Stray Leaves from Strange Literature and Fantastics

Yamaraja

The Legend Maggavago; or, “The Way”—which is in the marvelous book of the “Dhammapada.”... A story of the Buddha at whose birth the stars stopped in their courses....

The Brahman’s son was dead—dead in the blossoming of his beautiful youth, as the rose in whose heart a worm is born, as the lotus bud when the waters of the pool are cut off. For comeliness there was none like him, even among the children of the holiest caste; nor were there any so deeply learned in the books of religion, in just reasoning regarding the Scriptures, in the recitation of the slokas of singers divinely inspired. Thrice the aged priest fainted away upon the body of his son; and as often as they would have led him to his home, he shrieked and fainted again, so that, at last, even while he lay as dead, they took the body from his arms, and, having washed it with the waters of purification, wrapped it in perfumed linen, and laid it upon a bier decked with Indian flowers, and bore it away to the place of interment. Thus, when the unhappy father came to himself, all was accomplished; and the stern elders of his caste, gathering about him, so harshly reproved him for his grief that he was perforce compelled to reason with himself regarding the vanity of lamentation and the folly of human tears.

But not ceasing to meditate upon his great loss, a wild hope at last shaped itself within his heart. “Lo!” he thought, “I have heard it said that certain mighty Brahmans, having acquired the Five Virtues, the Five Faculties, the Ten Forces, were enabled to converse face to face with Yamaraja, the Lord of Death! To me it hath not indeed been given, by reason perchance of my feeble will, to obtain the supreme wisdom; yet my love and faith are of the heart, and I will seek out Yamaraja, King of Death, and pray him to give me back my son.” Therefore the Brahman, investing himself with sacerdotal vestments, performed the holy ceremonies ordained in the law; and having offered the sacrifice of flowers and of incense, he departed to seek the Lord of Death, the Maharajah of vanished kingdoms, Yama. And he questioned all whom he met as to where Yama might be found.

Some, opening astounded eyes, answered him not at all, deeming him to be mad; some there were that mocked him; some counseled that he should return home, lest he find Yama too speedily! Kshattrya princes with jewel-hilted sabres answered him as they rode by in glittering steel and glimmering gold: “Yama may be found in the tempest of battles, beneath the bursting of arrow-clouds, amidst the lightning of swords, before the armored ranks of the fighting elephants.” Swarthy mariners replied, with rough laughter as of sea winds: “Thou mayst seek Yama in the roaring of waters and raving of typhoons; let the spirit of storms answer thee!”...And dancing girls, singing the burning hymn of Ourvasi, paused to answer with their witchery: “Seek Yama rather in our arms, upon our lips, upon our hearts; exhale thy soul in a kiss.”...And they laughed shrilly as the bells of the temple eaves laugh when the wind lips their silver tongues.

So he wandered on, by the banks of many rivers, under the shadowing of many city walls, still seeking, until he came to the great wilderness below the mountains of the east, where dwelt the most holy, who had obtained supreme wisdom. Serpents hooded like mendicants protruded their forked tongues; the leopard thrust aside the jungle grasses to gaze at him with eyes of green flame; the boa moved before him, making a waving in the deep weeds as the wake of a boat upon water. But inasmuch as he sought Yama, he could not fear.

Thus he came at last to where the most holy of Brahmans dwelt, who had obtained supreme wisdom, nourishing themselves upon the perfumes of flowers only. The shadow of the rocks, the shadows of the primeval trees, lengthened and shortened and circled with the circling of the sun; but the shadows of the trees beneath which they sat circled not, nor did they change with the changing of the universal light. The eyes of the hermits gazed unwinking upon the face of the sun; the birds of heaven nestled in the immobility of their vast beards. All tremblingly he asked of them where Yamaraja might be found.

Long he awaited in silence their answer, hearing only the waters chanting their eternal slokas, the trees whispering with all their flickering leaf-tongues, the humming of innumerable golden flies, the heavy movement of great beasts in the jungle. At last the Brahmans moved their lips, and answered, “Wherefore seekest thou Yama?” And at their utterance the voices of the waters and the woods were hushed; the golden flies ceased the music of their wings.

Then answered the pilgrim, tremblingly: “Lo! I also am a Brahman, ye holy ones; but to me it hath not been given to obtain the supreme wisdom, seeing that I am unworthy to know the Absolute. Yet I sought diligently for the space of sixty years to obtain holiness; and our law teaches that if one have not reached wisdom at sixty, it is his duty, returning home, to take a wife, that he may have holy children. This I did; and one son was born unto me, beautiful as the Vasika flower, learned even in his childhood. And I did all I could to instill into him the love of uttermost wisdom, teaching him myself until it came to pass that he knew more than I, wherefore I sought him teachers from Elephanta. And in the beauty of his youth he was taken from me—borne away with the silk of manhood already shadowing his lip. Wherefore I pray ye, holy men, tell me in what place Yamaraja dwells, that I may pray him to give me back my boy!”

Then all the holy voices answered together as one voice, as the tone of many waters flowing in one cadence: “Verily thou hast not been fitted to seek the supreme wisdom, seeing that in the winter of thine age thou dost still mourn by reason of a delusion. For the stars die in their courses, the heavens wither as leaves, the worlds vanish as the smoke of incense. Lives are as flower-petals opening to fade; the works of man as verses written upon water. He who hath reached supreme wisdom mourneth existence only.... Yet, that thou mayst be enlightened, we will even advise thee. The kingdom of Yama thou mayst not visit, for no man may tread the way with mortal feet. But many hundred leagues toward the setting of the sun, there is a valley, with a city shining in the midst thereof. There no man dwells, but the gods only, when they incarnate themselves to live upon earth. And upon the eighth day of each month Yamaraja visits them, and thou mayst see him. Yet beware of failing a moment to practice the ceremonies, to recite the Mantras, lest a strange evil befall thee!...Depart now from us, that we may reenter into contemplation!”

So, after journeying many moons, the good Brahman stood at last upon the height above the valley, and saw the ivory-white city—a vision of light, like the heaven Trayastrinshas. Not Hanoumat, the messenger of Rama, beheld such splendor, when he haunted the courts of Lanka by night, and beheld in Ravana’s palace the loveliest of women interlaced in the embrace of sleep, “the garland of women’s bodies interwoven.” Terraces fretted by magical chisels rose heavenward, tier upon tier, until their summit seemed but the fleeciness of summer clouds; arches towered upon arches; pink marble gates yawned like the mouths of slumbering bayaderes; crenellated walls edged with embroidery of inlaid gold surrounded gardens deep as forests; domes white-rounded, like breasts, made pearly curves against the blue; fountains, silver-nippled, showered perfumed spray; and above the great gate of the palace of the gods, where Devas folded their wings on guard, flamed a vast carbuncle, upon whose face was graven the Word comprehended only by those who have attained supreme wisdom. And standing before the gate, the Brahman burnt the holy incense and recited the holy Mantras,...until the Devas, pitying him, rolled back the doors of gold, and bade him enter.

Lofty as heaven seemed that palace hall, whose vault of cerulean blue hung, self-sustained, above the assembly of the gods; and the pavement of sable marble glimmered like a fathomless lake. Yet, as the Brahman prostrated himself, not daring to lift his eyes, he felt that it quavered under the tread of mortal feet even as when earth trembles. In its reflection he beheld the gods seated in assembly, not awful of image as in earthly temples, but as beings of light, star-diademed, rosy with immortality.... Only Yamaraja’s brow bore no starry flame; and there was in his gaze a profundity as of deep answering unto deep. To the ears of the worshiper his voice came like the voice of waters pouring over the verge of an echoless abyss,...and in obedience to that voice the Brahman uttered his prayer.

And the Lord of Death, replying in strange tones, said: “Pious and just is this prayer, O child of Brahma! Thy son is now in the Garden of the East. Take him by the hand and go thy way.”...

Joyfully the Brahman entered that garden of fountains that flow forever; of fruits, eternally ripe, that never fall; of flowers immortal, that never fade. And he discerned, among children innumerable disporting, his own beloved son playing beside the fountains; so that he cried out with a great cry, and ran to him and clasped him and wept over him, exclaiming: “O sweet son! O my beloved first-born! dost thou not know me, thy father who mourned thee so long—who hath even entered the presence of Yamaraja, the Lord of Death, to seek thee?”...

But like a mist the child passed from his embrace, and answered, with a wonder in his eyes: “I know thee not!”...

Then, kneeling in tears before the boy, the Brahman cried: “O sweetest son, hast thou indeed forgotten the father who loved thee more than his own life—who taught thy infant lips to utter the holy prayers—who denied thee no wish of thy heart, bringing thee up as the son of a rajah, teaching thee all the wisdom of the Brahmans? Hast thou forgotten thy mother, also, who weeps for thee now all alone, seeing that I have journeyed so long to find thee? Nay! Look at me with thy eyes! Look at me again, that thou mayst know me! Or is it because my grief hath so changed me that I am no longer the same in thy sight?”...

But the child ever replied: “I know thee not!”

Then, casting himself upon the ground, the Brahman wept as one smitten by infinite despair, and so sobbed, until the child, touching him, spoke again: “I know thee not! Thou art to me a stranger! I know, indeed, that thou art foolish—uttering the terms father and mother, signifying conditions that pass away like the grass of the earth. I perceive, also, that thou art sorrowful, and therefore a victim of delusion; for sorrow springeth from ignorance and desire, as the fungus from corruption. Here we know not desire, we know not sorrow, neither do we harbor illusion. Thou art no more to me than the wind to the moon, than the flame blown out is to the object once illuminated. Get thee from hence, therefore, as it will profit thee nothing to bring thy sorrow and thy folly into this place.”...

So the Brahman departed, speechless for grief.

Only then did he seek the Buddha, the Shaman Gautama, that he might obtain advice and consolation. And the Buddha, pitying him, laid his hand upon his heart, and gave him rest, saying:

“O Brahman, thou hast only been punished for thy self-delusion and folly.

“Know that the spirit of the dead receiveth a new bodily form after its departure, so that former relationship utterly ceaseth, even as one visiting a tavern by the wayside is no longer a guest, having departed therefrom.

“Much thou art to be pitied for thy weakness and this delusion of thy love, nor canst thou find consolation but in supreme wisdom only.

“Vainly do men concern themselves regarding wife and child; for the end cometh to all as a roaring torrent, sweeping away whatsoever earthly affection clings to.

“Then neither father nor mother can save; then neither love nor strength may succor; parent and kinsman become as blind men set to guard a burning lamp.

“Therefore the truly wise considereth not such things, seeking only to save the world, to enlighten men, to destroy sorrow by destroying desire, to redeem himself.

“Even as the wind driveth away clouds, so should the wise seek to banish thought, to banish worldly consciousness, and thus escape forever the future birth and death, attaining the eightfold Wisdom—finding at last the eternal peace, the eternal rest.

“Whatsoever is high shall be brought low; wheresoever is agreement will surely come division; where there is birth there shall surely be death also.

“Therefore cast off, O Brahman, all passion, all affection, all regret, as the Vasika plant sheds its withered flowers; therefore flee the ignorant, and seek in solitude the true wisdom, needing no companion, rejoicing as the elephant escaped from the herd....”

And, perceiving the vanity of life, the evanescence of joy, the folly of grief, that Brahman ceased to mourn, and besought permission to follow the footsteps of the Teacher....