CHAPTER IVHUSHKA IN THE MARKET-PLACE
It was spring. The Sravana sacrifices were over. Farmers had finished their planting, and the world ran with life. As yet, there was no presage of summer heat. The nights were cool, and the mornings soft as in winter. But the new foliage was delicately bright, and more tender flowers had come to join the perpetual blossoms. Almond and apricot trees were in bloom; and the breeze was perfumed with orchard breaths. The mongoose and the turtle began their rovings. There was an air of love and liberty in all things; and the heart of Oman was filled with suppressed yearning. He worked as steadily as usual; but his thoughts went wandering. For the first time since the day he had left the banyan grove, he desired solitude. But it was solitude in a new form. He felt in him the longing to wander, to roam the land, to penetrate distant places that he had heard of:—great cities and fair plains, where historic men had dwelt.
Gradually he fell into the habit of dreaming over this new ambition; and by degrees strange pictures rose up before him:—pictures of places that he had seen and known, somewhere, somehow, perhaps onlyas myths in an epic, perhaps actually, in an old life. And with these pictures was always the unattainable—a golden thread, running in and out of all his dreams: the thought of that which he already had perceived to soften the whole world,—love—the love of man for woman, the love of woman for man. And dangerous as this brooding was, it grew so dear to him that he could not relinquish it, but cherished it, secretly, as a gift from the high gods.
There came an evening when he betrayed his thoughts, involuntarily, resistlessly, to the one being in the world who would try to understand them. And forever after he rejoiced that he had done so. He was sitting alone in the veranda of Gokarna’s house, waiting for his meal of millet-cakes and milk, which Kota presently brought. Then, when she had laid it before him, she walked slowly over to the veranda entrance and seated herself there, and looked off upon the swift-falling dusk. In the misty radiance of the sunset, still more under the spell of the rising night, spangled with white stars, the little village of mud and straw lost its marks of poverty and squalor, and was softened into a dream-city, of ineffable delicacy. As they sat looking out upon it now, the thoughts of mother and son were alike, except that Oman was regretting what he could never have, and Kota that which had not been given her, for Gokarna was not such a man as the springtime loves. But mother and son felt a sympathy with each other, and, under this sense, the nature of each expanded.
“Ah, it is one of Krishna’s nights,” murmured Kota, dreamily.
For answer, Oman sighed; and the sigh came from his soul.
Kota turned and looked at the young man. Hitherto, Oman’s heart had been strange to her; she had never thought of questioning the workings of his brain. Now, suddenly, his humanity was apparent; and her heart went out to his human sorrow as she asked, gently: “Dost thou mourn, Oman?”
Oman, for whom no human voice had ever taken on this tone, felt a throb of gratitude. But he answered: “I do not mourn, mother. I do not mourn. And yet it is the time of love; and for me there is no love.”
Though caste forbade it, she went over and sat down at his side, and took his two hands in hers. “Thinkest thou there is none to love thee?” she asked, tenderly.
Oman’s head drooped to his knees; and, resting it there, he let some part of his sorrow find expression for the woman, and her tears rained down with his, while, forgetting all but her motherhood, she clasped him to her heart.
After Oman’s emotion had spent itself, and he had become quiet, Kota remained at his side, and together they looked off upon the village, over which the half-grown moon was now shedding a bluish silver light. The two sat silent, watching, till the moon was past mid-heaven, and halfway down the sky. Gokarna had not returned. He would evidently sleep that nightwith the snatakas and priests in the square of sacrifice. But at last Kota, rising reluctantly, left the night behind, and sought her rest in the house, while Oman lay down in his accustomed corner of the veranda, and, after a little, slept.
When he opened his eyes again, the sun was nearly in mid-sky. He would unquestionably get a beating from the master weaver, when he reached his loom. However, it must be faced; and, without pausing for food, he rose, thinking to make his ablutions at a fountain on the way. Reaching the veranda step, however, he paused. A man was standing there, silently: a man clad in mud-stained yellow robes, holding in his hand a wooden bowl. Oman looked at him with some curiosity. A century or two before, such men had overrun all India. Now, so rarely was one seen that he was an object of interest to every beholder. In the days when the wild Brahmanic leader, Kumarila Bhatta, had raised his brethren against the Buddhists, it had been death to this man to stand thus at a Brahman’s door; for, unquestionably, he was a Bhikkhu, a Buddhist mendicant monk, come out of Bágh, the one remaining stronghold of Buddhism in Malwa, one of the few left in all India. And the man stood here, quite still, silently asking alms. Pity and curiosity were nowadays the only sentiments with which even Brahmans regarded these harmless men. And Oman, after a moment’s halt, would have hurried on, but that he caught the expression in the wanderer’s eyes, and paused to look again.
Certainly it was a remarkable face. The eyes were very large, and dark, and long-lashed; and the look in them was such as one finds in oxen. The man’s body was lean to emaciation; but his face, owing to the round-cut hair, had more or less of a full appearance. His robes—which he wore in the regular Buddhist manner, over the left shoulder, under the right, and reaching to the heels,—were well worn, as were his sandals, and the knotty, wooden staff in his hand. On his back was a small bundle, fastened with a rope; and this, with an alms-bowl, completed his equipment for the eight months’ yearly pilgrimage prescribed for every Bhikkhu.
When his swift scrutiny was ended, Oman, following a sudden impulse, went a little closer to the man, and said, gently: “Peace to your heart, reverend sir. Let me fill your bowl with food.”
The Bhikkhu bowed, and silently handed his dish to the young man, regarding him the while with grave scrutiny. Oman carried the bowl inside, and requested his mother to fill it with whatever was at hand. Kota, decidedly taken aback, complied with the request, albeit it was the first Buddhist bowl ever filled in that Brahman household. Kota prepared a dish for her son at the same time; and Oman carried them both outside. The monk received his with humble thanks; and, squatting on the ground where he was, without prayer or ceremony began his meal. Oman watched him for a moment, and concluded that, since he was already half a day late, another hour would make little difference.So he sat down at some distance from the stranger, and himself began to eat. They finished at the same time, and, rising, faced each other inquiringly. This time it was the monk who spoke.
“For thine alms, I give thee thanks. One favor more I will ask of thee. Tell me in what direction lies the bazaar; for thither I must go to preach Dharma[5]to the people.”
[5]Dharma: Truth, the Word, the Law.
[5]Dharma: Truth, the Word, the Law.
“O Bhikkhu, on my way to work I shall pass through the bazaar. If you will walk with me, I will lead you thither.”
The monk looked astonished at this civility, but agreed at once to the proposal; and, Oman having left his dish on the veranda, they started down the winding street in the direction of the market-place. As they went, they talked, scatteringly, and Oman found himself listening with delight to the low, mellow tones of his companion’s voice. The Bhikkhu’s name, he found, was Hushka. He was now returning from his pilgrimage and on his way to Bágh, where he was to spend the summer months, the Yassa season, in one of the Viharas there.
When they reached the bazaar, they found in it a busy throng of men and women, buying, selling, shouting, laughing, wrangling, gossiping together, each contributing in some way to the general tumult. Oman wondered not a little how his companion was going to obtain hearing here. Hushka, however, appeared as untroubled as if he had mounted a platform before a respectfullyattentive multitude; and Oman, interested in the prospect, still lingered, watching his chance acquaintance.
First, the Bhikkhu reminded Oman of his own personal neglect, by going to the fountain in the middle of the square, and carefully washing out his alms-bowl. When it was cleaned and dried, he still stood, resting one hand upon the stone, looking thoughtfully around him. One or two people, passing, caught his eye, and halted, uncertainly. Then three or four middle-aged and old men drew out of the throng and stood still, close at hand. They were those that had a curiosity concerning the dying faith: perhaps even, in their secret hearts, leaned a little toward it; and usually availed themselves of each rare opportunity of listening to the Dharma.
Having now before him the nucleus of an audience, Hushka faced them, his back to the fountain. Absently he stuck his flat bowl into the pouch depending from his leathern girdle, fixing his eyes, the while, upon Oman, who, fascinated by the man’s simplicity, still stood, apart from the others, watching and waiting. And now the Buddhist lifted both hands, clasped them high before him, and repeated, in tones of greatest reverence, the Buddhist profession of faith, with which all mendicant preachers were accustomed to begin their discourse:
“‘Of all things proceeding from cause, their causes hath the Tathagata (Buddha) explained. The great Sramana (Buddha) hath likewise explained the causes of the cessation of existence.’”
At these words, spoken in a low, melodious, monotonous voice, addressed, not to the people, but, apparently, to Heaven, Oman, unconscious of himself, took a step nearer to the speaker. After a slight pause, Hushka, now removing his eyes from Oman’s face and using them at discretion, began his sermon, choosing language that was clear and simple, using figures calculated to appeal to the people, carrying his hearers with him by means of his own personal magnetism, which was never at so high a pitch as when he was engaged in this kind of speaking. Gradually, his audience increased in numbers. The little group of half a dozen became twelve, and then twenty, and then forty, till the clamor in the market-place was strangely diminished, and buyers and sellers alike stood still before the power of this wanderer of alien and dying faith, surnamed, by his brethren of the Vihara, “honey-throated”, and “golden-tongued”.
And this was the nature of his address; these the words that he spoke:
“Have you considered, O people, how all that we are is the result of what we have thought? Our life is founded on our thoughts, made up of our thoughts. If a man speaks or acts with an evil thought, pain follows him, as the wheel follows the foot of the ox that draws the vehicle.
“‘I am abused, miserable, receive not my due in the world.’ For him who constantly harbors such thoughts, there is unending discontent. But for him who reflects: ‘I am happy in living, for the world is aspot of joy and beauty,’ discontent will cease forever. And so, also, hatred will never cease by hatred. Hatred ceases through love. This is an old rule. Again, he who lives seeking pleasures only, his senses unbridled, his nature through indulgence growing idle and weak, him will Mara (the tempter) overthrow, as the wind blows down a rotten tree. But for him who lives to labor and to love his fellows, his senses controlled, his appetites moderate, faithful and strong in his work, him Mara can no more overthrow than the wind blows down a rocky mountain-peak.
“Now I declare to you that truth is an image clearly to be seen only by the pure in heart. And those that follow vain desires, imagine that truth is untruth and see untruth in truth, and never arrive at truth. But those whose aims are high, whose minds are unpolluted with vanity, are able to distinguish between the false and the true, and delight in truth. Therefore follow not after vanity nor the enjoyment of lusts; for when ye have known truth for yourselves, therein will ye find great joy.
“Earnestness and meditation bring in their train serenity and happiness. By earnestness did Indra rise to the lordship of the gods. And he who delights in sincerity, who looks with fear upon hypocrisy, moves about like fire, burning all his fetters; and he that has conquered himself by reflection, is close upon Nirvana.
“I would speak with you also concerning the tyranny of passion. For as rain breaks through an ill-thatched house, so passion breaks through the unfortified mind.Therefore it is necessary carefully to train the mind, which is difficult to check and constantly rebellious, rushing where it listeth. Yet, only a trained mind will bring happiness. Let the wise man guard his thoughts, lest the torrent of passion, rushing upon him, overwhelm him in its depths. The mind travels far, moves about alone, without a body; and, to be freed from Mara, must often hide in the chamber of the heart. But so long as man is under the bondage of passion, so long is he exposed to the persuasions of Mara. And so long as the desire of man toward woman, even the smallest, is not destroyed, so long is his mind in bondage. Thou shalt also cut out the love of thyself with thine own hand; for it is the greatest tree in the forest of dangers. From its root springs desire. Its foliage is wanton. From lust spring fear and grief; but he who is free from lust knows not grief nor fear. Yet no man can free another from these things. As by one’s self the evil is done, so by one’s self is one purified. Is the struggle long? Is it lonely? Is it exceedingly difficult? Fear not. By such measures only is serenity attained. Well-makers lead the water where they will. Fletchers bend the arrow; carpenters split a log of wood; but a good man doeth the greatest thing of all, for he can fashion himself.”
Hushka concluded his discourse quietly, with a benign smile flickering from his eyes and just touching his lips. The holy law that he preached to men never failed to affect himself, and to uplift him. And this, probably, was the secret of his power. Certainly,if it took some courage nowadays to preach the word of the Buddha in India, the preacher found his reward; for his audiences were held fairly spellbound during the ten or fifteen minutes of the discourse; and, under the magic smoothness of the golden voice, the disjointed nature of his preachment had passed unnoticed. After a moment or two of silence, more complimentary than any applause, the little throng began to break up, and, five minutes later, the noise of the market-place was as deafening as before. The Bhikkhu, his work here finished, was turning to depart, when he perceived his companion of the noontide still standing near, apparently watching a chance to speak to him again. Hushka gazed at him inquiringly, and Oman came up, but stood silent and a little confused before him.
“Is there any service that I can perform for thee?” asked Hushka, after regarding him for a moment attentively.
Oman again gazed deep into the large, gentle eyes; and with the look, a thrill of joy ran through him. “Tell me, if you will, O Bhikkhu, if your order practises this Dharma? Are all Buddhist brethren free from desire and from the pain of discontent?”
“It is our endeavor thus to free ourselves. We follow the teachings of the great Master.”
“Sramana-Gautama?”
The Bhikkhu bowed his head.
“There are many Jainists that come here, saying that they also worship the Buddha truly—”
“Jainists! Hypocrites!” for an instant, Hushka’seyes flashed fire; but he pressed his lips tightly together, and when he spoke again it was quite calmly: “The Jainists are false Buddhists. The world has been sadly overrun with hypocrisy; and they have been its devotees. They do not follow Buddha, but Buddhaghosa; and their law is not our law, for they do not possess the manuscripts of truth.”
Oman nodded, and there was a pause. Then the youth, his heart beating rapidly, his throat quite dry, asked: “What is required of those that would join your order?”
Hushka looked at him penetratingly, and said: “Come. Let us proceed out of ear-shot of this tumult, where we may talk together in peace.”
Willingly Oman complied; nor did either speak again till they were in one of the least frequented of the village streets. Even then, Oman hesitated to begin. He was in such an inward turmoil that he could not think of words in which to express himself. After a little waiting, Hushka spoke for him:
“You have asked me, young man, what is required of one that wishes to join our order. I answer you that nothing is required save the wish.”
“But Sudras—outcasts—the once-born—do you accept these into the brotherhood?”
“In the eyes of the Sramana, any man and any woman may attain to Arahatship.”
“Women! Then there is no caste among you?”
“Thus it is written in one of our sacred books: ‘A man does not become a Brahmana by his family or byhis birth. In whom there is truth and righteousness, he is blessed, he is a Brahmana.’”
It was the first time that Oman had dreamed of such a thing as a social order without caste; and the idea was so overwhelming that for some moments he was silent out of sheer amazement. All his preconceived notions went whirling in his head while he strove to adjust himself to this. Never, until this Bhikkhu had spoken in the market-place, had he had any idea of a religion built solely for the help of human frailty, and for the consolation of human sorrow. Now, what a vista was suddenly opened before him! Small wonder that he shut his eyes to the first radiant flood of light. That he could see anything at all of the possibilities carried in Hushka’s words, was due to the fact of his three years of bitter solitude and lonely meditation. After a few moments, during which Hushka kept a wise silence, Oman asked slowly, with a trembling that betrayed itself on his very lips:
“Could—a weaver—a Vaisya—become one of you? Could I become a Bhikkhu?”
“Art thou a weaver? I had thought thee Brahman born.”
“That also is true. I was born a Brahman.”
There was a short silence. Oman was sick now with dread of a next question,—that never came. Hushka was turning certain matters rapidly over in his mind. From the first, Oman’s intense interest in his words had been a mystery to him. Converts to Buddhism were seldom made, in this day. It was now most rarely thatthe Bhikkhus brought novices back with them for the Vassa; and the few that came were almost always of Sudra caste. Oman, on the other hand, was apparently of high breeding; and only some unusual fact could have brought him into his present situation. Hushka scented some misdeed, crime, perhaps, that had put the youth into present bad standing. But the misdeed of a Brahman was no Buddhist’s affair. To make him a convert was the chief consideration; for had not the great Buddha received into his order men of dark past? There was excellent precedent for what Hushka wished to do.
Later in his companionship with Oman, Hushka’s first suspicion of crime was completely laid by the openness of his pupil’s behavior. But, in justice to the Bhikkhu be it said, he had never, until the end, the faintest suspicion of the real nature of Oman’s trouble.
Many thoughts and much reasoning passed rapidly through Hushka’s mind; and then he turned again to the youth, and said to him: “Thou hast asked me if thou canst become a Bhikkhu. I answer thee—yes. But first you must know something of our lives, and the purpose of them. Then, understanding all that is to be renounced, if you would still join us, I will myself give you the first ordination, the Pabbagga, and will take you as my pupil. I will be your master, your Upagghaya; for I have instructed many youths through their novitiate. Later, you will be given the second, the highest ordination, Upasampada, and so become aBhikkhu. But first you must understand whither I would lead you.”
“Tell me! Tell me,” besought Oman, looking into Hushka’s eyes, before whose steady orbs his own suddenly fell.
And so, while they walked, the Buddhist expounded to the lonely youth the simple doctrines of the great religion: the renunciation of desire, of pleasure, of indulgence in the flesh, and the growth of that serenity that leads gradually to Nirvana, the great extinction. And the plan of it all, the eightfold abstinence, the fourfold path, seemed to Oman a perfect conception. The whole doctrine was, to his troubled soul, like balm on a deep wound, a draught of water to one perishing in the desert. And in his delight, he was freed from traditional prejudice, and gave himself up entirely to the new companionship.
Thus, through the whole afternoon, the two walked together, communing, until, as the sun slipped under the western horizon, they paused once more before the house of Gokarna. Hushka had reminded the young man that his father and mother must be told of his wish to become a Buddhist. Indeed, in the depths of his quiet mind, the Bhikkhu apprehended insuperable difficulty here, yet knew that the matter must be faced; and he let Oman decide the manner of its presentation. To Hushka’s astonishment, Oman took it unquestioningly on himself, asking Hushka to wait in the veranda while he went within to inform his parents, or, in case Gokarna were absent, at leasthis mother, of his great decision. Hushka made no protest, nor suggested his own fitness to give a favorable impression concerning the Bhikkhu’s life. Remembering Oman’s new-born enthusiasm and seeing in him no sign of nervousness about approaching his guardians, Hushka reflected that Oman might have been divinely fitted for this task. So, after a short colloquy at the veranda step, the monk sat down in the vine-covered retreat, and Oman went on into the house, where, contrary to his expectation, he found both his father and his mother.
For a long time Hushka sat there in the falling night, cross-legged, in the manner of the Sakyamuni, his hands on his knees, his head resting against the wall of the house, meditating. And while he indulged himself in hope, there came, through the open doorway, the low, monotonous murmur of voices. They were never raised above the ordinary pitch; and this Hushka perceived with increasing satisfaction. Once or twice there were to be heard a woman’s tones, followed always by the musical voice of Oman, and the heavier baritone of Gokarna. But the discussion, if discussion there were, was carried on in an entirely matter-of-fact manner.
During this time, outside, the hands of Nature had been at work, and now the whole sky was robed in luminous, fleecy gray, strewn with white stars, and crowned with the radiant half-moon, which shed silver beams over the whole earth. The air was warm and fragrant with the breath of spring. It was a nightwhen the very atmosphere brought intoxication. And gradually the expression of him sitting alone in the veranda changed, and grew very sad; and a new light, one of sorrow and yearning, shone in the depths of his large eyes.
Now the murmur of voices inside the house ceased. Oman’s task was accomplished. After a moment of silence the three came out of the firelit room, into the cool and shadowy veranda. It was a second or two before any one of them could see Hushka, who had risen, and slowly moved forward to them. Then Gokarna also advanced, and spoke:
“O Bhikkhu, Oman, my son, has told me that which my heart is sad to hear. He wishes to receive from you Buddhist ordination and go forth as your pupil.”
Hushka bent his head once. “That is true. The young man came to me after I had discoursed upon the Dharma in the market-place, and asked that he might become my Saddhiviharika, to listen daily to the Dharma and become versed in the way of the great life.”
“So says my son; and, O Bhikkhu, so fervently doth he desire to enter upon this life, that he hath won consent from us. So I bid you take him for a pupil, and treat him with that forbearance that is a law of all religions.”
Hushka bent his head again. “Let it be thus,” he said solemnly.
There was a stifled sob from Kota, who stood in the background, behind her husband; and then Oman, whohad embraced her, went forward to his master, asking: “When shall I receive the ordination?”
“When thou wilt. Any time is a proper time for the Pabbagga.”
“Then let me be at once ordained, that we may set forth at an early hour on the morrow.”
“Come then into the moonlight here before the step, that each may look upon the face of the other. Yet,”—he glanced toward Kota and Gokarna, who still stood close at hand,—“yet we should not act in the presence of any but followers of Gautama.”
At this, the father and mother embraced Oman, and then, when Kota had murmured to him that she should see him again in the morning, the two retired for the night, leaving Oman and Hushka alone in the veranda. Hushka was struggling with the bundle on his back, which Oman helped him to remove. In it, wrapped in the mat used by Buddhists for many purposes, lay a set of yellow robes, apparently new, yet mudstained to a height of a foot above the hem.
“Whence come the stains? And how dost thou carry this set of garments?” queried Oman, delighted that he was at once to assume the dress of his new faith.
“Thus is it decreed that, in such emergencies as this, when we take a pupil, we should have a robe for him. And the robes are stained with earth, that no Bhikkhu or student shall vainly rejoice in his new garment.”
Laying aside the yellow robes, Hushka bound uphis mat again, this time putting the little bundle to one side, on the veranda. Then he said to Oman:
“Now must thou don this garb. It is our rule that the brethren shall not look upon one another in the act of robing or disrobing; so I turn my face from thee. Yet it will be necessary that I show thee the required manner of passing the cloth about the upper part of the body and over the left shoulder. Therefore, when the skirt is adjusted, call me to thine assistance.”
Oman nodded; but, as Hushka turned toward the other end of the veranda, Oman, who, in loosening his usual tunic, had accidentally touched the cord that he always wore, called out to Hushka: “The cord—the Brahman cord—must it be put off?”
“Let it remain,” answered Hushka, without turning around; and Oman in his heart rejoiced.
When he was dressed and Hushka had taught him the trick of fastening the end of the yellow cloth under his arm, Oman declared himself ready for the ordination. Thereupon Hushka, in a solemn tone, once more repeated to him the laws of abstinence for a novice; and then, Oman having faithfully promised to observe them all, Hushka bade him sit down, cross-legged, somewhat after the manner of a Yogi, and, when he had raised his clasped hands to a level with his eyes, caused him to repeat slowly, three times, these words:
“I take my refuge in the Buddha. I take my refuge in the Dharma. I take my refuge in the Samgha (the community of brethren).”
This said, Oman repeated after his preceptor the creed that he had heard for the first time that morning: “Of all things proceeding from cause, their causes hath the Tathagata explained. The Great Sramana hath likewise explained the causes of the cessation of existence. Let him be forever worshipped.”
With these simple words, the ordination was completed; but Oman still remained in the half-kneeling, half-sitting position, motionless, silent, a little pale. It was as if the repetition of the creed had wrought a change in his whole being. He experienced an inexplicably strong emotion, an emotion amazing to himself, perhaps not so much so to Hushka, who stood looking down on him with the silver moonlight in his gentle, dark eyes. Oman found himself gazing into those eyes as if they had been of the Buddha himself. After a little, however, Hushka broke the spell, saying, quietly:
“Come, my pupil, let us seek our rest. On the morrow we must proceed upon our way.”
Oman rose at once, and followed his master to that end of the veranda where he was wont to sleep. Here, dressed as they were, the two lay down, some distance apart, with no covering but their yellow garments and the sweet night air. Very soon Hushka’s breath came evenly and long; and the other knew that he slept. But Oman closed his eyes in vain. He could not sleep; nor, indeed, did he desire to. His heart was full. It had come, at last, all that he had dreamed of. The impossible was come to pass. On the morrow he wasgoing out into the world,—out into the broad, shining world, in the companionship of a man that did not scorn him, with a faith in his heart that he loved, that loved him, that had been decreed for him and all the scattered brethren of the lonely life.