When the Master awoke in the grey dawn, he saw the pilgrim Kamanita busy, rolling up his mat, hanging his gourd over his shoulder, and looking round for his staff which he hadn't at once been able to perceive in the corner in which he had placed it, owing to its having fallen down. While thus engaged, there was, in his every movement, the appearance of a man in a great hurry.
The Master sat up and gave him friendly greeting.
"Art thou going already, brother?"
"Surely, surely," called out Kamanita, full of excitement, "just think, it is hardly to be believed—absolutely laughable and yet so marvellous—such rare good fortune! A few minutes ago I awoke and felt my throat quite parched after all the talk of yesterday. Without more ado, I jumped up and ran to the well just across the way, beneath the tamarinds. A maiden was standing there drawing water. And what dost thou suppose I learned from her? The Master isn't in Sravasti at all. But canst thou imagine, then, where he is? Yesterday, accompanied by three hundred monks, he arrived here in Rajagriha! And at this moment he is in his mango grove on the farther side of the town. In an hour, in less, perhaps, I shall have seen him—I, who believed that I should have to journey other four weeks! What do I say—in an hour? It is only a good half-hour thither, the maiden said, if one doesn't go through the chief streets, but runs through the lanes and squares to the west gate.… I can scarcely realise it. The ground burns beneath my feet—farewell, brother! Thou hast meant well by me, and I shall not fail to conduct thee also to the Master—but now I really cannot delay a moment longer."
And the pilgrim Kamanita dashed out of the hall and ran away along the street as fast as his legs would carry him. But when he reached the city gate of Rajagriha it was not yet opened and he was obliged to wait for a short time—time which seemed to him an eternity, and raised his impatience to the highest pitch.
He employed the minutes, however, in getting from an old woman carrying a basket of vegetables to the town, and who, like himself, was obliged to halt at the gate, exact information with regard to the shortest way—as to how he was to go through such and such a lane, past a little temple to the right, and to the left past a well, and then not to lose sight of a certain tower, so that he might perhaps recover in the town the time he had lost standing outside its walls.
As soon, then, as the gate was opened he dashed recklessly away in the direction indicated. Sometimes he knocked down a few children, anon he brushed with such violence past a woman who was rinsing dishes at the kerbstone that one of these rolled rattling away from her and broke, or he bumped into some water-carrier. But the abuse which followed him fell on deaf ears, so utterly was he possessed by the one thought that soon, so wonderfully soon, he should see the Buddha.
"What rare fortune!" he said to himself. "How many generations pass and have no Buddha sojourn on the earth in their time; and of the generation that has a Buddha for its contemporary, oh, how few ever behold him. But this happiness will certainly be mine now. I have always feared that on the long and dangerous road wild beasts or robbers might deprive me of this joy, but now it cannot be taken from me."
Filled with such thoughts, he turned into a very narrow little lane. In his foolish onward rush he failed to observe that from the other end of it, a cow, mad with fear from some cause or other, was dashing towards him, and failed also to notice that while several people in front of him fled into a house, others concealed themselves behind a projecting bit of wall; nor did he hear the shout with which a woman standing on a balcony tried to warn him—but dashed on, with his eyes fixed on the pinnacled tower, which was to prevent his taking some wrong turning.
Only when it was too late to get out of the way did he see with horror the steaming nostrils, the bloodshot eyes, and the polished horn which, the next instant, drove deep into his side.
With a loud scream he fell down by the wall. The cow dashed onward and disappeared into another street.
People instantly hurried up, in part from curiosity, in part to help. The woman who had warned him, brought water with which to cleanse the wound. They tore up his cloak to make a bandage, and, if possible, to staunch the blood which gushed forth as from a fountain.
Kamanita had hardly lost consciousness for an instant. It was clear to him at once that this meant death. But neither that knowledge nor the agonies he was enduring were such torture to him as the fear that he might not now see the Buddha. In a deeply agitated tone of voice he besought the bystanders to carry him to the Mango Grove—to the Buddha.
"I have journeyed so far, dear friends. I was so near my goal. Oh, have pity upon me, don't delay to carry me thither. Don't think of the pain to me, have no fear that I shall sink under it—I shall not die till ye have laid me down at the feet of the Perfect One; then I shall die happy, and happy rise again."
Some of them ran to fetch poles and a mattress. A woman brought a strengthening draught of which Kamanita took a few spoonfuls. The men were divided as to which way was the shortest to the Hall of the Brotherhood in the Mango Grove, for every step would make a difference. It was clear to all that the pilgrim's life was ebbing fast.
"There come disciples of the Perfect One," cried a bystander, pointing along the little lane; "they will be best able to tell us."
And, as a fact, several monks of the Order of the Buddha were approaching, clad in yellow cloaks which left the right arm and hand—the hand with the alms bowl in it—free. Most of them were young men, but at their head walked two venerable figures—a grey-haired man whose earnest, if somewhat severe, face, with its piercing eye and powerful chin, involuntarily attracted attention to itself, and a middle-aged man whose features were illumined by such a heart-winning gentleness that he had almost the appearance of a youth. Yet an experienced observer might, in his bearing and somewhat animated movements, as also in his flashing glances, have detected the inalienable characteristics of the warrior caste, while the deliberate calm of the older man no less revealed the born Brahman. In loftiness of stature and princely carriage they were, however, alike.
When these monks halted by the group which had collected round the wounded man, many voluble tongues at once related to them what had happened, and informed them that they were just about to carry the wounded pilgrim on a stretcher—which was then being fetched—to the Mango Grove, to the Buddha, in order to fulfil the man's overwhelming desire; could one of the younger monks perhaps return with them to show them the shortest way to the spot where the Master was at that moment to be found?
"The Master," answered the old man with the severe face, "is not in the Mango Grove, and we ourselves don't know where he is."
At the answer a despairing groan burst from Kamanita's wounded breast.
"But he certainly cannot be far from here," added the younger. "The Master sent the company of monks on ahead yesterday and pursued his journey alone. He arrived late, I expect, and sought quarters somewhere, probably in the suburbs. We are now on the way to look for him."
"Oh, seek diligently, find him," cried Kamanita.
"Even if we knew where the Master is, it would not be possible to carry this wounded man thither," said the stern monk. "For the shaking of the stretcher would soon render his condition so much worse that, even if he survived it, he would arrive in a dying condition, with a mind incapable of apprehending the words of the Master. Let him, however, take care of himself now, be treated by an experienced surgeon, and carefully tended, and there is always the Hope that he may so far recover strength as to be able to listen to the Master's words.
Kamanita, however, pointed impatiently to the stretcher—
"No time—dying—take me with you—see him—touch—die happy—with you—hurry!"
Shrugging his shoulders the monk turned to the younger brethren—
"This poor man holds the Supremely Perfect One to be an image, at whose touch one's sins are forgiven."
"He has gained faith in the Perfect One, Sariputta, even if he lacks the deeper understanding," said the other, and bent over the wounded man to ascertain what strength he still had; "perhaps we might risk it after all. I am sorry for the poor fellow, and I believe we could do nothing better for him than make the attempt."
A grateful look from the pilgrim rewarded him for his advocacy.
"As thou wilt, Ananda," answered Sariputta kindly.
At this moment there came striding past, from the direction in which Kamanita had also come, a potter who carried on his head a basket with all kinds of potter's wares. When he perceived the pilgrim Kamanita, whom they had just laid with great care, though not without causing him violent pain, upon the stretcher, he stopped, stricken with horror, and so suddenly that the dishes, piled one above another, came crashing down and were broken to pieces.
"God in heaven! what has happened here? That is the pious pilgrim who honoured my hall by spending the night there, in the company of a monk who wore a robe like that of these reverend men."
"Was that monk an aged man and of lofty stature?" asked Sariputta.
"He was, reverend sir—and he seemed to me to be not unlike thyself."
Then the monks knew that they did not need to seek longer—that the Master was in the house of the potter. For "the disciple who resembles the Master," was the description by which Sariputta was generally known.
"Is it possible?" said Ananda, glancing up from the wounded man, who, owing to the pain occasioned by his being lifted, had become all but unconscious, and had not noticed the arrival of the potter. "Is it possible that this poor man should have had the happiness for which he so longs, the whole night through, without in the least suspecting it?"
"That is the way of fools," said Sariputta. "But let us go. Now he can, of course, be brought along."
"One moment," called Ananda, "he has been overcome by the pain."
Indeed Kamanita's blank stare showed that he scarcely noticed what was passing around him. It began to grow dark before his eyes, but the long strip of morning sky, which showed between the high walls, nevertheless pierced to his consciousness, and may well have appeared to him like the Milky Way crossing the midnight sky. His lips moved.
"The Gunga," he murmured.
"His mind wanders," said Ananda.
Those standing next to Kamanita, who had heard what he said, interpreted it differently.
"He now wishes to be taken to the Gunga in order that the sacred waters may wash away his sins. But Mother Gunga is far from here—who could possibly carry him thither?"
"First to the Buddha, then the Gunga," murmured Sariputta, with the half-contemptuous pity the wise man bestows on the fool who, beyond the reach of help, falls out of one superstition into another.
Suddenly, however, Kamanita's eyes became wonderfully animated, a happy smile transfigured his face; he sought to raise himself. Ananda supported him.
"The heavenly Gunga," he whispered, with weak but happy voice, and pointed with his right hand to the strip of sky above his head "The heavenly Gunga! We swore—by its waves—Vasitthi"
His body quivered, blood gushed from his mouth, and he passed away in Ananda's arms.
Scarcely half an hour later Sariputta and Ananda, accompanied by the monks, entered the potter's hall, greeted the Master respectfully, and sat down by his side.
"Well, my dear Sariputta," asked the Master, after having given them a friendly greeting, "did the company of young monks under thy leadership reach the end of their long journey well and without accident? Didst thou have any lack of food, or medicine for the sick, by the way? And are the disciples happy and studious?"
"I am glad to be able to say, my reverend Master, that we lacked for nothing, and that the young monks, full of confidence and zeal, have but one desire, namely, to see the Master face to face. These noble youths, who know the word and profess the doctrine, I have brought with me, in order to present them without delay to the Master."
At these words three young monks arose and greeted the Master with folded hands—
"Hail, Master, the Perfect Buddha—hail!"
"Ye are welcome," said the Master, and invited them by a movement of his hand to be seated again.
"And didst thou, O Master, arrive after yesterday's journey without over-fatigue or other evil effects? And hast thou spent a passable night in this hall?"
"Even so, my Brother. I arrived at dusk, very tired it is true, but without other ill effects from my journey, and spent a fairly good night in the company of a stranger pilgrim."
"That pilgrim," began Sariputta, "has been robbed of his life in the streets of Rajagriha by a cow."
"And never dreaming with whom he had passed the night here," added Ananda, "his one desire was to be brought to the feet of the Master."
"Soon afterwards, to be sure, he demanded that he should be carried to the Gunga," remarked Sariputta.
"Not so, Brother Sariputta," Ananda corrected him; "for he spoke of the heavenly Gunga. With radiant countenance he recalled a vow, and, in doing so, uttered the name of a woman—Vasitthi, I believe—and so he died."
"The name of some woman on his lips he went hence," said Sariputta. "Where may he have entered again into existence?"
"Foolish, ye disciples, was the pilgrim Kamanita, as an unreasonable child. To this pilgrim, ye disciples, who went about in my name and wished to profess himself a follower of the doctrine of the Master, I expounded the doctrine fully, entering into every detail. And he took offence at the doctrine. The longings and aspirations of his heart were centred on bliss and heavenly joys. The pilgrim Kamanita, ye disciples, has entered again into existence in Sukhavati, in the Paradise of the West, there to enjoy the pleasures of heaven for thousands upon thousands of years."