CHAPTER VITHE VIHARA OF TRUTH
The town of Bágh, begun in a little valley, had gradually spread, up an open hillside looking toward the southeast, and over and beyond the jungle, to the Narmáda plain. The great Viharas were two or three miles south of the village, built, all nine of them, in the flat of a ravine, with wooded hillsides rising abruptly on either side. It was not until the morning after their view from the hilltop that Hushka and Oman made their appearance here. They had arrived in Bágh at dusk the evening before, unusually wearied by an unusual day’s toil. Now, after passing the night in Bágh, they had come, in the glow of a June morning, fiercely hot, but filled with that glorifying sense of summer that cannot be burnt away even by the deadly rays of an Indian sun, to begin the Vassa season.
Along the path from the town, and through the ravine itself, they met with what seemed to Oman, brought up to regard Buddhism as a dead faith, a surprising number of Bhikkhus, all, apparently, like themselves, returning from the pilgrimage. And Oman further wondered by what feat of perfect calculationthey had managed to arrive from their wanderings on this particular day. As a matter of fact, some that they passed had been in the neighborhood for a week or more; and others would continue to arrive through the next week. There were perhaps a hundred and fifty men in all, including fourteen or fifteen novices; and there were few here who could remember a time when there had been more in the valley. Yet tradition told a great tale. For, whereas now, all these men lived in a single Vihara, the last in the row of the great buildings, in the days of the past every one of the nine huge monasteries had been filled to overflowing, and twenty-five hundred men had passed their Vassa in the ravine.
Happily, to-day, none cared to dwell on the memory of old glories. The Brethren were all busy greeting one another, and giving hasty account of incidents of their various pilgrimages; for, through the winter months, the Buddhists of Bágh were scattered over all Malwa, as far north as Rajputana, and southward, through the plains, nearly to the great ghats. Hushka was never alone, for he was one of the most important and also one of the most popular monks of the Samgha. Oman, indeed, following at his master’s heels, felt aggrieved and neglected. He occupied himself in observation, finding high cause for wonder in the vast, empty buildings lining the valley. They were immensely long, narrow for their width, and built entirely of stone cut from the great quarries near the river. Their verandas were wide, roofed andpillared with stone; but the shade-mats of straw had long since rotted and fallen away, and the interior of the mighty monuments stood open and empty, deserted by their builders and their faith.
Gradually the two approached the last of the line of monasteries, which, as Hushka had told him, was called the Vihara of Truth, and was the only one still inhabited. This place presented a very different appearance from that of its silent neighbors. As they came near the central doorway, Hushka left off his conversation with a friend, and turned to Oman. Taking him by the hand, he led him up the step, to the spot where stood a large man, wearing a white cloak over his yellow robes, and further marked by an air of extreme dignity and condescension. Oman had observed his statuesque figure some moments previously, and saw that, though he never moved from his place, every Bhikkhu that approached made haste to go to him, to bow and receive his greeting.
“That is the Sugata, the master of the Vihara, who has almost attained to Arahatship, and remains in meditation throughout the period of pilgrimage,” murmured Hushka in Oman’s ear, just before they reached the great man.
Oman felt a thrill of reverence, and looked again, hoping to perceive new marks of holiness. All that his eyes could see, however, was a tall, stout person, with a round, benign-looking face, plump and smooth-shaven. The Sugata was smiling, and Oman, hungrily as he searched, could find in that countenance no traces ofdivine spirituality. However, the great One’s eight months of meditation seemed to have agreed with him uncommonly well.
Before this irreverent thought had taken root in Oman’s mind, he was led up by Hushka and presented to the mighty one as a Saddhiviharika who had received first ordination three months before. The Sugata fixed his eyes upon the young man, who ingenuously returned the look, as the master addressed Hushka:
“He appears young. Is he of age?”
“Of eighteen years, sir.”
“Let him study well the Dharma, that, in a year, he may receive Upasampada.”
With this, Oman’s audience appeared to be at an end; and, a little relieved to be out of the neighborhood of such holiness, he followed Hushka across the veranda to a square, arcaded cloister, where, directly in front of the entrance, stood a man with an open bag before him, containing coins. Hushka took from his girdle the alms-purse that he had worn for eight months, and emptied its contents into the receptacle, at the same time exchanging greetings with the almoner. Oman, looking on, understood that it was upon this money, received on the pilgrimages, that the Bhikkhus lived in their monastery through the Vassa season.
Hushka’s exchange of courtesies ended in the question as to where he should find one Mahapra. Informed that he was in the Uposatha hall, the monk went back, Oman still at his side, and, passing into the veranda again, turned down it to the right, and, some distance fartheron, entered a room so vast that Oman stopped upon its threshold, staring. Here, near the door, was gathered quite a throng, engaged in lively altercation with one of their number, whose lean face wore a perturbed and strained look. At sight of him Hushka began to laugh.
“It is, this year, Mahapra’s lot to assign the cells,” he explained to Oman. And, leaving the young man where he was, Hushka himself plunged into the crowd.
So long a time elapsed before he emerged, that Oman, tired and bewildered by so much that was new, squatted down on the floor, to the left of the entrance, to wait. Finally Hushka returned to him, a look of satisfaction on his face; and, signing Oman to follow, walked rapidly across the hall, through a small door at the end into the cloister, across this open space, and finally down a narrow passage that ended in another open square surrounded by small doors. Here Hushka stopped, looking round him till he found a door inscribed with a certain letter. This he threw open.
“Behold, Oman,” said he, “here is your home. This is the square of novices, and I have got you a cell with an outer window. It will be well that you should remain here for a time. The Vihara will be all confusion to-day. But, if you come forth, do not forget the letter of your door.”
Then, without further ado, Hushka turned and hurried away, having himself much to accomplish before nightfall. Oman, peremptorily left alone, looked around him, at his new abiding-place. The roomwas extremely small, considering the size of the Vihara. Opposite the door was a small window, with a straw shade rolled up from it and bound round with a string. From the window could be seen a strip of hillside, where the light of noon glared over shadowless gray earth, dotted here and there with clumps of stunted bushes. This, with a bit of deep blue sky, was his view. The furniture of the room consisted of a straw bed with a sleeping-mat, an earthen water-jug, another jar, and, under the window, on a low, stone platform a foot square, a small bronze image of the Buddha. The stone walls of the cell were nearly covered with carvings and bright-colored frescoes, which, crude as they were, gave the room an air of comfort and furnishing.
Oman, accustomed to absolute simplicity, looked around him highly satisfied with his dwelling-place. He was not, however, so well pleased at the prospect of spending the whole afternoon without food; for his breakfast had been scanty, and the morning long. Nevertheless, Hushka had bidden him remain here, and Hushka’s slightest wish was law. So, calling up some of the Vedic fortitude of his childhood’s fasts, he remained for an hour or more gazing out of the window, considering some of the features of the new life; and then, since there seemed nothing better to do, let down the curtain over his window, threw himself upon his bed, and, in a few moments, had lost himself in sleep.
The first week of the Vassa life passed without order, in a jumbling way. Then, suddenly, as if by magic, everything changed, and existence ran as if by clockwork. Without knowing how it had all come about, the novices found their studies begun, and perceived that they were living under stringent laws. Only Oman, among the twenty youths that had received the Pabbagga ordination, found nothing to chafe him in the rules of the day, which were enforced with a rigor that defied disobedience. It was a long time, indeed, before the young Brahman, occupied with the unusual joys of companionship and congenial work, awoke to the fact of how much was being accomplished by himself and by those around him.
At dawn—which was early enough at this time of year—the whole Vihara was roused by the clanging of a bell, which rang till the most persistent sleeper could no longer retain his drowsiness. Then monks and novices alike made the prescribed ablutions and put on the outer robe. After this came half an hour of meditation, each one sitting alone in his open cell, while masters of the day passed through the corridors at irregular intervals to make sure that meditation did not lapse into sleep. This over, the whole company repaired to the Uposatha hall, and, seating themselves on the floor in orderly rows, repeated in concert the creed and prayers for the day. Now came a scramble to the refectory, where a meal was served:—a meal such as could scarcely have been duplicated in any Rajah’s palace. For if the Bhikkhus were accustomedto begin the Vassa with yellow robes hanging on their emaciated frames, they were sure of setting forth on their pilgrimage in October well fortified for the rigors of the fasting season.
The morning meal at an end, monks and novices separated, and the succeeding hours were occupied with varying tasks. The novices repaired to the smaller audience hall, where they were taken in charge by one of the four masters. Squatting in an orderly row on the floor, they listened in decorous silence to the reading of passages of the law, and then to a long lecture expounding all that had been read, with paraphrases by certain of the more notable commentators. This ordinarily occupied from two to three hours, after which followed lessons in the Dharma, the novices themselves being called upon to interpret chapters previously learned by rote. Then came a period of silent contemplation of the longed-for state: the cessation of desire and the extinction of feeling. This over, the second meal was served, and after it came relaxation, the novices being allowed to watch the distribution of the remains of the meal among the poor of the village who, at this hour, came crowding to the Vihara gates. This was the one period of unrestrained liberty in the day; and novices were permitted to indulge themselves in games and amusements forbidden to the doubly ordained.
By three o’clock this was over; and the two following hours were spent in the library, in the perusal of sacred manuscripts, of which the Vihara of Truth owned a large number. Of all the day’s occupations this was,to Oman, the most deeply engrossing. He had a great advantage over most of his companions, in being able to read easily both in Sanscrit and the older Pâli; for the scholarship of his youth had not left him. The working day was ended by the most difficult task of all:—three hours of silent meditation on some tenet announced at the time. At first, to those unaccustomed to it, these three hours seemed as long as the eight months of the Sugata’s retirement; and the novices whispered, and yawned, and eyed each other, and let their minds wander, till the length of their penances became startling. But gradually the time seemed shorter, the habit of abstract thought more fixed, until it was sometimes a surprise to hear the great bell ringing out the close of day, when all save penitents were commended to seek a needed rest.
This daily program was varied every two weeks, on Uposatha days, by the ceremony of the recitation of the Patimokkha; which meant the reading of lists of misdeeds punishable, the special penance for each offence, and, finally, a general confession and fixing of penances. The whole thing usually lasted from six to eight hours, and was very tiresome. But the remainder of the day was a holiday, when rules were abandoned, and monks and novices allowed to mix indiscriminately.
Such was the outline of Vihara life, which, in the beginning of the thirteenth century, differed little from that maintained in the first Buddhist monastery eighteen hundred years before. The circumstances of the day were unvaried; but the details, for the individualsliving the life, were never the same. The occupations held infinite possibilities, being perfectly adaptable to moods. The meditation that one day seemed to stretch out into infinity, passed rapidly on the next. If the incidents of the life of Gautama set forth in one day’s reading were dull and dreary, on the next the excerpt might sound like a fairy story, and the reading-hour prove all too short. For those of dull, phlegmatic temperament, perhaps there was not, after all, much difference. But Oman Ramasarman was everything but phlegmatic. A creature of strange moods, stirred by many feelings incomprehensible to the multitude, devoted to the working out of a mighty expiation, as unknown to himself as it was to his companions, his four months of Vihara life were a momentous period with him. He very soon came to an understanding of what this wisely regulated existence might hold for him. He perceived that here he might build a foundation for that resignation to the actual that he needed so terribly to attain; and forthwith he set himself, with all the determination of which he was capable, to attain to a full appreciation of the worth of the Buddhist teaching.
From the books of his religion Oman extracted much food for thought, on which he dwelt during the hours of meditation. From the very first, these periods of silence had been pregnant. In them, now, he found answers to his infinite, unasked questions. They, first of all, had awakened him to the import of the days. Perhaps, since Gautama’s first conceptions of his greatcreed, there had been no proselyte so apt for the faith as this poor, bewildered subject of a pitiless judgment. Within Oman’s body two natures, both human, both filled with direst cravings of humanity, had long struggled for supremacy. Now he had been removed from the old life, where he beheld sense worshipped on every side, and found himself in a community which taught, as an inviolable law, the renunciation of all sense gratification as the only road to happiness. A sudden austerity, born of the brain, began to work in Oman’s heart. Self-denial and abnegation became a passion with him. It was with deep delight that he graved upon his mind such verses as these:
“That middle path of knowledge which the Tathagata has gained, which leads to wisdom and conduces to calm, is the holy eightfold path: right belief, right aspiration, right speech, right conduct, right means of livelihood, right endeavor, right memory, right meditation. This is the path that conduces to Nirvâna.”
“And this is the noble truth of suffering: birth is suffering, decay is suffering, illness is suffering, death is suffering. Presence of objects we hate, separation from objects we love, not to obtain what we desire—all these are suffering. Briefly, the clinging to existence is suffering.”
“Now hear the truth of the cessation of suffering: it will cease with the cessation of thirst—a cessation which consists in the abandonment of every passion. With deliverance from this thirst comes the destruction of desire, the cessation of suffering.”
This was the subject on which, in his hours of contemplation, Oman insistently dwelt. In his heart he knew that here lay his help; and he felt it no wrong that he clung to one topic, disregarding many of the others prescribed. The process of enforced and long-continued meditation is a curious thing, and productive of strange results. Thought is hardly governable, as volatile as a gas; and to keep it fixed for any length of time upon a single point, requires a power difficult of attainment. When it is gained, however, and then persistently made use of, the character of the thinker is sure to change in one of several ways; and it is axiomatic that, in a meditative community, the individuals are never quite normal.
In Oman’s case, the effect of the silent hours, which began to be visible after two months of Vihara life, was one of increasing dignity and age. He had entered the Vihara a youth, of extremely boyish appearance, with shyest manners. He had been thoroughly crude, and so awkward before older men that he had given an early impression of stupidity. Now all this was altered. He was quiet, grave-eyed, thoughtful-looking; but his manner, filled with self-control, was almost impressive. His grasp of the teachings of the Dharma had been quick, his questions keen and pointed. Moreover, during the periods of relaxation, he began to keep himself apart from his fellows, but was often to be seen talking with his master, Hushka, or some one of the older monks of Hushka’s faction. And it was among the novices, who began to look up to him, that the idea first originatedthat Oman was to receive his Upasampada at the end of the Vassa season, instead of waiting the full year of novitiate.
By the first of August, with the Vassa half gone, Oman began to perceive that he was happy:—happy as he had never believed happiness itself could be. It seemed to him that he lacked no earthly joy. Hushka, his Saint, the man he looked up to as the perfect model of virtue and unselfishness, was one of his four masters; and Oman was much with him. Apart from this companionship, he found that he desired nothing. Solitude was not now loneliness. But though, with the ineradicable instinct of the Brahman born, he kept himself aloof from his fellow-novices, they seemed never to resent this, but rather looked up to him as one of higher caste than they, and one that had, consequently, a right to exclusiveness. Moreover, through the whole Vihara, even by Sugata himself, Oman was spoken of as a scholar of high promise, such a one as their decadent community now rarely saw. Treated with respect on every hand, the memory of his old, marked days growing dim within him, it seemed to Oman that his cup of happiness was full. He was mastering the primal, the greatest difficulties of a religion which, as it opened, became more and more beautiful to him. In certain ecstatic hours he saw himself attaining to the highest state, Arahatship, where pale Nirvana gleamed like a silver armor of repose around the passionate soul. His nature was already under subjection; and he no longer doubted that it was wholly conquerable. The waywas stretching out before him straight and smooth, the last boulder lifted away, when, suddenly, out of the clear sky, came a thunder-bolt that laid waste the fair country of his life, and left him standing alone, terrified, a yawning chasm at his feet, the wilderness on either hand.
It happened very simply, and without any sort of preparation. He sat one afternoon in the library, among a throng of monks and novices, before him one of the Vinaya texts, the Mahavagga, a manuscript of law rigidly adhered to by Buddhist and even by Jainist communities. There, in the list of those creatures unfit to receive ordination, and commanded to be driven from the Samgha if, unknowing, they had been already ordained, he came upon the sixty-eighth section, wherein all such as he were declared unfit for holiness, ineligible for Buddhism, and therefore outlawed, absolutely, from the blessed life.[7]
He read the passage once, and then again, slowly. After that he leaned a little farther over his book, no longer seeing the writing, hoping only that none observed him. Stupidly he sat there, for an hour or more, neither reading nor thinking, only conning over and over again the two simple verses that had undone him. And when he had been quiet for a very long time, an idea came, and he whispered it over, lingeringly, wistfully, to himself: “I shall not confess. I shall not confess; and so—they can never know.”
[7]“Sacred Books of the East,” Max Müller edition, Vol. XIII, Vinaya texts, Part I. Mahavagga, p. 222. (Trans. W. Rhys-Davids and H. Oldenburg.)
[7]“Sacred Books of the East,” Max Müller edition, Vol. XIII, Vinaya texts, Part I. Mahavagga, p. 222. (Trans. W. Rhys-Davids and H. Oldenburg.)