Phralaong, having left the king, resumed his journey, and fell in with a Rathee,[5] or hermit, named Alara, and inquired about the several Dzans. Alara satisfied him on four kinds of Dzans, but as regards the fifth, he was obliged to refer him to another Rathee, named Oudaka, who gave him the necessary explanations. Having nothing more to learn from these masters, Phralaong said to himself, "The knowledge I have thus acquired is not sufficient to enable me to obtain the dignity of Buddha." Whereupon he resolved to devote himself to the Kamatan[6] or meditation on the instability and nothingness of all that exists. To effectuate thoroughly his purpose, he repaired to the solitude of Oorouwela, where he devoted all his time to the deepest meditation. On a certain day it happened that five Rahans, on their way to a certain place to get their food, arrived at the spot where Phralaong lived and had already entered on the course of his penitential deeds. They soon became impressed with the idea that our hermit was to become a Buddha. They resolved to stay with him and render him all the needful services, such as sweeping the place, cooking rice, &c.
The time for the six years of meditation was nearly over, when Phralaong undertook a great fast,[7] which was carried to such a degree of abstemiousness that he scarcely allowed to himself the use of a grain of rice or sesame a day, and finally denied himself even that feeble pittance. But the Nats, who observed his excessive mortification, inserted Nat food through the pores of his skin. Whilst Phralaong was thus undergoing such a severe fasting, his face, which was of a beautiful gold colour, became black; the thirty-two marks indicative of his future dignity disappeared. On a certain day, when he was walking in a much enfeebled state, on a sudden he felt an extreme weakness, similar to that caused by a dire starvation. Unable to stand up any longer, he fainted and fell on the ground. Among the Nats that were present, some said, "The Rahan Gaudama is dead indeed;" some others replied, "He is not dead, but has fainted from want of food." Those who believed he was dead hastened to his father's palace to convey to him the sad message of his son's death. Thoodaudana inquired if his son died previous to his becoming a Buddha. Having been answered in the affirmative, he refused to give credit to the words of the Nats. The reason of his doubting the accuracy of the report was, that he had witnessed the great wonders prognosticating his son's future dignity that had taken place, first when Phralaong, then an infant, was placed in the presence of a famous Rathee, and secondly, when he slept under the shade of the tree Tsampoo-thabia. The fainting being over, and Phralaong having recovered his senses, the same Nats went in all haste to Thoodaudana, to inform him of his son's happy recovery. "I knew well," said the king, "that my son could not die ere he had become a Buddha." The fame of Phralaong's having spent six years in solitude, addicted to meditation and mortification, spread abroad like the sound of a great bell,[8] hung in the canopy of the skies.
Phralaong soon remarked that fasting and mortification were not works of sufficient value for obtaining the dignity of Buddha; he took up his patta and went to the neighbouring village to get his food. Having eaten it, he grew stronger; his beautiful face shone again like gold, and the thirty-two signs reappeared.[9] The five Rahans that had lived with him said to each other—"It is in vain that the Rahan Gaudama has, during six years of mortification and sufferings, sought the dignity of Buddha; he is now compelled to go out in search of food; assuredly, if he be obliged to live on such food, when shall he ever become a Buddha? He goes out in quest of food; verily, he aims at enriching himself. As the man that wants drops of dew or water to refresh and wash his forehead, has to look for them, so we have to go somewhere else to learn the way to, and the merit of, Dzan, which we have not been able to obtain from him." Whereupon they left Phralaong, took up their pattas and tsiwarans, went to a distance of eighteen youdzanas, and withdrew into the forest of Migadawon, near Baranathee.
FOOTNOTES
[1] Phralaong having overcome with uncommon fortitude the numberless obstacles which he had encountered on the part of men, will have now to meet another foe, perhaps more formidable, a wicked Nat, or demon. His name, according to its orthography, is Mar or Mara, but the Burmese call him Manh, which means pride. Manh is, therefore, the evil spirit of pride, or rather personified pride, and the enemy of mankind, ever ready to oppose the benevolent designs and generous efforts of Buddha in carrying on his great undertaking, conceived to benefit humanity, by teaching men the way that leads to deliverance from all miseries. The first plan concocted by Manh for stopping, at the very outset, the progress of Phralaong, was to flatter his ambition by promising him all the kingdoms of this world and their glory. From that day the tempter never lost sight of the benevolent Buddha, but followed him everywhere, endeavouring to prevent the immense success that was to attend his future mission. The evil propensities which constitute, as it were, the very essence of Manh's nature, are concupiscence, envy, and an irresistible proneness to do harm. The devil indeed could hardly be made up of worse materials.
It is really interesting through the course of this Legend to read of the uninterrupted efforts made by the personification of evil to thwart Buddha in all his benevolent designs. The antagonism begins now, but it will be maintained with an obstinate and prolonged activity during the whole life of Buddha.
[2] This circumstance explains one peculiarity observable in all the statues representing Buddha. The head is invariably covered with sharp points, resembling those thorns with which the thick envelope of the durian fruit is armed. Often I had inquired as to the motive that induced native sculptors to leave on the head of all statues that sort of inverted nails, without ever being able to obtain any satisfactory answer. It was only after having read this passage of the life of Buddha that I was enabled to account for this apparently singular custom, which is designed to remind all Buddhists of the ever-continued wonder whereby the hairs which remained on Buddha's head never grew longer from the day he cut them with his sword.
[3] Every talapoin or recluse must be provided with one needle, wherewith he is to sew his dress, one hatchet to cut the wood he may be in need of, either for erecting a shelter for himself or for other purposes, and one filter to strain the water he intends to drink, that it might be cleared from all impurities, but chiefly of insects or any living body that might be in it, which would expose the drinker thereof to the enormous sin of causing the death of some animal.
[4] The various accounts that are given of the horse Kantika, and the grief he feels at parting with his master, grief which reaches so far as to cause his death, may appear somewhat extraordinary, puerile, and ridiculous to every one except to Buddhists. One great principle of that religious system is that man does not differ from animals in nature, but only in relative perfection. In animals there are souls as well as in men, but these souls, on account of the paucity of their merits and the multiplicity of their demerits, are yet in a very imperfect state. When the law of demerits grows weak, and that of merits gathers strength, the soul, though continuing to inhabit the body of animals, has the knowledge of good and evil, and can attain to a certain degree of perfection. Buddhistic writings