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IX. The Story of Visvantara - SE Quadrant, Upper Register, Reliefs 36 - 39 |
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THE JATAKAMALA The
Tigress |
Adapted from the 19th century translation by J. S Speyer To
cherish an affectionate wife and much-beloved children, One particularly popular story in both the Theravada and Mahayana traditions describes the Bodhisattva’s birth as Prince Visvantara (Vessantara in the Jataka of the Pali Canon) in the existence that immediately preceded the one in which the Sakyamuni attained enlightenment underneath the Bodhi Tree. The prince is the son of King Sanjaya of the Sibis, a name of potential significance as far as Borobudur is concerned. As we have previously seen, a King Sanjaya figures prominently in the first dated Javanese inscription, which commemorates the Hindu king’s installation of a linga at Candi Canggal in 732 CE. An 18th century Javanese text called the Carita Parahyangan says that Java’s own King Sanjaya had been a mighty conqueror who had subjugated kingdoms on the island of Sumatra and the Malay peninsula. According to this document, King Sanjaya gave the following advice to his son: "I request you not to follow my religion, because I am afraid of many people." (11) The Carita Parahyangan identifies Sanjaya's son as Rakai Panaraban, a name is very similar to one of the names that appears in the inscription commemorating the founding of the Buddhist temple of Kailasa in 778 CE. This remark had led some scholars to suggest that King Sanjaya’s son might have switched his religious affiliation because of his father's perception that the growing popularity of Buddhism among the island’s nobility would eventually lead to conflict if the kingdom’s next ruler was not a member of the Buddhist faith. “If the identification of Panaraban of the Carita Parahyangan with Panangkaran be admitted, at least as a working hypothesis, it would at once explain why he made a complete break with the past in religion, royal title and the script of his inscriptions.” (12) In the Jatakamala story of Prince Visvantara, however, it is the prince who comes into conflict with the people of the kingdom due to his practice of the paramita of great generosity. |
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Once the kingdom of the Sibis was ruled by a king named Sanjaya, who performed his royal duties in the right manner. Having entirely subdued his organs of sense, and possessing in a high degree the virtues of valor, discretion, and modesty, he was victorious and mighty. Thanks to the constant and strict observance he paid to the elders, he had mastered the essential contents of the three Vedas and of metaphysics. His good administration of justice was praised by his affectionate subjects, who loved the exercise of their different trades and duties, and enjoyed the benefits of security and peace. By the progress of his virtues he had gained the affection of Royal Felicity, who, like an honest woman, was faithful to him and not to be thought of by the other monarchs--just as a den kept by a lion is inaccessible to other animals. All such men as spent their labors in any kind of penance, science or art, used to come up to King Sanjaya, and if they proved their merit, they obtained distinguished honor from him. Next to King Sanjaya in dignity, but not his inferior due to his holding a famous set of virtues, his son Visvantara held the rank of heir-apparent. Though a youth, Visvantara possessed the lovely placidity of mind proper to old age; though he was full of ardor, his natural disposition was inclined to forbearance; though learned, he was free from the conceit of knowledge; though mighty and illustrious, he was void of pride. As the extent of his virtue was conspicuous in all regions his fame penetrated the three worlds. There was no room for the feeble and trifling reputations of others because it seemed as if they did not venture to show themselves. Visvantara could not endure the proud prevalence of calamities and other causes of sufferings among mankind. It was against these foes that he waged war and fought in battle, shooting from his large bow of compassion numberless arrows which had the form of charitable gifts. Visvantara was wont to fill day after day by giving without difficulty to the mendicants who happened to come before him. The mendicants were filled with the utmost gladness by his bounties, which surpassed the objects asked for. Furthermore, the gifts were all the more lovely because they were bestowed with deference and kind words. On the Sabbath days, however, owing to his strict observance of the restrictions and the quiet of the holy days, Visvantara--after bathing his head and putting on a white linen dress--would mount his excellent, well-trained, swift, and vigorous elephant. Owing to his color and size, this mighty elephant might be compared to a peak of the Snow-mountain. His face was adorned with the tracks of the juice flowing in rutting-time, and on his body auspicious marks were to be found. Sitting, then, on the back of that far-famed scent-elephant and royal vehicle, Visvantara was in the habit of making the round of his alms-halls, which he had established in all parts of the town to be like refreshing wells for the mendicants. So going about, he experienced an excessive gladness. No opulence, in truth, within doors procures to a charitable man such rejoicing, as it produces when transferred to the mendicants. Now his very great practice of charity being proclaimed everywhere by the rejoiced mendicants, some neighboring king who had heard of it, considered that it would be possible to deceive the young prince by means of his passion for almsgiving. That king directed some Brahmans to serve as his emissaries for the purpose of robbing Visvantara of that excellent elephant. (13) |
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The Brahmans spoke: "Both the excellent qualities of this elephant of yours, who has so graceful a gait, and thy heroic love of charity make us like beggars. Present us with this white elephant, who is like a peak of the Kailasa mountain, and thou wilt fill the world with astonishment." The Bodhisattva being thus addressed, was filled with sincere joy and entered upon this reflection: "Truly, after a long time I now see mendicants requesting a grand boon. But, after all, what may be the want of such a lord of elephants to these Brahmans? No doubt, this must be a miserable trick of some king, whose mind is troubled with covetousness, jealousy, and hatred. But since that monarch--without minding either his reputation or the precepts of righteousness--is eager, as it were, to promote my good, must not be saddened by disappointment." Having thus considered, the Great-Minded One alighted from the back of that excellent elephant and stood before those Brahmans with an uplifted golden pitcher. Then he pronounced the solemn formula: "Accept." Although Visvantara knew that the science of politics follows the path of Righteousness (dharma) only as far as it may agree with material interest (artha), he nonetheless gave away his foremost elephant for his attachment to Righteousness did not allow him to be frightened by the lies of political wisdom. Having given away that lord of elephants--who was adorned with a lovely golden lattice-seat on his back and so resembled a massy cloud of autumn, radiant with a flash of lightning--the royal prince obtained the utmost delight. The citizens, however, were stricken with consternation, for they were adherents to the rules of political wisdom. In fact, when the Sibis heard of Visvantara's gift of that lord of elephants, they allowed anger and wrath to penetrate their minds. The eldest of the kingdom's Brahmans, the ministers, the warriors, and the chiefs of the townsmen, made a great commotion as they entered the presence of king Sanjaya. Owing to their agitation, resentment, and anger, they neglected to observe the restraint imposed on them by due respect to their monarch, and spoke: "Why do you overlook this matter, Your Majesty, while the fortune of your kingdom is being carried off? In making this oversight, Your Majesty, you are fostering the misfortune of your realm." Becoming alarmed, the king asked his subjects what they meant by this. They replied: "Why, are you not aware of what has happened, Your Majesty? That splendid animal--whose face, being fragrant with the scent of the flowing juice, intoxicates crowds of the humming bees that hover about, and likewise impregnates the cherishing wind with its perfume, so as to induce him to wipe off gladly and easily the smell caught from the fluid of other haughty elephants; that war-elephant, whose brilliant vigor subdued the strength and the power of your enemies and abated their pride even unto the motionlessness of sleep--see, that embodied victory has been given away by Visvantara and is now being carried off abroad. "Kine, gold, clothes, eatables, these are the goods that are fit gifts for Brahmans. But your son's parting with our foremost elephant--that pledge of glorious victory--is an excess of charity, and goes too far. How should success and might ever join this prince who acts up to this point contrary to the maxims of policy? In this matter forbearance from your side is out of place, Your Majesty, lest he should before long afford a reason for your enemies to rejoice." Upon hearing their complaint, the king's love for his son did not allow the monarch to feel kindly disposed towards his complaining subjects. But submitting to necessity, the king nonetheless told them hastily that they were right. Sanjaya thereafter attempted to appease the Sibis with these words: "I know," King Sanjaya said, "that Visvantara indulges in a disproportionate passion for charity so as to neglect for it the rules of political wisdom, which is a behavior that is not suitable for a person appointed to the royal charge. But as he has resigned his own elephant as if it were phlegm, who now will bring back that animal? Nevertheless, I shall take such measures that are appropriate to let Visvantara know that there but be a limit to his almsgiving. This may suffice to appease your anger." The Sibis answered: "No, Your Majesty, this will not do. Visvantara is no person to be brought to reason in this matter by means of simple censure." "But what else can I do?" replied King Sanjaya. "He is averse to sinful actions, only his attachment to virtuous practices is turning into a kind of passion. Why should you then deem the infliction of imprisonment or death upon my own son to be the due requital for that elephant? Therefore, desist from your wrath! Henceforward I will prevent Visvantara from undertaking such actions." Notwithstanding this, the Sibis persisted in their anger and said: "Who would be pleased, 0 king, with having the pain of death, imprisonment, or flogging pronounced upon your son? But being devoted to his religious duties and due to his tenderness of heart and compassion, Visvantara is not fit to be a bearer of the troublesome burden of royalty. Let the throne be occupied by such princes as have obtained renown for their martial qualities and are skilled in the art of giving its due to each of the three members of the trivarga. As for your son Visvantara, however, who in consequence of his love of Righteousness (dharma) does not heed Policy, he is a proper person for dwelling in a penance-grove. "Surely, if princes commit faults of bad policy, then the results of those faults will surely fall on their subjects, who will find these results bearable for that, after all, is what experience teaches. But the same cannot be said for the kings themselves whose very roots of power are thereby undermined. Why, then, here say too much? Not capable of conniving at a state of things which must lead to the ruin of Your Majesty, the Sibis have arrived at this resolution. The royal prince must withdraw to Mount Vanka, the residence of the Siddhas. It is there that he may exert his penance." Having had those dignataries address him in very harsh and frank terms for his own good, King Sanjaya was moved by their affection and love. Then foreseeing the calamities to be expected from bad policy, the ruler of the Sibis felt shame at having received the wrath of the chiefs of his people. So with downcast eyes and with a heart overwhelmed by the sorrow of impending separation from his son, King Sanjaya heaved a deep, woeful sigh, and said to the Sibis: "If this is your peremptory decision, allow him, at least, the delay of one day and a night. Tomorrow at day-break Visvantara shall accomplish your desire." Having satisfied the Sibis with this answer, the King said to his chamberlain: "Go and tell Visvantara what has happened." |
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With his face bathed in tears, the chamberlain went to Visvantara's palace. Overwhelmed by sorrow and weeping aloud, the chamberlain threw himself at the feet of the prince, which cause Visvantara to anxiously inquire after the health of the royal family. the other said "0, the royal family is well," answered the chamberlain in a voice that was rather indistinct. "But why are you thus excited, then?" replied Visvantara. Slowly and in a faltering tone, the chamberlain uttered the following words, which were interrupted by halting sobs and torrents of tears: "Brusquely disregarding the royal command, though it was declared to them in gentle terms, the Sibis, moved by anger, order you to be banished from the kingdom, my prince." Utterly surprised, Virvantara said: "Me....the Sibis....ordered to be banished, moved by anger! What you say is out of all reason. Never did I take delight in leaving the path of discipline, and I detest carelessness about my duties. What evil action of mine, unknown to me, makes the Sibis so angry with me?" "They are offended at your Acceding loftiness of mind," replied the chamberlain. "Your satisfaction was pure by the disinterested feeling you experienced, but that of those mendicants was troubled by cupidity. When you gave away that foremost of elephants, 0 most noble prince, wrath put the Sibis out of patience and caused them to transgress the limits of their duty and so they are now furiously opposed to you, who must go and follow the way of those who live as ascetics." Upon receiving the news, the Bodhisattva displayed both his deeply-rooted affection for the mendicants which his continuous practice of compassion had firmly established, and his grand, immense patience by sayng the following: "The nature of the Sibis is fickle, and they cannot understand mine, it seems. The objects of sense being outside of ourselves, it is superfluous to say that I would give away my eyes or my head. "For the benefit of the creatures I support this body, how much more the possession of clothes and vehicles. Me, wanting to honor the requests of the mendicants, if need be, with my own limbs, the Sibis believe to restrain from charity by fear! So considering, they do but unfold their foolish fickleness of mind. Let all Sibis kill me or banish me. I shall not desist from charity for that reason. With this mind I am ready to set out for the penance-grove." The Bodhisattva turned to his wife, who had turned pale after hearing the sad news, and said: "Your Highness has heard the resolution of the Sibis." Madri replied: "I have." Visvantara said: "Now make a deposit, fair-eyed one, of all your property, taking what you have got from my part as well as from your father's side." Madri answered: "Where shall I lay the deposit, my prince?" "You must always give in charity to people of good conduct, embellishing your bounty by kind observance," answered Visvantara. "Goods deposited in this manner are imperishable and follow us after death. Be a loving daughter to your parents-in-law, a careful mother to our children. Continue in pious conduct, beware of inadvertence; but do not mourn for my absence, will you?" Avoiding what might impair the firmness of mind of her husband, Madri suppressed the deep sorrow that resided in her anguished heart, and said with feigned calmness: "It is not right, Your Majesty, that you should go to the forest alone. I too will go where you must go, my Lord, for living without you is something that I deem to be worse than death. But when attending on you, even death will be a festival to me. Nor do I think the forest-life to be unpleasant at all. "Do but consider it well. Removed from wicked people, haunted by deer, resounding with the warbling of manifold birds, the penance-groves with their rivulets and trees both intact, with grass-plots that have the loveliness of inlaid lapis lazuli floors, are by far more pleasing than our artificial gardens. Indeed, my prince, when beholding our children neatly dressed and adorned with garlands and playing in the wild shrubs, you will not have cause to think of losing your royalty. "The water-carrying brooks, overhung by natural bowers of perpetually renewed beauty that varies according to the succession of the seasons, will delight you in the forest. The melodious music of the songs of birds that long for the pleasure of love, the dances of the peacocks whom Lasciviousness has taught that art, the sweet and praising buzz of the honey-seeking bees--together these sounds make a forest-concert that will rejoice your mind. "Furthermore, consider how a silken garment of moonlight overspreads the rocks at night as winds impregnated with the scent of flowering trees softly-stroke the forest and rivulets push their waters over moving gravel, thereby making a murmuring noise that imitates the sound of rattling female ornaments. All these things gladden the hearts of those who reside in the forest." The entreaties of his beloved wife Madri filled Visvantara with a great desire to set out for the forest. In preparation for his departure, the prince became occupied in the bestowal of great largess upon the mendicant people. In the king's palace, however, the news of Visvantara's banishment caused alarm and the production of violent lamentations. Likewise the mendicants, agitated by sorrow and grief, became almost beside themselves. Behaving as if they were intoxicated or mad, they uttered lamentations of the following kind: "How is it that Earth does not feel ashamed, permitting the hatchets to hew down that shady tree, her foster-child, the giver of such sweet fruits? It is now plain she has been deprived of consciousness." "If no one will prevent those who are about to destroy that well of cold, pure, and sweet water, then in truth the guardians of the world-quarters are falsely named so, or they are absent, or they are nothing but a mere sound." "Oh! Indeed Injustice is awake and Righteousness either asleep or dead, since Prince Visvantara is banished from his reign. Who possesses such a refined skill in occasioning distress, as to have the cruelty to aim at starving us, the guiltless, who obtain a scanty livelihood by begging?" The Bodhisattva then gave away his wealth. He bestowed on the mendicants the contents of his treasury, filled to the very top with precious stones, gold, and silver having the value of many hundred thousands. He emptied his magazines and granaries--which contained stores of manifold goods and grains--and disposed of all his other property, including slaves of both sexes, beasts of draught, carriages, and the like. The whole of his wealth he distributed according to the merit of the recipients. This being done, Visvantara paid respectful homage to his father and mother, thereafter taking his leave of those who were overwhelmed with sadness and grief. Then together with his wife and children, he mounted his royal chariot and left the capital as a great body of people uttered lamentations. The capital's streets were as noisy as on a holiday. The prince bade the tearful crowd of those who followed him out of affection to turn back. Then the prince took the chariot's reins are drove in the direction of Mount Vanka. Without the least agitation of mind, he passed along the environs of the capital that were crowned with charming gardens and groves. As the chariot approached the forest, the rarity of shady trees and human beings gradually increased. Flocks of antelopes could be seen running at a far distance and the chirping of crickets filled the family's ears. |
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By chance a group of Brahmans appeared and begged for the horses that were drawing the prince's chariot. Though on a journey of many leagues without attendants, and although burdened with his wife and children, Visvantara gave his four horses to these Brahmans, rejoicing at this opportunity of giving and without caring for the future. As the Bodhisattva was fastening the girth of the harness tightly round his waist in preparation to place himself in service under the chariot's yoke, there appeared four young Yakshas in the form of red deer. Like well-trained excellent horses they put their shoulders under the yoke themselves. Upon seeing them, Madri stared at them with joy and surprise and Visvantara uttered the following words: "Behold the extraordinary might of the penance-groves honored by the residence of ascetics. Their kindness towards guests has in this degree taken root in the breast of the foremost of deer." "This is rather due to your superhuman power, I suppose," replied Madri. "The practice of virtue by the pious, however deeply rooted, is not the same with respect to everyone else. When the beautiful reflection of the stars in the water is surpassed by the laughing luster of the night-water lilies, the cause thereof is to be found in the beams which the Moon-god sends down as if out of curiosity." The prince and princess continued to speak kind words of affection to each other as they continued onward in their journey to Mount Vanka. Then another Brahman came near and asked the Bodhisattva for his royal chariot. Although indifferent to his own comfort, Visvantara ever was ready to be a loving kinsman to the beggars. And so he gladly fulfilled that Brahman's wish. Asking his family to alight from the chariot, he presented the Brahman with that chariot. Then taking Galin, his boy, in his arms, he continued on foot. Free from sadness, Madri took the girl Krishnagina in her arms and marched after her dear husband. The trees of the forest beckoned to Visvantara through the movement of branches that were adorned with charming fruits. Inviting the prince to enjoy their hospitality, they paid homage to his merit-obtained dignity by bowing to him like obedient disciples as soon as they obtained the sight of him. Where the prince longed for water, in those very places lotus-ponds appeared before his eyes that were covered on their surface with the white and reddish-brown pollen that had fallen down from the anthers of lotuses shaken by the wing-movements of swans. The clouds overspread him with a beautiful canopy and an agreeable and odoriferous wind blew in his direction. Furthermore, his path to Mount Vanka was foreshortened by the performance of the Yaksha who masqueraded as the red deer who saved the prince from enduring an exhausting performance. In this manner the Bodhisattva, together with his wife and children, experienced the pleasure and the delight of a walk without feeling the sensation of weariness as if he were in some park. At last Visvantara perceived Mount Vanka. After being shown the way by some foresters, he went up to the penance-forest on that mountain, which was beset with manifold charming and smooth-barked, excellent trees bearing ornaments of twigs, flowers, and fruit. Here the forest resounded with the various notes of birds exulting with lust. Its beauty was further enhanced by groups of dancing peacocks as well as the presence of many kind of deer. Moreover, the wind had sprinkled red flower-dust over the entire area, which was encircled by the river of pure, blue water that served as its girdle. At the center of the penance-grove stood a desert hut of leaves that was both lovely to behold and pleasing in every season. The divine architect Visvakarman himself had built it by the order of the Lord of the Devas, Sakra. The Bodhisattva, together with his family, took this place as their residence. Attended by his beloved wife, Visvantara enjoyed the artless and sweet talk of his children. Not thinking of the cares of royalty as if here were one ensconced in his own gardens, he practiced in that grove strong penance for half a year. |
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One day after the princess had gone out in search of roots and fruit, and as the prince kept watch over the children as they played within the borders of the hermitage, there arrived a Brahman whose feet and ankles were stiff with the dust of his journey. That Brahman, whose eyes and cheeks were sunken by toil, carried a wooden club over his shoulder, from which a water pot hung down. That Brahman's wife had dispatched him with the pressing errand of searching after attendants for their household. The Bodhisattva's heart rejoiced and his countenance began to beam at the sight of a mendicant's approach after having been deprived of the opportunity of bestowing gifts for such a long time. Venturing forth to meet the visitor, Visvantara welcomed his new guest with kind words. After engaging in the usual complimentary conversation, Visvantara invited the Brahman to enter the hermitage so that he might entertained that Brahman with the honor due to a guest. When the prince asked the Brahman the object of his coming, the guest, who had banished all virtue and shame out of his fondness for his own wife, uttered the following words out of an eagerness to receive his long-sought boon: "Where a light is and an even road, there it is easy for men to go," said the Brahman. "But in this world the darkness of selfishness prevails to such a degree that no other men would support my words of request. Thy brilliant renown of heroic almsgiving has penetrated everywhere. For this reason I have undertaken this labor of begging from thee. Give me both thy children to be my attendants." Being so addressed, the Bodhisattva--that Great Being who was in the habit of cheerfully giving to mendicants never before having learned to say no--bravely said that he would give even both of his darling children. "Bless thee!" said the Brahman. "But what art thou still waiting for?" he further urged the Great Being. Now the children, having overheard their father to say that he would be giving them away, became afflicted with eyes full of tears. Although his affection for his own children agitated him and made his heart sink, the Bodhisattva continued in his resolve: "They are yours, being given by me to thee. But their mother is not at home as she has gone out to the forest in search of roots and fruit. As she will be returning at evening-time, let the children remain until then so that their mother may see them once more neatly dressed as they are and bearing wreaths, and kiss them farewell. So pray rest this night here and then carry them away tomorrow." "Thy Reverence ought not to so urge me," replied the Brahman. "The metaphorical name of women is 'beautiful charmers,' as you well know. She might prove a hindrance to the fulfillment of thy promise. Therefore I do not wish to stay here this night." "Do not think of that," replied the Bodhisattva. "My wife will not obstruct the fulfillment of my promise. She is, in fact, the companion in pious practice. But you may do as you please. Yet, great Brahman, you should consider this: How should these children satisfy your wants through slave-work? Very young and weak, they have never been accustomed to such occupations. However, their grandfather, the king of Sibi, would doubtlessly redeem them from a state of bondage by giving you as much money as you desire. Well, for this reason I pray that you will take them to his realm. For by acting in this manner, you will obtain the possession of great wealth and at the same time follow the path of righteousness." "No," said the Brahman. "I will not venture to come to this king with an offer which would excite his anger. Like a snake, he would be unapproachable. He would undoubtedly have the children torn from me by force, perhaps even inflicting punishment upon me. I shall bring them rather to my wife so that they may attend upon her." Upon this the Bodhisattva said nothing but "Then as you wish..." without finishing his sentence. Visvantara then instructed the little ones with persuasive words how they had to act in accordance with their new condition as servants. Then he took up the water pot and bent it over the outstretched hands of the Brahman, who was greedy to accept this ratification of the gift. Yielding to Visvantara's effort, the water poured down from the pot. And at the same time tears fell without effort from the prince's eyes, which resembled dark red lotus-petals. Overjoyed with success and agitated by excitement, the Brahman uttered a short phrase of benediction. Then in haste to carry off the Bodhisattva's children, the Brahman harshly commanding the boy and girl to go out and prepare to leave the hermitage. The children, however, could not bear the intense grief of the thought of separation from their parents. As their hearts shrunk together, they embraced the feet of their father. With tear-streaked faces, they exclaimed: "Mother is out of doors, while you are about to give us away. Do not give us away before we have bidden her adieu." "The mother will return erelong, or it is likely that his paternal love will make him repent," reflected the Brahman. Thus considering, he tied each child's hands like a bundle of lotuses with a creeper. Reluctant to depart, the children looked back at their father. But as the Brahman began to drag those young and delicate children along with him, he threatened them with punishment. The girl Krishnagina, having never before experienced such a sudden calamity, tearfully cried out to her father: "This cruel Brahman, my father, hurts me with a creeper. No, it is no Brahman, to be sure, for they say that Brahmans are righteous. No, this must be a Rashasa who has assumed the guise of a Brahman for the purpose of carrying us off for his evening meal. Why do you suffer us, O father, to be led away by this monster?" Lamenting on account of his mother, the boy Galin said: "I do not suffer so much from the violence of this Brahman. "It is due to the absence of my mother that my heart is now pierced by the grief of not seeing her. Oh! certainly, mother will long weep for us in an empty hermitage, as if she were a kataka bird whose little ones had been killed. How will mother behave, after coming back with the roots and fruit of the forest that she has gathered for us to eat, to find the hermitage empty? "Here, father, are our toy horses, elephants, and chariots. Half of these you must give to mother, so that they might in some small measure assuage her grief. You must also present to her our respectful salutations and withhold her from afflicting herself with grief, for it will be difficult for us, father, to see you and her ever again. "Come, Krishnagina, let us die. Of what use is life to us? We have been delivered by the prince to a Brahman who is in want of money." After so speaking the children and the Brahman parted. Although his mind was shaken by the most piteous laments of his children, the Bodhisattva did not move from the place where he was sitting. While representing to himself that it would not be right to repent having thus given, his heart burned with the fire of irremediable grief. Moreover, his mind became troubled as though were paralyzed by the torpor induced by a poison. However, the fanning of the cool wind soon made him recover his senses. Seeing that noiseless and silent hermitage now devoid of his children, he said to himself in a voice choked with tears: "How is it possible that this man did not scruple to strike my very heart before my very eyes in my children? 0, fie on that shameless Brahman! How may my children be capable of making the forthcoming journey, bare-foot and unable to bear fatigue by reason of their tender age, and having become the unwilling servants to that man? Who will afford rest to them, when they are way-worn and exhausted? When vexed by the suffering of hunger and thirst, to whom shall they go for sustenance? If this sorrow strikes even me, an earnest striver after firmness of mind, then what shall be the condition of such little ones who have been brought up in total ease?" "Oh! This separation from my children is, to my mind, like a burning fire.... Nevertheless, who, having held on to the righteous conduct of the virtuous, would ever give way to repentance?" |
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In the meanwhile, Madri's mind had been troubled by ill omens and the foretokens of some accident as she had gathered roots and fruit in the forest. Although desirous of returning home as soon as possible, her way had been obstructed by ferocious animals, forcing her to return to the hermitage by a long circuitous path. When she failed to see her children upon making the return journey homeward her mind became greatly disturbed for they always came out to greet her. Not seeing them in the playground, her uneasiness grew even stronger. Apprehending evil because of having experienced dreadful sensations of danger earlier, she became agitated and anxious. After looking around for the sight of them, she called out. Receiving no answer, she began to lament in her grief. "Formerly the hermitage--resounding with the shouts of my children--appeared to me a much-frequented region. But as I now fail to perceive their presence, I feel the helplessness of one who is lost in a wilderness. But perhaps they have fallen asleep and are slumbering somewhere after tiring of their playing. Or perhaps they have gone astray in the thicket. Or might they be childishly hiding because they are displeased that I was so long in coming home? "But why are yonder birds not warbling? Did they perhaps witness some mischief that has been performed upon my children? Can it be that my darlings have been carried away by that very rapid stream, which eagerly pushes forth such dashing waves? Oh! May my suspicions prove to be groundless and false even now, and the prince and the children are well! Oh! May the evil foreboding prognostics that I have felt find their fulfillment on my own body, not theirs! "But why then is my heart so full of sadness on their account? Why has a night of sorrow enwrapped this heart as if it were about to sink away? Why is it that my own limbs seem to slacken, now that I am no more able to discern the objects around me? Why does this grove, now deprived of its luster, seem to spin round and round?" Having entered the hermitage-ground and after putting aside her roots and fruits, Madri went up to her husband. After performing the usual salutation, she inquired of Visvantara concerning the children's whereabouts. The Bodhisattva, knowing the tenderness of a mother's love for her children and also considering that bad news is hard to be told, was unable to reply. It is a very difficult matter for a pitiful man, indeed, to torment with evil tidings the mind of one who has come to him and deserves to hear pleasant words. Then Madri thought: "Surely, some illness has befallen the children. His silence must be the effect of his being overwhelmed by grief and sadness." Almost stricken with stupor, she stared about the hermitage but saw no evidence of her children's presence. Again she spoke in a voice smothered by tears: "I do not see the children, and you do not speak anything to me! Alas! I am wretched, I am forlorn. This silence bespeaks of some great evil." No sooner had she said these words, she sank down like a creeper violently cut off, overpowered by the sorrow that tortured her heart. Preventing her from falling to the ground, the Bodhisattva wrapped his arms round Madri and carried her to a grass couch. After he had sprinkled his wife with cold water, she at last recovered her senses. Endeavoring to comfort her, he said: "I have not told you the sad news straightway, Madri, for firmness is not to be expected of a mind rendered weak by affection. See, a Brahman suffering from old age and poverty has come to me. To him I have given both children. Be appeased and do not mourn. "Look at me, Madri, do not look for the children, nor indulge in lamentations. Do not strike anew my heart, still pierced by the dart of sorrow on account of the children. When asked for my life, should I ever be able to withhold it? Take this into account, my love, and approve this gift I have made of the children." After having entertained the suspicion that her children had died, the news that they were still living allowed Madri to recover from her earlier fright and affliction. Wiping away her tears with the object of comforting and strengthening her husband, she looked up and beheld something that made her cry out with amazement: "A wonder! A wonder! To say it in a few words. Surely, even the Celestials are wrapped in admiration at your heart even now being inaccessible to harboring selfish feelings. This is evident from the sounds of the divine drums, which are now echoing forth in all directions. It is in order to celebrate your glory, that Heaven has composed the hymn that it now pronounces in a distinct language that can be heard from afar. "The very Earth shakes, trembling, I suppose, from exultation, as is indicated by the heaving of her breasts, the huge mountains. The golden flowers falling down from heaven, make the sky appear as if it were illuminated by lightning. Leave aside, then, all grief and sadness. That which you have given away in charity must rather tend to brighten up your mind. Become again the well that affords benefit to the creatures and be a giver as before!" Now the lord of mountains Sumeru, radiant with the luster of its manifold gems, began to waver. Inquiring into the cause of the earthquake, Sakra--the Lord of the Devas--was informed of it by the regents of the world's four quarters. With eyes expanded with amazement, they told him that the trembling of Sumeru had been caused by Visvantara act of giving away his own children. Excited with joy and surprise, Sakra entered the presence of Visvantara the next day at the time of sunrise. Feigning to be a Brahman, Sakra approached the prince as if he were a mendicant. After rendering the hospitality due to a guest, the Bodhisattva asked the mendicant to bring forth his request. In reply, Sakra begged for Visvantara's own wife with the following words: "The practice of almsgiving in virtuous persons comes as little to its end as the water in great lakes dries up. For this reason I ask thee for that woman there who is looks as if she were a deity. Her, thy wife, give to me, I pray thee." Without losing his firmness of mind, the Bodhisattva promised to give her to the mendicant. Then taking Madri's hand with his left hand and while holding the water pot with his right, Visvantara poured water down upon the mendicant's hand to affirm his pledge, while denying entry to his heart of the Love-god's fire of grief. No anger arose in Madri's breast, nor did she weep, for she well knew her own husband's true nature. While she kept her eyes fixed on him, she stood as if she were an image, stupefied by the excessive heaviness of this fresh burden of suffering. On beholding this, Sakra, the Lord of the Devas, affected with the utmost admiration, magnified the Great Being with these words: "Oh! The wide distance which separates the conduct of the righteous and that of the impious! How will those who have not purified their hearts be even capable of believing such a great performance of one who cherishes an affectionate wife and much-beloved children, and yet willingly gives them up in observance of a self-imposed vow of detachment. "Is it possible to conceive any loftiness like this? When your glory is spread throughout the world by the tales of those who are enthusiastic about your virtues, the brilliant reputations of others will disappear, beyond doubt, just as the other luminance of the planets ever dissolve in the splendor of the sunlight. Even now this superhuman fact of your is being praised and approved by the Yakshas, the Gandharvas, the snakes, and by the Devas, Sakra included." After so speaking, Sakra reassumed his own brilliant figure and made himself known to the Bodhisattva. After doing so, he said: "To thee I now give back your wife Madri. Where else should moonbeams stay but with the Moon? Nor should you be anxious about the separation from your son and daughter, nor grieve over the loss of your royal dignity. Ere long your father will come to you, accompanied by both children. Providing his kingdom with a protector, that king has reestablish you in your former high rank." Having said these words, Sakra disappeared on the spot. In consequence of Sakra's power, the wayward Brahman was induced to bring the Bodhisattva's children to the very land of Sibi. When the Sibi people and King Sanjaya heard of the Bodhisattva's performance of the greatest compassion, so hard to be performed by others, their hearts became soft with tenderness. After having redeeming the children from the hands of the Brahman, King Sanjaya obtained the Sibi people's pardon of Visvantara, who thereafter was led back to the kingdom and reinstated in his royal dignity. In this way, then, the behavior of a Bodhisattva is exceedingly marvelous. For this reason such distinguished beings as strive for that state must not be despised or hindered. This story is also to be adduced, when discoursing on the Tathagata and when treating of listening with attention to the preaching of the Law. |
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(11) Glimpses of Early Indo-Indonesian Culture by Himansu Bhusan Sarkar, p. 96-97. (12) Glimpses of Early Indo-Indonesian Culture by Himansu Bhusan Sarkar, p. 97. (13) According to the Pali rendition of this Jataka, the neighboring king is located in the kingdom of Kalinga, originally a kingdom in India but also a name that the Chinese later used call a kingdom located on the island of Java (Ho-ling). |
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