The Light of Asia/Book the Fifth

Round Rajagriha five fair hills arose, Guarding King Bimbasara's sylvan town; Baibhara, green with lemon-grass and palms; Bipulla, at whose foot thin Sarsuti Steals with warm ripple; shadowy Tapovan, Whose steaming pools mirror black rocks, which ooze Sovereign earth-butter from their rugged roofs; South-east the vulture-peak Sailagiri; And eastward Ratnagiri, hill of gems. A winding track, paven with footworn slabs, Leads thee by safflower fields and bamboo tufts Under dark mangoes and the jujube-trees, Past milk-white veins of rock and jasper crags, Low cliff and flats of jungle-flowers, to where The shoulder of that mountain, sloping west, O'erhangs a cave with wild figs canopied. Lo! thou who comest thither, bare thy feet And bow thy head! for all this spacious earth Hath not a spot more dear and hallowed. Here Lord Buddha sate the scorching summers through, The driving rains, the chilly dawns and eves; Wearing for all men's sakes the yellow robe, Eating in beggar's guise the scanty meal Chance-gathered from the charitable; at night Crouched on the grass, homeless, alone; while yelped The sleepless jackals round his cave, or coughs Of famished tiger from the thicket broke. By day and night here dwelt the World-honoured, Subduing that fair body born for bliss With fast and frequent watch and search intense Of silent meditation, so prolonged That ofttimes while he mused--as motionless As the fixed rock his seat--the squirrel leaped Upon his knee, the timid quail led forth Her brood between his feet, and blue doves pecked The rice-grains from the bowl beside his hand.

Thus would he muse from noontide--when the land Shimmered with heat, and walls and temples danced In the reeking air--till sunset, noting not The blazing globe roll down, nor evening glide, Purple and swift, across the softened fields; Nor the still coming of the stars, nor throb Of drum-skins in the busy town, nor screech Of owl and night jar; wholly wrapt from self In keen unraveling of the threads of thought And steadfast pacing of life's labyrinths. Thus would he sit till midnight hushed the world, Save where the beasts of darkness in the brake Crept and cried out, as fear and hatred cry, As lust and avarice and anger creep In the black jungles of man's ignorance. Then slept he for what space the fleet moon asks To swim a tenth part of her cloudy sea; But rose ere the false-dawn, and stood again Wistful on some dark platform of his hill, Watching the sleeping earth with ardent eyes And thoughts embracing all its living things, While o'er the waving fields that murmur moved Which is the kiss of Morn waking the lands, And in the east that miracle of Day Gathered and grew: at first a dusk so dim Night seems still unaware of whispered dawn, But soon--before the jungle-cock crows twice-- A white verge clear, a widening, brightening white, High as the herald-star, which fades in floods Of silver, warming into pale gold, caught By topmost clouds, and flaming on their rims To fervent golden glow, flushed from the brink With saffron, scarlet, crimson, amethyst; Whereat the sky burns splendid to the blue, And, robed in raiment of glad light, the Song Of Life and Glory cometh!

Then our Lord, After the manner of a Rishi, hailed The rising orb, and went--ablutions made-- Down by the winding path unto the town; And in the fashion of a Rishi passed From street to street, with begging-bowl in hand, Gathering the little pittance of his needs. Soon was it filled, for all the townsmen cried, "Take of our store, great sir!" and "Take of ours!" Marking his godlike face and eyes enwrapt; And mothers, when they saw our Lord go by, Would bid their children fall to kiss his feet, And lift his robe's hem to their brows, or run To fill his jar, and fetch him milk and cakes. And ofttimes as he paced, gentle and slow, Radiant with heavenly pity, lost in care For those he knew not, save as fellow lives, The dark surprised eyes of some Indian maid Would dwell in sudden love and worship deep On that majestic form, as if she saw Her dreams of tenderest thought made true, and grace Fairer than mortal fire her breast. But he Passed onward with the bowl and yellow robe, By mild speech paying all those gifts of hearts, Wending his way back to the solitudes To sit upon his hill with holy men, And hear and ask of wisdom and its roads.

Midway on Ratnagiri's groves of calm, Beyond the city, but below the caves, Lodged such as hold the body foe to soul, And flesh a beast which men must chain and tame With bitter pains, till sense of pain is killed, And tortured nerves vex torturer no more-- Yogis and Brahmacharis, Bhikshus, all-- A gaunt and mournful band, dwelling apart. Some day and night had stood with lifted arms, Till--drained of blood and withered by disease Their slowly-wasting joints and stiffened limbs Jutted from sapless shoulders like dead forks from forest trunks. Others had clenched their hands So long and with so fierce a fortitude, The claw-like nails grew through the festered palm. Some walked on sandals spiked; some with sharp flints Gashed breast and brow and thigh, scarred these with fire, Threaded their flesh with jungle thorns and spits, Besmeared with mud and ashes, crouching foul In rags of dead men wrapped about their loins. Certain there were inhabited the spots Where death pyres smouldered, cowering defiled With corpses for their company, and kites Screaming around them o'er the funeral-spoils; Certain who cried five hundred times a day The names of Shiva, wound with darting snakes About their sun-tanned necks and hollow flanks, One palsied foot drawn up against the ham. So gathered they, a grievous company; Crowns blistered by the blazing heat, eyes bleared, Sinews and muscles shrivelled, visages Haggard and wan as slain men's, five days dead; Here crouched one in the dust who noon by noon Meted a thousand grains of millet out, Ate it with famished patience, seed by seed, And so starved on; there one who bruised his pulse With bitter leaves lest palate should be pleased; And next, a miserable saint self-maimed, Eyeless and tongueless, sexless, crippled, deaf; The body by the mind being thus stripped For glory of much suffering, and the bliss Which they shall win--say holy books--whose woe Shames gods that send us woe, and makes men gods Stronger to suffer than hell is to harm.

Whom sadly eyeing spake our Lord to one, Chief of the woe-begones: "Much-suffering sir These many moons I dwell upon the hill-- Who am a seeker of the Truth--and see My brothers here, and thee, so piteously Self-anguished; wherefore add ye ills to life Which is so evil?"

Answer made the sage "'T is written if a man shall mortify His flesh, till pain be grown the life he lives And death voluptuous rest, such woes shall purge Sin's dross away, and the soul, purified, Soar from the furnace of its sorrow, winged For glorious spheres and splendour past all thought."

"Yon cloud which floats in heaven," the Prince replied, "Wreathed like gold cloth around your Indra's throne, Rose thither from the tempest-driven sea; But it must fall again in tearful drops, Trickling through rough and painful water-ways By cleft and nullah and the muddy flood, To Gunga and the sea, wherefrom it sprang. Know'st thou, my brother, if it be not thus, After their many pains, with saints in bliss? Since that which rises falls, and that which buys Is spent; and if ye buy heaven with your blood In hell's hard market, when the bargain's through The toil begins again!"

"It may begin," The hermit moaned. "Alas! we know not this, Nor surely anything; yet after night Day comes, and after turmoil peace, and we Hate this accursed flesh which clogs the soul That fain would rise; so, for the sake of soul, We stake brief agonies in game with Gods To gain the larger joys."

"Yet if they last A myriad years," he said, "they fade at length, Those joys; or if not, is there then some life Below, above, beyond, so unlike life it will not change? Speak! do your Gods endure For ever, brothers?"

"Nay," the Yogis said, "Only great Brahm endures: the Gods but live."

Then spake Lord Buddha: "Will ye, being wise, As ye seem holy and strong-hearted ones, Throw these sore dice, which are your groans and moans, For gains which may be dreams, and must have end? Will ye, for love of soul, so loathe your flesh, So scourge and maim it, that it shall not serve To bear the spirit on, searching for home, But founder on the track before nightfall, Like willing steed o'er-spurred? Will ye, sad sirs, Dismantle and dismember this fair house, Where we have come to dwell by painful pasts; Whose windows give us light--the little light Whereby we gaze abroad to know if dawn Will break, and whither winds the better road?"

Then cried they, "We have chosen this for road And tread it, Rajaputra, till the close-- Though all its stones were fire--in trust of death. Speak, if thou know'st a way more excellent; If not, peace go with thee!"

Onward he passed, Exceeding sorrowful, seeing how men Fear so to die they are afraid to fear, Lust so to live they dare not love their life, But plague it with fierce penances, belike To please the Gods who grudge pleasure to man; Belike to balk hell by self-kindled hells; Belike in holy madness, hoping soul May break the better through their wasted flesh. "Oh, flowerets of the field!" Siddartha said, "Who turn your tender faces to the sun-- Glad of the light, and grateful with sweet breath Of fragrance and these robes of reverence donned Silver and gold and purple--none of ye Miss perfect living, none of ye despoil Your happy beauty. O, ye palms, which rise Eager to pierce the sky and drink the wind Blown from Malaya and the cool blue seas, What secret know ye that ye grow content, From time of tender shoot to time of fruit, Murmuring such sun-songs from your feathered crowns? Ye, too, who dwell so merry in the trees-- Quick-darting parrots, bee-birds, bulbuls, doves-- None of ye hate your life, none of ye deem To strain to better by foregoing needs! But man, who slays ye--being lord--is wise, And wisdom, nursed on blood, cometh thus forth In self-tormentings!"

While the Master spake Blew down the mount the dust of pattering feet, White goats and black sheep winding slow their way, With many a lingering nibble at the tufts, And wanderings from the path, where water gleamed Or wild figs hung. But always as they strayed The herdsman cried, or slung his sling, and kept The silly crowd still moving to the plain. A ewe with couplets in the flock there was. Some hurt had lamed one lamb, which toiled behind Bleeding, while in the front its fellow skipped, And the vexed dam hither and thither ran, Fearful to lose this little one or that; Which when our Lord did mark, full tenderly He took the limping lamb upon his neck, Saying: "Poor woolly mother, be at peace! Whither thou goest I will bear thy care; 'T were all as good to ease one beast of grief As sit and watch the sorrows of the world In yonder caverns with the priests who pray."

"But," spake he to the herdsmen, "wherefore, friends, Drive ye the flocks adown under high noon, Since 't is at evening that men fold their sheep?"

And answer gave the peasants: "We are sent To fetch a sacrifice of goats five score, And five score sheep, the which our Lord the King Slayeth this night in worship of his gods."

Then said the Master, "I will also go." So paced he patiently, bearing the lamb Beside the herdsmen in the dust and sun, The wistful ewe low-bleating at his feet.

Whom, when they came unto the river-side, A woman--dove-eyed, young, with tearful face And lifted hands--saluted, bending low "Lord! thou art he," she said, "who yesterday Had pity on me in the fig-grove here, Where I live lone and reared my child; but he Straying amid the blossoms found a snake, Which twined about his wrist, while he did laugh And tease the quick forked tongue and opened mouth Of that cold playmate. But, alas! ere long He turned so pale and still, I could not think Why he should cease to play, and let my breast Fall from his lips.  And one said, 'He is sick Of poison'; and another, 'He will die.' But I, who could not lose my precious boy, Prayed of them physic, which might bring the light Back to his eyes; it was so very small That kiss-mark of the serpent, and I think It could not hate him, gracious as he was, Nor hurt him in his sport.  And some one said, 'There is a holy man upon the hill Lo! now he passeth in the yellow robe Ask of the Rishi if there be a cure For that which ails thy son.'  Whereon I came Trembling to thee, whose brow is like a god's, And wept and drew the face cloth from my babe, Praying thee tell what simples might be good. And thou, great sir, did'st spurn me not, but gaze With gentle eyes and touch with patient hand; Then draw the face cloth back, saying to me, 'Yea, little sister, there is that might heal Thee first, and him, if thou couldst fetch the thing; For they who seek physicians bring to them What is ordained. Therefore, I pray thee, find Black mustard-seed, a tola; only mark Thou take it not from any hand or house Where father, mother, child, or slave hath died; It shall be well if thou canst find such seed.' Thus didst thou speak, my Lord!"

The Master smiled Exceeding tenderly. "Yea, I spake thus, Dear Kisagotami! But didst thou find The seed?"

"I went, Lord, clasping to my breast The babe, grown colder, asking at each hut-- Here in the jungle and towards the town-- 'I pray you, give me mustard, of your grace, A tola-black'; and each who had it gave, For all the poor are piteous to the poor; But when I asked, 'In my friend's household here Hath any peradventure ever died Husband or wife, or child, or slave?' they said: 'O sister! what is this you ask? the dead Are very many, and the living few!' So with sad thanks I gave the mustard back, And prayed of others; but the others said, Here is the seed, but we have lost our slave.' 'Here is the seed, but our good man is dead!' 'Here is some seed, but he that sowed it died Between the rain-time and the harvesting!' Ah, sir! I could not find a single house Where there was mustard-seed and none had died! Therefore I left my child--who would not suck Nor smile--beneath the wild vines by the stream, To seek thy face and kiss thy feet, and pray Where I might find this seed and find no death, If now, indeed, my baby be not dead, As I do fear, and as they said to me."

"My sister! thou hast found," the Master said, "Searching for what none finds--that bitter balm I had to give thee. He thou lovest slept Dead on thy bosom yesterday: today Thou know'st the whole wide world weeps with thy woe The grief which all hearts share grows less for one. Lo!  I would pour my blood if it could stay Thy tears and win the secret of that curse Which makes sweet love our anguish, and which drives O'er flowers and pastures to the sacrifice As these dumb beasts are driven--men their lords. I seek that secret: bury thou thy child!"

So entered they the city side by side, The herdsmen and the Prince, what time the sun Gilded slow Sona's distant stream, and threw Long shadows down the street and through the gate Where the King's men kept watch. But when they saw Our Lord bearing the lamb, the guards stood back, The market-people drew their wains aside, In the bazaar buyers and sellers stayed The war of tongues to gaze on that mild face; The smith, with lifted hammer in his hand, Forgot to strike; the weaver left his web, The scribe his scroll, the money-changer lost His count of cowries; from the unwatched rice Shiva's white bull fed free; the wasted milk Ran o'er the lota while the milkers watched The passage of our Lord moving so meek, With yet so beautiful a majesty. But most the women gathering in the doors Asked: "Who is this that brings the sacrifice, So graceful and peace-giving as he goes? What is his caste? whence hath he eyes so sweet? Can he be Sakra or the Devaraj?" And others said, "It is the holy man Who dwelleth with the Rishis on the hill." But the Lord paced, in meditation lost, Thinking, "Alas! for all my sheep which have No shepherd; wandering in the night with none To guide them; bleating blindly towards the knife Of Death, as these dumb beasts which are their kin."

Then some one told the King, "There cometh here A holy hermit, bringing down the flock Which thou didst bid to crown the sacrifice."

The King stood in his hall of offering. On either hand, the white-robed Brahmans ranged Muttered their mantras, feeding still the fire Which roared upon the midmost altar. There From scented woods flickered bright tongues of flame, Hissing and curling as they licked the gifts Of ghee and spices and the soma juice, The joy of Iudra. Round about the pile A slow, thick, scarlet streamlet smoked and ran, Sucked by the sand, but ever rolling down, The blood of bleating victims. One such lay, A spotted goat, long-horned, its head bound back With munja grass; at its stretched throat the knife Pressed by a priest, who murmured: "This, dread gods, Of many yajnas cometh as the crown From Bimbasara: take ye joy to see The spirted blood, and pleasure in the scent Of rich flesh roasting 'mid the fragrant flames; Let the King's sins be laid upon this goat, And let the fire consume them burning it, For now I strike."

But Buddha softly said, "Let him not strike, great King!" and therewith loosed The victim's bonds, none staying him, so great His presence was. Then, craving leave, he spake Of life, which all can take but none can give, Life, which all creatures love and strive to keep, Wonderful, dear and pleasant unto each, Even to the meanest; yea, a boon to all Where pity is, for pity makes the world Soft to the weak and noble for the strong. Unto the dumb lips of his flock he lent Sad pleading words, showing how man, who prays For mercy to the gods, is merciless, Being as god to those; albeit all life Is linked and kin, and what we slay have given Meek tribute of the milk and wool, and set Fast trust upon the hands which murder them. Also he spake of what the holy books Do surely teach, how that at death some sink To bird and beast, and these rise up to man In wanderings of the spark which grows purged flame. So were the sacrifice new sin, if so The fated passage of a soul be stayed. Nor, spake he, shall one wash his spirit clean By blood; nor gladden gods, being good, with blood; Nor bribe them, being evil; nay, nor lay Upon the brow of innocent bound beasts One hair's weight of that answer all must give For all things done amiss or wrongfully, Alone, each for himself, reckoning with that The fixed arithmic of the universe, Which meteth good for good and ill for ill, Measure for measure, unto deeds, words, thoughts; Watchful, aware, implacable, unmoved; Making all futures fruits of all the pasts. Thus spake he, breathing words so piteous With such high lordliness of ruth and right, The priests drew back their garments o'er the hands Crimsoned with slaughter, and the King came near, Standing with clasped palms reverencing Buddh; While still our Lord went on, teaching how fair This earth were if all living things be linked In friendliness, and common use of foods Bloodless and pure; the golden grain, bright fruits, Sweet herbs which grow for all, the waters wan, Sufficient drinks and meats. Which when these heard, The might of gentleness so conquered them, The priests themselves scattered their altar-flames And flung away the steel of sacrifice; And through the land next day passed a decree Proclaimed by criers, and in this wise graved On rock and column: "Thus the King's will is: There hath been slaughter for the sacrifice, And slaying for the meat, but henceforth none Shall spill the blood of life nor taste of flesh, Seeing that knowledge grows, and life is one, And mercy cometh to the merciful." So ran the edict, and from those days forth Sweet peace hath spread between all living kind, Man and the beasts which serve him, and the birds, On all those banks of Gunga where our Lord Taught with his saintly pity and soft speech.

For aye so piteous was the Master's heart To all that breathe this breath of fleeting life, Yoked in one fellowship of joys and pains, That it is written in the holy books How, in an ancient age--when Buddha wore A Brahman's form, dwelling upon the rock Named Munda, by the village of Dalidd-- Drought withered all the land: the young rice died Ere it could hide a quail; in forest glades A fierce sun sucked the pools; grasses and herbs Sickened, and all the woodland creatures fled Scattering for sustenance. At such a time, Between the hot walls of a nullah, stretched On naked stones, our Lord spied, as he passed, A starving tigress. Hunger in her orbs Glared with green flame; her dry tongue lolled a span Beyond the gasping jaws and shrivelled jowl; Her painted hide hung wrinkled on her ribs, As when between the rafters sinks a thatch Rotten with rains; and at the poor lean dugs Two cubs, whining with famine, tugged and sucked, Mumbling those milkless teats which rendered nought, While she, their gaunt dam, licked full motherly The clamorous twins, yielding her flank to them With moaning throat, and love stronger than want, Softening the first of that wild cry wherewith She laid her famished muzzle to the sand And roared a savage thunder-peal of woe. Seeing which bitter strait, and heeding nought Save the immense compassion of a Buddh, Our Lord bethought, "There is no other way To help this murdress of the woods but one. By sunset these will die, having no meat: There is no living heart will pity her, Bloody with ravin, lean for lack of blood. Lo! if I feed her, who shall lose but I, And how can love lose doing of its kind Even to the uttermost?" So saying, Buddh Silently laid aside sandals and staff, His sacred thread, turban, and cloth, and came Forth from behind the milk-bush on the sand, Saying, "Ho! mother, here is meat for thee!" Whereat the perishing beast yelped hoarse and shrill, Sprang from her cubs, and, hurling to the earth That willing victim, had her feast of him With all the crooked daggers of her claws Rending his flesh, and all her yellow fangs Bathed in his blood: the great cat's burning breath Mixed with the last sigh of such fearless love.

Thus large the Master's heart was long ago, Not only now, when with his gracious ruth He bade cease cruel worship of the gods. And much King Bimbasara prayed our Lord-- Learning his royal birth and holy search-- To tarry in that city, saying oft "Thy princely state may not abide such fasts; Thy hands were made for sceptres, not for alms. Sojourn with me, who have no son to rule, And teach my kingdom wisdom, till I die, Lodged in my palace with a beauteous bride." But ever spake Siddartha, of set mind "These things I had, most noble King, and left, Seeking the Truth; which still I seek, and shall; Not to be stayed though Sakra's palace ope'd Its doors of pearl and Devis wooed me in. I go to build the Kingdom of the Law, journeying to Gaya and the forest shades, Where, as I think, the light will come to me; For nowise here among the Rishis comes That light, nor from the Shasters, nor from fasts Borne till the body faints, starved by the soul. Yet there is light to reach and truth to win; And surely, O true Friend, if I attain I will return and quit thy love."

Thereat Thrice round the Prince King Bimbasara paced, Reverently bending to the Master's feet, And bade him speed. So passed our Lord away Towards Uravilva, not yet comforted, And wan of face, and weak with six years' quest. But they upon the hill and in the grove-- Alara, Udra, and the ascetics five-- Had stayed him, saying all was written clear In holy Shasters, and that none might win Higher than Sruti and than Smriti--nay, Not the chief saints!--for how should mortal man Be wiser than the Jnana-Kand, which tells How Brahm is bodiless and actionless, Passionless, calm, unqualified, unchanged, Pure life, pure thought, pure joy? Or how should man Its better than the Karmma-Kand, which shows How he may strip passion and action off, Break from the bond of self, and so, unsphered, Be God, and melt into the vast divine, Flying from false to true, from wars of sense To peace eternal, where the silence lives?

But the prince heard them, not yet comforted.