begged the bystanders to carry him to the Mango Grove:—
e journeyed so far, friends, I was so near my
to carry me there.
on’t think of the pain to me, have no fear that I shall sink
l that the seeker’s life was ebbing fast.
e
ul
racted attention to itself, and a
e illumined by such
hea
ear‐
ewhat animated movements, as also in his
ter‐
In loftiness
f sta
e.
e tongues
t onc
ormed
To the Master.
“I hav
goal. Have pity upon me, don’t delay
D
under it — I shall not die until you have laid me down at
the feet of the Blessèd One; then I shall die happy, and
happily rise again.”
Some of them ran to fetch poles and a stretcher. A
woman brought a strengthening draught of which
Kāmanīta took a few mouthfuls. The men were divided as
to which way was the shortest to the hall of the Sangha in
the Mango Grove, for every step would make a difference.
It was clear to al
“Here come some disciples of the Blessèd One,”
cried a bystander, pointing along the little lane, “they will
best be able to tell us.”
And, in fact, several bhikkhus of the Order of th
Buddha were approaching, clad in ochre robes. Most of
them were young men but at their head walked two
venerable figures — a grey‐haired man whose earnest, if
somewhat severe face, with its piercing eye and powerf
chin, involuntarily att
middle‐aged man whose features wer
a
rt‐winning gentleness that he almost had the app
ance of a youth. Yet an experienced observer might, in his
bearing and som
flashing glances, have detected the inalienable charac
istics of the warrior caste, while the deliberate calm of the
older man no less revealed the born brahmin.
o
ture and princely carriage they were, however, alik
When these monks halted by the group which had
collected round the wounded man, many volubl
a
e related to them what had happened, and inf
them that they were just about to carry the wounded
174
pilgrim on a stretcher — which was then being fetched —
e of the younger
st
be
lves
m
far from here,” added
e yo
a.
ld
e
, he would arrive on the point of death, with a
ind incapable of apprehending the Master’s teaching. Let
him, however, take care of himself now, be treated by an
experienced surgeon and be carefully tended, and there is
always the hope that he may recover enough strength so
as to be able to listen to and comprehend the Master’s
words.”
Kāmanīta, however, pointed impatiently to the
stretcher: “No time — dying — take me with you — see
him — touch — die happy — with you — hurry!”
Shrugging his shoulders the bhikkhu turned to the
younger disciples:
“This poor man holds the Supremely Perfect One
to the Mango Grove, to the Buddha, in order to fulfil the
man’s overwhelming desire:— Could on
monks perhaps return with them to show them the shorte
way to the spot where the Master was at that moment
to
found?
“The Master,” answered the old man with the
severe face, “is not in the Mango Grove, and we ourse
don’t know where he is.”
At the answer a despairing groan burst forth fro
Kāmanīta’s wounded breast.
“But he certainly cannot be
th
unger. “The Master sent the company of monks on
ahead yesterday and pursued his journey alone. He
arrived late, I expect, and sought quarters somewhere,
probably in the suburbs. We are now on the way to look
for him.”
“Oh, seek diligently — find him,” cried Kāmanīt
“Even if we knew where the Master was, it wou
not be possible to carry this wounded man there,” said th
stern monk. “For the shaking of the stretcher would soon
render his condition so much worse that, even if he
survived it
m
175
to be some kind of image at whose touch one’s imperfec‐
ons are dissolved.”
“He has gained faith in the Tathāgata, Sāriputra,
ven if he lacks the deeper understanding,” said the other,
nd he bent over the wounded man to ascertain what
rength he still had; “perhaps we might risk it after all. I
am sorry for the poor fellow and I believe we could do
nothing better for him than to make the attempt.”
A grateful look from the pilgrim rewarded him for
his advocacy.
“As you will, Ānanda,” answered Sāriputra kindly.
At this moment there came striding past, from the
direction in which Kāmanīta had also come, a potter who
carried on his head a basket with all kinds of baked clay
wares. When he perceived Kāmanīta upon the stretcher —
where they had just laid him with great care though not
without causing him violent pain — he stopped, stricken
with horror, and so suddenly that the dishes and bowls,
piled one above another, came crashing down and were
broken into pieces.
“Holy Brahmā! What has happened here? That is
the young wanderer who honoured my hall by spending
the night there, in the company of a monk who wore a
robe like that of these reverend men.”
“Was that monk an aged man and of lofty stature?”
asked Sāriputra.
“He was, Venerable Sir — and he seemed to me to
be not unlike yourself.”
Then the monks knew that they did not need to
seek any longer — that the Master was in the house of the
potter. For ‘The disciple who resembles the Master’ was
the description by which Sāriputra was generally known.
“Is it possible?” said Ānanda, glancing up from the
wounded man, who, owing to the pain occasioned by his
being lifted, had become all but unconscious, and had not
ti
e
a
st
176
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