After the Lord Buddha had ended his discourse, the pilgrim Kamanita remained sitting for a long time, silent and motionless, a prey to conflicting and sceptical thoughts. Finally he said: "Thou hast told me much of how the monk should in his lifetime make an end of suffering, but nothing whatever of what becomes of him when his body sinks in death and returns to its elements, except that from that time on neither men nor gods, nor even Nature herself sees him again. But of an eternal life of supreme happiness and heavenly bliss—of that I have heard nothing. Has the Master revealed nothing concerning it?"
"Even so, my brother, it is even so. The Master has revealed nothing concerning it."
"That is as much as to say that the Lord Buddha knows no more of this most important of all questions than I myself," replied Kamanita discontentedly.
"Dost thou think it to be so? Listen then, pilgrim. In that Sinsapa wood in the neighbourhood of Kosambi, where ye did swear—thou and thy Vasitthi—eternal fidelity and pledged yourselves to meet again in the Paradise of the West, the Lord Buddha at one time took up his abode. And the Lord Buddha came out of the wood, a bundle of Sinsapa leaves in his hand, and said to his disciples: "What think ye, O ye disciples, which are more numerous, these Sinsapa leaves which I have taken in my hand, or the other leaves yonder in the wood? And without taking much time to consider, they answered: "The leaves, Lord, which thou hast taken in thy hand are few, and far more numerous are the leaves yonder in the Sinsapa wood." "Even so also, O ye disciples," said the Master, "is that which I have discerned and not declared to you, greater in sum than that which I have declared. And why, O ye disciples, have I not declared everything? Because it is not salutary, is not in keeping with the ancient spirit of asceticism, and does not lead to the turning away from all earthly things, not to conversion from earthly lust, not to the final dissolution of all that is subject to change, not to perfect knowledge, not to Nirvana."
"If the Master spoke thus in the Sinsapa grove at Kosambi," answered Kamanita, "then the matter is probably ever more serious still. For in that case, he has certainly been silent on the point in order not to discourage, or, as might well happen, even terrify his disciples; as he certainly would, if he should reveal to them the final truth—namely, annihilation. This seems to me to result as a necessary consequence from what thou hast so plainly stated. For, after all the objects of the five senses and of thought have been denied and rejected as fleeting, as without any real existence, and as full of suffering, there remain as a matter of fact no powers by means of which we could grasp anything whatsoever. So I understand, O Reverend One, from the doctrine thou hast just expounded to me, that a monk who has freed himself from all impurity falls a victim to annihilation when his body dies, that he vanishes, and has no existence beyond death."
"Didst thou not say to me, pilgrim," then asked the Lord Buddha, "that thou wouldst sit within a month at the feet of the Master in the Grove of Jetavana near Sravasti?"
"I assuredly hope to do so, O Reverend One; why dost thou ask me?"
"Then, when thou dost sit at the feet of the Master, what dost thou think, my friend—is the physical form which thou wilt then see, which thou wilt be able to touch with thy hand—is that the Perfect One, dost thou look upon it as such?"
"I do not, O Reverend One."
"Perhaps, then, when the Master speaks to thee … the mind that then reveals itself, with its sensations, perceptions, ideas, is the Perfect One—dost thou so look upon it?"
"I do not, O Reverend One."
"Then it may be, my friend, that the body and the mind taken together are the Perfect One."
"I do not look upon them in that light, O Reverend One."
"Dost thou think, then, that the Perfect One exists apart from his body or from his mind, or mayhap from both? Is that thy view, my friend?"
"He is in so far apart from them, that his being is not fully comprehended in these elements."
"What elements or powers hast thou then, my friend, apart from those of the body with all its qualities of which we have become aware through the senses, and apart from those of the mind with all its sensations, perceptions, and ideas—what powers hast thou beyond these, by means of which thou canst fully apprehend what thou hast not yet apprehended in the being of the Perfect One?"
"Such further powers, O Reverend One, I must acknowledge I do not possess"
"Then even here, friend Kamanita, in the world of sense, the Perfect One is not, in truth, and in his very essence, to be apprehended by thee. Hast thou, then, a right to say that the Perfect One—or the monk who has freed himself from all impurity—is doomed to annihilation when his life ends, that he does not exist beyond death; and solely because thou art in possession of no powers by which thou canst, in truth, and in his very essence, apprehend him there?"
Questioned in such fashion, Kamanita sat for some time speechless, his body bent, his head bowed.
"Even if I have no right to make that assertion," he said finally, "it yet seems to me to be implied plainly enough in the silence of the Perfect One. For he certainly would not have maintained such a silence if he had had anything joyous to communicate, which would of course be the case if he knew that for the monk who had conquered suffering there remained after death not only not annihilation, but eternal and blessed life. Certain it is that such a communication could only serve as a spur to his disciples and be a help to them in all true effort."
"Dost thou think so, my friend? But how if the Perfect One had not pointed to the end of all suffering as the final goal—even as he also began with suffering in the beginning—but had set himself to extol an eternal and blessed life out beyond it and beyond this life of ours. Many of his disciples would assuredly have been delighted with the idea, would have clung to it eagerly, would have longed for its fulfilment with the passionate longing which disturbs all cheerfulness and serenity of thought; but would they not also have been involved unperceived in the meshes of the powerful net of Life's desire? And while clinging to a beyond for which of necessity they had to borrow all the colouring from this life, would they not, the more they pursued that Beyond, have but clung the more to the Present?
"Like the watch-dog that, bound to a post and trying to free himself, rushes in a circle round the post—even so those worthy disciples, out of sheer hatred for this life, would have rushed in an endless circle around it."
"Though I am certainly compelled to acknowledge this danger," was Kamanita's answer, "I yet hold that the other danger, the uncertainty evoked by silence, is by much the more dangerous, inasmuch as it cripples the energies from the very beginning. For how can the disciple be expected to exert himself with all his might, with decision, and courage, to overcome all suffering, if he doesn't know what is to follow, whether eternal bliss or non-existence?"
"My friend, what wouldst thou think in such a case as this? Let us say that a house is burning, and that the servant runs to waken his master: 'Get up, sir! Fly! the house is on fire. Already the rafters are burning and the roof is about to fall in!' Would the master be likely to answer, 'Go, my good fellow, and see whether there is rain and storm without, or whether it is a fine moonlit night. In the latter case we will betake ourselves outside?'"
"But how, O Reverend One, could the master give such an answer? For the servant had called to him in terror: 'Fly, sir! The house is on fire. Already the rafters are burning and the roof threatens to fall in.'"
"Of course the servant had called to him. But if, in spite of that, the master answered: 'Go, my good fellow, and see whether there is rain and storm without or whether it is a fine moonlit night. In the latter case we will betake ourselves outside,' wouldst thou not conclude from it that the master had not heard aright what his faithful servant had said—that the mortal danger which hung over his head had by no means become clear to him?"
"I should certainly have been forced to that conclusion, O Reverend One, as it would otherwise be unthinkable that the man could give such a foolish answer."
"Even so, pilgrim—therefore go thou also forth as if thy head were encompassed by flames, for thy house is on fire. And what house? The world! And set on fire by what flame? By the flame of desire, by the flame of hate, by the flame of delusion. The whole world is being consumed by flame, the whole world is enveloped in smoke, the whole world rocks to its foundations.
Addressed thus, the pilgrim Kamanita trembled as does a young buffalo when he hears for the first time the roar of the lion in the neighbouring thicket. With bent body, head sunk on his breast, his face suffused with burning colour, he sat for some time without uttering a word.
Then, in a gruff although somewhat tremulous voice, he made answer—
"It in no way pleases me, however, that the Master has revealed nothing concerning this matter, that is, if he was able to give any information which would have been full of promise—and even if he has been silent because what he knew was comfortless and terrifying, or because he knew absolutely nothing, I am no better pleased. For the thoughts and the efforts of human beings are directed towards happiness and pleasure, a tendency which has its foundation in Nature herself and cannot be otherwise. And in keeping with this is the following which I have heard from the lips of Brahman priests:—
"Let us suppose the case of a youth, capable, eager for knowledge, the quickest, strongest, most powerful of all youths, and that to him should belong the world with all its treasures. That would be a human joy. But a hundred human joys are but as one joy of the heavenly genii; and a hundred joys of the heavenly genii are but as one joy of the gods; and a hundred joys of the gods are but as one joy of the Indra; and a hundred joys of the Indra are but as one joy of the Prajapati; and a hundred joys of the Prajapati are but as one joy of the Brahman. This is the supreme joy, this is the path to the supreme joy."
"Yes, O pilgrim, just as if there stood there an inexperienced child, incapable of sensible reasoning. This child feels in his tooth a burning, boring, stabbing pain, and runs to an eminent and learned physician and pours out his troubles to him. 'I beg thee, honoured sir, to give me by thy skill, a feeling of blissful rapture in place of this pain at present in my tooth.' And the physician answers, 'My dear child, the sole aim of my skill is the removal of pain.' But the spoilt child begins to wail, 'Oh! I have so long endured a burning, stabbing, boring pain in my tooth; is it then not most reasonable that I should now enjoy in its stead a feeling of rapture, of delicious pleasure? And there do exist, as I have heard, learned and experienced physicians whose skill goes so far, and I believed that thou wert one of these.' And then this foolish child runs to a quack, a miracle-worker from the land of the Gandharer, a 'cheap Jack,' who causes the following announcement to be made by a town-crier to the accompaniment of drums and conches: 'Health is the greatest of all gifts, health is the goal of all men. Blooming, luxuriant health, a comfortable and blissful feeling in all one's members, in every vein and fibre of the body, such as the gods enjoy, even the sickliest can obtain by my help, at a very small cost.' To this miracle-worker the child runs and pours out his trouble: 'I beg thee, honoured sir, to give me by thy skill in place of this pain at present in my tooth, a feeling of comfort, of blissful rapture.'
"And the magician answers: 'My dear child, in doing just this very thing lies my skill.' After he has pocketed the money offered by the child, he touches the tooth with his finger and produces a magical effect, by means of which feeling of blissful pleasure drives out the pain. And the foolish child runs home overjoyed and supremely happy.
"After a short time, however, the feeling of pleasure gradually subsides and the pain returns. And why? Because the cause of the evil was not removed.
"But, O pilgrim, let us suppose that a reasonable man feels a burning, stabbing, boring pain in his tooth. And he goes to a learned and experienced physician and tells him of his trouble: 'I beg thee, honoured sir, by thy skill to free me from this pain.' And the physician answers: 'If thou, my friend, dost demand no more from me, I may safely trust my skill so far.' 'What could I ask for more,' replies the reasonable man. And the physician examines the tooth and finds the cause of the pain in an inflammation at its root. 'Go home, my friend, and have a leech put on this spot. When the leech has sucked itself full and falls off, then lay these herbs on the wound. By so doing, the matter and the impure blood will be removed and the pain will cease.' The reasonable man goes home and does as the physician bids him. And the pain goes and does not return, And why not? Because the cause of the evil has been removed."
Now when the Master, after ending his parable, ceased speaking, Kamanita sat, reduced to silence and sorely disturbed, his body bent, his head sunk on his breast, his countenance suffused with colour, without a word, while the anguished sweat dropped from his forehead and trickled down from his armpits. For did he not feel himself compared by this venerable teacher to a foolish child and made equal with one? And as he was unable in spite of his utmost efforts to find an answer, he was near to weeping.
Finally, when able to command his voice, he asked in a subdued tone: "Hast thou, Reverend Sir, all this from the mouth of the Master, of the perfect Buddha himself?"
It happens seldom that the perfect smile. But at this question a smile did play around the Master's lips.
"No, brother, I cannot say I have.""
When the pilgrim Kamanita heard this answer, he joyfully raised his bent body and, with glistening eye and reanimated voice, burst forth—
"Wasn't I sure of it! Oh, I knew for certain that this couldn't be the very doctrine of the Master himself, but rather thine own tortuous interpretation of it—an interpretation based altogether on misunderstanding. Is it not said that the doctrine of the Buddha is bliss in the beginning, bliss in the middle, and bliss in the end? But how could one say that of a doctrine which does not promise eternal and blessed life, full of supremest joy? However, in a few weeks I shall sit at the feet of the Master and receive the doctrine of salvation from his own lips, as a child draws sweet nourishment from its mother's breast. And thou also wilt be there, and, truly taught, wilt alter thy mistaken and destructive conception. But, look, those strips of moonlight have gone back almost to the threshold of the hall; it must be far into the night. Come, then, let us lay ourselves down to sleep?" "As thou wilt, brother," answered the Master kindly. And drawing his mantle more closely around him, he laid himself down on his mat in the posture of the lion, supporting himself on his right arm, his left foot resting on the right.
And having in mind the hour of awakening, he instantly fell asleep.