"Tell me a story, Dad!" Every child likes a good bedtime story, especially those that involve familiar characters in new situations. A whole host of Disney favorites undoubtedly make gentle, nightly rounds from bedroom to bedroom over the entire world. Most parents prefer to read stories to their children; others make up stories on the spot. The latter tradition I call Aesopian stand-up, except for the fact that the performer is sitting down while the audience consists of a single, tucked-in child. In these stories, the foxes, crows and bears have no idea where they're going until the very end, when they are rewarded, if they are lucky, with a priceless gift, the smile of a half-asleep child. This is the type of bedtime story I grew up with; this is the type of bedtime story I have passed on.
Many, many years ago on many a night, my father would tell me a tale about Michael Monkey. Spoken in a voice that grew softer as I became sleepier, his invented adventures of a mischievous saurian child are among the best memories I have of him.
Many years ago on many a night, I would tell my son a tale about Buddha and his mischievous cousin, Devadatta. The culture and content had shifted a bit from my father's day, but the intent remained the same: to entertain a child and ease him into sleep.
Those nights are gone forever. But a part of them resides in me, an old man with a grownup son. Last night the part became whole again; last night I told a group of children and adults one more story of Buddha and Devadatta. This time I slept and they listened--with rapt attention--this was, after all, a dream.
When I awoke the next morning, I had forgotten some details, yet I was able to recall most of the story. Perhaps you would like to hear it? Children and children at heart gather round, as I tell you the story of Buddha and the Nightingales.
BUDDHA AND THE NIGHTINGALES
Even before there was music in India--and music is an art that has had a special place in that land for many centuries--there were, as one might suspect, sages. One of the greatest of all the sages that India has ever produced was Gautama Siddharta, called The Buddha, The Enlightened One. After Buddha had become a sage, he traveled the length and breadth of India, revealing the source of true happiness to all who would listen. Many did listen; he soon had many disciples. One of them, his cousin, Ananda, had a pleasant disposition ever before Buddha taught him The Way. Some, however, loved themselves too much to love Buddha; they were jealous of his talents and of his fame. One of these was his cousin, Devadatta.
Devadatta grew up with Buddha. He was smart, but Buddha was smarter. He could run fast, but Buddha could run faster. Devadatta was popular, but Buddha was really popular. Vain and intensely jealous, he convinced himself that if he didn't come out first in everything, he came out last in everything. Humiliated by Buddha's achievements, he decided to get his cousin out of the way for good.
Devadatta actually had one great ability that Buddha did not have--the ability to appreciate music. It affected him deeply. In those days, the only musicians were birds. He was especially moved by the song of the nightingale. When a nightingale sang, Devadatta would stop whatever he was doing; he would then sit down and remain perfectly still while the bird sang. Those who saw him in this state thought he was meditating, and, in a way, he was. They marveled at the expression of bliss on his face. Whenever the nightingale stopped singing, however, he reverted to his former self, full of greed, hate and delusion. The villagers still respected him as one on the way to enlightenment, even though they acknowledged that he had a very long way to go.
Poor Devadatta! No one knew about music in those days; he couldn't share his ecstasy with anyone. If beautiful sounds can't make me famous, Devadatta thought to himself, what good are they? The nightingales made things worse. He became even more jealous. If he saw his cousin again, he vowed, he would kill him. "Better than that," he thought, "I will devise a plan to get rid of Mr. Smartyrobes once and for all."
He decided to make Niligiri, the gentle elephant, trample Buddha. How could he do that? Niligiri was very kind, and had been patiently transporting cartloads of teak to neighboring villages for years. Devadatta, however, had gained magical powers from practicing tapas, a very difficult form of meditation. He concocted a potion which, even in small portions, would drive anyone mad who drank it. Even elephants. Unnoticed, Devadatta hid a small vial of this poison in Niligiri's hay. In no time, Niligiri became the wildest elephant of all and began stomping everything in sight. Devadatta, also by magic, was able to control the trumpeting ton of pure terror. An iron ring with spikes facing inward was conjured up for each leg. The spikes pressed against his flesh, making walking extremely painful. Even if his rage briefly overcame his discomfort, he could no longer charge at anything, since his legs were tightly bound together. The poor elephant could only take tiny, painful steps. Devadatta had the villagers lead Niligiri on an agonizing journey into the forest, where, next to the forest path, they chained him to a pipal tree. How the chains rattled as he tried to break free! They hoped that Niligiri would eventually get over his madness. As if by magic--and it was by magic--the elephant remained still while Devadatta removed the iron rings, after which the elephant became more furious than ever. The villagers then gathered leaves, grasses and fruit--which, fearing for their lives if they got too close, were pushed toward Niligiri with freshly cut bamboo shoots. Devadatta assured them that their beloved elephant would one day be kind again.
The forest path was halfway between the village of Tomi and the village of Nagaswara, where Devadatta lived. The evil cousin knew Buddha would eventually pass by.
And one day he did. As the Compassionate One approached, Niligiri became incensed and tried to break free. Devadatta, with the help of a magic knife, cut the chain that bound him. Niligiri charged furiously. But once he got close enough to see Buddha's face, he stopped dead in his tracks and knelt before the Blessed One. After a period of silent communication, Buddha led Niligiri back to Nagaswara. The villagers, mostly simple folk, were more impressed by this "miracle" than they were by the sage's miraculous words. They, too, had a long way to go.
Devadatta was furious. "I will kill you yet, noble Cousin," he said to himself. He recalled that he had recently come across a booby trap which villagers had set in order to capture a man-eating tiger. Maybe one could capture a sage, he thought, why not? He smiled a very unenlightened smile.
Meanwhile, the Great Sage was having difficulties with the people of the two villages. The inhabitants of Nagaswara understood the Fire Sermon, but couldn't understand the Four Noble Truths. In contrast, the villagers of Tomi understood the Four Noble Truths, but had little appreciation for the Fire Sermon. Devaddatta knew that Buddha would be traveling between the two villages, instructing them patiently until both aspects of his teaching were understood by all. His cousin smiled a very unenlightened smile once again. Although Buddha was certainly no booby, a booby trap just might work, he thought. Devadatta vowed to try his evil best.
He got his friend Kaaka the Crow to help him. The evil cousin chose another site along the path to trap Buddha. At the edge of the dirt road, he dug a hole, ten feet deep and four feet wide. He covered the top of it with netting and twigs, which he then covered over with grass. The camouflage was perfect. You couldn't tell where the border of the hole was, unless, perhaps, you were Meise the Ant. (It wouldn't matter to her, of course, since she weighed less than a leaf of coriander--If she ever scurried onto the trap on her way back to the colony, nothing at all would happen.) Behind the trap was a little sapling. Kaaka was to sit on one of its twigs, and, when Buddha passed, the crow would hold up his wing as if it were broken. He would then caw and caw in mock pain. Devadatta knew that Buddha would rush to his aid--it was well known that the sage loved animals--and fall into the pit. Devadatta would then cover it up with soil and his friend whom he thought was his foe would be silenced forever. Devadatta hid behind a nearby rock.
He had to wait a long time. After two days, during which Kaaka had been dreaming of beans and Devaatta had been dreaming of rice and beans, Buddha finally approached from the village of Tomi. The two evildoers awoke and put their plan into action. Kaaka held up one wing and cawed piteously while Devadatta waited behind the rock next to a small pile of forest soil with which he planned to bury his cousin alive.
The Great Mind approached--and paid them no mind! He was lost in meditation. He kept repeating the Sutra of Loving Kindness over and over to himself, in order to be able to remain perfectly poised when somebody in Nagaswara asked a dumb question like, "How come there are only four Noble Truths and not five or six?"
"May they be happy and peaceful," Buddha chanted and walked on. A few seconds after he had passed, Devattata ran from behind the rock and shouted the Blessed One's name. This plan had to work! He would take him by the hand if he had to, lead him to the crow, and laugh out loud as Buddha disappeared into the Earth. Alas, in his haste, Buddha's nemesis forgot where the rooted grass ended and the uprooted grass began. A loud "AH YO" echoed in the valley as Devadatta fell into the trap of his own making with a loud thud.
Buddha was lost in meditation, yes, but not that lost. He had heard the piercing cry of distress, and ran back to help. Terrified--for no reason, of course--Kaaka flew away. At the edge of the pit, Buddha looked down and saw a familiar birthmark on top of a bald head; he recognized Devadatta instantly. He surmised what his cousin had been up to.
"Dear Cousin," he began, "Do you remember my parable about the man wounded by an arrow?" No answer. Buddha continued, "It makes no sense to fuss about who shot the arrow while the wounded man suffers. The first and most important thing to do is get the arrow out and heal the wound. Remember that, Devadatta?" Still no answer. "This is a similar situation. I am not going to fuss about how you got into this mess, but I'm going to get you out."
Buddha called for his good friend, Pamba the Cobra, who, hidden in the grass, had slithered close by to observe what was going on. While Buddha held on to the top of the snake's body, he let the rest of it slide down into the hole. Devadatta grabbed the snake, and, using it as a rope, climbed out. The poor man stood there, caked with dirt, looking down at the ground in silence. He had behaved like a very bad boy and expected a severe rebuke. Instead, Buddha smiled and said, "Work out your own salvation with diligence," and walked away.
When Buddha was out of sight, Devadatta clenched his fists while looking down at Kumbuli the Caterpillar, who was about to climb the pipal tree to eat a feast of crinkled leaves for dinner. "One more time," the evil cousin shouted as he stomped on poor Kumbuli; "I swear to Rakshasa, King of the Demons--Next time I'll get you!" He lumbered away in the opposite direction from the one Buddha had taken.
After two weeks of sermons, talks and exhortations, all the inhabitants of Nagaswara finally understood why there were only four noble truths, and not five or six. Buddha was delighted. "Now, I can leave Nagaswara with satisfaction. Once everyone in Tomi--some of whose minds are as dry as kindling wood--understands the Fire Sermon, I can continue my journey to other Indian villages." The next morning he left Nagaswara and began the five mile walk to Tomi.
Approximately one mile away from Tomi, instead of being flanked alternately by forest and rice paddies, the path narrowed as it passed between two mountains. On the north side, there was a ridge that looked over the path below. It was here that Devadatta lay in wait for the Buddha, ready to push a boulder over the ridge to crush the Blessed One as he passed below. "This time I will kill him!" the evil cousin said to himself. And he almost did.
As Buddha approached, Devadatta began pushing the boulder toward the edge of the ridge. At the same time, Nim the Nightingale was flying above them both, approaching Buddha from the direction of Nagaswara. She saw what was about to happen and gave out a peep--she had to save him! She didn't have time to swoop down and warn him; she had to think fast. (Even if she did have time, Buddha, as she well knew, had difficulty understanding the nightingale dialect.) In less time than it takes a ripe mango to fall from a tree, however, she figured out what she had to do. She remembered that Devadatta was the only human to be deeply affected by her song. Sometimes she had amused herself by singing over his head; on these occasions, Devadatta would stop whatever he was doing and listen with rapt attention. While she sang, he would look as serene as a statue of an enlightened one, and be just as unable to move.
Nim flew down as fast as she could and perched on the boulder. She knew she had to sing better than she ever had sung before, and she did. Devadatta stopped pushing the boulder and Buddha, unaware of the threat over his head, passed by unscathed. You would think that Nim would stop singing, but she didn't. After a few minutes of bliss, Devadatta, facing the direction of Tomi, sat down slowly and assumed the lotus position. His eyelids were half shut; his gaze looked slightly downwards. His lips, gently closed, formed a quiet smile of great subtlety. If anyone saw it--and the townsfolk of both villages soon did--he or she would assume that another person besides the Buddha had already entered the peace of Nirvana during his lifetime.
Nim, however, wasn't taken in by Devadatta's blissful appearance. She had heard of his evil deeds from other birds who had witnessed his previous attempts at murder as they few overhead. Nim knew that if she stopped, the evil cousin of the Great One would plot against his life again. Next time he might succeed; she wanted to make sure that Devadatta wouldn't be able to try to harm Buddha ever again.
"How will I do it? I can't go on singing forever," Nim thought to herself as she sang. Soon she was trilling with delight. She had an idea. Signaling with her left wing, Nim summoned one of her sisters who had been flying nearby. It was Nuri, who had almost as beautiful a voice as Nim's. "Sing!" said Nim, between two phrases of her song. Nuri didn't miss a beat; nor did Devadatta, who remained perfectly still. "Be sure you don't stop singing till I get back. Not even for ten seconds!" Nim told Nuri. Nuri nodded her auburn head in agreement as Nim flew off.
She landed on top of a tamarind tree, where all the nightingales of the district met periodically to discuss important matters, such us how to teach remedial trilling to song-challenged nestlings. She opened her beak wide; the piercing sound of the Meeting Call came from the depths of her throat. Soon all the local nightingales were perched on branches of the tamarind tree--minus, of course, Nuri, who was keeping Devadatta from causing trouble with her song.
Nim quickly explained the problem. Then she discussed the remedy. "We are a group of 100 birds. If each of us takes turns singing for an hour, we can go on singing for four days. A shift of one hour every four days is not a great burden--we should be willing to sing forever if that were the only way to protect our enlightened friend."
Ranji, who always chirped with an aristocratic Benares Nightingale accent, protested. "Madam, there are one hundred of us and only ninety-six hours in a four day period. What about the extra four nightingales?" stressing the dental sound of the t even though he had no teeth.
"They'll be the back-up," Nim replied. "I'll do the schedule. If any of you has to fly away for a while, switch with someone else and make up for the session when you get back. Remember, you must never stop singing until you are relieved of your duty by a fellow bird. If you ever stop, it may cost the life of one who is doing so much for the lives of everyone, humans and nightingales alike. Do you understand?"
They all understood and were pleased that they could help. Nim devised the schedule, then flew back to Nuri and Devadatta along with her sister Romi, whose turn it was to sing. The plan worked perfectly.
How did the birds make sure that Devadatta wouldn't starve? That was easy. They put berries and little bugs--they were pleased to sacrifice themselves for such a noble cause--into his mouth. They made sure that no human saw them whenever they fed Devadatta. He always swallowed what the birds called Bugs 'n' Berries without a hint of awareness of what he was doing; his absorption was indeed very deep.
The path between Tomi and Nagaswara was well traveled--cows, goats, bullocks and, especially, people, used the path every day. The animals couldn't care less, but the humans were awestruck at the sight of Devadatta. Whenever anyone called out his name, he didn't move a muscle and kept looking down. They were very impressed by his enigmatic smile. He soon became known as The Sage on the Ridge.
Beginning shortly after he was seen on the ridge for the first time, members of both towns met there every morning and evening to perform puja and prostrate themselves before Devadatta. They were delighted to see and hear a nightingale sing the whole time they were present. Even birds perform puja in his honor! What a great sage he must be!
Before each puja began, the townsfolk laid an offering of bananas, mangoes and coconuts on a silver platter at Devatta's feet. The nightingales were delighted that they no longer had to kill bugs to keep him alive--I suppose the bugs were happy about that, too. Whenever the devotees returned, they noticed that the fruit was gone. When humans passed by the ridge they would put their palms together in obeisance to the Sage of the Nightingales, as he was now called, before walking on. None of them had ever seen him touch a piece of food.
A miracle! A miracle! They began to worship him as a god.
This went on for many years. One day, a distant relative of Nim flew in from Madras with terrible news. Buddha had entered Paranirvana; he would never be seen on Earth again. Even Devadatta couldn't harm him now.
Although the nightingales were basically a fairly enlightened bunch of birds, they still had their mischievous side. They decided to stop singing during a puja. It was any bird's guess what Devadatta would do. They couldn't wait to see what would happen.
The next morning, while many birds hid in the foliage at the back of the ridge, Chanchi, the great granddaughter of Nuri, began her song, as the devotees prostrated themselves before Devadatta. Then, after about fifteen minutes, the music stopped. The bird has never stopped singing before. This is an omen. Something very strange is about to happen...And something strange did happen. As the devotees lifted their heads and gazed at Devadatta, they were dumbstruck, they were terrified. Their god was about to speak! His arms were raised and his eyes were wide open. The serene smile was gone. They sat motionless with fear.
No one ever found out what Devadatta wanted to say. Maybe it was something like, "What am I doing here?" or perhaps "What are you doing here?" We'll never know. For Devadata could no longer say anything...he could only SING! The nightingales were even more amazed, for they never heard music like this. It was much more beautiful than any avian song. How can one explain the inexplicable? I will try. During the many years of the nightingales' song, Devatta's superficial nature disappeared, as his deeper nature took over. He, too, had a great soul--for everyone has a great soul, even Devadatta, although admittedly he was only very rarely aware of its existence. The music which had sunk deeply into his inner nature rose from it transformed into something more profound than anything a bird could ever produce.
The nightingales loved the music from the outset, but, try as they may, they couldn't imitate it. Since they didn't want the music to stop, they decided to keep up their schedule of song, so that Devadatta would remain transfixed. During the morning and evening pujas, however, they would stop singing and listen to their new Master sing the first human songs ever sung.
The townsfolk, who never had heard anything like it before, were slow in their appreciation. At first it sounded like nonsense to them, more or less like a table sporting an extensive array of luscious curries would sound--as it collapsed. But these sounds had come from the mouth of a god--it would be blasphemy to assert that they were listening to mere noise. With time, they began to realize what a great gift had been given to them. After a puja, they soon were trying their best to imitate what they had heard. They hummed, they sang; they gradually became aware of a profound world of sound. Soon men and women were singing as they labored and after their labor was done. Children were sung to, and children sang back.
The inhabitants of Nagaswara and Tomi couldn't keep the music to themselves. Nor did they want to, for music, such as it is, is something one just has to share. Travelers became tuneful missionaries, preaching the dogma-less dharma of music without an unsung word. In no time, the entire subcontinent of India was singing, to the delight of almost everyone. (Some had tin ears then, as some have tin ears now.)
With time, instruments, such as the flute, the sitar and the mridingam, were invented. In the music that Devatta had introduced to humanity, which became known as carnatic music, the human voice, however, always remained primary. (This is not surpising, since, as human nightingales, singers are best able to sound the depths inside and outside themselves.) As music spread beyond India's borders, each area of the world developed styles uniquely their own. (Think of it--without Buddha and Devadatta there would never have been a Beethoven, a Thyagaraja, a Mozart or a Sting!)
Music became as essential as speaking. Soon the whole word was singing! Devadatta and the nightingales--this is how music began. And as long as there are people, it will never end.
*****
The day after I had told this story to the children and adults in my dream, I spent most of my time either listening to music or making it. That night, I once again recalled those days, now gone forever, when I told my son tales of Buddha and Devadatta. Sometimes, after he had fallen asleep, I would put on a record--we only had records in those days--which would fill the room with soft music to assure that my son would have pleasant dreams. On one occasion, I played the beautiful Bhaja Govindam as sung by M.S. Subbulakshmi, who was known in her day as The Nightingale of India. A sudden thought came to me: those days might be gone forever, but the record still exists. I went through the many recordings I had stored in a closet, and soon found the one sought. I took my dusty turntable out of the basement and attached it to my Bose radio. I listened to The Nightingale once again; tears came to my eyes.
I don't know why, but when it was over I recalled the teaching of a foolish philosopher, whom, when I was both young and foolish myself, I had much admired. He asserted that human beings had gone completely astray and that there was no longer, if there ever had been, any good left in them. "The mind of every human is nothing more than a factory of idols!" he proclaimed. Even the best of us would be completely lost without an external god to guide them on the right path and to punish them when they inevitably strayed. (Nonsense! Anyone who has listened to the words of the Buddha or to carnatic music knows that the source of great goodness lies within.) "Beauty that is Truth and Truth that is Beauty--Can creatures as flawed as a human beings ever create something as divine as these?" the false prophet asked rhetorically. Inside me, Buddha and Devadatta nodded emphatically. We had our answer. I listened and smiled.
Many, many years ago on many a night, my father would tell me a tale about Michael Monkey. Spoken in a voice that grew softer as I became sleepier, his invented adventures of a mischievous saurian child are among the best memories I have of him.
Many years ago on many a night, I would tell my son a tale about Buddha and his mischievous cousin, Devadatta. The culture and content had shifted a bit from my father's day, but the intent remained the same: to entertain a child and ease him into sleep.
Those nights are gone forever. But a part of them resides in me, an old man with a grownup son. Last night the part became whole again; last night I told a group of children and adults one more story of Buddha and Devadatta. This time I slept and they listened--with rapt attention--this was, after all, a dream.
When I awoke the next morning, I had forgotten some details, yet I was able to recall most of the story. Perhaps you would like to hear it? Children and children at heart gather round, as I tell you the story of Buddha and the Nightingales.
BUDDHA AND THE NIGHTINGALES
Even before there was music in India--and music is an art that has had a special place in that land for many centuries--there were, as one might suspect, sages. One of the greatest of all the sages that India has ever produced was Gautama Siddharta, called The Buddha, The Enlightened One. After Buddha had become a sage, he traveled the length and breadth of India, revealing the source of true happiness to all who would listen. Many did listen; he soon had many disciples. One of them, his cousin, Ananda, had a pleasant disposition ever before Buddha taught him The Way. Some, however, loved themselves too much to love Buddha; they were jealous of his talents and of his fame. One of these was his cousin, Devadatta.
Devadatta grew up with Buddha. He was smart, but Buddha was smarter. He could run fast, but Buddha could run faster. Devadatta was popular, but Buddha was really popular. Vain and intensely jealous, he convinced himself that if he didn't come out first in everything, he came out last in everything. Humiliated by Buddha's achievements, he decided to get his cousin out of the way for good.
Devadatta actually had one great ability that Buddha did not have--the ability to appreciate music. It affected him deeply. In those days, the only musicians were birds. He was especially moved by the song of the nightingale. When a nightingale sang, Devadatta would stop whatever he was doing; he would then sit down and remain perfectly still while the bird sang. Those who saw him in this state thought he was meditating, and, in a way, he was. They marveled at the expression of bliss on his face. Whenever the nightingale stopped singing, however, he reverted to his former self, full of greed, hate and delusion. The villagers still respected him as one on the way to enlightenment, even though they acknowledged that he had a very long way to go.
Poor Devadatta! No one knew about music in those days; he couldn't share his ecstasy with anyone. If beautiful sounds can't make me famous, Devadatta thought to himself, what good are they? The nightingales made things worse. He became even more jealous. If he saw his cousin again, he vowed, he would kill him. "Better than that," he thought, "I will devise a plan to get rid of Mr. Smartyrobes once and for all."
He decided to make Niligiri, the gentle elephant, trample Buddha. How could he do that? Niligiri was very kind, and had been patiently transporting cartloads of teak to neighboring villages for years. Devadatta, however, had gained magical powers from practicing tapas, a very difficult form of meditation. He concocted a potion which, even in small portions, would drive anyone mad who drank it. Even elephants. Unnoticed, Devadatta hid a small vial of this poison in Niligiri's hay. In no time, Niligiri became the wildest elephant of all and began stomping everything in sight. Devadatta, also by magic, was able to control the trumpeting ton of pure terror. An iron ring with spikes facing inward was conjured up for each leg. The spikes pressed against his flesh, making walking extremely painful. Even if his rage briefly overcame his discomfort, he could no longer charge at anything, since his legs were tightly bound together. The poor elephant could only take tiny, painful steps. Devadatta had the villagers lead Niligiri on an agonizing journey into the forest, where, next to the forest path, they chained him to a pipal tree. How the chains rattled as he tried to break free! They hoped that Niligiri would eventually get over his madness. As if by magic--and it was by magic--the elephant remained still while Devadatta removed the iron rings, after which the elephant became more furious than ever. The villagers then gathered leaves, grasses and fruit--which, fearing for their lives if they got too close, were pushed toward Niligiri with freshly cut bamboo shoots. Devadatta assured them that their beloved elephant would one day be kind again.
The forest path was halfway between the village of Tomi and the village of Nagaswara, where Devadatta lived. The evil cousin knew Buddha would eventually pass by.
And one day he did. As the Compassionate One approached, Niligiri became incensed and tried to break free. Devadatta, with the help of a magic knife, cut the chain that bound him. Niligiri charged furiously. But once he got close enough to see Buddha's face, he stopped dead in his tracks and knelt before the Blessed One. After a period of silent communication, Buddha led Niligiri back to Nagaswara. The villagers, mostly simple folk, were more impressed by this "miracle" than they were by the sage's miraculous words. They, too, had a long way to go.
Devadatta was furious. "I will kill you yet, noble Cousin," he said to himself. He recalled that he had recently come across a booby trap which villagers had set in order to capture a man-eating tiger. Maybe one could capture a sage, he thought, why not? He smiled a very unenlightened smile.
Meanwhile, the Great Sage was having difficulties with the people of the two villages. The inhabitants of Nagaswara understood the Fire Sermon, but couldn't understand the Four Noble Truths. In contrast, the villagers of Tomi understood the Four Noble Truths, but had little appreciation for the Fire Sermon. Devaddatta knew that Buddha would be traveling between the two villages, instructing them patiently until both aspects of his teaching were understood by all. His cousin smiled a very unenlightened smile once again. Although Buddha was certainly no booby, a booby trap just might work, he thought. Devadatta vowed to try his evil best.
He got his friend Kaaka the Crow to help him. The evil cousin chose another site along the path to trap Buddha. At the edge of the dirt road, he dug a hole, ten feet deep and four feet wide. He covered the top of it with netting and twigs, which he then covered over with grass. The camouflage was perfect. You couldn't tell where the border of the hole was, unless, perhaps, you were Meise the Ant. (It wouldn't matter to her, of course, since she weighed less than a leaf of coriander--If she ever scurried onto the trap on her way back to the colony, nothing at all would happen.) Behind the trap was a little sapling. Kaaka was to sit on one of its twigs, and, when Buddha passed, the crow would hold up his wing as if it were broken. He would then caw and caw in mock pain. Devadatta knew that Buddha would rush to his aid--it was well known that the sage loved animals--and fall into the pit. Devadatta would then cover it up with soil and his friend whom he thought was his foe would be silenced forever. Devadatta hid behind a nearby rock.
He had to wait a long time. After two days, during which Kaaka had been dreaming of beans and Devaatta had been dreaming of rice and beans, Buddha finally approached from the village of Tomi. The two evildoers awoke and put their plan into action. Kaaka held up one wing and cawed piteously while Devadatta waited behind the rock next to a small pile of forest soil with which he planned to bury his cousin alive.
The Great Mind approached--and paid them no mind! He was lost in meditation. He kept repeating the Sutra of Loving Kindness over and over to himself, in order to be able to remain perfectly poised when somebody in Nagaswara asked a dumb question like, "How come there are only four Noble Truths and not five or six?"
"May they be happy and peaceful," Buddha chanted and walked on. A few seconds after he had passed, Devattata ran from behind the rock and shouted the Blessed One's name. This plan had to work! He would take him by the hand if he had to, lead him to the crow, and laugh out loud as Buddha disappeared into the Earth. Alas, in his haste, Buddha's nemesis forgot where the rooted grass ended and the uprooted grass began. A loud "AH YO" echoed in the valley as Devadatta fell into the trap of his own making with a loud thud.
Buddha was lost in meditation, yes, but not that lost. He had heard the piercing cry of distress, and ran back to help. Terrified--for no reason, of course--Kaaka flew away. At the edge of the pit, Buddha looked down and saw a familiar birthmark on top of a bald head; he recognized Devadatta instantly. He surmised what his cousin had been up to.
"Dear Cousin," he began, "Do you remember my parable about the man wounded by an arrow?" No answer. Buddha continued, "It makes no sense to fuss about who shot the arrow while the wounded man suffers. The first and most important thing to do is get the arrow out and heal the wound. Remember that, Devadatta?" Still no answer. "This is a similar situation. I am not going to fuss about how you got into this mess, but I'm going to get you out."
Buddha called for his good friend, Pamba the Cobra, who, hidden in the grass, had slithered close by to observe what was going on. While Buddha held on to the top of the snake's body, he let the rest of it slide down into the hole. Devadatta grabbed the snake, and, using it as a rope, climbed out. The poor man stood there, caked with dirt, looking down at the ground in silence. He had behaved like a very bad boy and expected a severe rebuke. Instead, Buddha smiled and said, "Work out your own salvation with diligence," and walked away.
When Buddha was out of sight, Devadatta clenched his fists while looking down at Kumbuli the Caterpillar, who was about to climb the pipal tree to eat a feast of crinkled leaves for dinner. "One more time," the evil cousin shouted as he stomped on poor Kumbuli; "I swear to Rakshasa, King of the Demons--Next time I'll get you!" He lumbered away in the opposite direction from the one Buddha had taken.
After two weeks of sermons, talks and exhortations, all the inhabitants of Nagaswara finally understood why there were only four noble truths, and not five or six. Buddha was delighted. "Now, I can leave Nagaswara with satisfaction. Once everyone in Tomi--some of whose minds are as dry as kindling wood--understands the Fire Sermon, I can continue my journey to other Indian villages." The next morning he left Nagaswara and began the five mile walk to Tomi.
Approximately one mile away from Tomi, instead of being flanked alternately by forest and rice paddies, the path narrowed as it passed between two mountains. On the north side, there was a ridge that looked over the path below. It was here that Devadatta lay in wait for the Buddha, ready to push a boulder over the ridge to crush the Blessed One as he passed below. "This time I will kill him!" the evil cousin said to himself. And he almost did.
As Buddha approached, Devadatta began pushing the boulder toward the edge of the ridge. At the same time, Nim the Nightingale was flying above them both, approaching Buddha from the direction of Nagaswara. She saw what was about to happen and gave out a peep--she had to save him! She didn't have time to swoop down and warn him; she had to think fast. (Even if she did have time, Buddha, as she well knew, had difficulty understanding the nightingale dialect.) In less time than it takes a ripe mango to fall from a tree, however, she figured out what she had to do. She remembered that Devadatta was the only human to be deeply affected by her song. Sometimes she had amused herself by singing over his head; on these occasions, Devadatta would stop whatever he was doing and listen with rapt attention. While she sang, he would look as serene as a statue of an enlightened one, and be just as unable to move.
Nim flew down as fast as she could and perched on the boulder. She knew she had to sing better than she ever had sung before, and she did. Devadatta stopped pushing the boulder and Buddha, unaware of the threat over his head, passed by unscathed. You would think that Nim would stop singing, but she didn't. After a few minutes of bliss, Devadatta, facing the direction of Tomi, sat down slowly and assumed the lotus position. His eyelids were half shut; his gaze looked slightly downwards. His lips, gently closed, formed a quiet smile of great subtlety. If anyone saw it--and the townsfolk of both villages soon did--he or she would assume that another person besides the Buddha had already entered the peace of Nirvana during his lifetime.
Nim, however, wasn't taken in by Devadatta's blissful appearance. She had heard of his evil deeds from other birds who had witnessed his previous attempts at murder as they few overhead. Nim knew that if she stopped, the evil cousin of the Great One would plot against his life again. Next time he might succeed; she wanted to make sure that Devadatta wouldn't be able to try to harm Buddha ever again.
"How will I do it? I can't go on singing forever," Nim thought to herself as she sang. Soon she was trilling with delight. She had an idea. Signaling with her left wing, Nim summoned one of her sisters who had been flying nearby. It was Nuri, who had almost as beautiful a voice as Nim's. "Sing!" said Nim, between two phrases of her song. Nuri didn't miss a beat; nor did Devadatta, who remained perfectly still. "Be sure you don't stop singing till I get back. Not even for ten seconds!" Nim told Nuri. Nuri nodded her auburn head in agreement as Nim flew off.
She landed on top of a tamarind tree, where all the nightingales of the district met periodically to discuss important matters, such us how to teach remedial trilling to song-challenged nestlings. She opened her beak wide; the piercing sound of the Meeting Call came from the depths of her throat. Soon all the local nightingales were perched on branches of the tamarind tree--minus, of course, Nuri, who was keeping Devadatta from causing trouble with her song.
Nim quickly explained the problem. Then she discussed the remedy. "We are a group of 100 birds. If each of us takes turns singing for an hour, we can go on singing for four days. A shift of one hour every four days is not a great burden--we should be willing to sing forever if that were the only way to protect our enlightened friend."
Ranji, who always chirped with an aristocratic Benares Nightingale accent, protested. "Madam, there are one hundred of us and only ninety-six hours in a four day period. What about the extra four nightingales?" stressing the dental sound of the t even though he had no teeth.
"They'll be the back-up," Nim replied. "I'll do the schedule. If any of you has to fly away for a while, switch with someone else and make up for the session when you get back. Remember, you must never stop singing until you are relieved of your duty by a fellow bird. If you ever stop, it may cost the life of one who is doing so much for the lives of everyone, humans and nightingales alike. Do you understand?"
They all understood and were pleased that they could help. Nim devised the schedule, then flew back to Nuri and Devadatta along with her sister Romi, whose turn it was to sing. The plan worked perfectly.
How did the birds make sure that Devadatta wouldn't starve? That was easy. They put berries and little bugs--they were pleased to sacrifice themselves for such a noble cause--into his mouth. They made sure that no human saw them whenever they fed Devadatta. He always swallowed what the birds called Bugs 'n' Berries without a hint of awareness of what he was doing; his absorption was indeed very deep.
The path between Tomi and Nagaswara was well traveled--cows, goats, bullocks and, especially, people, used the path every day. The animals couldn't care less, but the humans were awestruck at the sight of Devadatta. Whenever anyone called out his name, he didn't move a muscle and kept looking down. They were very impressed by his enigmatic smile. He soon became known as The Sage on the Ridge.
Beginning shortly after he was seen on the ridge for the first time, members of both towns met there every morning and evening to perform puja and prostrate themselves before Devadatta. They were delighted to see and hear a nightingale sing the whole time they were present. Even birds perform puja in his honor! What a great sage he must be!
Before each puja began, the townsfolk laid an offering of bananas, mangoes and coconuts on a silver platter at Devatta's feet. The nightingales were delighted that they no longer had to kill bugs to keep him alive--I suppose the bugs were happy about that, too. Whenever the devotees returned, they noticed that the fruit was gone. When humans passed by the ridge they would put their palms together in obeisance to the Sage of the Nightingales, as he was now called, before walking on. None of them had ever seen him touch a piece of food.
A miracle! A miracle! They began to worship him as a god.
This went on for many years. One day, a distant relative of Nim flew in from Madras with terrible news. Buddha had entered Paranirvana; he would never be seen on Earth again. Even Devadatta couldn't harm him now.
Although the nightingales were basically a fairly enlightened bunch of birds, they still had their mischievous side. They decided to stop singing during a puja. It was any bird's guess what Devadatta would do. They couldn't wait to see what would happen.
The next morning, while many birds hid in the foliage at the back of the ridge, Chanchi, the great granddaughter of Nuri, began her song, as the devotees prostrated themselves before Devadatta. Then, after about fifteen minutes, the music stopped. The bird has never stopped singing before. This is an omen. Something very strange is about to happen...And something strange did happen. As the devotees lifted their heads and gazed at Devadatta, they were dumbstruck, they were terrified. Their god was about to speak! His arms were raised and his eyes were wide open. The serene smile was gone. They sat motionless with fear.
No one ever found out what Devadatta wanted to say. Maybe it was something like, "What am I doing here?" or perhaps "What are you doing here?" We'll never know. For Devadata could no longer say anything...he could only SING! The nightingales were even more amazed, for they never heard music like this. It was much more beautiful than any avian song. How can one explain the inexplicable? I will try. During the many years of the nightingales' song, Devatta's superficial nature disappeared, as his deeper nature took over. He, too, had a great soul--for everyone has a great soul, even Devadatta, although admittedly he was only very rarely aware of its existence. The music which had sunk deeply into his inner nature rose from it transformed into something more profound than anything a bird could ever produce.
The nightingales loved the music from the outset, but, try as they may, they couldn't imitate it. Since they didn't want the music to stop, they decided to keep up their schedule of song, so that Devadatta would remain transfixed. During the morning and evening pujas, however, they would stop singing and listen to their new Master sing the first human songs ever sung.
The townsfolk, who never had heard anything like it before, were slow in their appreciation. At first it sounded like nonsense to them, more or less like a table sporting an extensive array of luscious curries would sound--as it collapsed. But these sounds had come from the mouth of a god--it would be blasphemy to assert that they were listening to mere noise. With time, they began to realize what a great gift had been given to them. After a puja, they soon were trying their best to imitate what they had heard. They hummed, they sang; they gradually became aware of a profound world of sound. Soon men and women were singing as they labored and after their labor was done. Children were sung to, and children sang back.
The inhabitants of Nagaswara and Tomi couldn't keep the music to themselves. Nor did they want to, for music, such as it is, is something one just has to share. Travelers became tuneful missionaries, preaching the dogma-less dharma of music without an unsung word. In no time, the entire subcontinent of India was singing, to the delight of almost everyone. (Some had tin ears then, as some have tin ears now.)
With time, instruments, such as the flute, the sitar and the mridingam, were invented. In the music that Devatta had introduced to humanity, which became known as carnatic music, the human voice, however, always remained primary. (This is not surpising, since, as human nightingales, singers are best able to sound the depths inside and outside themselves.) As music spread beyond India's borders, each area of the world developed styles uniquely their own. (Think of it--without Buddha and Devadatta there would never have been a Beethoven, a Thyagaraja, a Mozart or a Sting!)
Music became as essential as speaking. Soon the whole word was singing! Devadatta and the nightingales--this is how music began. And as long as there are people, it will never end.
*****
The day after I had told this story to the children and adults in my dream, I spent most of my time either listening to music or making it. That night, I once again recalled those days, now gone forever, when I told my son tales of Buddha and Devadatta. Sometimes, after he had fallen asleep, I would put on a record--we only had records in those days--which would fill the room with soft music to assure that my son would have pleasant dreams. On one occasion, I played the beautiful Bhaja Govindam as sung by M.S. Subbulakshmi, who was known in her day as The Nightingale of India. A sudden thought came to me: those days might be gone forever, but the record still exists. I went through the many recordings I had stored in a closet, and soon found the one sought. I took my dusty turntable out of the basement and attached it to my Bose radio. I listened to The Nightingale once again; tears came to my eyes.
I don't know why, but when it was over I recalled the teaching of a foolish philosopher, whom, when I was both young and foolish myself, I had much admired. He asserted that human beings had gone completely astray and that there was no longer, if there ever had been, any good left in them. "The mind of every human is nothing more than a factory of idols!" he proclaimed. Even the best of us would be completely lost without an external god to guide them on the right path and to punish them when they inevitably strayed. (Nonsense! Anyone who has listened to the words of the Buddha or to carnatic music knows that the source of great goodness lies within.) "Beauty that is Truth and Truth that is Beauty--Can creatures as flawed as a human beings ever create something as divine as these?" the false prophet asked rhetorically. Inside me, Buddha and Devadatta nodded emphatically. We had our answer. I listened and smiled.
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