Jataka 485

Canda Kinnara Jātaka

The Moon Fairy

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

This is one of the iconic stories from the Pāli Canon. It is how after the Buddha-to-be left home on his holy search, his wife Yasodharā/Yaśodharā took up the customs of a mendicant in support of him. Yasodhodarā went on to become one of the first Buddhist nuns along with the Buddha’s stepmother. In the Pāli Canonical texts, Yasodharā is referred to simply as “Rahūla’s mother.” This may have been the convention of the time. She is identified by name in the commentaries.

“’Tis passing away.” The Master told this story while he was living in the banyan grove nearby Kapilapura (Kapilavastu/Kapilavatthu, the Buddha’s hometown and the capital city of Sakya). It is about Rāhula’s mother (the Buddha’s lay wife) when she was in the palace.

This birth must be told beginning from the Distant Epoch of the Buddha’s existence. (The Three Buddhist Epochs are: the “distant” past of Buddha Dipankara, the current time of Shhakamuni Buddha, and the future time of Maitreya/Mettayya Buddha.) But the story of the Epochs, as far as the lion’s roar of Kassapa of Uruvelā (One of three brahmin brothers living at Uruvelā converted by the Buddha), in Laṭṭhivana (near Rājagaha), the Bamboo Forest, has been told before in the Apaṇṇaka Birth (Jātaka 1). Beginning from that point you will read in the Vessantara Birth (Jātaka 547) the continuation of the story up to the arrival at Kapilavatthu.

The Master was seated in his father’s house during the meal. He remembered the Mahādhammapāla Birth (Jātaka 447), and after the meal was done, he said, “I will praise the noble qualities of Rāhula’s mother in this—her own house—by telling the story of the Canda Kinnara Birth.” Then handing his bowl to the King, along with the two Chief Disciples, he went over to the house of Rāhula’s mother. At that time there were 40,000 dancing girls who lived in her presence, and of them 1,090 were maidens of the warrior caste. When the lady heard of the Tathāgata’s arrival, she ordered that everyone should wear yellow robes. The Master arrived and took his seat in a place that was assigned to him. Then all the women cried out with one voice, and there was a great sound of grief. Rāhula’s mother had, too, wept and but she had put aside her grief. (This was probably the first time she had seen her son since he left on his spiritual journey.) She welcomed the Master. She sat down with the deep reverence due to a king. Then the King began to talk about her goodness. “Listen to me, sir. She heard that you wore yellow robes, and so she robed herself in yellow. She heard that garlands and such things are to be given up, and lo, she has given up garlands and sits on the ground. When you entered the holy life, she became a widow. But she refused the gifts that other kings sent her. That is how faithful her heart is to you.” In this way he told of her goodness in many different ways. The Master said, “It is no marvel, great King, that now in my last existence the lady should love me, and that she should be of faithful heart and led by me alone. So also, even when born as an animal, she was faithful and mine alone.” Then at the King’s request he told this story from the past.

Once upon a time when Brahmadatta was the King in Benares, the Great Being was born in the Himalaya Mountains as a fairy. His wife was named Candā. These two lived together on a silver mountain named Canda Pabbata, or the “Mountain of the Moon.” At that time the King of Benares had given control of his government to his ministers, and all alone he dressed in two yellow robes. Then armed with the five weapons (sword, spear, bow, battle-axe, shield), he proceeded to the Himalayas. (This clearly is a spiritual seeker who is not taking any chances.)

While he was eating his venison, he remembered that there was a little stream. So he began to climb the hill. Now the fairies that live on the Mountain of the Moon during the rainy season remain on the mountain. They only come down in the hot weather. At that time this fairy Canda (the male fairy) with his mate came down and wandered about. He anointed himself with perfumes, ate the pollen of flowers, clothed himself in flower-gauze for inner and outer garments, and swinging in the creepers to amuse himself, he sang songs in a honeyed voice.

He, too, came to this stream. And at one stopping place, he went down into the stream with his wife. They scattered flowers about and played in the water. Then once again they put on their garments of flowers, and on a sandy spot that was as white as a silver plate, they spread a couch of flowers and lay there. Picking up a piece of bamboo, the male fairy began to play a song. He sang with a honeyed voice, while his mate waved her soft hands and danced nearby and sang as well.

The King heard the sound. And treading softly so that his footsteps would not be heard, he approached them. He stood watching the fairies from a secret place. He immediately fell in love with the female fairy. “I will shoot the husband,” he thought, “and kill him, and I will live here with the wife.” Then he shot the fairy Canda, who lamented his pain in these four stanzas:

“’Tis passing away, I think, and my blood is flowing, flowing,

I am losing my hold on life, O Candā! My breath is going!

“’Tis sinking, I am in pain, my heart is burning, burning,

But ‘tis for my sorrow, Candā, the heart within me is yearning.

“As grass, as a tree I perish, as a waterless river I dry,

But ‘tis for my sorrow, Candā, my heart within me is yearning.

“As rain on a lake at the mountain foot are the tears that fall from my eye,

But ‘tis for my sorrow, Canda, my heart within me is yearning.”

In this way the Great Being lamented his pain in four stanzas. Then, lying on his couch of flowers, he lost consciousness and fell away. The King stood where he was. But the other fairy did not know that the Great Being was wounded, not even when he uttered his lament. She was intoxicated with her own delight. But then she saw him lying there, turned away and lifeless. She began to wonder what the matter with her lord could be. And when she examined him, she saw the blood oozing from the mouth of the wound. She was unable to bear the great pain of sorrow for her beloved husband. She cried out in a loud voice.

Figure: Mourning the wounded fairy

“The fairy must be dead,” the King thought. He came out and showed himself. When Candā saw him, she thought, “This must be the criminal who has killed my dear husband!” Trembling, she started to flee. Then standing on the hilltop, she denounced the King in five stanzas:

“You evil prince—ah, woe is me! My husband dear did wound,

Who there beneath a woodland tree now lies upon the ground.

“O prince! The woe that wrings my heart may your own mother pay,

The woe that wrings my heart to see my fairy dead this day!

“Yea, prince! The woe that wrings my heart may your own wife repay,

The woe that wrings my heart to see my fairy dead this day!

“And may your mother mourn her lord, and may she mourn her son,

Who on my lord most innocent for lust this deed has done.

“And may your wife look on and see the loss of lord and son,

For you upon my harmless lord for lust this deed has done.”

When she had made this proclamation in these five stanzas, standing upon the mountain top, the King comforted her by another stanza:

“Weep not or grieve, the woodland dark has blinded you, I glean,

A royal house shall honor you, and you will be my queen.”

“What is this that you have said?” cried Candā when she heard it. And as loud as a lion’s roar she declared the next stanza:

“No! I will surely kill myself! Yours I will never be,

Who killed my husband innocent and all in lust for me.”

When he heard this his passion left him, and he recited another stanza:

“Live if you will, O timid one! To Himalaya go,

Creatures that feed on shrub and tree the woodland love, I know.”

With these words, he departed in disinterest.

As soon as she knew he had gone, Candā embraced the Great Being and took him up to the hilltop. There she laid him on the flat land, placing his head on her lap. Then she moaned in twelve stanzas:

“Here in the hills and mountain caves, in many a glen and grot,

What shall I do, O fairy mine! now that I see you not?

“The wild beasts range, the leaves are spread on many a lovely spot,

What shall I do, O fairy mine, now that I see you not?

“The wild beasts range, sweet flowers are spread on many a lovely spot,

What shall I do, O fairy mine, now that I see you not?

“Clear run the rivers down the hills, with flowers all overgrown,

What shall I do, O fairy mine, now you have left me lone?

“Blue are the Himalaya hills, most fair they are to see,