, is the business of the mustard seeds,” she replied, “only grant me a refuge.”
Thereupon the Master spoke the following verse to her: When a person’s mind is deeply attached, Infatuated with sons and cattle, Death grabs him and carries him away As a flood does a sleeping village. (Dhp 287)
As her mind had matured in the course of her ordeal, on hearing this one verse she won insight into reality and became a stream-enterer. Thereupon she asked for admission into the order of nuns. The Buddha gave his consent and sent her to the nuns’ quarters, where she received the going forth and the higher ordination as a bhikkhunī.
After her ordination Kisāgotamī passed her time practicing and studying the Dhamma. One evening, as she watched her oil lamp sputter, it occurred to her that the restlessly hissing flames were like the ups and downs of life and death. The Blessed One, aware that she was ripe for full attainment, came to her and again spoke a short verse: Though one should live a hundred years Not seeing the deathless state, Yet better is it to live for a single day, Seeing the deathless state. (Dhp 114)
When she heard these lines, she was able to shed all fetters and became one of the arahants, the liberated ones. In her stanzas in the Therīgāthā, Kisāgotamī describes the great joy the Buddha imparted to her. Therefore she praises friendship with the noble and holy ones: To the world the Sage has praised The value of noble friendship. By resorting to noble friends Even a fool becomes wise. One should resort to worthy people, For thus one’s wisdom ever grows. By resorting to worthy people One is freed from all suffering. One should know the Four Noble Truths: Suffering and its origination, Then the cessation of suffering And the Noble Eightfold Path. (Thī 213–15)
Kisāgotamī knew the value of noble friendship from her own firsthand experience, for the compassionate Buddha, the most noble friend of all, had saved her from all the suffering encountered in the terrible round of rebirths. In her verses of liberation, recorded in the Therīgāthā, Kisāgotamī describes the various sufferings that are peculiar to women. Only when one penetrates a woman’s suffering as thus described can one realize the full extent of her gratitude toward the Buddha, who showed her the way to freedom: The trainer of persons to be tamed Has declared as painful the life of a woman. Painful too is the state of a co-wife. Some, having borne a child once, In desperation cut their throats; The delicate ones take poison. When the baby obstructs the birth, Both come to disaster—mother and child. (Thī 216–17)
The final note of Kisāgotamī’s verses is not a lament but a cry of triumph, expressing her joy in finding liberation and release from all suffering: Developed by me is the noble path, The eightfold path leading to the Deathless. I looked into the mirror of the Dhamma And thereby I realized Nibbāna. With dart drawn out, the burden dropped, I have done what had to be done. The elder nun Kisāgotamī has recited this, One with a mind well released. (Thī 222–23)
A set of verses spoken by Kisāgotamī is also found in the Saṃyutta Nikāya, embedded in a dialogue with Māra. One day, when Māra came to distract her from her meditation—a favourite pastime of his, regardless of his victim’s gender—he taunted her with a verse: Why now when you’ve lost your son Do you sit alone with a tearful face? Having entered the woods all alone, Are you on the lookout for a man? Then Kisāgotamī thought to herself: “Now who has recited this verse—a human being or a nonhuman being?” Then it occurred to her: “This is Māra the Evil One, who has recited the verse desiring to arouse fear, trepidation, and terror in me, desiring to make me fall away from concentration.”
She then replied: I have gotten past the death of sons; With this the search for men has ended. I do not sorrow, I do not weep, Nor do I fear you, friend. Delight everywhere has been destroyed, The mass of darkness has been sundered. Having conquered the mighty army of Death, I dwell without defiling taints. (SN 5:3)
By addressing Māra as “friend” she shows her lack of fear and her equanimity, and Māra, once recognized for who he really is, has no choice but to disappear. The nun Kisāgotamī, having risen from personal tragedy to the highest sanctity, was praised by the Buddha as the foremost nun among those who wore coarse garments, one of the ascetic practices (AN 1, chap. 14).
SOṆĀ WITH MANY CHILDREN There was a housewife in Sāvatthī who had ten children. She was always occupied with giving birth, with nursing and raising her children, with educating them, and with arranging marriages for them. Her whole life centred upon her children, and she was therefore known as “Soṇā with many children.”13 We may find such an abundance of offspring in one family somewhat strange, but in the past this was not at all uncommon in Asia and is not unusual even today. Soṇā’s husband was a lay follower of the Buddha. After having scrupulously observed the precepts for several years as a householder, he decided to devote himself fully to the holy life, and so he took ordination as a monk. It was not easy for Soṇā to accept this decision, yet she did not waste her time with regrets and sorrow but decided to live a more devout life herself.
She called her ten children together, turned her considerable wealth over to them, and asked them to provide her only with her bare necessities. For a while all went well with this arrangement: she had sufficient support and could spend her time in religious activities. But before long the old woman became a burden to her children and their spouses. They had never really accepted their father’s decision to enter the Order, and even less did they sympathize with their mother’s religious devotion. Indeed, they thought their parents to be fools for forsaking the pleasures that their wealth could purchase. In their eyes their parents were mentally unstable religious fanatics, and thus their attitude toward their mother quickly changed from respect to contempt.
They no longer gave thought to how deeply they were indebted to their mother for all their wealth and for the many years of care and attention she had lavished on them. Looking only to their own convenience, they considered the old woman a nuisance and a burden. The words of the Buddha, that a grateful person is as rare in the world as a saint, again proved true in this case (AN 3:112, 5:143, 195). The disdainful treatment from her children was even more painful for Soṇā than separation from her husband. She became aware that waves of bitterness arose in her, that reproaches and accusations toward her children intermingled in her mind.
She realized that what she had taken to be selfless love, pure mother’s love, was in reality selflove coupled with expectations of requital. She had been relying on her children completely and had been convinced that she would be supported by them in her old age as a tribute to her long years of solicitude for them; she had assumed that gratitude, appreciation, and participation in their affairs would be her reward. Hadn’t she, then, really looked at her children as an investment, as insurance against the fear and loneliness of old age? In this manner, she investigated her motives and found the truth of the Enlightened One’s words in herself. that it was a woman’s way not to rely on possessions, power, and abilities, but solely on her children, while it was the way of the ascetic to rely on virtue alone (AN 6:53).
Her reflections brought her to the decision to enter the order of nuns so that she could develop the qualities of selfless love and virtue. Why should she remain in her home, where she was accepted only grudgingly? She looked upon the household life as grey and oppressive, and she pictured the life of a nun as bright and beautiful. Thus, following her husband’s path, she went forth into homelessness and became a nun in the Blessed One’s Bhikkhunī Sangha. But after a while Soṇā came to realize that she had simply taken her self-love along with her into her new life. Having entered the Sangha as an old woman, she had dozens of habits and peculiarities that were obstacles in this new environment. She was used to doing things in a certain way, while the other nuns did them differently, and therefore she made herself the target of criticism and correction by those much younger than herself.
Soṇā soon discovered that it was not so easy to reach noble attainments, and that the order of nuns was not the paradise she had envisioned. Just as she had not found security with her children, so ordination as a nun did not bring immediate peace of heart. She also understood that she was still held fast by her womanly limitations. It was not enough that her weaknesses were abhorrent to her and that she was longing for more masculine traits. She also had to know what to do to effect the change. She accepted the fact that she would have to make tremendous efforts, not only because she was already advanced in years but also because until now she had only cultivated female virtues. The masculine characteristics that she was lacking were energy and circumspection. Soṇā did not become discouraged, nor thought of the path as too difficult.
It became clear to Soṇā that she had to fight hard to win victory over her wilfulness and credulity. She realized that it was necessary to practice mindfulness and self-observation, and to implant into her memory those teachings that could be at her disposal when needed to counteract her emotions. What use would be all her knowledge and vows if she were carried away by her emotions and if her memory failed her when it was most needed? These were the thoughts that ran through her mind, strengthening her determination to submit her selfwill fully to the training. Because Soṇā had entered the Order in old age she applied herself to the practice with a compelling sense of urgency. She would even pass entire nights in sitting and walking meditation, taking only minimal sleep. So as to avoid calling attention to herself she practiced walking meditation during the night, in the darkness of the lower hall. She guided her steps by grabbing hold of the pillars, thereby ensuring that she would not stumble or bump into unseen objects.
In this way her energy quickly gathered momentum. Soṇā’s attainment of arahantship took place without any special circumstances to herald it, on an occasion when she had been left behind in the convent while the other nuns went out. She describes it in her own words in her verses in the Apadāna: Then the other bhikkhunīs Left me alone in the convent. They had given me instructions To boil a cauldron of water. Having fetched the water, I poured it into the cauldron; I put the cauldron on the stove and sat— Then my mind became composed.
I saw the aggregates as impermanent, I saw them as suffering and non-self, Having expelled all the cankers from my heart, Right there I attained to arahantship. (Ap II, 3:6, vv. 234–36)
When the other nuns returned, they asked for the hot water, which Soṇā still had not boiled. Using the supernormal power of the fire element, Soṇā quickly heated the water and offered it to the nuns. They reported this to the Buddha, who rejoiced and recited a verse in praise of her attainment: Though one should live a hundred years As a lazy, sluggish person, Better it is to live a single day Firmly arousing one’s energy. (Dhp 112)
In the Therīgāthā, Soṇā describes her life in five verses: I bore ten children in this body, In this physical frame of mine. Then when I was old and frail I went up to a bhikkhunī. She gave me a discourse on the Teaching— On the aggregates, sense bases, elements.
Having heard the Dhamma discourse from her, I shaved my hair and then went forth. While still a probationer I purified the divine eye; Now I know my past abodes, Where it is that I lived before. With one-pointed mind, well composed, I developed the signless state.
Immediately I was released, Quenched with the end of clinging. The five aggregates are fully understood, They stand cut off at the root. Fie on you, O wretched aging: Now there is no more re-becoming. (Thī 102–6)
NANDĀ: THE BUDDHA’S HALF-SISTER
When she was born, Nandā was lovingly welcomed by her parents—the father of the Buddha and his second wife, Mahāpajāpati Gotamī. Her name means joy, contentment, pleasure, and this name was given when parents were especially joyful about the arrival of a baby. Nandā was extremely well bred, graceful, and beautiful. To distinguish her from others by the same name, she was later called Rūpā-Nandā or sometimes Sundarī-Nandā, both meaning “beautiful Nandā.” In due course many members of her family—the royal house of the Sakyans—left the household for the homeless life, influenced by the amazing fact that one of their clan had become the fully enlightened Buddha. Among them was her brother Nanda, her cousins, and finally her mother, together with many other Sakyan ladies. Thereupon Nandā too took this step. She did not do so, however, out of confidence in the Teacher and the Teaching, but out of love for her relatives and from a wish to conform to them.
One can easily imagine the love and respect accorded the graceful half-sister of the Buddha, and how touched the people were by the sight of the lovely royal daughter, so near in family ties to the Blessed One, wandering among them in the garb of a nun. But it soon became obvious that this was not a proper basis for a nun’s life. Nandā’s thoughts were mainly directed toward her own beauty and her popularity with the people, traits which were resultants of former good kamma. These resultants now became dangers to her, since she forgot to reinforce them with sincere efforts at self-purification. She felt that she was not living up to the high ideals the people envisioned for her, and that she was far from the goal for which so many nobleborn men and women had gone forth into the homeless life. Certain that the Blessed One would censure her, for a long time, instead of correcting her ways, she made every effort to evade him.
One day the Buddha requested all the nuns to come to him, one by one, to receive instructions. Nandā, however, did not comply. The Master had her called specially, and then she appeared before him, showing by her demeanor that she was ashamed and anxious. The Buddha addressed her and appealed to all her positive qualities so that she listened to him willingly and took delight in his words. Although the Blessed One knew that the talk had uplifted her, had made her joyful and ready to accept his teachings, he did not immediately explain to her the Four Noble Truths, as he often did on other such occasions. He knew that she was not yet ripe enough to penetrate the four truths, and thus he resorted to an expedient device to hasten her maturation. Because Nandā was so enthralled with her own physical beauty, the Buddha used his psychic powers to conjure up the vision of an even more beautiful woman, who then aged visibly and relentlessly before her very eyes.
Thereby Nandā could see, compressed within a few moments, what otherwise one can only notice in people through decades—and what often, because of proximity and habit, one does not even fully comprehend: the fading away of youth and beauty, the advance of decay, the proximity of death. The vision affected Nandā deeply; she was shaken to the centre of her being. After having given her this graphic lesson in impermanence, the Buddha could explain the Dhamma to her in such a way that she penetrated the four truths completely, and thereby attained the knowledge of future liberation—stream-entry. As a meditation subject the Buddha assigned to her the contemplation of the impermanence and foulness of the body.
She persevered for a tong time with this practice, “unwearying by day and night,” as she exhorts herself in her verses: Nandā, behold this body, Ailing, impure, and putrid, Develop the meditation on the foul, Make the mind unified, well composed: “As is this, so was that, As is that, so this will be, Putrid, exhaling a foul odour, A thing in which fools find delight.” Inspecting it as it is, Unwearyingly by day and night, With my own wisdom I pierced right through And then I saw for myself As I dwelt ever heedful Dissecting it with methodical thought, I saw this body as it really is Both inside and outside too. Then I become disenchanted with the body, My inward attachment faded away. Being diligent and detached at heart, I live at peace, fully quenched. (Thī 82–86)
Because Nandā had been so infatuated with her physical beauty, it was necessary for her to apply the austere meditation on bodily unattractiveness as a countermeasure before she could find equanimity— the balance between opposites. Having overcome her attachment to the body, Nandā had touched the true beauty of the Deathless, and nothing could ever again disturb the cool peace of her heart. Later the Buddha praised his half-sister as the foremost among nuns who practiced meditation. This meant that she had not only followed the analytical way of insight, but had also experienced the jhānas, the attainments of tranquillity. Enjoying this pure felicity, she no longer needed any lower enjoyments and soon found indestructible peace. Although she had gone into homelessness because of attachment to her relatives, she became totally free, a true spiritual heir of the Master she venerated.
QUEEN SĀMĀVATĪ: EMBODIMENT OF LOVING-KINDNESS
In the days when India was the fortunate home of an Awakened One, a husband and wife lived within its borders with their only daughter named Sāmāvatī, who was exceedingly beautiful. Their family life was a happy and harmonious one. But then one day disaster struck: pestilence broke out in their hometown, and the couple, along with their grownup daughter, fled from the area.They headed for Kosambi, the capital of the kingdom of Vaṃsa in the Ganges Valley, intending to seek support from her father’s old friend Ghosaka, a finance minister of the king. Within the city the municipality had erected a public alms hall for the refugees. There the daughter, Sāmāvatī, went to obtain food. The first day she took three portions, the second day two portions, and on the third day only one portion.
Mitta, the man who was distributing the food, could not resist asking her, somewhat ironically, whether she had finally realized the capacity of her stomach. Sāmāvatī replied quite calmly: “On the first day there were three of us, my parents and myself. That day my father succumbed to the plague, and so on the second day I needed food for only two people; after the meal my mother died, and so today I now need food for myself alone.” The official felt ashamed of his sarcastic remark and wholeheartedly begged her forgiveness. A long conversation ensued, and when he found out that she was now all alone in the world, he proposed to adopt her as his foster child. She was happy to accept. Sāmāvatī immediately began helping her foster father with the distribution of the food and the care of the refugees. Thanks to her efficiency and circumspection, the former chaos became channeled into orderly activity.
Nobody tried to get ahead of others anymore, nobody quarreled, and everyone was content. Soon Ghosaka, the king’s finance minister, became aware that the public food distribution was taking place without noise and tumult. When he expressed his praise and appreciation to the food distributor, the official replied modestly that his foster daughter was mainly responsible for this. In this way Ghosaka met Sāmāvatī, the orphaned daughter of his late friend, and he was so impressed with her noble bearing that he decided to adopt her as his own daughter. His manager consented, even if somewhat woefully, because he did not want to stand in the way of Sāmāvatī’s fortune. So Ghosaka took her into his house. Thereby she became heiress of a vast estate and mixed with the most exalted circles of the land. The king, who was living in Kosambi at that time, was named Udena. He had two chief consorts. One was Vāsuladattā, whom he had married both for political reasons and because she was very beautiful. The second was Māgandiyā, who was beautiful and clever but cold and self-centered. Neither could offer the king the warmth of loving affection and emotional contentment that he craved. One day King Udena met the charming adopted daughter of his finance minister and fell in love with her at first sight. He felt magically attracted by her loving and generous nature. Sāmāvatī had exactly what was missing in both his other wives. King Udena sent a messenger to Ghosaka asking him to give Sāmāvatī to him in marriage.
Ghosaka was thrown into an emotional upheaval. On the one hand, he loved Sāmāvatī above all else, and she had become indispensable to him. She was the delight of his life. On the other, he knew his king’s temperament and was afraid to deny him his request. But in the end his attachment to Sāmāvatī won and he thought: “Better to die than to live without her.” As usual, King Udena lost his temper. In his fury he dismissed Ghosaka from his post as finance minister, banned him from his kingdom, and did not allow Sāmāvatī to accompany him. He took over his minister’s property and locked up his magnificent mansion. Sāmāvatī was desolate that Ghosaka had to suffer so much on her account and had ost not only her but also his home and belongings. Out of compassion for her adopted father, to whom she was devoted with great gratitude, she decided to make an end to this dispute by voluntarily becoming the king’s wife. She went to the palace and informed the king of her decision.
The king was immediately appeased and restored Ghosaka to his former position, also rescinding all other measures against him. Because Sāmāvatī had great love for everyone, she had so much inner strength that this decision was not a difficult one for her. It was not important to her where she lived: whether in the house of the finance minister as his favourite daughter, or in the palace as the favourite wife of the king, or in obscurity as when she was in the house of her parents, or as a poor refugee—she always found peace in her own heart and was happy regardless of outer circumstances. Sāmāvatī’s life at the royal court fell into a harmonious pattern. Among her servants there was one, named Khujjuttarā, who was outwardly ugly and ill formed but otherwise very capable. Every day the queen gave her eight gold coins to buy flowers for the women’s quarters of the palace.
But Khujjuttarā always bought only four coins’ worth of flowers and used the remaining four coins for herself. One day, when she went to buy flowers for her mistress, the florist informed her that this day he had invited the Buddha and his order of monks for a meal, and he urged Khujjuttarā to participate. Following the meal the Buddha gave a discourse to his hosts, and as he spoke his words went directly to Khujjuttarā’s heart. Listening with total attention, tranquil and uplifted, she took in every word as though it was intended just for her, and by the time the Buddha concluded his talk she had attained the path and fruit of stream-entry. Without quite knowing what had happened to her, she had become a totally changed person, one endowed with unwavering faith in the Triple Gem and incapable of violating the basic laws of morality. The whole world, which had always seemed so obvious and real to her, now appeared as a dream.
The first thing she did after this spectacular inner transformation was to buy flowers for all of the eight coins, deeply regretting her former dishonesty. When the queen asked her why there were suddenly so many flowers, Khujjuttarā fell at the queen’s feet and confessed her theft. After Sāmāvatī forgave her magnanimously, Khujjuttarā told her what was closest to her heart, namely, that she had heard a discourse by the Buddha which had changed her life. She could not be specific about the contents of the Teaching, but Sāmāvatī could see for herself what a wholesome and healing impact it had made on her servant. She appointed Khujjuttarā her personal attendant and told her to visit the monastery every day to listen to the Dhamma and then repeat it to her and the other women of the palace.
Khujjuttarā had an outstanding memory, and what she had heard only once she could repeat verbatim. Each day, when she returned from the monastery, the high-bred women of the palace would place her on a high seat, as if she were the Buddha himself, and sitting down below they would listen devotedly to the discourse. Later on Khujjuttarā made a collection of the short discourses she had heard from the Buddha, which became the book of the Pāli Canon now called the Itivuttaka (The Buddha’s Sayings), composed of 112 suttas in mixed prose and verse.19 When King Udena once again told his beloved Sāmāvatī that she could wish for anything and he would fulfil it, she wished that the Buddha would come to the palace daily to have his food there and propound his doctrine. The king’s courier took the message of this perpetual invitation to the Buddha, but he declined and instead sent Ānanda. From then on the Venerable Ānanda went to the palace daily for his meal and afterwards gave a Dhamma discourse.
The queen had already been well prepared by Khujjuttarā’s reports, and within a short time she understood the meaning and attained to stream-entry, just as her maid-servant had done. Now, through their common understanding of the Dhamma, the queen and the maid became equals. Within a short time, the Teaching spread through the whole of the women’s quarters and there was hardly anyone who did not become a disciple of the Awakened One. Even Sāmāvatī’s stepfather, the finance minister Ghosaka, was deeply touched by the Teaching. He donated a large monastery in Kosambi to the Sangha, so that the monks would have a secure and satisfying shelter when they came to the city. Every time the Buddha visited Kosambi he stayed in this monastery, named Ghositārāma, and other monks and holy people also found shelter there. Through the influence of the Dhamma, Sāmāvatī became determined to develop her abilities more intensively. Her most important asset was the way she could feel sympathy for all beings and could suffuse everyone with loving-kindness and compassion. She was able to develop this faculty so strongly that the Buddha called her the woman lay disciple most skilled in spreading mettā, “loving-kindness” (AN 1, chap. 14). This all-pervading love was soon to be tested severely in her relationship with the second main consort of the king, Māgandiyā.
This woman was imbued with virulent hatred against everything Buddhist. Some years earlier her father had met the Buddha, and it had seemed to him that the handsome ascetic was the most worthy candidate to marry his daughter. In his naive ignorance of the rules of monks, he offered his daughter to the Buddha as his wife. Māgandiyā was very beautiful and her hand had already been sought by many suitors, but the Buddha declined the offer with a single verse about the unattractiveness of the body (Sn v. 835). This verse wounded Māgandiyā’s vanity, but it had such a profound impact on her parents that right on the spot they realized the fruit of nonreturning. Māgandiyā took the Buddha’s rejection of her as a personal insult and came to harbour a bitter hatred against him, a hatred she could never overcome. Later her parents brought her to King Udena, who fell in love with her at first sight and took her as his wife.
When he took a third wife, she could willingly accept this, as it was customary for the kings of the period to maintain several wives. But that Sāmāvatī had become a disciple of the Buddha and had converted the other women in the palace to the Dhamma—this she could not tolerate. Her hatred of everything connected with the Buddha now turned against Sāmāvatī as his representative. Māgandiyā thought up one mean deed after another, and her sharp intelligence served only to conjure up new misdeeds. First she told the king that Sāmāvatī was trying to take his life. But the king was well aware of Sāmāvatī’s great love for all beings, so that he did not even consider this accusation seriously, barely listened to it, and forgot it almost immediately.
Next, Māgandiyā ordered one of her maidservants to spread rumors about the Buddha and his monks in Kosambi, so that Sāmāvatī would also be maligned. With this she was more successful. A wave of aversion struck the whole Order to such an extent that Ānanda suggested to the Buddha that they leave town. The Buddha smiled and said that the purity of the monks would silence all rumors within a week. Hardly had King Udena heard the gossip leveled against the Order than it had already subsided. Māgandiyā’s second attempt against Sāmāvatī had failed. Some time later Māgandiyā had eight specially selected chickens sent to the king and suggested that Sāmāvatī should kill them and prepare them for a meal. Sāmāvatī refused to do this, as she would not kill any living beings. Since the king knew of her all-embracing love, he did not lose his temper, but accepted her decision. Māgandiyā then tried for a fourth time to harm Sāmāvatī.
Just prior to the week which King Udena was to spend with Sāmāvatī, Māgandiyā hid a poisonous snake in Sāmāvatī’s chambers, but the poison sacs had been removed. When King Udena discovered the snake, all evidence pointed towards Sāmāvatī. His passionate fury made him lose all control. He reached for his bow and arrow and shot at Sāmāvatī, but through the power of her lovingkindness the arrow rebounded from her without doing any harm. His hatred could not influence her loving concern for him, which protected her life like an invisible shield. When King Udena regained his equilibrium and saw the miracle— that his arrow could not harm Sāmāvatī—he was deeply shaken. He begged her forgiveness and was even more convinced of her nobility and faithfulness. He became interested in the teaching that had given such strength to his wife.
Just about this time a famous monk named Piṇḍola Bhāradvāja came to stay at the Ghosita Monastery. The king visited him and discussed the Teaching with him. He inquired how the young monks could live the celibate life joyously, and Piṇḍola explained that according to the Buddha’s advice they did so by regarding women as their mothers, sisters, and daughters. At the end of the discourse, the king was so impressed that he took refuge in the Buddha and became a lay disciple (SN 35:127). Sāmāvatī had been thinking about the wonders of the Dhamma and the intricacies of kammic influences. One thing had led to another: she had come to Kosambi as a poor refugee; then the food distributor had given her shelter; the finance minister had adopted her as his daughter; then she became the king’s wife; her maid-servant had brought the Teaching to her; and she became a disciple and a streamenterer.
Subsequently she spread the Dhamma to all the women in the palace, then to Ghosaka, and now lastly also to the king. How convincing truth was! Having reflected in this way, she permeated all beings with loving-kindness, wishing them happiness and peace. The king now tried more determinedly to control his passionate nature and to subdue greed and hate. His talks with Sāmāvatī were very helpful to him in this respect. Slowly this development culminated in his losing all sexual craving when he was in Sāmāvatī’s company. He had become aware of her deep spirituality and related to her as a sister and friend rather than as a lover. While he was not free of sexual desire toward his other wives, he was willing to let Sāmāvatī continue unhindered on her path to emancipation. Soon she attained to the stage of once-returner and drew nearer and nearer to that of non-returner, an attainment which many laypeople could achieve in those days. Māgandiyā had suspended her attacks for some time, but she continued to ponder how to take vengeance against Sāmāvatī.
After much brooding, she hatched a plan with some of her relatives, whom she had won to her point of view by cunning and calumny. She proposed to kill Sāmāvatī by setting the whole women’s palace on fire in such a way that it would appear to be an accident. The plan was worked out in all details. Māgandiyā left town some time beforehand, so that no suspicion could fall on her. This arson resulted in sky-high flames which demolished the wooden palace totally. All the women residing in it were killed, including Sāmāvatī. The news of this disaster spread around town very quickly, and no other topic of conversation could be heard. Several monks, who had not been ordained very long, were also affected by the agitation, and after their alms round they went to the Buddha and inquired what would be the future rebirth of these women lay disciples with Sāmāvatī as their leader.
The Awakened One calmed their excited hearts and diverted their curiosity by answering very briefly: “Among these women, monks, some were stream-enterers, some were once-returners, and some were non-returners. None of these lay disciples had died destitute of the noble fruits” (Ud 7: 10). The Buddha mentioned here the first three fruits of the Dhamma: stream-entry, once-returner, and non-returner. All these disciples were safe from rebirth below the human realm, and each one was securely bound for the final goal of total liberation. This was the most important aspect of their lives and deaths and the Buddha would not go into detail. At a later time, when the monks were discussing how unjust it was that these faithful disciples should die such a terrible death, the Buddha explained to them that the women experienced this because of a joint deed they had committed many lifetimes ago.
Once, when Sāmāvatī had been queen of Benares, she had gone with her ladies—in-waiting to bathe, and feeling cold, she had asked that a bush be burned to give some warmth. Only too late she saw that a paccekabuddha was sitting immobile within the bush. Although he was not harmed, the women did not know this and feared that they would be blamed for having made a fire without due caution. Thereupon Sāmāvatī had the deluded idea to pour oil over this ascetic who was sitting in total absorption, so that burning him would obliterate their mistake. This plan could not succeed, but the evil intention and attempted murder had to bear fruit, and it was in this lifetime that the result had ripened. The Buddha declared that one of the favourable results of the practice of loving-kindness is that fire, poison, and weapons cannot harm the practitioner.
This has to be understood to mean that during the actual emanation of loving-kindness the one who radiates this quality cannot be hurt, as Sāmāvatī proved when the king’s arrow did not penetrate her. But at other times the practitioner is vulnerable. Sāmāvatī had become a non-returner and was therefore free of all sensual desire and hate and of all identification with her body. It was only her body that was burnt by the fire, not her inner being. Her soft, radiant heart, imbued with love and compassion, was unassailable and untouched by the fire. It is rare for one of the saintly disciples to be murdered or for a Buddha to be threatened with murder, and equally rare is it for one perfected in metta and a non-returner to die a violent death. All three types of persons, however, have in common that their hearts can no longer be swayed by such violence. Sāmāvatī’s last words were: “It would not be an easy matter, even with the knowledge of a Buddha, to determine exactly the number of times our bodies have thus been burnt with fire as we have passed from birth to birth in the beginningless round of existence. Therefore, be heedful!” Stirred by these words, the ladies of the court meditated on painful feeling and thereby gained the noble paths and fruits.
Referring to the tragedy at Kosambi, the Buddha spoke the following inspirational verse to the monks: The world is held in bondage by delusion And only appears to be capable. To a fool, held in bondage by his acquisitions, Enveloped in a mass of darkness, It appears as if it were eternal; But for one who sees there is nothing. (Ud 7:10)
King Udena was overwhelmed with grief at Sāmāvatī’s death and kept brooding about who could be the perpetrator of this ghastly deed. He came to the conclusion that it must have been Māgandiyā. He did not want to question her directly because he knew that she would deny it. So he thought of a ruse. He said to his ministers: “Until now I have always been apprehensive, because Sāmāvatī was forever seeking an occasion to slay me. But now I shall be able to sleep in peace.” The ministers asked the king who it could have been that had done this deed. “Only someone who really loves me,” the king replied. Māgandiyā had been standing nearby and when she heard that, she came forward and proudly admitted that she alone was responsible for the fire and the death of the women and Sāmāvatī.
The king said that he would grant her and all her relatives a boon for this.
When all the relatives were assembled, the king had them burnt publicly and then had the earth ploughed under so that all traces of the ashes were destroyed. He had Māgandiyā executed as a massmurderess, which was his duty and responsibility, but his fury knew no bounds and he still looked for revenge. He had her killed with utmost cruelty. She died an excruciating death, which was only a foretaste of the tortures awaiting her in the nether world, after which she would have to roam in saṃsāra for a long, long time to come. Soon King Udena regretted his cruel, revengeful deed. Again and again he saw Sāmāvatī’s face in front of him, full of love for all beings, even for her enemies. He felt that by his violent fury he had removed himself from her even further than her death had done. He began to control his temper more and more and to follow the Buddha’s teachings ardently.
Meanwhile Sāmāvatī had been reborn in the Pure Abodes, where she would be able to reach Nibbāna without ever returning from that world. The different results of love and hate could be seen with exemplary clarity in the lives and deaths of these two queens. When one day the monks were discussing who was alive and who dead, the Buddha said that Māgandiyā while living was dead already, while Sāmāvatī, though dead, was truly alive. Then he spoke these verses: Heedfulness is the path to the Deathless, Heedlessness is the path to death. The heedful ones do not die; The heedless are likened to the dead.
The wise then, recognizing this As the distinction of heedfulness, In heedfulness rejoice, delighting In the realm of the noble ones.
The steadfast meditate persistently, Constantly they firmly strive, Aspiring to reach Nibbāna, The unexcelled security from bonds. (Dhp 21–23)
The Buddha declared Sāmāvatī to be foremost among those female lay disciples who dwell in loving-kindness (mettā).
PAṬĀCĀRĀ: PRESERVER OF THE VINAYA
Paṭācārā was the beautiful daughter of a very wealthy merchant of Sāvatthī. When she was sixteen years of age, her parents had her confined to the top floor of a seven-story high mansion, where she was surrounded by guards to prevent her from keeping company with young men. In spite of this precaution, she became involved in a love affair with a servant in her parents’ house. When her parents arranged a marriage for her with a young man of equal social standing, she decided to elope with her lover. Having escaped from the tower by disguising herself as a servant girl, she met her lover in town, and the couple went to live in a village far from Sāvatthī. There the husband earned his living by farming a small plot of land, and the young wife had to do all the menial chores, which formerly had been performed by her parents’ servants. Thus she reaped the results of her deed.
When she became pregnant she begged her husband to take her back to her parents’ house to give birth there; for, she said, one’s mother and father always have a soft spot in their hearts for their child and can forgive any wrongdoing. Her husband refused, however, afraid that her parents would have him arrested or even killed. When she realized that he would not yield to her entreaties, she decided to go by herself. So one day, while her husband was away at work, she slipped out the door and set out down the road toward Sāvatthī. When her husband learned from the neighbours what had happened, he followed her and soon caught up with her. Though he tried to persuade her to return, she would not listen to him but insisted on continuing. Before they could reach Sāvatthī the birth-pains started and she soon gave birth to a baby son. As she had no more reason to go to her parents’ house, they turned back.
Sometime later Paṭācārā became pregnant a second time. Again she requested her husband to take her home to her parents, again he refused, and again she took matters into her own hands and started off, carrying her son. When her husband followed her and pleaded with her to return with him, she refused to listen. After they had travelled about halfway to Sāvatthī a fearful storm arose quite out of season, with thunder and lightning and incessant rain. Just then her birth-pains started. She asked her husband to find her some shelter. The husband went off to search for material to build a shed. As he was chopping down some saplings a poisonous snake, hidden in an anthill, came out and bit him. Its poison was like molten lava and instantly he fell down dead. Paṭācārā waited and waited for him, but in vain. Then she gave birth to a second son. Throughout the night both children, terrified by the buffeting of the storm, screamed at the top of their lungs, but the only protection their mother could offer them was her body, lean and haggard from her tribulations. In the morning she placed the newborn baby on her hip, gave a finger to the older child, and set out upon the path her husband had taken, saying: “Come, dear child, your father has left us.”
As she turned the bend in the road she found her husband lying dead, his body stiff as a board. She waited and lamented, blaming herself for his death, and continued on her journey. After some time they came to the river Aciravatī. On account of the rain the river had swollen and was waist-high, with a violent current. Feeling too weak to wade across with both children, Paṭācārā left the older boy on the near bank and carried the baby across to the other side. Then she returned to take the firstborn across. When she was in midstream, a hawk in search of prey saw the newborn baby. Mistaking it for a piece of meat, the hawk came swooping down, pounced on the child, and flew off with the baby in its talons, while Paṭācārā could only look on helplessly and scream. The older boy saw his mother stop in midstream and heard her shouts. He thought she was calling him and started out after her, but as soon as he stepped into the river, he was swept off by the turbulent current. Wailing and lamenting, Paṭācārā went on her way, half-crazed by the triple tragedy that had befallen her: the loss of her husband and both her sons in a single day. But more misfortune lay ahead.
As she approached Sāvatthī she met a traveller who was coming out from the city, and she asked him about her family. “Ask me about any other family in town but that one,” he told her. “Please don’t ask me about that family.” She insisted, however, and thus he had to speak: “Last night, during the terrible storm, their house collapsed, killing both the elderly couple and their son. All three were cremated together just a short while ago, There,” he said, pointing to a wisp of pale blue smoke swirling up in the distance, “if you look where I’m pointing you can see the smoke from their funeral pyre.” When she saw the smoke, instantly Paṭācārā went mad. She tore off her clothing and ran about naked, weeping and wailing, “Both my sons are dead, my husband on the road lies dead, my mother and father and brother burn on one funeral pyre!”
Those who saw her called her a crazy fool, threw rubbish at her, and pelted her with clods of earth, but she continued on until she reached the outskirts of Sāvatthī. At this time the Buddha was residing at the Jetavana monastery surrounded by a multitude of disciples. When he saw Paṭācārā at the entrance to the monastery he recognized her as one who was ripe for his message of deliverance. The lay disciples cried out, “Don’t let that crazy woman come here!” But the Master said, “Do not hinder her; let her come to me.” When she had drawn near, he told her, “Sister, regain your mindfulness!” Instantly, she regained her mindfulness.
A kindly man threw her his outer cloak. She put it on, and approaching the Enlightened One, she prostrated herself at his feet and told him her tragic story. The Teacher listened to her patiently, with deep compassion, and then replied, “Paṭācārā, do not be troubled any more. You have come to one who is able to be your shelter and refuge. It is not only today that you have met with calamity and disaster, but throughout this beginningless round of existence, weeping over the loss of sons and others dear to you, you have shed more tears than the waters of the four oceans.” As he went on speaking about the perils of saṃsāra, her grief subsided.
The Buddha then concluded his instructions with the following verses: The four oceans contain but a little water Compared to all the tears that we have shed, Smitten by sorrow, bewildered by pain. Why, O woman, are you still heedless? (Dhp Comy. 2:268; BL 2:255)
No sons are there for shelter, Nor father, nor related folk; For one seized by the Ender Kinsmen provide no shelter. Having well understood this fact, The wise man well restrained by virtues Quickly indeed should clear The path going to Nibbāna. (Dhp 288–89)
This exposition of the Enlightened One penetrated her mind so deeply that she could completely grasp the impermanence of all conditioned things and the universality of suffering. By the time the Buddha had finished his discourse, it was not a lamenting madwoman that sat at his feet but a stream-enterer, a knower of the Dhamma, one assured of final liberation. Immediately after attaining stream-entry Paṭācārā requested the going forth and the higher ordination, and the Buddha sent her to the bhikkhunīs. After entering the Bhikkhunī Sangha, the order of nuns, Paṭācārā practiced the Dhamma with great diligence. Her efforts soon bore fruit and she attained her goal.
She describes her development in her verses in the Therīgāthā. Ploughing the field with their ploughs, Sowing seeds upon the ground, Maintaining their wives and children, Young men acquire wealth. Then why, when I am pure in virtue, Practicing the Master’s Teaching, Have I not attained Nibbāna— For I am not lazy, nor puffed up? Having washed my feet, I reflected upon the waters.
When I saw the foot water flow From the high ground down the slope, My mind became concentrated Like an excellent thoroughbred steed. Having taken a lamp, I entered my cell. I inspected the bed and sat down on the couch. Then, having taken a needle, I pulled down the wick. The liberation of the mind Was like the quenching of the lamp. (Thī 112–16)
As Paṭācārā observed the water trickling down the slope, she noticed that some streams sank quickly into the ground, others flowed down a little farther, while others flowed all the way to the bottom of the slope. This, she recognized, was a perfect metaphor for the nature of sentient existence: some beings live for a very short time only, like her children; others live into their adult years, like her husband; still others live into old age, like her parents. But just as all the streams of water eventually had to disappear into the soil, so Death, the End-maker, lays his hand upon all living beings, and none can escape his grasp.
When this realization dawned upon Paṭācārā her mind immediately became composed. With steady concentration she contemplated conditioned phenomena as impermanent, suffering, and nonself. But still, in spite of her efforts, she could not make the breakthrough to final liberation. Fatigued, she decided to retire for the night. When she entered her dwelling and sat down on the bed, just as she extinguished the oil lamp all the momentum she had built up through her previous practice bore fruit. In a fraction of a second, simultaneously with the quenching of the lamp, supreme knowledge arose. She had reached her goal, Nibbāna, the permanent quenching of the fires of greed, hatred, and delusion. During her career as a Bhikkhunī, Paṭācārā achieved the distinction of being designated by the Buddha as the foremost among the bhikkhunīs who are experts in the Vinaya (etadaggaṃ bhikkhunīnaṃ vinayadharānaṃ).
She was thus the female counterpart of the Elder Upāli, the chief Vinaya specialist among the bhikkhus. This appointment was the fruition of an ancient aspiration. We are told that in the Dispensation of the Buddha Padumuttara Paṭācārā had seen the Teacher assign to an elder nun the position of preeminence among nuns versed in the Vinaya, and it seemed to her as if he were taking that nun by the arm and admitting her to the Garden of Delight. So she formed her resolve and made this aspiration: “Under a Buddha like you may I become preeminent among nuns versed in the Vinaya.” The Lord Padumuttara, extending his mind into the future, perceived that her aspiration would be fulfiled and gave her the prediction. It is perhaps natural that Paṭācārā should have been particularly concerned with discipline, since in her earlier years she had experienced so keenly the bitter fruit of reckless behaviour. In the order of nuns she had learned that intensive training in discipline is indispensable for achieving peace and serenity.
Through her own experience, moreover, she had acquired a deep understanding of the ways of the human heart and was thus able to help other nuns in their training. Many of the nuns turned to her for guidance and found great consolation in her advice. One example is Sister Candā, who expresses her gratitude to Paṭācārā in a verse of the Therīgāthā: Because she had compassion for me, Paṭācārā gave me the going forth; Then she gave me an exhortation, And enjoined me in the ultimate goal. Having heard her word, I followed her instruction; The lady’s exhortation was not vain. I am canker-free with the triple knowledge! (Thī 125–26)
Another bhikkhunī, Uttarā, reported how Paṭācārā spoke to a group of nuns about conduct and discipline: Exert yourselves in the Buddha’s Teaching, Which having done, one does not repent. Having quickly washed your feet, Sit down on one side. Having aroused the mind, Make it one-pointed and well concentrated. Examine the formations As alien and not as self. (Thī 176–77)
Uttarā took Paṭācārā’s words to heart and thereby attained the three true knowledges. In the Therīgāthā there is a description of how Paṭācārā used to teach other nuns and of the benefits they derived from her counsel. These verses, according to the colophon, are spoken by an unspecified group of thirty elder nuns who declared arahantship in the presence of Paṭācārā: “Having taken up the pestle, Young men pound the grain. Maintaining their wives and children, Young men acquire wealth.
Practice the Buddha’s Teaching, Which having done, one does not repent. Having quickly washed your feet, Sit down on one side. Devoting yourself to serenity of mind, Practice the Buddha’s Teaching.”
Having heard her advice, Paṭācārā’s instruction, They cleaned off their feet and sat down to one side. Then, devoted to serenity of mind, They practiced the Buddha’s Teaching.
In the first watch of the night They recollected their former births. In the night’s middle watch They purified the divine eye. In the last watch of the night
They sundered the mass of darkness. Having risen, they worshiped her feet, “Your instruction has been taken to heart. As the thirty gods honour Indra, The one unconquered in battle, So shall we dwell honouring you. We are cankerless, bearers of the triple knowledge.” (Thī 119–21) Paṭācārā was able to effect the change from a frivolous young girl to a Sangha elder so quickly because in previous births she had already developed the requisite faculties. Under previous Buddhas, it is said, she had been a nun many times. The insights she had thereby gained were hidden beneath her actions in subsequent lives, awaiting the right conditions to ripen. When her Master, the Buddha Gotama, appeared in in the world, she quickly found her way to him, spurred on by suffering and by the unconscious urge to find a way to release from the beginningless round of rebirths. Drawn to the Awakened One and his emancipating Dhamma, she entered the homeless life and attained to unconditioned Freedom.
AMBAPĀLĪ: THE GENEROUS COURTESAN
A figure that recurs in the early stages of many religions is that of the famous courtesan or hetaera, whose conversion and inner transformation demonstrates the invincible power of truth and goodness in its contest with the lower elements of human nature. Just as in the New Testament we find Mary Magdalene, and Mary the Egyptian in the wilderness of Egypt, and Rabi’a in the early days of Sufism, so we have Ambapālī and Sirimā in the time of the Buddha. To look at their lives is a useful exercise, if only to help free us from prejudice and presumption and to remind us that the potential for wisdom and saintliness is merely concealed, and never obliterated, by a lifestyle that is outwardly wretched aid degrading.
Ambapālī’s life was unusual from the very beginning. One day the gardener of a Licchavi ruler in Vesālī found a baby girl lying under a mango tree and gave her the name Ambapālī from amba (mango) and pāli (line, bridge). As she grew up she became ever more beautiful and charming. Several of the Licchavi princes waited to marry, her, which led to much quarrelling and fighting, since each one wanted her for himself. Unable to solve the matter in this way, after lengthy discussions they finally decided that Ambapālī should belong to no one exclusively but to all in common. Thus she was forced to become a courtesan in the original sense of the word: a lady of pleasure at court, a position having little in common with that of an ordinary prostitute.
Thanks to the goodness of her character, she exercised a calming and ennobling influence on the Licchavi princes, and she also spent large sums on charitable activities so that she became virtually an uncrowned queen in the aristocratic republic of the Licchavis. Ambapālī’s fame spread and reached King Bimbisāra of Māgadha, who came to feel that his capital too should begraced by a similar attraction. This he found in a young woman named Sālavatī, who later became the mother of Jīvaka, the court physician. First, however, King Bimbisāra went to meet Ambapālī in person. Like everyone else, he was overcome by her beauty and enjoyed the pleasures she could offer, as a result of which she bore him a son. In the course of his final journey the Buddha stopped at Vesālī and stayed at Ambapālī’s Mango Grove. Ambapālī came to pay her respects to him and the Buddha inspired her with a long discourse on the Dhamma, at the end of which she invited the Master and the order of monks to her home for the next day’s meal.
As she was leaving hurriedly in her best chariot, the Licchavi princes, in their best chariots, drew up alongside her and asked why she was travelling in such a hurry. She answered that the Enlightened One and his monks would be coming to her home for their alms meal on the following day and she had to make sure everything was ready. The noblemen begged her to yield this privilege to them, offering her one hundred thousand gold coins for it, but she replied that she would not sell this meal for the whole of Vesālī and its treasures. So the Licchavis went to the Buddha and invited him to accept the next day’s meal from them. The Blessed One, however, refused since he had already accepted Ambapālī’s invitation.
The Licchavis then snapped their fingers—an expression of frustration—and exclaimed, “We have been defeated by that mango girl! We have been tricked by that mango girl!” The next day, after the Buddha had finished his meal at Ambapālī’s home, Ambapālī drew up close to him and made a gift to the Order of her wonderful park, the Mango Grove, where the Buddha had already preached some sermons in the past.
Ambapālī’s son by King Bimbisāra became a monk, with the name Vimala-Kondañña, and achieved arahantship. Later, after listening to one of her son’s sermons, Ambapālī entered the order of nuns. She took her own body as a meditation subject, reflecting on its impermanence and vulnerability to pain, and by doing so she attained arahantship. In her verses of the Therīgāthā, spoken in her old age, she movingly compares her former beauty with her present withered state:
My hair was black, the colour of bees, Each hair ending in a curl. Now on account of old age It has become like fibres of hemp: Not otherwise is the word Of the Speaker of Truth.
Covered with flowers my head was fragrant Like a casket of delicate scent. Now on account of old age It smells like the fur of a dog. Not otherwise is the word Of the Speaker of Truth.
Formerly my eyebrows were beautiful Like crescents well painted by an artist’s hand. Now on account of old age They droop down lined by wrinkles. Not otherwise is the word Of the Speaker of Truth. Brilliant and beautiful like jewels,
My eyes were dark blue and long in shape. Now, hit hard by old age, Their beauty has utterly vanished. Not otherwise is the word Of the Speaker of Truth. Formerly my teeth looked beautiful, The colour of plantain buds. Now on account of old age They are broken and yellow.
Not otherwise is the word Of the Speaker of Truth. Formerly my two breasts were beautiful, Swollen, round, compact, and high. Now they just hang down and sag Like a pair of empty water bags. Not otherwise is the word Of the Speaker of Truth.
Formerly my body was beautiful, Like a well-polished sheet of gold. Now it is all covered with wrinkles. Not otherwise is the word Of the Speaker of Truth. Formerly both my feet looked beautiful, Like (shoes) full of cotton-wool. Now, because of old age They are cracked and wrinkled all over. Not otherwise is the word Of the Speaker of Truth.
Such is this body, now decrepit, The abode of many kinds of suffering. It is nothing but an aged house From which the plaster has fallen off. Not otherwise is the word Of the Speaker of Truth. (Thī 252–70; selections)
This contemplation, assiduously practiced, gave Ambapālī a progressively deeper insight into the nature of existence. She gained the recollection of previous lives and saw the meanderings she had undergone in her journey through saṃsāra: at times she had been a prostitute, at other times a nun. She saw too that despite the degradation to which she had sometimes plunged, she had repeatedly been capable of acts of unusual generosity, which brought their own rewards in her successive births. Often she had been beautiful, but always her physical beauty had faded, crushed by aging and death.
Now in her last life she had finally attained, through the utter extinction of delusion, the imperishable beauty of final deliverance. In the following verses Ambapālī bears testimony to her elevation to the status of a “true daughter of the Buddha”:
Attended by millions of creatures I went forth in the Conqueror’s Teaching. I have attained the unshakable state, I am a true daughter of the Buddha.
I am a master of spiritual powers And of the purified ear-element. I am, O great sage, a master of knowledge Encompassing the minds of others.
I know my previous abodes, The divine eye is purified, All my cankers have been destroyed, Now there is no more re-becoming. (Ap II, 4:9, vv. 213–15)
SIRIMĀ AND UTTARĀ
The story of Sirimā, as recorded in the Pāli commentaries, begins with a woman named Uttarā, the daughter of the wealthy merchant Puṇṇa in Rājagaha. Both Puṇṇa and Uttarā were followers of the Buddha.23 A rich merchant named Sumana, who in earlier times had been Puṇṇa’s benefactor, wished to marry his son to Uttarā. Puṇṇa, however, was unwilling to accept the proposal. The merchant reminded him that for many years Puṇṇa had been in his employment and that his present wealth had been accumulated during those years of service. Puṇṇa answered him: “You and your family follow wrong systems of belief, but my daughter cannot live without the Three Jewels.” The merchant appealed to other members of their class, who came to plead with Puṇṇa to give his daughter to the merchant’s son. In the end, moved by the entreaties of his respected fellow citizens, Puṇṇa had no choice but to yield his daughter.
The marriage took place at the very beginning of the rainy season, when the monks enter upon their annual three months’ rains retreat. After moving into her husband’s house, Uttarā no longer had any opportunity to meet monks or nuns, let alone to give them alms and listen to the Dhamma. For two and a half months she endured this privation, but then she sent her parents this message: “Why have you thrown me into such a prison? It would have been better to have sold me as a slave than to have married me into a family of unbelievers. In all the time I have been here I have not been allowed to perform a single deed of merit.”
Puṇṇa was terribly upset when he received this message. Out of compassion for his daughter he devised the following scheme to help her achieve her objective. He sent his daughter fifteen thousand golden coins along with the following message: “Sirimā, the courtesan in our town, charges a thousand golden coins for a night of pleasure. Offer her the enclosed sum of money to entertain your husband for a fortnight while you go and perform whatever meritorious deeds you like.” Uttarā followed this advice and brought Sirimā to the house. When her husband saw the beautiful courtesan, he readily agreed to let her take his wife’s place for a fortnight, so that Uttarā would be free to give offerings and listen to the Teaching as much as she wanted.
This was the last fortnight before the end of the rains retreat, after which the monks would again start their wanderings. For this two week period, Uttarā begged the Buddha and his monks to come for alms every day at her home. The Buddha, out of sympathy, agreed to this invitation, and thus she was able to listen to many teachings. On the next to last day, the day before the closing ceremony of the rains retreat, Uttarā was constantly busy with preparations in the kitchen. Seeing her scurrying about, her husband could not help being amused at what he considered sheer foolishness. As he watched her running here and there, covered with sweat and soot, he thought: “This silly fool does not know how to enjoy her wealth in comfort. Instead, she rushes blindly about, happy that she is serving that bald-headed ascetic.” He smiled to himself and walked away.
When Sirimā, the courtesan, saw him smile, she wondered what had evoked it. Seeing Uttarā nearby, she jumped to the conclusion that they had shared a moment of intimacy. This made her angry and upset. For two weeks she had enjoyed the feeling of being the mistress of the house, and now this incident reminded her that she was only a guest. She felt intensely jealous of Uttarā and wanted to hurt her. So she went into the kitchen, took a ladleful of boiling oil, and approached Uttarā. The latter saw her coming and thought to herself: “My friend Sirimā has done me a great service. The earth may be too small, the Brahmaworld too low, but my friend’s virtue is very great, for it is through her help that I have been enabled to give offerings and listen to the teachings. If now there is any anger in me, let the oil burn me, but if I am free of anger it won’t burn me.” And she suffused Sirimā with loving-kindness. When the courtesan poured the oil over her head, it flowed off harmlessly, as if it were cool water.
Sirimā, infuriated, scooped up another ladleful of boiling oil, hoping this time it would burn. At this point Uttarā’s maids intervened. They grabbed hold of Sirimā, threw her to the floor, and beat and kicked her. Uttarā first tried in vain to stop them, but finally she placed herself between the maids and Sirimā and asked her quietly: “Why did you do this evil thing?” Then she cleaned her with warm water and anointed her with the finest perfume. Sirimā, coming to her senses, remembered that she was indeed only a guest in the house. She thought: “I have indeed done an evil thing, pouring boiling oil over her, just because her husband smiled at her. Not only did she endure this without anger, but when her maids attacked me she held them back and protected me. Let my head split into seven pieces if I do not beg her forgiveness.” She fell to Uttarā’s feet and begged to be forgiven.
Uttarā said: “My father is still living. If he forgives you, so will I.” Said Sirimā, “I shall go to your father, the rich guild master, and ask him to forgive me.” Uttarā replied, “Puṇṇa is the father who brought me into the round of suffering. If the father who is bringing me out of the round forgives you, then so will I.” “But who is the father who is bringing you out of the round of suffering?” “The Buddha, the Fully Enlightened One.” “But I don’t know him. What shall I do?” “The Teacher will be coming here tomorrow, together with his monks. Come yourself, bringing whatever offering you can, and ask his forgiveness.” Sirimā agreed gladly and went home. She told her many servants to prepare all sorts of foods and the next day brought them to Uttarā’s house. She, however, still ashamed of her bad behaviour, did not dare to serve the monks herself.
Uttarā took charge of everything. When everyone had eaten, Sirimā knelt at the Buddha’s feet and begged forgiveness. “What for?” he asked. Sirimā told him about the whole incident. The Enlightened One asked Uttarā to confirm what had happened and inquired what her thoughts had been when she saw Sirimā coming toward her with the boiling oil. “I suffused her with loving-kindness, “said Uttarā, “and thought to myself: ‘My friend Sirimā has done me a great service…”’ “Excellent, Uttarā, excellent!” said the Blessed One. “That is the right way to overcome anger.”
And he added the following verse: Overcome anger by non-anger, Conquer evil by goodness, Conquer the niggardly with a gift, And the liar with truth.
Then the Master expounded the Dhamma to all those present and explained the Four Noble Truths. At the end of this instruction Uttarā attained the fruit of once-returning. Her husband, until then an unbeliever, as well as her equally skeptical parents-in-law, all attained the fruit of stream-entry. Sirimā too attained the fruit of stream-entry. Unwilling to continue as a courtesan, she devoted herself to looking after the order of monks and performing other meritorious works. She invited the Sangha to send eight monks to her house every day for their meal, distributing invitation vouchers that could be shared out within the Order. She always served the monks who came to her with her own hands, and her food offerings were so abundant that each portion would have been enough for three or four people. One day, one of the eight monks who had eaten at Sirimā’s house went back to his monastery three miles away.
When he arrived there, the elders asked him whether there had been enough to eat. He explained to them the arrangement whereby eight monks were fed every day. When they asked whether the food had been good he went into raptures. The food, he said, was indescribable; only the best of everything was served, and the helpings were so generous that they would each be enough for three or four persons. But, he went on, Sirimā’s looks surpassed her offerings: she was beautiful and graceful and radiant with charm. As the new arrival spoke, one of the monks listening to his description was struck with love for Sirimā, despite the fact that he had never set eyes on her. Anxious to see her on the very next day, early in the morning he contrived to obtain one of the vouchers. It so happened that just on that day Sirimā had fallen ill and had taken off all her finery and gone to bed. When she was told that the monks had arrived, she did not have the strength even to get up but left it to her maids to serve them. Once all the bowls had been filled, and the monks had started eating, she made an effort to rise from her bed and, supported by two maids, came painfully into the room to pay her respects to the monks.
She was so weak that her whole body shook. The lovesick monk, seeing her thus, thought: “She looks radiantly beautiful even when she is ill. Imagine how great her beauty must be when she is well and wearing all her jewellery!” Passion long suppressed arose mightily in him, and he could not even eat. So taking his bowl, he wandered back to his monastery, where he covered the bowl and lay down on his bed. Though his friends tried to coax him to eat, they did not succeed.
That same evening Sirimā died. King Bimbisāra sent a message to the Buddha: “Sir, Jīvaka’s younger sister has died.” The Buddha sent him a message to the effect that Sirimā’s body should not be cremated at once but placed in the charnel ground, where it was to be guarded to prevent carrion crows and other beasts from devouring it. This was done. After three days the putrefying corpse was all swollen and crawling with worms, so that it looked like a pot of rice boiling on the fire with bubbles rising to the surface. Then King Bimbisāra decreed that all adult inhabitants of Rājagaha were to file past the body, to see Sirimā in her present condition. Failure to do so would be punished with a fine of eight gold coins.
At the same time he also sent a message to the Buddha inviting him to come to the charnel ground with his monks. The lovesick monk had not eaten for four days and the food in his bowl was by now also crawling with worms. His friends came to him and said: “Brother, the Teacher is going to see Sirimā.” At the word “Sirimā” the monk was galvanized, and forgetting his weakness and hunger he jumped up, emptied and rinsed his bowl, and joined the others who were going to look at Sirimā. There, a large crowd had congregated. The Buddha with his monks stood to one side, then came the nuns, then the king with his retinue, then the male and female devotees. The Buddha asked King Bimbisāra: “Who is this, great king?” “Jīvaka’s younger sister, sir, Sirimā by name.” “This is Sirimā?” “Yes, sir.” “Then let it be proclaimed with beating of drums that whoever pays the sum of one thousand coins may have Sirimā.” But no man wanted Sirimā now, not even at a lower price, not even for one penny, not even for free.
Then the Buddha spoke: “Here, monks, you see a woman who was loved by the world. In this same city, in the past, men would gladly pay a thousand gold coins to enjoy her for just one night. Now, however, no one will have her, even for nothing. This is what the body comes to, perishable and fragile, made attractive only through ornaments, a heap of wounds with nine openings, held together by three hundred bones, a continuing burden. Only fools attach fancies and illusions to such an evanescent thing.”
And he concluded with this verse: See this skin-bag all adorned; It is just a mass of wounds. Diseased, an object of desires, It has nothing stable or lasting
After the Buddha had given this “funeral oration,” a teaching with a practical object lesson, the lovesick monk was freed from his passion. Concentrated on the contemplation of the body, he cultivated insight and attained arahantship. Sirimā, however, had attended her own funeral. After her death she was reborn as a devatā in the heaven of the Thirty-three. Looking down upon the human world, she saw the Buddha with his monks and the assembly of people standing near her corpse. In a blaze of glory she descended from heaven, accompanied by five hundred celestial maidens in five hundred chariots.
Then she dismounted and saluted the Blessed One. The Venerable Vaṅgisa, the foremost poet in the Sangha, addressed her in verse, asking her from where she had come and what meritorious deeds she had performed to obtain such success.
Sirimā replied to him in verse: In that excellent, well-built city among the hills, I was an attendant of the excellent, splendid king. I was perfectly trained in dance and in song; In Rājagaha they knew me as Sirimā.
The Buddha, the lord of seers, the guide, Taught me the origin, suffering, impermanence; The unconditioned, eternal cessation of suffering; And this path, unbent, straight, auspicious.
Hearing of the deathless state, the unconditioned, The Teaching of the supreme Tathāgata, I was perfectly restrained by the precepts, Established in the Dhamma taught by the Buddha, best of men.
Having known the dust-free state, the unconditioned, Taught by the supreme Tathāgata, Right there I reached the serene concentration: That was my supreme assurance.
Having gained the supreme Deathless that makes for distinction, I was fixed in destiny, distinguished in penetration. Free from perplexity, honoured by a multitude, I enjoy abundant sport and delight.
Thus I, a devatā, am a seer of the Deathless, A female disciple of the supreme Tathāgata; seer of Dhamma, established in the first fruit, A stream-enterer, I am free of the bad bourns.
Respectful towards the splendid King of Dhamma, I have come to worship the Supreme One And the inspiring monks who delight in goodness, To revere the auspicious assembly of ascetics.
I was joyful and elated when I saw the Sage, The Tathāgata, best charioteer of tameable men. I worship the supremely compassionate one, The cutter of craving, the guide who delights in goodness. (Vv 137–49)
ISIDĀSĪ: A JOURNEY THROUGH SAṂSĀRA
In Pāṭaliputta, which was to become the capital of King Asoka, there lived two Buddhist nuns, Isidāsī and Bodhi, both skilled in contemplation, well versed in the Teaching, free from all defilements. One day after they had gone on their alms round and had finished their meal, the two friends sat in the shade, and their conversation drifted towards their personal histories. The older nun, whose name was Bodhi, had apparently undergone much suffering before she joined the Order, and she wondered why her younger companion Isidāsī had decided to renounce the world. The latter was still in the flush of youth. She had a cheerful countenance, and it hardly seemed conceivable that life could have left bitter traces on her. So how, the older nun wondered, had the suffering of existence revealed itself to her and impelled her to a life of renunciation?
You are lovely, noble Isidāsī, And your youth has not yet faded, What was the flaw that you had seen That led you to pursue renunciation? (Thī 403)
Isidāsī told her story. She had been born in the south, in Ujjeni, the capital of the kingdom of Avantī. Her father was a wealthy citizen, and she was his only, much-loved daughter. A business friend of his, a wealthy merchant, asked him to give his daughter in marriage to his son, and Isidāsī’s father was glad for his daughter to marry into the friend’s family. Isidāsī was an upright, well-disciplined young woman.
The deep respect for her parents that she had learned at home she extended equally to her parents-in-law, and she entertained a warm, friendly relationship with all her husband’s relatives, maintaining always a deliberate attitude of proper modesty. She was also a very industrious and conscientious housewife. She served her husband with great love, even cooking his meals with her own hands rather than leaving this task to the servants: By myself I cooked the rice, By myself I washed the dishes. As a mother looks after her only son, So did I serve my husband. I showed him devotion unsurpassed, I served him with a humble mind; I rose early, I was diligent, virtuous And yet my husband hated me. (Thī 412–13)
Isidāsī was indeed one of those ideal wives on the Indian model who selflessly serve their husbands, and her husband had every reason to rejoice that he had found such a life companion; for even amongst Indian women, generally known for their gentle disposition, she excelled and was truly a treasure. Yet, strangely, her husband could not tolerate her, and he went to his parents and voiced his complaint. His parents, however, praised her virtues and asked the young man, with great bewilderment, why he did not like her. He explained that she certainly had done nothing to hurt him, nor had she ever displayed any aggression against him, but he simply did not like her, he was tired of her, he had had enough of her, and he was ready to leave the house so that he would not have to set eyes on her any more (Thī 414–16).
The parents were very upset and could not understand their son. So they asked Isidāsī to come to them, sadly told her how matters stood, and begged her to tell them what she had done, assuring her that she could speak in full confidence. They must have imagined that their son had for some reason been reticent about speaking up, and they hoped that their beloved daughter-in-law would tell them what was amiss so that they could take steps to reconcile her husband to her. The whole affair was conducted on all sides in a calm and dignified manner. Neither the parents nor the son were at all violent or aggressive, and the son was even ready to leave the house and go his own way rather than do anything against Isidāsī.
The parents too were ready to forgive their daughter-in-law for any wrong that she might have done. But she answered quite truthfully: I have done nothing wrong, I have done him no harm, have not spoken rudely to him. What have I done that my husband hates me? (Thī 418)
In fact, nothing whatsoever had happened. Even her husband himself did not know why he hated her and could give no rational explanation for his antipathy. As Isidāsī’s in-laws could not remedy the situation, and as they did not want to lose their son, they had no choice but to send her back to her parents. Such an exemplary woman, they thought, would surely find another husband with whom she could be happy. For Isidāsī, of course, this was an absolutely humiliating experience. Returning to her parents as a rejected wife, she was almost devastated: Rejected, overcome by suffering, They led me back to my father’s house.
“While appeasing our son,” they exclaimed, “We have lost the beautiful goddess of fortune!” (Thī 419) Her father took his only daughter back under his protection. Though what had happened was beyond his comprehension, he started looking for another husband for her. Among his acquaintances he found a virtuous and wealthy man who was so happy at the prospect of marrying Isidāsī that he offered to provide half the usual marriage fee. But although Isidāsī served her new husband with the utmost love and affection, after barely a month the same strange pattern once again repeated itself. The second husband lost his affection for her, became irritated with her mere presence, and sent her back to her parents, the marriage annulled. Now both she and her father were totally at a loss.
Shortly thereafter a mendicant came to the house in quest of alms. The man did not seem too happy with his ascetic condition, and it suddenly occurred to Isidāsī’s father to offer him his daughter. The father suggested to the ascetic that he discard his robe and begging bowl and settle into a more comfortable lifestyle, with a splendid mansion for his home and the beautiful Isidāsī for his wife. The ascetic readily agreed to this tempting offer, which was beyond his wildest expectations. But after only two weeks he came to his father-in-law and begged him to return his robe and bowl: he would rather starve as the poorest of beggars than spend one more day in Isidāsī’s company. The whole family pleaded with him to tell them what he wanted; they would fulfil his every wish if he only agreed to remain, for he was a virtuous man. But he refused every inducement.
He was, he said, sure of one thing only: he could no longer stay with Isidāsī under one roof. And with these words he left (Thī 422–25). Isidāsī was utterly miserable and considered committing suicide rather than having to go on bearing such suffering. Now it so happened that on that same day a Buddhist nun named Jinadattā came to her father’s house on her alms round. Seeing the nun’s peaceful countenance, Isidāsī thought that she should become a nun herself. She made her wish known, but her father, reluctant to lose his only daughter, pleaded with her to stay at home. Here, he said, she could perform meritorious deeds that would lead to her future welfare. But Isidāsī wept and begged her father to let her go forth. By this time she had realized that her incomprehensible fate must be due to some deeper cause, some evil kamma created in a former life.
Finally her father relented: Then my father said to me, “Attain enlightenment and the supreme state, Gain Nibbāna which the best of men Has himself already realized.” (Thī 432)
Thus Isidāsī took leave of her parents and her circle of relatives. She followed the elder nun to the monastery and went forth into the homeless life. After her ordination she spent seven days in utmost exertion, and by the end of the week she had realized the three higher knowledges— the recollection of past lives, the knowledge of the passing away and rebirth of beings, and the knowledge of the destruction of defilements. Through her ability to remember previous lives Isidāsī found the underlying causes behind her marital failures in this life, and much else that lay hidden in the dim recesses of saṃsāra. Looking past into the past Isidāsī saw that eight lives ago she had been a man—a goldsmith, handsome and rich, full of the intoxication of youth. Dazzled by physical beauty, this dashing goldsmith had seduced the wives of others, with no regard for decency and morality. He loved to conquer other men’s wives, one after another, like a butterfly flitting from flower to flower.
Like Casanova or Don Juan he played with love and felt no compunction over the damage he could cause. All he wanted was the thrill of conquest, the titillation of lust, but never any responsibilities, any commitment, any obligation to love. He wanted to take his pleasure, again and again, and he wanted change. He broke his victims’ hearts, and did not care in the slightest what happened to them. Whether he broke hearts or marriages was for him a matter of indifference. And so he danced for a while, as it were, on the top of a volcano—until his time was up. Then he fell into the dark abyss that he had dug out for himself by his own reckless conduct. He was reborn in hell, where there is wailing and gnashing of teeth, and there he experienced a thousand times over the suffering that he had inflicted upon others. He had been infinitely ruthless in deed and in intention, so in hell he was subjected to infinitely ruthless punishment, without pity and without mercy, just as he himself had been pitiless and cruel on earth.
The special punishment for adulterers and lechers in hell, they say, is an excursion without respite through a forest where every leaf is a sword. They see a beautiful woman in the distance, run after her, and are cut on all sides by the razor-sharp sword edges. And the woman, like Fortune on her sphere, runs ahead and beckons but can never be reached. Yet the lecher, impelled by obsessive desire, cannot help himself. Time and again he throws himself into the forest and is cut to shreds by the sharp leaves. “And I suffered torment for a long time,” says Isidāsī the nun (Thī 436). She clearly remembered her human existence as the goldsmith and knew full well why he had to undergo such bitter atonement. After completion of this hellish punishment, he moved on in saṃsāra. In his next life he had forgotten everything and was reborn in the womb of a monkey. As he had worked through the worst consequences of his misdeeds, he was beginning to rise slowly from the depths.
After having done penance for the hate that was in him when he coarsely rejected the women he had seduced and despised their deceived husbands, he still retained the drives of a purely animal craving, and through the influence of these tendencies he assumed the form of an animal. This is a literal manifestation of the saying of Dionysius the Areopagite: “The nature of desire is such, that it turns a man into the thing he desires.” That man—who had indulged his lustfulness without scruples or inhibitions—now became a being not subject to the rule of reason, an animal, and precisely the animal that is nearest to man: a monkey.
Only seven days after his birth, however, the leader of the monkey tribe bit off the newborn’s sexual organs, to prevent future rivalry: A great monkey, leader of the troop, Castrated me when I was seven days old. This was the fruit of that kamma Because I had seduced others’ wives. (Thī 437)
After dying as a monkey, he was reborn as a sheep, the offspring of a lame one-eyed ewe. Further, he was made a gelding, unable to satisfy the sexual urge. He lived in misery thus for twelve years, suffering from intestinal worms and constantly obliged to transport children. His third animal existence was as an ox, castrated, and forced to pull the plough and cart throughout the year, with hardly any rest (Thī 440–41). Hard work was precisely what the licentious goldsmith had always avoided, and now hard work was precisely what he could not escape. He had many duties to perform and very little pleasure, not only because he was castrated, but also because he had to pull heavy loads all day long and, at one point, also lost his eyesight. In the next life, he who had been successively goldsmith, hell dweller, monkey, sheep, and ox, again arrived at human status—but as a hermaphrodite, a cross between male and female (Thī 442).
Because in his earlier existence he had been so obsessed with sexual organs, both his own and those of women, now he found himself having both at the same time—which, of course, again precluded all satisfaction, making of him an outsider in society, especially since he was the son of a slave girl and had been born in the gutter. He eked out an unhappy existence for thirty years and then died. In the next existence, the being who had gone from manhood to a life in hell, from hell to animal life, and from animal to hermaphrodite, was reborn as a woman. This completed the sex change. He had now become what was formerly the object of his desires: a woman. Indeed, desire turns a man into the things he desires. The newborn girl was the daughter of a man in the lowest social caste, an impecunious carter who failed in everything he undertook and ended up owing everybody money. As his creditors were constantly harassing him and he had nothing to give them, he offered to one of them, a wealthy merchant, his daughter as a slave.
The merchant released him from his debts, gave him some money as a bonus, and took the girl. She wept and grieved, but all to no avail—she was taken from home into slavery. When she was sixteen years old, and an attractive virgin, the son of the house fell in love with her and took her as his secondary wife. He was already happily married to an honourable, virtuous wife, who loved him above everything. She was naturally very distressed when her husband took another wife and felt rejected. The younger woman, however, did everything in her power to defend her newly won position and succeeded in sowing discord between husband and wife. Having known the misery of utter poverty and the burdens of a slave’s life, she was determined to defend her position as the wife of a rich man, and thus she did everything possible to displace her rival.
This brought about much feuding and quarreling, until she finally managed to sever the tie between her husband and his first wife (Thī 443–46). After that life, in which she had again misused the opportunities for happiness offered by human birth, she was reborn as Isidāsī. The fruit of her earlier bad actions having now been exhausted, she was born as a perfect human being. But because in her preceding life she had driven another woman away from her home and enjoyed taking her place, she now had to suffer the contempt and neglect of three successive husbands. None of the three men she held dear wanted her, she was despised and rejected as wife by all of them, apparently without justification but actually as a consequence of her own earlier actions. Since, however, she did not react with anger and aggression, but endeavored at all times to be a model wife, she was able to build on this virtuous foundation.
After becoming a nun she attained the meditative absorptions with unusual rapidity and quickly penetrated the key to her mysterious fate. Once Isidāsī had understood all these connections, once she had realized the evil consequences of unrestrained craving and seen how this leads time and again to self-assertion at the expense of others, the wish arose in her to turn away altogether from the whole cycle of suffering. She understood the interplay of inclinations in her earlier lives and in her present life, and she saw with the divine eye that the same holds true for other beings as well. And thus, having experienced the Teaching in actual practice, she finally attained the third higher knowledge, the full and complete understanding of the Four Noble Truths, which brings release from saṃsāra forever. Thus she became one of the holy ones, an arahant. Having wandered from lecher to hell dweller, then through three lives as a male animal to rebirth as a hermaphrodite, then as a poor slave child who rose to wealth, and finally as a rejected wife—eight lives full of confusion, full of craving and hate—she had had enough.
Now, free at last, she could say: This was the fruit of that past deed, That although I served them like a slave, They rejected me and went their way: Of that, too, I have made an end.
References: 1. The Great Disciples of The Buddha by Nyanaponika Thera and Hellmuth Hecker 2. https://suttacentral.net/