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For August 2007

Sūtra Extract.

The Bhadramāyākāravyākaran – page 98

……to apply oneself, even if in a small degree, [to accumulate] the store of merits, unceasingly and uninterruptedly, to strive to afford profit to others.

Stories from the Old Silk Road.

Introduction

          Most of these stories have been drawn from the tales contained in Buddhist sūtra texts.  Others come from collections of legends in Chinese and Indian popular literature, e.g. items 3 and 9 or from ancient commentaries on canonical material, e.g. items 2 and 5.  All of them travelled along the Old Silk Road which ran between China and north-west India and through central Asia during the first 500 years CE.  They travelled along the route either as written texts being carried into china from India by Buddhist monk teachers, or in the heads of Buddhist sūtra specialists who were en-route to china to avoid repeated invasions by the nomad hordes which ravaged their homeland.
          In the course of time these stories became the stock-in-trade of itinerant storytellers, who journeyed with the caravans in both directions.  They would entertain the travellers by re-telling tales of this kind around the camp fires in the desert wilderness or in the caravanserais.
          Of course, when the tales were told by the storytellers they would be shorn of their scriptural context (unless told by monks) and the details would be embellished and embroidered in time-honoured fashion.  Although the essential point of the story was rarely lost in the telling.
          Such is the case here.  All the stories in this collection were related in popular fashion to members of the London or Luton Zen Centre, and also to assemblies of the Buddhist Society’s summers schools during the period 1980 to 1990.  Such traditional story telling continued to be given, by request, when this writer visits the Luton Zen Centre, up to the present time.
          Apart from the traditional mix of a hero’s exploits and of wondrous events, these stories display an extraordinary degree of warmth and humour, e.g. in items 2, 3, 5 and 21.  It needs to be stressed that such humour is not part of the customary embellishment; it is an integral part of the original scriptural text.  Humour of this kind in scripture is rarely to be found in the major religions other than Buddhism.
          There is not particular sequence to this collection of stories, except for stories numbers 12 and 13.  They have been taken at random from the sources and strung together much as an ancient storyteller would.
          It is to be hoped that the reader will derive as much pleasure and gentle instruction from these stories as this writer did when finding them and re-telling them to others.

Eric Cheetham, June 2005 ©

3

(No. 3 of the original sequence from Eric Cheetham’s Book).

The Exploits and Punishment of The Arhat Bharadvaja Pindola.

The famous – and famously pious – Buddhist emperor, Asoka, reigned in India some two hundred years after the death of the Lord Buddha. It was Asoka’s religious practice to make large gifts to the monks and nuns, especially those in his capital city, Pataliputra. And on the great Buddhist festival days, the lay people too, gave food and clothing and medicine to their religious brethren, in devout imitation of this good king.

On one such festival day, Pataliputra was crowded with people bringing these gifts, and with monks and nuns drawn to the city from every corner of the realm. After all, Asoka’s generosity was legendary – he usually gave enormous quantities of gold and silver! Indeed, so many came that only the most eminent waited within the main monastery where the emperor would pay his respects to Yasas, the chief abbot.

Asoka proceeded through the streets in solemn grandeur, accompanied by all the trappings of a state occasion. His subjects were thus instructed in his pious devotion to the Buddha’s Dharma and encouraged to follow his example. He made his way to the monastery and into the central shrine, now filled with all the senior monks of the city.

At the end of the shrine room was a raised dais bearing the great chair, the high throne of the chief abbot. As Asoka approached with reverent step, he saw the throne empty and Yasas standing to one side. Suppressing his curiosity for the moment, the emperor bowed to the abbot, accepted his greetings and said all the expected things before finally asking, “Yasas, why are you standing today? Why is the high throne empty?”

“Because,” said Yasas, “one far more eminent than myself is coming here today to meet you majesty.”

Of course Askoka replied, “I know of no one in this empire more eminent than yourself, Yasas. Of whom can you possibly be speaking?”

“We are expecting the arrival of the great Arhat, Pindola,” said Yasas. “He was one of the thirty-six direct disciples of the Lord Buddha during his lifetime.”

Asoka thought about this for a moment. “But, Yasas,” he rejoined, “the Lord Buddha entered into Parinirvana over two hundred years ago! One of his direct disciples would have to be nearly three hundred years old!”

“Exactly right, sire. He is indeed nearly three hundred years old.”

“I’ve never heard the likes of it,” cried the delighted emperor. “And he is coming here today?”

“Expressly to meet your majesty.”

“Oh, that’s good! How soon? When?” Yasas replied, “Any moment, sire. Just look out toward the north. He’ll soon appear.”

They looked out. There in the distance but rapidly coming closer was a squadron of Arhats flying through the sky in their usual half-moon formation. Arriving over the monastery, they flew into the shrine room and landed on the dais, perfectly in place, cross-legged. All but one, that is. The ancient Pindola landed standing up. He walked to the high throne, where he turned and sat down.

The great emperor, standing below this array of Arhats, made his prostrations to honour all the new arrivals, especially Pindola. He then looked carefully and saw that this three hundred year old person was tall and thin, with white hair streaming halfway down his back. His eyebrows, also white, were so long and thin that they hung over his eyes, covering them completely. Asoka wondered if he could see at all.

He raised his voice and welcomed Pindola to the empire with eloquent reverence. He then said, “I have been told, Venerable One, that you are the Arhat Pindola Bharadvaja who lived in the time of the Lord Buddha and attended him on many occasions.”

Pindola was now standing, facing the emperor, but he couldn’t see him until he lifted up his eyebrows. “Oh, there you are!” he exclaimed. “Yes, yes, this is so. I attended the Lord Buddha; is there something you want to know?!”

The emperor was in fact, desperate to know more about the Buddha. Everybody knew about his Dharma but even now, more than two hundred years after his death, no one knew what he had looked like or what sort of person he had been. There are no drawings of him, no images; no representations whatsoever. Asoka fervently desired to know about him personally – how he had looked and moved, what he had done and how he had done it. Here was the perfect person to tell him, someone who had actually attended the living Lord Buddha!

But first, he thought, he’d clear-up the other question that was now even more pressing: “Pindola,” he asked, “how is it that you are three hundred years old? I mean, how come? Why don’t you do like all the Arhats do, and pass into Nirvana, and make an end to Samsara?” So Pindola sat comfortably, adjusted his eyebrows, and told Asoka this story:

When Pindola was a young man, not yet Arhat, he was very adept at magic. He loved the magical powers and he revelled in their exercise. He displayed his skill on any and every occasion. He also loved his food; indeed, he was very greedy. Of course, as a monk he could have only one meal a day and that was often a very meagre one. He found his part of the religious discipline extremely irksome as his tummy often started to rumble, and he became very uncomfortable.

Well, one day that is exactly what happened. He was going about his business enjoying his magical powers and it was after midday and his stomach started acting up. And of course, there was another rule – no food after midday. “It’s no good,” he said to himself. “Never mind that I’m not supposed to eat again until tomorrow, I must get some food!”

It was Pindola’s misfortune that just then the most sublime aroma wafted into his nostrils – cakes, baking! The beautiful aroma wafted down the road from a little house where a woman was cooking for her family. “Yes, oh YES,” decided Pindola. “Those will do very nicely for me, right now!”

So he followed his nose and it led him to the doorway of the kitchen. There he stood like a good monk, head down; bowl in hand; silently waiting. Even though there was saliva running down from the corner of his mouth, he remained composed. Now behave yourself, he thought. He stood there and just waited.

But – trouble. As it happened, this particular housewife was fed-up with Buddhist monks with their bowls, just standing and waiting. She was trying to feed her family, not his lot. It seemed to her that no sooner did she start to cook than a wretched monk appeared. Ignoring him did no good because the next day there’d be another, and the next day there’d be three!

So she snapped at Pindola, “Clear off! I don’t want anything to do with you!”

Not only could Pindola smell the cakes; he could see them and was close enough almost, to touch them. He was leaning slightly their way, and really salivating now, but the deeply vexed housewife was adamant. “No!” she asserted. “I’m not giving anything to you or your kind! I’m tired of all of you!” “I must have those cakes,” Pindola said to himself. “Right! This calls for some magic.”

He remained at first in his still, respectful silence, holding his bowl with humbly-bowed head, the most innocent-looking monk – but all the pots and pans started dancing, dancing all around the kitchen. The housewife was shocked and tried to grab hold of this one and then that one as they skidded and scampered around the room, but she didn’t do very well. Meanwhile, Pindola was making all kinds of signs to her about the cakes; monks are not allowed to ask outright for a gift so he did everything he could think of, except to say, “I WANT A CAKE.”

But the angry housewife ignored him, turning her back on him while snatching frantically at the dancing pots. So Pindola made things even harder for her: he turned the whole kitchen around so that when she snared a pan and headed it for the stove, wasn’t it landing on one of her favourite chairs” She screamed and turned on him.

“I know what you’re doing Pindola, it won’t make any difference to me! You can do what you like but you are not getting my cakes!”

This challenge spurred him on. All right, he thought; if that’s how you feel… And he then performed some of his most skilful tricks. He became many animals and ran around the room, frightening the woman nearly to death. He caused the kitchen to turn itself inside out. He lifted the whole house high in the air so that when the poor woman looked out of her door she found herself a thousand feet above the ground!

But even then, she would not give him a cake. Obviously, he had the skill to magic her cakes right into his bowl, but the ban on asking for things, he reasoned, no doubt banned him from simply taking them. So he carried on, escalating this war of magic. He whisked himself over to a nearby mountain and removed its top, just like a cone. He returned to the woman’s house and lowered the mountain-top over the roof, declaring, “Right! Either I have my cakes or I drop it!”

Not even the furious housewife could hold out against this kind of threat. She needed a roof over her head. So at last she said, “Oh, blast you! There’re your cakes!” And she flung him the whole panful.

The triumphant Pindola swallowed his cakes and gleefully danced round the town – with the mountain-top. The townspeople were terrified. This mountain-top bobbing and rocking above them! What if it dropped? They would all be killed!

As their panic grew, one of them ran to the Lord Buddha and protested. “It’s about time you controlled your people! Some joker-monk is playing around with a mount-top over the town and he could kill us all!”

Pindola was calming down now, having enjoyed his cakes and a dance, and was replacing the mount-top when his Master summoned him. “Pindola,” asked the Buddha, “Is it true that you ate cakes after time?”

“Yes, Lord. I was hungry.”

“This is a fault, Pindola. And is it true that you threatened the housewife with all kinds of magical displays? And that you danced around the town with the mountain-top?”

“Yes, Lord.”

Now the Buddha became very serious. “You know that it is forbidden to display magical powers to lay people or, indeed to anyone. Magical powers are not for vulgar display, as you have used them. Not only have you terrified people with these powers – you have revelled in them. This is a grave fault and must be punished. Therefore, Pindola, you will not attain Nirvana. You will not die. You will live until the Dharma itself expires and whilst you live you will protect the Dharma in every way possible. I forbid you to attain Nirvana. You will stay here in Samsara for as long as the Dharma shall last!”

“And so,” said Pindola to Asoka, “that is now I have come to wander the world, now nearly three-hundred years old, encouraging scholars and cheering-up downhearted monks. I must go on as long as the Teaching goes on. I shall not die until the Teaching dies. That is why I am here today.”

Asoka spoke up. “Well now, Pindola, before you tell me any more of that - here’s what I’d like to hear about now: The Lord Buddha himself. I know you were with him when he punished you but you were also with him on many other occasions. I’d like you to tell me everything you can remember about how he looked and how he behaved – what sort of person was he? What did he do? How did he do it?

So Pindola said to Asoka , “Well, I was with the Lord Buddha when he performed the Miracle of the Fire and Water at Sravasti. I was with him or, rather, I welcomed him, as he descended the heavenly stairway from the Heavens of the Thirty Three where he spent three months after his mother’s death, teaching the Abhidharma to her and the gods. I was with him at the Parinirvana when the earth shook and all beings were devastated. But,” he continued, “I was with him on another occasion and that is the reason for my visit here today. It took place in this very kingdom, Asoka, long before you were its ruler. We were walking along a dusty road – well, actually, he was walking along this road and I was following close behind - and there, directly in the Buddha’s path, were two little boys playing in the dust. Being directly behind him, I could see and here everything. The little ones were playing at sand castles; something like that, and the Buddha approached and stood there. And of course they became aware of his presence, being only children. One of the boys looked up at the Buddha and picked up a handful of dust and placed it in the Buddha’s begging-bowl, as a gift. And the Buddha smiled. As, you know, sire,” said the old Arhat to the emperor, “the Lords Buddha don’t smile unless there is a very good reason. So I asked the Lord Buddha why he smiled, and He said to me, ‘You see that boy there? He has just made a gift to me – worthless, but he has made a gift. And because he gave, and because of the thought that led to the gift, and because of his good lineage, that young boy, some centuries after my death, will become a world-ruling emperor and his name will be Asoka.’ Now this is the reason I have come here today. Here you are, so anxious to know what the Buddha looked like and what he did, and all the rest of it! But all the while, you have seen the Buddha; you have given him a gift with your own hands in a previous life, and you are now who you are because of it. You know the Buddha and the Buddha knows you.”

The astonished and grateful Asoka thereafter became even more fervent in his devotion to the Dharma. He persuaded Pindola to take him to the very places where the Buddha was born, where he attained enlightenment, where he first preached and where he finally passed away. And on these spots, the great Asoka erected the famous iron pillars of north India, some of which are to this day still standing.

And also still standing, and sometimes sitting, and sometimes flying, but always wandering, it is said, through China and India and Central Asia, is an old monk with long, long hair and long eyebrows; a monk who cannot die because he serves a Dharma that will last forever.

Copyright © Eric Cheetham 2005     

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