Jataka 251
Saṃkappa Jātaka
Surging Desire
as told by Eric Van Horn
originally translated by William Henry Denham Rouse, Cambridge University
originally edited by Professor Edward Byles Cowell, Cambridge University
This story deals with the powerful issue of sensual and sexual desire. This is never a popular issue with Dharma teachers, and they often avoid it. But fundamental to the Buddha’s teaching is that sensual desire is like a powerful drug. It is part of what keeps us bound to the rounds of rebirth and suffering. An important part of the Buddhist path is to learn to overcome sense desire. Fortunately the path of training provides a gradual path through which this occurs. And importantly, we do not replace sense desire by simply suppressing it. We replace it—as the story shows—with something that is much more powerful and satisfying, and something that does not have the drawbacks of sense desire, and that is the joy, bliss, and serenity of meditation and the path itself.
“No archer.” This story the Master told at Jetavana. It is about a backsliding monk.
A young nobleman, living in Sāvatthi, gave his heart to the doctrine of the Three Jewels (the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Saṇgha), and he embraced the holy life. But one day, as he went on his rounds in Sāvatthi, he happened to see a woman dressed in splendid clothing. Passion sprang up in his heart; he became disconsolate. When his teachers, counsellors, and friends saw him in this way, they at once asked him the cause. Seeing that he longed to return to the world, they said to one another, “My friend, the Master can remove the defilements of those who are tormented by the craving of lust and the like, and by declaring the Dharma, he brings them to enjoy the fruits of virtue. Come, let us lead him to the Master.”
So they took him to see the Master. He said, “Why do you bring me this young man against his will, brothers? They told him the reason. “Is this true,” he asked, “that you are a backslider, as they say?” He consented. The Master asked the reason, and he recounted what had happened. The Master said, “Oh, brother, it has happened before that these women have caused defilements to spring up even in pure beings whose desire has been diminished by the power of meditative joy. Why should not vain men like you be defiled when defilement comes even to the pure? Even men of the noblest conduct have fallen into dishonor; how much more the unpurified! Shall not the wind that shakes Mount Sineru also stir a heap of old leaves? This craving has troubled the enlightened Buddha himself, sitting on his throne, and shall it not trouble such and one like you?” And at their request he told them this story from the past.
Once upon a time, when Brahmadatta was the King of Benares, the Bodhisatta was born into a great brahmin family. Their wealth amounted to eight hundred million gold coins. He grew up, received his education at Takkasilā University, and then returned to Benares. There he married a wife, and on his parents’ death, he performed their funeral rites. Then, as he inspected his inheritance, he reflected, “The treasure is still here, but they who acquired it are no longer here!” He was overcome with grief, and sweat poured from his body.
He lived a long time at his home. He gave much away to charity. He mastered his sensual desires. Then he left his weeping friends and went into the Himalayas where he built a hut in a lovely spot. He lived on the wild fruits and roots of the forest which he found in his wanderings. Before long he cultivated the Five Faculties (faith, energy, mindfulness, concentration, and wisdom) and the Attainments (the jhānas), and he lived in the bliss of joyous meditation.
Then a thought came to him. He would go back into society to buy salt and seasoning. His body would grow strong, and he would wander about on foot. “All those who give alms to a virtuous man like me,” he thought, “and greet me with respect, shall fill the heavenly regions.” So he went down from Himalaya, and by and by, as he traveled about, he came to Benares at sunset. He looked about for a place in which to sleep, and he saw the royal park. “Here,” he said, “is a place fit for resting; here is where I will live.” So he entered the park, sat down at the foot of a tree, and spent the night in the joy of meditation.
On the next morning, having seen to his bodily needs and adjusted his matted hair, his skin, and robes of bark, he picked up his alms bowl. All of his senses were quiet and his pride was calmed. He conducted himself nobly, looking no more than a plough’s length ahead of him. By the glory of his appearance—which was perfect in every way—he drew the eyes of the world upon him. In this way he entered the city. He begged from door to door until he came to the King’s palace.
Now the King was on his terrace walking back and forth. He saw the Bodhisatta through a window. He was impressed with his demeanor. “If,” he thought, “there is such a thing as perfect serenity, it must be found in this man.” So he sent one of his courtiers to fetch the recluse. The man approached him with a greeting, took his alms bowl, and said, “The King sends for you, sir.”
“Noble friend,” replied the Bodhisatta, “the King does not even know me!”
“Then, sir, please remain here until I return.” So he told the King what the beggar had said. Then the Kind said, “We have no high holy man. Go, fetch him.” At the same time he called out of the window to the recluse, “Here, come in, sir!”
The Bodhisatta went up to the terrace. The King greeted him and had him sit down on the King’s couch. He offered him all the foods and meats prepared for the King himself. When the Bodhisatta had eaten, the King asked him some questions. The King was very pleased with the responses. Respectfully he asked, “Good sir, where do you live? From where did you come?”
“I live in the Himalaya, mighty King, and it is from the Himalaya that I have come.”
The King asked, “Why did you come?”
“During the rainy season, Oh King, we must seek a fixed place in which to stay.”
(This is the tradition of Buddhist monastics to this day. It is called “vassa,” or the “rains retreat.”)
“Then,” the King said, “live here in my royal park. You will be given the four requisites (food, shelter, clothing, and medicine), and I will gain the merit that leads to heaven.”
The promise was given. He went with the Bodhisatta into the park. There he ordered a hut of leaves to be built. He had a covered walk made and prepared all the places for his living by night and by day. He provided all the furniture and requisites for a recluse’s life. He wished him to be comfortable, and he put him in the care of the park keeper.
For the next 12 years the Bodhisatta lived in that park during the rainy season.
Once it so happened that a frontier district rose up in rebellion. The King wanted to put an end to it himself. He said to his Queen, “Lady, either you or I must stay behind.”
“Why do you say that, my lord?” she asked.
“For the sake of the good recluse,” he replied.
“I will not neglect him,” she said. “I will make it my duty to tend to him. Go away without fear.”
So the King left, and the Queen prepared to tend to the Bodhisatta.
Now the King was gone, and as the rainy season approached, the Bodhisatta arrived.
When it pleased him, he would go to the palace and take his meal there. One day, he waited a long time. The Queen had prepared his food. She bathed and adorned herself and prepared a couch. She had a clean robe thrown loosely over her. She lay down, waiting for the Bodhisatta to come.
Now the Bodhisatta took his alms bowl, and passing through the air, he came up to the great window. She heard his bark robes rustle. She hastily got up and her robe slipped off. The Bodhisatta let this unusual sight penetrate his senses. He looked on her with desire. Then the sensual passion that had been calmed by the power of his meditation rose up like a cobra rising and spreading his hood from the basket in which he is kept. He was like a milky tree struck by an axe. As his passion gained force, his serenity gave way and his senses lost their purity. He was like a crow with a broken wing. He could not sit down as he had before and take his meal. Even though she begged him to be seated, he could not sit down.
The queen placed all the food together in his alms bowl. But that day he could not do as he used to do after his meal and go out of the window through the air. He took the food and walked down the great staircase and went out into the grove.
When he got back, he could eat nothing. He put the food down at the foot of his bench, murmuring, “What a woman! Lovely hands, lovely feet! What a waist, what thighs!” and so on. He lay there for seven days. The food all went bad, and it was covered with a cloud of black flies.
Then the King returned, having restored his frontier to order. The city was all decorated; he went around it in solemn procession, keeping it always on the right, and then he proceeded to the palace. He entered the grove, wishing to see the Bodhisatta. He noticed the dirt and rubbish around the hermitage. Thinking the recluse must be gone, he pushed back the hut door and stepped in. There lay the recluse. “He must he ill,” thought the King. So he had the putrid food thrown away and the hut set in order. Then he asked, “What is the matter, sir?”
Figure: The Despondent Recluse
“Sire, I am wounded!”
Then the King thought, “I suppose my enemies must have done this. They could not get at me, so they decided to harm what I love.” So he turned the recluse over, looking for the wound. But he could not see a wound. Then he asked, “Where’s the wound, sir?”
“No one has hurt me,” the Bodhisatta replied. “It is only I who have wounded my own heart.” And he got up, sat on a seat, and repeated the following verses:
“No archer drew an arrow to his ear
To deal this wound; no feathered shaft is here
Plucked from a peacock’s wing, and decked out fine
By skillful fletchers: ‘tis this heart of mine,
“Once cleansed from passion by my own firm will,
And keen intelligence, which through desire
Hath dealt the wound that bids me fair to kill,
And burns through all the limbs of me like fire.
“I see no wound from which the blood might flow:
My own heart’s folly ‘tis that pierces so.”
Thus the Bodhisatta explained matters to the King by these three stanzas. Then he asked the King to leave the hut. He entered into a state of meditative absorption (jhāna) and was able to recover his state of serenity and joy. Then he left the hut, and sitting in the air, he encouraged the King. Then he declared that he would go back to Himalaya. The King tried to dissuaded him, but he said, “Oh King, see what humiliation has come to me while I lived here! I cannot live here any longer.” And although the King begged him to stay, he rose up in the air and went back to the Himalaya. There he lived out the rest of his life, after which he was reborn in the Brahma’s world.
When the Master ended this discourse, he taught the Dharma and identified the birth. At the conclusion of the Dharma teaching, the backsliding monk became an arahant,. Some of the monks present attained stream-entry, some became once-returners, some became non-returners, and some became arahants. Then the Master said, “Ananda was the King, and I was the recluse.”
