somewhat distant goal of his journey. For the tree‐tops he
saw were those of the Mango Grove on the farther side of
the town, the gift of his disciple Jīvaka, the king’s physician,
in which a well‐appointed monastery provided the
monastic community with a residence that was both
peaceful and simple.
To this home of the Order, the Sangha, the Buddha
had sent on the monks who had accompanied him —
about two hundred in number — under the leadership of
his cousin and faithful attendant Ānanda; since he had
been inclined towards tasting the delight of a day’s solitary
wandering. He was also aware that a band of young
monks from the west, led by his great disciple the wise
Sāriputra, would arrive in the Mango Grove at sunset.
In his mind’s eye, capable of picturing the unfolding
of events in all their details, he went over the scenes
that would be enacted. He saw those arriving exchange
friendly greetings with the monks already there, saw them
conducted to resting places and huts in the forest, their
robes and alms‐bowls being taken from them; and he
heard all this take place in a racket of noise and loud
conversation, like the crowds of fisher‐folk down at the
landings quarrelling over their spoils. He knew this to be
no exaggeration; and to one who loved silence and
serenity, and disliked clamour as does the solitary lion in
the jungle, the thought was doubly uninviting of being
involved in such bustle after the delight of travelling alone
and the blessèd peace of the evening landscape.
So he determined, as he went on his way, that he
would not go through the city to the Mango Grove but
would rest for the night in any house in the nearest suburb
in which he could find shelter.
Meanwhile the flaming gold of the western
heavens had died down in burning orange tints, and these
in turn had melted into a blaze of the fieriest scarlet.
5
Round about him the green fields deepened and grew
more luminous, as though the earth were an emerald lit
up from within. But already a dreamy violet haze
enveloped the horizon, while a mysterious purple flood
— whether light or shadow no‐one could say — rolled in
from every side, rising and sinking, filling all space, dis‐
solving fixed outlines and combining fragments, sweeping
near objects away and bringing closer those that were
distant — causing everything to undulate and waver in
trembling uncertainty.
Startled by the footsteps of the solitary wanderer, a
fruit‐bat unhooked itself from the branch of a black Sāla
tree and, spreading its leathery wings, swept with a shrill
cry away through the dusk to pay a visit to the orchards of
the area.
Thus by the time that the Master had reached the
outskirts of Rājagaha, the day was far spent and shadowy
night was at hand.
6
~ 2 ~
T
HE MEETING
I
T WAS THE INTENTION of the Master to stop at the
first house he came to — in this instance a
building whose blue walls shone out from between the
trees of the surrounding garden. As he was about to
approach the door, however, he noticed a net hung upon
a branch. Without a moment’s hesitation he walked past,
repelled by the house of the bird‐catcher. Here at the
extreme outskirts of town the houses were scattered, in
addition to which a great fire had recently swept the area
so that some time elapsed before he came to another
human habitation. It was the farmhouse of a well‐to‐do
brahmin. The Master had hardly stepped within the gate,
when he heard the loud voices of the brahmin and his two
wives as they scolded and wrangled, hurling invectives at
one another. The Blessèd One turned himself around,
went out through the gateway and moved on.
*
*
*
The pleasure garden of the rich brahmin extended
for a considerable distance along the road. The Master was
already conscious of fatigue and his right foot, injured by a
sharp stone, pained him as he walked. In this condition he
approached the next dwelling place, which was visible
from a great distance owing to a broad path of vivid light
that streamed across the road from the latticework of
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shutters and from the open door. Even had a blind man
come that way he could not have failed to notice this
house, for lusty laughter, the clang of silver drinking cups,
the clapping of hands, the beat of dancing feet and the
rhythmic notes of the seven‐stringed vīnā rose clearly
upon the air. Leaning against the door‐post was a beautiful
girl robed in rich silks and hung with jasmine garlands.
Laughing, she flashed her teeth, red from chewing betel nut,
and invited the wayfarer to stay: “Enter here, stranger.
This is the House of Delight.” But the Blessèd One went
on his way, and as he did so he recalled his own words:
“For one who is enraptured with the Truth, the smile of
smiling eyes is all‐sufficing.”
The neighbouring house was not far distant but the
noise of the drinking, singing and vīnā‐players penetrated
there, so the Buddha went on to the next. Beside it two
butcher’s assistants were hard at work by the last glimmer
of daylight, cutting up with sharp knives a cow they had
just slaughtered. And the Master moved on past the house
of the butcher.
In front of the one following stood many dishes
and bowls freshly formed from clay, the fruit of a diligent
day’s labour. The potter’s wheel stood under a tamarind
tree, and the potter at that moment removed a dish from
the wheel and bore it to where the others lay.
The Master approached the potter, greeted him
courteously, and said: “If it is not inconvenient to you,
respected friend, I would like to spend this night in your
guest‐hall.”
“It is not inconvenient to me, sir. But at this moment
another seeker like yourself, a wanderer who arrived
tired from a long journey, has already moved in there for
the night. If it is agreeable to him, you are welcome to
stay, sir; it’s up to you.”
The Master reflected: “Solitude, it is true, is the best
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