Jataka 354
Uraga Jātaka
The Snake
as told by Eric Van Horn
originally translated by H.T. Francis and R.A. Neil, Cambridge University
originally edited by Professor Edward Byles Cowell, Cambridge University
Here is another story about the futility of grieving when someone dies. It is interesting that there are so many of these. Of course, in India at that time, people died younger and more frequently. The average lifespan was only 42 years, although that is probably somewhat skewed because of the higher infant mortality rate. Nonetheless it shows how powerful the sense of loss can be when someone dies, even in a society that would have been much more used to death than ours is today.
I think this is a particularly lovely telling of the Buddha’s teaching on death. The entire family has been well-versed in it. They show love and compassion, but no grief. It is a wonderful balance. You really can have both.
“Man quits his mortal frame.” The Master told this story when he was living at Jetavana. It is about a landowner whose son had died. The introductory story is just the same as that of the man who lost both his wife and father. Here, too, the Master went to the man’s house, and after saluting him as he was seated, he said, “Why, sir, are you grieving?” He replied, “Reverend sir, ever since my son’s death, I grieve.” The Master said, “Sir, all that is subject to dissolution is dissolved, and that which is subject to destruction is destroyed, and this happens not to one man only, nor in one village only, but in countless spheres. It happens in the three modes of existence. There is no creature that is not subject to death. All beings are subject to death, and all compounds are subject to dissolution. But sages of old, when they lost a son, said, “That which is subject to destruction is destroyed,” and they did not grieve.” (It is not clear what the three modes of existence are. In the Buddhist cosmology there are actually six modes of existence. This may be a different classification, perhaps heaven, human, and the realms below human.) And at the man’s request, he told this story from the past.
Once upon a time when Brahmadatta was reigning in Benares, the Bodhisatta was born into a brahmin household in a village outside the gates of Benares. He supported a family by doing field labor. He had two children, a son and a daughter. When the son had grown up, the father brought a wife home for him from a family of equal rank with his own. Thus, along with a female slave they composed a household of six: the Bodhisatta and his wife, the son and daughter, the daughter-in-law and the female slave. They lived happily and affectionately together. The Bodhisatta would counsel the other five, “Just as you have received, give alms, observe holy days, keep the moral law, dwell on the thought of death, and be mindful of your mortal state. For in the case of beings like ourselves, death is certain, life is uncertain. All existing things are transitory and subject to decay. Therefore take heed in your actions day and night.” They readily accepted his teaching and dwelt earnestly on the thought of death.
Now one day the Bodhisatta went to plough his field with his son. The son gathered together the rubbish and set fire to it. Not far from where he was, there lived a snake in an anthill. The smoke hurt the snake’s eyes. Coming out from his hole in a rage, it thought, “This is all due to that fellow,” and grabbing onto him, he bit him with his four teeth. The youth fell down and died instantly.
When the Bodhisatta saw him fall, he left his oxen and went to him. Finding that he was dead, he picked him up and laid him at the foot of a tree. He covered him up with a cloak. But he did not weep or lament. He said, “That which is subject to dissolution is dissolved, and that which is subject to death is dead. All compound existences are transitory and liable to death.” And recognizing the transitory nature of things, he went on with his ploughing.
Later he saw a neighbor pass by the field. He asked, “Friend, are you going home?” When he answered “Yes,” he said, “Please then go to my house and say to the mistress, ‘You are not to bring food for two today. Bring food for one only. And previously the female slave alone has brought the food. But today all four of you are to put on clean clothes and to come with perfumes and flowers in your hands.’”
“All right,” he said, and he went and said these very words to the brahmin’s wife.
She asked, “By whom, sir, was this message given?”
“By the brahmin, lady,” he replied.
Then she understood that her son was dead. But she did not so much as tremble. Thus showing perfect self-control and wearing white garments and with perfumes and flowers in her hand, she told her family to bring food, and she accompanied them to the field. But not one of them shed a tear or lamented. The Bodhisatta sat in the shade where the youth lay and ate his food. And when his meal was finished, they all gathered fire wood and lifted the body onto the funeral pile. They made offerings of perfumes and flowers, and then set fire to it. But not a single tear was shed by anyone. All were dwelling on the thought of death.
Such was the depth of their virtue that the throne of Sakka manifested signs of heat. Sakka said, “Who, I wonder, is anxious to bring me down from my throne?” And on reflection he discovered that the heat was due to the virtue in these people. He was highly pleased, and he said, “I must go to them and utter a loud cry of exultation like the roaring of a lion. And immediately afterwards I will fill their home with the seven treasures.” (The seven treasures are gold, silver, lapis lazuli, crystal, agate, pearl, and carnelian, which is a semi-precious stone.) He went there quickly and stood by the side of the funeral pyre. He said, “What are you doing?”
“We are burning the body of a man, my lord.”
“It is no man that you are burning,” he said. “I think you are roasting the flesh of some animal that you have killed.”
“Not so, my lord,” they said. “It is merely the body of a man that we are burning.”
Then he said, “It must have been some enemy.”
The Bodhisatta said, “It is our own true son and no enemy.”
“Then he could not have been dear as a son to you.”
“He was very dear, my lord.”
“Then why do you not weep?”
Then the Bodhisatta, to explain the reason why he did not weep, uttered the first stanza:
Man quits his mortal frame, when joy in life is past,
E’en as a snake is wont its worn out skin to cast.
No friend’s lament can touch the ashes of the dead.
Why should I grieve? He fares the way he had to tread.
Figure: The Bodhisatta, Sakka, and the inevitability of death
Sakka on hearing the words of the Bodhisatta, asked the brahmin’s wife, “How, lady, did the dead man stand with you?”
“I sheltered him ten months in my womb and suckled him at my breast. I directed the movements of his hands and feet, and he was my grown-up son, my lord.”
“Granted, lady, that a father from the nature of a man may not weep, but a mother’s heart surely is tender. Why then do you not weep?”
And to explain why she did not weep, she uttered a couple of stanzas:
Uncalled he came to me, unbidden soon to go.
E’en as he came, he went. What cause is here for woe?
No friend’s lament can touch the ashes of the dead.
Why should I grieve? He fares the way he had to tread.
On hearing the words of the brahmin’s wife, Sakka asked the sister, “Lady, what was the dead man to you?”
“He was my brother, my lord.”
“Lady, sisters surely are loving towards their brothers. Why do you not weep?”
But to explain the reason why she did not weep, she repeated a couple of stanzas:
Though I should fast and weep, how would it profit me?
My kith and kin alas! would more unhappy be.
No friend's lament can touch the ashes of the dead.
Why should I grieve? He fares the way he had to tread.
Sakka on hearing the words of the sister, asked his wife, “Lady, what was he to you?”
“He was my husband, my lord.”
“Women surely, when a husband dies, are helpless as widows. Why do you not weep?”
(In India at that time widows had no rights. They could not inherit property and it was almost impossible for them to support themselves.)
But to explain the reason why she did not weep, she uttered two stanzas:
As children cry in vain to grasp the moon above,
So mortals idly mourn the loss of those they love.
No friend’s lament can touch the ashes of the dead.
Why should I grieve? He fares the way he had to tread.
Sakka on hearing the words of the wife, asked the handmaid, “Woman, what was he to you?”
“He was my master, my lord.”
“No doubt you must have been abused and beaten and oppressed by him and therefore, thinking he is happily dead, you do not weep.”
“Say not so, my lord. This does not suit his case. My young master was full of kindness and love and compassion for me. He was like a foster child to me.”
“Then why do you not weep?”
And to explain why she did not weep, she uttered a couple of stanzas:
A broken pot of earth, ah! who can piece again?
So too to mourn the dead is nought but labor vain.
No friend’s lament can touch the ashes of the dead.
Why should I grieve? He fares the way he had to tread.
Sakka, after hearing what they all had to say, was greatly pleased and said, “You have carefully dwelt on the thought of death. From here on, you are not to labor with your own hands. I am Sakka, king of heaven. I will create the seven treasures in countless abundance in your house. You are to give alms, to keep the moral law, to observe holy days, and to take heed to your ways.” And thus counseling them, he filled their house with countless wealth, and so parted from them.
The Master, having finished his exposition of the Dharma, taught the Four Noble Truths. At the conclusion of the teaching the landowner attained stream-entry. Then the Master identified the birth: “At that time Khujjuttarā was the female slave, Uppalavaṇṇā the daughter, Rāhula was the son, Khemā was the mother, and I was the brahmin.”
(Khujjuttarā was one of the Buddha’s foremost female lay disciples. Uppalavaṇṇā and Khemā were two of the Buddha’s foremost bhikkunis, or nuns. Rāhula was the Buddha’s son.)
