a buddhist perspective

After a disagreement among some of the monks, the Buddha once told the monks about a series of events that took place long ago.

King Brahmadata ruled a large kingdom and commanded a strong army. King Dighiti, who ruled a smaller kingdom, heard that Brahmadata was about to invade his kingdom. Knowing he could never defeat Brahmadata’s army and that many of his soldiers would lose their lives in a futile battle, King Dighiti felt it would be best if he and his queen fled. So they went into hiding in another city. A short time later, the queen gave birth to Prince Dighavu. When the prince was older, King Dighiti began to fear what would happen if King Brahmadata found all three of them. As a result, arrangements were made for the prince to live elsewhere.

One day, the king and queen were recognized, cap­tured, and taken to be executed. By chance, Prince Dighavu was on his way to see his parents, whom he had not seen in a long time. He was about to rush to them when his father cried out, “Do not, my dear Dighavu, be far-sighted. Do not be near-sighted. For vengeance is not settled through vengeance. Vengeance is settled through non-vengeance.” The King repeated his warning two more times, adding that he was not deranged, and said that those with heart would under­stand what he meant.

None of the villagers knew who Dighavu was or what the king was talking about. Heeding his father’s warning, Dighavu managed to restrain himself. He watched his parents being executed and dismembered. That night he bought wine and gave it to the guards, who soon became drunk. He then made a pyre, gathered his parent’s remains, placed them on the pyre, and set fire to it. After paying his final respects to his parents, he went into the forest to mourn their death.

A while later, after coming out of hiding, Dighavu managed to obtain a job as an apprentice at an elephant stable next to the palace. One day, when King Brahmadata heard Dighavu singing and playing the lute, he was moved by the sound and arranged for Dighavu to work in his palace. Serving the king and always acting to please him, Dighavu gradually won the king’s trust.

One day, while King Brahmadata was out hunting, Dighavu, who was driving the king’s chariot, deliberately drove the chariot away from the rest of the hunting party. Not long after, the king said he wished to take a nap and soon went to sleep, using Dighavu’s lap for a pillow. Dighavu’s moment of revenge had come. He took out his sword, but suddenly his father’s words came back to him and he put the sword away. A second time, he drew and then sheathed his sword.

After Dighavu drew his sword for the third time, his father’s words—simple and gentle—hit home. They touched Dighavu’s heart that was full of hatred and consumed by a desire for vengeance. His heart knew the truth of his father’s words and understood their import. Heeding his father's words, Dighavu awakened at last to the compassion and wisdom extant in that selfsame heart. He was able to put not only his sword down but his hatred and his desire for vengeance as well.

Suddenly, the king awoke in great alarm. He told Dighavu that he dreamed that Prince Dighavu was about to kill him! Instinctively, Dighavu drew his sword yet again and announced that he was Prince Dighavu. The king immediately begged Dighavu not to kill him. With his compassion and wisdom overcoming his hatred and desire for vengeance, Dighavu was able to put away his sword. Then, in turn, he begged for the king’s for­giveness . The king and the prince spared each other’s lives, and each vowed never to harm the other. They then returned to the castle.

Back at the palace, the king asked his ministers what they would do if they could find Prince Dighavu. After hearing their brutal descriptions of what they would do, the king told them what had just transpired. He then turned to Dighavu and asked the meaning of his father’s last words.

Dighavu explained that do not be far-sighted meant one should not hold on to a wish for retaliation. Do not be near-sighted meant one should not readily break one’s friendship with another. Additionally, vengeance is not settled through vengeance. Vengeance is set­tled through non-vengeance enabled Dighavu to realize that if he sought revenge for the deaths of his parents by killing the king, the king’s supporters would retaliate by killing him. Then Dighavu’s supporters would in turn kill the king’s supporters. This is why vengeance never ends through vengeance. In sparing each other’s lives, both the king and the prince ended vengeance by letting go of it.

Wrong thoughts are our personal opinions, which arise in response to external sensory stimuli. Relying on this sensory input, we think about what we have encountered and draw conclusions based on what we have seen, heard, smelled, tasted, and touched. Then, we begin to label some things good and others bad, some pleasant and others unpleasant. In other words, we begin to discriminate, seeing duality in everything.

The fundamental flaw in this process is the reliance on our senses. What we fail to consider is the fact that our breadth of exposure is minimal at best and that our senses may well be faulty. Consider the Buddha’s account of a group of men blind from birth trying to describe an elephant. Each of the men was taken to a different part of the elephant: its head, an ear, a tusk, its trunk, its stomach, a foot, its tail, and the tuft of its tail. The blind men in turn said that the elephant was like a pot, a basket, a ploughshare, a plow, a storehouse, a pillar, a pestle, and a brush. The men then began to argue with one another and even came to blows over the matter.

These reasonable but limited answers were the result of knowing only a part of the truth, not the whole. And sadly, like those blind men, most of us also encounter only a part of the truth. We, too, cling stubbornly to our own viewpoints, convinced that we have all the facts. And thinking that we have all the facts and feeling confident of our conclusions, we reject the views of others. Thus, our ignorance arises from our wrong thoughts. The manifestation of our ignorance is our attachment to our wrong thoughts, and this inevitably intensifies our ignorance.

A nun who was searching for enlightenment made a statue of Buddha and covered it with gold leaf. Wherever she went she carried this golden Buddha with her.

Years passed and, still carrying her Buddha, the nun came to live in a small temple in a country where there were many Buddhas, each one with its own particular shrine.

The nun wished to burn incense before her golden Buddha. Not liking the idea of the perfume straying to others, she devised a funnel through which the smoke would ascend only to her statue. This blackened the nose of the golden Buddha, making it especially ugly.

~101 Zen Stories

Once the Chinese Emperor Mu Chung of the Tang dynasty, impressed by the level of cultivation of National Master Wu Yeh invited him to come for an audience. To just about any subject, this would have been an overwhelming honor. However, the master kept refusing because he did not want to be disturbed by worldly matters.

So the emperor told his envoy, “If you cannot persuade Master Wu Yeh to come, you will have to forfeit your life.” The envoy sought out the master and tearfully asked for his cooperation. The monk, unable to refuse the request at this point, said, “All right, I will go.”

So he gathered the whole assembly and asked his followers, “Who would like to join me for an audience with the emperor?”

When a disciple raised his hand, the master asked, “How many miles can you travel in one day?” The disciple answered, “Fifty.” The monk said, “That’s not good enough.”

A second disciple was asked the same question and said, “Sixty-five,” to which the monk replied again, “That’s not good enough.”

A third disciple said, “Seventy miles,” and for the third time, the monk said, “That’s not good enough.”

Then a young monk raised his hand and said, “I will go wherever you go, Master.”

So the Master did his ablutions, then went back and sat on his elevated seat, entered Samadhi and expired on the spot, in a seated position.

The young monk, seeing that, said, “Oh, Master, you have gone. Let me go too.” And he expired standing.

This anecdote illustrates that truly accomplished monks are free of mundane preoccupations – beyond the ken of ordinary people, beyond Birth and Death.

~ Seeker’s Glossary of Buddhism, Sutra Translation Committee, Second edition, pg. 552