Mangala: Chapter Ten

Author's Note

This story is intended to be both a partner to the novel ‘The Pilgrim Kamanita,’ written by Karl Gjellerup in 1906, and a tale that stands on its own. There is no need to have read the earlier book in order to make sense of this one, however, should you wish to go to the source from which many of the characters and scenes of this tale have sprung, an English version of it is to be found on this same web-site at www.abhayagiri.org/main/book/366/.

This book is being published here as a ‘serial novel,’ which is to say that it that it will appear one chapter at a time, on the first day of every month, over the next couple of years. The plan is that, after the entire twenty-six chapters of the story have been released, a pdf file of the complete book will be posted, and available for free download.

Finally, gentle reader, please note that the original author (Karl Gjellerup) switched freely between using Sanskrit (the language of the Northern Buddhist and Hindu scriptures) and Pali (the language of the Southern Buddhist scriptures) during the course of his tale. In our efforts to be true to his original style we have maintained this mixture of usage.

Amaro Bhikkhu
Abhayagiri Monastery
December 2008

* * * * * * * * * * * *

egular as the sun coming up in the morning and the changing phases of the moon, every day, Lady Rohini and Lord Ghosaka offered alms to the blind, the poor and all other kinds of unfortunate people.

Mitta had the duty of overseeing this distribution of food and medicines; it was a job he usually referred to as “My morning headache.” For, along with the food preparation, and the serving of the dozens of sick and hungry, there came a cacophonous racket of voices, the clanging of pots and pans and utensils, and a chaos of barging bodies coming and going; it was a noisy chaos.

One day Sama, who helped her flustered father with this daunting task each morning, casually remarked, “Dad, why don’t we do something to make this all a bit more organized and quiet?”

“What? I can’t hear what you’re saying…” Mitta replied, bringing his ear closer to his daughter’s face; today the racket was particularly intense.

“I said,” she leant over, speaking as loudly as she could without shouting, “we should rearrange things to make it all less noisy and confusing.”

“Impossible!” Mitta grinned and threw his hands up in mock exasperation mixed with a genuine look of entreaty, “I’ve tried all kinds of things.”

“I think it’s possible – will you let me set it up differently tomorrow?” Again, Sama spoke directly into his ear which was now quite easy as she had grown to the same height as her adoptive father.

She had been a small and slight child when Mitta and Sundari had first taken her into their family but, in recent years she had grown and blossomed. She still had the doe-eyed, innocent face that had characterized her when she was young but now, at fifteen Rains, she was tall and full-figured, and carried herself with a dignified poise that belied her tender years. She also drew more and more admiring glances and outright stares from many people – these tended to discomfort her and she would blush deeply and scurry away if she felt she was being ogled ‘like that.’

Mitta looked at her askance, torn between dismissing her request as youthful folly, giving her the chance to prove herself as she so rarely took the initiative in anything, and the pressing need to deal with the day’s ongoing collection of urgencies and crises.

“Very good!” He decided, “It’s all yours, tomorrow – I look forward to seeing what you do.”

“What?”

“I SAID ‘I LOOK FORWARD TO SEEING WHAT YOU WILL DO’!”


* * *

A few days later, just before noon, Mitta was having his regular briefing with Lord Ghosaka. They were sorting through the various affairs of the large household for the coming period, when the Minister enquired, “By the way, Mitta, have we stopped distributing food for the poor and needy?”

“What makes you ask that, Sir?”

“I’ve been wondering, why is everything so quiet? Haven’t you noticed? One of my great joys in life is hearing the commotion in the public refectory and knowing that this means that the Duchess and I are doing great good by providing for the blind and the sick and so on. I didn’t hear a sound this morning or for the last two or three days; did the King ban alms-giving without letting me know? Did we run out of food to give away? What’s going on? Why don’t people keep me informed?” The Duke blustered, plainly aggrieved.

He was surprised that Mitta did not look the slightest bit apologetic or guilty of any infraction. Rather, he was intrigued that his chamberlain wore a self-satisfied smirk instead.

“My apologies, Your Grace, but alms have indeed been given as usual. There have been new arrangements made in the hall so that people receive the food and medicines without making any noise.”

“Why didn’t you ask me before you did this? And why did you only make these new changes now and not before?”

“May it please Your Grace,” responded Mitta, trying to be as formal and polite as possible, “I didn’t change it before as I didn’t know how to. And I did not inform you of the change as, to be honest; I didn’t believe the new idea would work.”

“So, how did you happen to find a way just now?” asked Lord Ghosaka, becoming curious as to the cause of this odd turn of events.

“It was my daughter, Sir, who told me how to do it.”

“Have you a new daughter whom I have never seen? Has one of your married children now come back to you?”

“If you recall, Sir, the little orphan girl whose mother died from the snake-bite. We adopted her as our daughter and she is now almost full-grown – she was the one who solved the puzzle of creating order in Your Grace’s refectory for the public.”

“How did she do it?”

“If you can spare a few moments, Your Grace, you may come and see for yourself.” Mitta smiled inwardly, both with pride at the practical intelligence of his daughter, and that His Lordship seemed pleased and interested in this turn of events, despite being robbed of the daily clamour that had delighted him so much before now.

* * *
Mitta led Lord Ghosaka into the hall by a side door and together they watched the even flow of the thin and ragged of Kosambi, the blind being led by their young grand-children. There were certainly still some conversations going on – silence had not been enforced by threat – but the procession though the hall and the passing out of food and other items was serene and orderly.

“I’m amazed,” admitted Lord Ghosaka, “it’s just as big a crowd as normal but without all the fuss and bother, the flurry and confusion – it’s marvelous!” He turned to Mitta, asking, “So, where’s the girl who put this all in place? I‘d like to see her.”

Mitta called over Sama, who had been shyly hovering in a corner since her father and the Duke had made their entrance. “Sama, come here and be introduced to His Grace the Minister.” She nervously wiped her hands on her sarong, afraid that she might have some foodstuffs or other grubbiness tainting her person. She knelt before Lord Ghosaka and brought her palms together in reverential salutation, as she had been taught to do in the presence of the nobility.

“Get up girl, get up, you’ll soil your skirt if you kneel there. So, tell me, how did you get this all to work so smoothly?” Above all things the Minister was a practical man – he had to oversee the finances of the whole nation of Vamsa, after all – so he was eager to know how this particular conundrum had been worked out.

“It was really very simple, Sir,” Sama began, “firstly we put a fence around the refectory so that people couldn’t just wander about willy-nilly, it being an open-sided structure along three edges and just having the one wall where it connects to the rest of the palace. We then made a small gateway at one end and another small gateway at the other so, apart from the side entrance that Your Grace and my father just entered by, the only way in and out is the two gates. Only one person can pass through these at a time, and they go in through one gate and then out though the other. With this limiting of access, and with members of the staff here to serve food as the people file through, it all works very smoothly.”

“Brilliant,” said Lord Ghosaka, “I think from now on we’ll call you Samavati, because you constructed the vati, this fence that has bought such golden harmony.”

As he looked at the modest yet confident teenager before him, the Minister’s mind was suddenly cast back nearly a decade. The encounter on the highroad, when he had first met this girl so ragged and lean from weeks of hard travel, returned to him in vivid detail. He also recollected the strange dreams that both he and the King had had that night before the chance meeting.

A wave of compassion and empathy welled within him at the memory of the little golden-skinned child beside the corpse of her mother. Somewhat surprisingly, as an accompaniment to this feeling, there also arose a profound intuition of ancient spiritual affinities between them and the sense that she would one day be an inspiring guide whom he would be honoured to look up to. A mental image of the great golden wheel that the King had dreamed of, turning gently in the girl’s cupped hands, flashed before his eyes, and the realization dawned that this had meant the Wheel of Dhamma – the wisdom of the Buddha – nothing less.

“What’s more,” he said now turning away from Samavati, and addressing Mitta, “You know my wife and I are getting on in years – I am of 50 Rains and Lady Rohini is only five or six less – and our only son died the year before last. He was an infirm and weak child all his too-brief life. This great house has many people that throng its halls and gardens but it is empty when one has no child to call one’s own. With the permission of your adoptive parents, I would like to receive you as my own daughter; would that please you, my dear?”

Even though the Lord Ghosaka had always been seen by Samavati as one who simply issued commands and was duly obeyed immediately, she saw at this moment that there was a genuine question, and invitation in his kindly eyes.

Overawed, and not quite sure she was ready to respond in any way, she nervously glanced at Mitta, to seek some kind of clue as to what she should do or say. She had no desire to abandon her father and mother, the old couple who had been so generous and kind to her for the last nine years, but she was also very aware that she should not offend a high noble like the Duke.

To her surprise she saw Mitta nodding his round-cheeked face with great vigour. His assent to the idea, coupled with the open and sincere benevolence writ large on the Minister’s face, decided it for her, then and there.

“I’m honoured, Your Grace, I… I’m not sure what I should say other than: Yes, I would be very happy to be your daughter.”

Lord Ghosaka’s expression melted into a broad and gentle smile. “You can call me ‘father’ from now on – and there’s no need to feel you should be trembling on your knees when we speak. Come, I’ll take you to meet with your new mother – she will be very pleased to be blessed with such a bright and beautiful girl as yourself for a child and heir.

“Naturally I will arrange for you to have an appropriate retinue of maids and servants to… to well, to take care of whatever needs taking care of for a young lady such as yourself.” Samavati was suddenly struck by an awful thought, “Your G… er father… could I ask a small favour of you? I hope it’s not too selfish or greedy of me to ask – I know you will provide many maids and all the kind of help I might ever need but… could I ask if I might bring one maid with me – I’ve known her since I was small and she’s ever so good a friend and companion for me. She’s a slave-girl actually. I’m sure she wouldn’t be any bother at all.”

“So, a few dozen provided by the Duke and Duchess not enough, eh?” he teased, “who is this special friend of yours?”

“Her name’s Khujjuttara, father.”

“Khujjuttara! I might have known – she gets everywhere! She’s all over the palace half the time already. I end up chatting with her quite often myself – of course, you can bring our cheeky crook-backed savant with you. It’s probably her influence that caused you to be able to figure out how to keep the public refectory silent at the alms-giving. The woman’s a genius.”

“Um, one more request father… if it’s not too much to ask: Would you be so kind as to let my former mother and father come and visit me sometimes?”

“Of course, dear girl, we all live in the same compound after all,” Lord Ghosaka said with his gentle voice, and turned to Mitta, “You and your wife can drop in to visit Samavati anytime.”

* * *
One of the great difficulties of becoming the daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Uttara-Vamsa was that Samavati had to get used to being called ’Your Ladyship,’ ’Milady‘ and the like. She negotiated most of her new staff down to ’Ma’am‘ and Khujjuttara was, thankfully, happy with her usual “Miss Amba.” This was unless there was some sort of official function going on, or if the Minister or the Duchess themselves were present, then she would pronounce the full title of her dear charge and with an abundance of relish: “Would My Lady Samavati care for another one of these little sweeties or has My Lady sufficed her self for the moment?” – often supplied with a wink or at least half a sly grin.

As the months went by Samavati often now felt as she had done when a young child in Ujjeni, when they had played in the fish ponds in the garden and she had been just too short for her feet to touch the bottom and to keep her nose above the surface. Tamba had been a better swimmer and had never been bothered by this, but Samavati had nursed an anxious terror that, once out of her depth, she would not be able to get back to safety and be able to breathe once again. It was the same now. She felt like an imposter, as if she didn’t really belong, and that one day her star would fall and she would be cast out into danger and poverty once more.

Lord Ghosaka was an observant and gentle man and he swiftly recognized what was passing through his shy and serious daughter’s mind.

“You know that, once you were accepted as our daughter, you became fully and legally entitled to your new rank and wealth – it’s all rightfully yours, you don’t have to feel as if you are an intruder or a fraud.”

“But I can’t help that that’s exactly how I feel. You and Her Grace, I mean, mother, are such noble and refined people. I’m just an orphan, a merchant’s daughter by birth, a nobody. People bow and scrape to me now but I’m unworthy; they call me ’Your Ladyship‘ and I keep glancing over my shoulder to see who they are talking to – I forget that it’s me.” A pair of tears ran down her golden cheeks and fell onto her chest.

“Let me tell you a story,” said her father, “although it’s a rather long tale of a shaggy dog…” He put his hand onto her shoulder and led her to a broad couch that looked out over the garden. “You might feel bad because you are an orphan, a foundling who turned up on the road to Kosambi, but how would it sound to you if I told how, not only was I a dog in a previous life, but also how, in this very life, I was born to a courtesan of Kosambi and cast away no less than seven times as an infant?”

“To be honest, father, I’d feel it was a shaggy dog story indeed…”

“Nevertheless, my sweet it is all absolutely true.

“Once upon a time, long ago, there was a man called Kotuhalaka. He was married to a woman called Kali and they had a son called Kapi. They were poor and decided to come to this great city of Kosambi to find a way to make a living of some kind.

“Along the road they suffered from great hunger and the father wished to cast the child away, to leave it in the wilderness and to fortune; Kali would not agree for she loved her son.

“During the night the man snuck out with the child to abandon it but, when the wife woke, she demanded he bring it back, which he did. With this cruel deed the father set the wheels in motion that now have turned for many long years after.

“The family reached the house of a certain herdsman. He saw that they were hungry and he gave them rice-porridge to eat. The husband, not knowing his measure, ate far too much and then, as he could not digest it, passed away during the course of the night.

“Now that herdsman had a female dog that was expecting puppies so thus it was that the man, Kotuhalaka, entered a new existence within the womb of the herdsman’s dog.

“Near to that herdsman’s hut there dwelt a great enlightened being and he was accustomed to take his meals at that house each day. The woman Kali stayed there as a helper for the herdsman and they regularly offered food to the enlightened one.

“When the pup was born the monk often shared the food from his bowl with it so the young dog became exceedingly fond of him.

“When the dog was grown it would follow the great monk back to his hermitage in the forest, snarling at any vicious animals that might threaten his master. He would walk with the master whenever he had to go about and, whenever the monk took the wrong path (which he sometimes did just to test the dog’s faith and wisdom) the dog would vigorously bark or tug his robe until he was back on the right path once again.

“That great monk’s robe began to be worn out and he had to go to make a new one. Being plentifully blessed with psychic powers he flew up into the air and departed in the direction of Gandhamadana to make the robe.

“The dog, not knowing that the monk planned to return, was heartbroken to see him go; he began to bark and howl until his master was gone from view and then he died right there. When he died, because of having helped the holy monk for so long and because of his straightforwardness and lack of deceit, he was reborn as a resplendent deva in the Heaven of the Thirty Three Gods. He was no longer a dog of any kind however, even when he whispered, his voice carried a distance of sixteen leagues and when he spoke in a normal voice he could be heard all over the city of the devas – 10,000 leagues in extent. Through this very circumstance the deva became known as Ghosaka, ’He-of-the-Voice.’”

At this Samavati, who had been listening intently, thoroughly caught up in the tale, gasped audibly. “It’s all true,” her father said, “listen on.”

“During this very age the life of that deva ended and I was reborn as the son of a courtesan here in Kosambi.

“Now, owing to their profession, a courtesan will keep a daughter but she will discard any sons born to her, so she had me left out on a refuse-heap.

“At that time a worker for the Finance Minister visited that heap and found me there. He took me home and his wife cared for me.

“The house-priest of the Minister read the signs for the day and said ‘the next Minister of Vamsa will be born this day!’ Now that Minister’s wife was pregnant too and he thought: ‘If she has a daughter, this boy my worker found will be our son, if she has a boy, this orphan child must die.’ Later that day his wife indeed gave birth to a baby boy. So, for a thousand gold pieces, he purchased me from the workman and he had me placed in a cattle-pen thinking: ‘The cows will trample and kill him.’

“Now it just so happened that one of the cows was very protective of me and she stood over me to prevent me from being hurt, so the cowherd thought: ‘This must be an exceptional child’ and he carried me home.

“The Minister heard I was still alive and purchased me again from the cowherd, and cast me away once more in a burning ground. I was saved again, by a she-goat this time.

“Then I was cast away on a caravan trail and the oxen of the caravans protected me.

“Then I was purchased again and the Minister had me thrown down a precipice but I fell where some reed-gatherers lived and they rescued me after the reeds on the roof of their shanty broke my fall.

“Once again the Minister purchased me but now he gave up his idea to kill me but raised me together with his son, as he realized my life must be charmed, and great indeed would be the bad karma if he succeeded in achieving my death.

“Later on when we had both grown to manhood, his mind changed once again, as he wished to ensure his son’s accession to the post of Minister. He bribed a potter to kill me but, by a stroke of luck, the Minister’s son had lost money gambling and, though I had been ordered to go on an errand, he asked me to stay to win it back for him while he went to the potter’s house in my stead. I had no idea what my foster father had in mind and the potter, fulfilling his part of the deal, killed the youth who came to him right there. When it was I who returned to the Minister, rather than his son, he lost his mind.

“In his final effort to do away with me, conceiving me as the enemy of his own son, although no such enmity had ever entered my heart, he conceived another plan. He told me to go to a distant village with a message for a certain business partner of his; on the way I was to stop and rest at the house of a certain merchant, again someone that he knew quite well.

“When I reached the half-way village this merchant gave me a fine welcome. When I was resting there, his daughter – who is now your adoptive mother – saw me sleeping and immediately fell madly in love with me, for she had been none other than my dear Kali, when I had been Kotuhalaka.

“She has a ready eye and she saw the scroll I was carrying for my father, the Minister of Kosambi. She was curious and so opened and read it while I slept. It instructed the recipient to kill me forthwith so she swiftly wrote a new letter, saying: ‘I am sending my son to stay with you. The merchant Sona of Patali village has a daughter called Rohini, please levy taxes throughout the region and arrange for lavish gifts for them. Please also arrange the marriage ceremony.’

“I felt a similar profound and immediate love for her too, so our wedding was a glorious and joyful event for us.

“When word of the marriage and the gifts got back to the Minister, my foster-father, he lamented ‘I am ruined!’ and came down with a severe dose of dysentery. He summoned me back to Kosambi with my new wife, seeking to disinherit me, if nothing else. Rohini, meanwhile, reflected that I should know what had transpired, and she told me that it was through her that my life had been saved and that all of our current good fortune had come to pass. She now urged me, with great vehemence, not to go to Kosambi yet, rather to wait until the Minister died through natural causes, for his illness was rapidly worsening.

“Despite my foster father’s bad feelings toward me I felt I should be with him in his time of difficulty so we decided to return to Kosambi instead.

“By the time we arrived my foster father was confined to bed. When I stood at his feet, he summoned the receiver of his revenues. He asked how much wealth there was in the treasury, to which the steward replied that there was at least 400 million gold pieces and the deeds for many houses, fields and villages. Now it was his intention then to say: ’All of this wealth I do not give to my son Ghosaka,’ but he mumbled and what came forth was, ’I do give.’

“Ever astute, my beloved Rohini heard this and, afraid he would speak again and reverse this statement, pretended to weep and wail; she burst into tears and she fell on him, striking the middle of his breast with her forehead. Displaying such signs of profound grief she extinguished all other sound; no more was heard from my would-be killer and very soon after he breathed his last.

“Once he had died, word reached the King and he asked if the Minister had had a son. A few of his staff sympathized with me and spoke on my behalf to tell the King I was the Minister’s adopted son, and thus it came about – the King gave me this post of Minister and the dukedom of Uttara-Vamsa that went with it.

“At this turn of events Rohini and I reflected that, in truth, I had had an ignoble birth and that she had been born into relative poverty in the village of Patali but, through good fortune and the results of past good karma we had now reached this greatly ennobled status. We also considered the various acts of deceit that had been carried out along the way and, to make amends, we vowed to institute alms-giving at our home; expending a thousand gold pieces in offerings every day.”

Samavati had sat all the while, staring at the long, fond face of her adoptive father as the tale unravelled. When he reached the end, tears once again came to her eyes but now they were tears of gratitude and compassion. Her own life had had but a fraction of the travails of the Duke; and how was she to have known that he had had such a past? She also wondered to how many people he had confided the whole sorry tale. She reached forward and took his hand; they sat in silence for a while together.

Then Ghosaka said, “Rank and status are a farce, Samavati, a comedy and a tragedy that worldly people live and die for. Please don’t make yourself suffer over it; your pure-heartedness, your kindness is immense and that is what really matters more. In terms of where each person ‘stands’ in life – we are all frauds and we all belong, my dear.” Thus reassured, she felt right at home once more.

* * *


The greatest blessing of Samavati’s new life was that her adoptive father had great faith in the Buddha and made frequent visits to the monastery he had sponsored – the Ghositarama – as well as to those built by his friends, the Kukkutarama, which was also for monks and the Pavariyarama, where the community of nuns resided.

Nowadays Samavati not only had the chance to offer food into the alms-bowls of the monastics as they made their early morning rounds through the city, but she also had many opportunities to go in the evenings and to listen to the wonderful talks that were given, for all who were interested to hear. The Buddha and his followers were very generous with the teachings – there was no inner circle or special favours for devotees, no teacher’s closed fist for the initiated – no, all were welcome to come and listen if they were interested to understand their life and the world a little better.

It was also the case – and something she appreciated greatly – that the Buddha never sought converts. She never seemed to see any of the nuns or monks out on the street trying to persuade folk to visit their temples or to follow their beliefs. She guessed there must be some protocol that prevented them doing that yet which also kept the monastery doors open. Irrespective of the reason behind it, it was also that unforced openness which was the very thing that made one want to ’come and see.’

They were magical nights. She would join her mother and father, with Khujjuttara and a few other members of the household; they would all dress in plain white clothing and would troop down the street together to the Ghositarama. Sometimes they would bring offerings with them. Sometimes they would come impromptu and empty-handed; there was never any expectation that things would or should be given but if they had some offerings in hand they would present them to one of the attendant bhikkhus when they first arrived.

* * *

There was one special night that Samavati would always remember.

The rainy season had recently arrived and the dust of the streets had long since been turned to impacted mud. The group from the Minister’s mansion turned into the monastery gateway, having arrived at a brisk pace. There had been a couple of rain-falls that day already but another heavy shower looked likely, just at dusk. They scurried into the grounds of the monastery and took the path straight to the meeting hall. The deep reverberations of the bell called them in and let others around the grounds, and in the town about them, know that there would soon be a gathering and that the Buddha would speak to them tonight.

Samavati grabbed Khujjuttara’s hand and pulled her in under the shelter of the roof as the first dense drops pounded down. Within moments the roar was deafening as the deluge thundered about their ears. “Just made it, eh Miss Amba; look at it come down!” Khujjuttara exclaimed and then, hushing herself, moved with the others of her party between the rows of seated lay folk now gathering quietly in the shelter of the Dharma Hall.

There was a spot near the front that was informally reserved for Ghosaka and his family and the group slid into place quickly as the light dimmed and the downpour crashed around them. The clamour was short-lived, however, and after they had all sat in meditation for a while, there was just the sound of dripping from the thatch of palm-leaves at the eaves and the frog-choruses of a myriad of happy amphibians.

The light of the sky had by now vanished completely and the space they all sat in was lit by an array of oil lamps arranged on the evenly-spaced pillars. All was hushed.

“Everything is so quiet,” Khujjuttara leaned into Samavati’s ear, “even with all the frogs a-courtin,’ it’s like the silence is stronger than the sound…”

By way of response, Samavati gently raised her finger to her lips and wrinkled a smile at her companion. She closed her eyes again.

At a certain point the silence intensified and then there was the Buddha himself, walking gently through the back part of the hall, to sit on a raised bench, facing the east towards them. The monks sat in semi-circles behind him and beside his seat – there were no nuns present as they never left the Pavariyarama after nightfall.

A warm glow spread through Samavati as she listened as closely as she could, leaning into his words and the mellifluous texture of the voice that carried them so easily.

She was transfixed, but she could not pretend that she could understand all that he presented. His teachings were filled with homely examples and similes from kitchen and cattle-pen, from battleground and bath-time – everything in life, it seemed, could be used to learn from, if we could only read the lessons that were there.

Some of the teachings involved ideas that were unfamiliar, or states of mind she could not imagine, let alone say she’d experienced:— What on earth, or beyond it, was ‘the sphere of neither-perception-nor-non-perception’? She had no idea but she little cared. So many of his golden words went straight to her heart and resonated with the pure harmonics of truth – they were so utterly right – that the details she missed didn’t seem to matter:–– Here was a person who genuinely understood life and could explain how to live it wisely.

As she reflected on this hitherto unknown feeling of certainty, she felt the Buddha was finishing his talk and she sharpened her attention for his final words:

“Just as, when rain pours down in thick droplets on a mountain top, the water flows down along the slopes and fills the clefts, gullies and creeks; these being full, fill up the pools; these being full, fill up the lakes; these being full, fill up the streams; these being full, fill up the rivers; and these being full, fill up the great ocean; so too, for a noble disciple, these things – unshakeable faith in the Buddha, the Dharma and the Sangha, and the moral virtues dear to the Noble Ones – flow onwards and, having gone beyond, they lead to the utter purification of the heart.

“Furthermore, in the same way, it is in accordance with nature that, for one who is virtuous and follows the moral precepts, freedom from remorse arises.

“For one who is free from remorse, satisfaction arises.

“For one who is satisfied, joy arises.

“For one who is joyous, the body is relaxed.

“For one whose body is relaxed, happiness arises.

“The happy person’s mind easily becomes concentrated.

“One who is concentrated understands and sees things as they really are.

“One who sees things as they really are becomes dispassionate and detached.

“It is in accordance with nature that one who is dispassionate and not attached will experience the knowledge and insight of liberation.”

As the Buddha pronounced these closing phrases, his gaze momentarily swept the space around him. He seemed to be taking in the resonances of each and every being’s heart; the silence was complete.

At this moment Samavati looked deeply into his presence and, somehow, he seemed to go on forever – to be a doorway to the infinite – her confidence in his wisdom and purity of heart became unshakeable at that instant. He and she and all things were both totally present and, at the same time, to her mind’s eye, totally transparent. She knew her life would never be the same again.


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Notes and References:

Chapter 10:

1. Page 117 — there was a man called Kotuhalaka… This part of the story, Gosaka’s karmic history, also comes directly from The Story Cycle of King Udena, in the Dhammapada Commentary to verses 21-3; see ‘Buddhist Legends Vol I,’ pp. 252-66.
‘Kotūhalaka’ means ‘Excited’ or ‘Earnest,’ ‘Kālī’ means ‘Black’ or ‘The Dark One,’ and ‘Kapi’ means ‘Monkey.’

2. Page 121 — no teacher’s closed fist for the initiated… This principle is described in several places in the scriptures, for example: “I have taught the Dhamma, Ānanda, making no ‘inner’ and ‘outer’; the Tathāgata has no ‘teacher’s closed fist’ in respect to doctrines” at D16.2.25; and “Bhikkhus… I am ever accessible to entreaties, open-handed (payatapāni)…” at Iti. 100.

3. Page 121 — trying to persuade folks to visit their temples or to follow their beliefs… There is indeed a long-standing tradition of non-proselytization in Buddhist practice, there is, however, no explicit rule prohibiting it. This tradition most obviously manifests itself in the custom of formally inviting the teachings to be given, even at standard, weekly events in a monastery; also in the style of the almsround, wherein the monastics can make themselves available for offerings but cannot ask or even hint that they would like something.

4. Page 121 — made one want to ’come and see.’ … ‘Ehipassiko’ means ‘encouraging investigation,’ ‘inviting one to come and see.’ It is one of the classical attributes of the Dhamma.

5. Page 121 — they would present them to one of the attendant bhikkhus… This monk would then have the responsibility of informing the ‘stores monk’ who would then see that all offerings were properly taken care of and put away. They would be shared out as needed, in due course, to all community members.

6. Page 122 – There was a spot near the front that was informally reserved for Ghosaka and his family — Generally, the leaders of the local community in Asia will be ushered to the front and the general public behind them.

7. Page 122 — to sit on a raised bench… A Dhammāsana or Dhamma-seat. So the speaker of Dhamma can be seen and heard easily and so they are sitting higher than the rest of the assembly.

8. Page 122 — facing the east… The direction of dawn; still today Dhamma Halls are usually arranged so the Buddha-rupa is facing east.

9. Page 122-3 — similes from kitchen and cattle-pen, from battleground and bath-time… For example:
kitchen — water drops on a hot plate — M 66.16
cattle-pen — care for the cows — M 33.2-14
battle-ground — M 63.5
bath-time — kneading bath powder — 39.15

10. Page 123 — everything in life, it seemed, could be used to learn from… This was a favourite dictum of Ven. Ajahn Chah. See, for example ‘Everything is Teaching Us,’ trans. by Paul Breiter, .

11. Page 123 — Just as when rain pours down in thick droplets… This teaching is from S 55.38, the translation here is based on that of Ven. Bhikkhu Bodhi; the same simile is used in S 12.23, the Upanisa Sutta.

12. Page 123 — it is in accordance with nature… This is an edited version of A 10.2

13. Page 124 — her confidence in his wisdom and purity of heart became unshakeable… In Buddhist tradition this quality of spiritual certainty is known as Entering the Stream. It is characterized by the arising of perfect faith in a) the Buddha (= the quality of wisdom & awareness), b) the Dharma (= the Buddha’s teaching and the Truth of the way nature is) and c) the Sangha (= the community of those who have awakened to the Truth & the quality of unselfishness that they embody); as well as d) a natural and complete honesty.
One who has Entered the Stream in this way is said to be guaranteed to reach full enlightenment (arahantship) in no more than seven lifetimes; furthermore, it is said that during that time it is impossible for them to be born in the lower realms – that of the animals, the hungry ghosts or in the hells (see Ch. 4, note §1).

14. Page 124 — totally present… totally transparent… This mysterious blend of qualities is represented in the word that the Buddha coined to refer to himself: ‘Tathāgatha’ – it means both ‘Thus come’ and ‘Thus gone,’ or ‘Gone to suchness’ and ‘Come to suchness.’