I paused meaningfully, then lowered my voice to something just above a whisper. “And then, bikkhus, after all your endless misery, comes the most terrible part of all: Death. In the end, after a lifetime of sickness, unhappiness and loss, your final reward will be that your body, which has been a sewer all your life, filled with shit, piss, pus and puke, will now become a rancid sewer. (MJ 10; OJO, Humans; SZJ 35; SP; ANG 3:35) That, bikkhus, is the true nature of human life.”
There was silence for a long moment, before one of the monks, Assaji, asked in a small voice, “Is there not some joy in life too, Tathagata?”
“Joy is ephemeral, Assaji. Only pain is permanent”
“But does joy not even exist, Tathagata?”
“It does not exist, Assaji, and here is why: Even those things which you think of as ‘enjoyable’ inevitably cause pain when you lose them. No, bikkhus, the one reality, the only reality, is pain. Understand that and you can, in time, escape it. Fail to understand that and the following things will inevitably, yes inevitably, happen to you: Pain—poverty—broken bones—insanity—legal problems—dead family—burned-down house—Hell. (DP 10) The choice is your, bikkhus.”
12
Throughout the early months of my teaching, as my sangha was growing, Mara would periodically show up to pester me. “You will never escape me, monk,” he would jeer at me. “Go away, Mara,” I would instantly respond. “I am telling you that you will never escape me, monk,” he would bluster. “And I am telling you to go away, devil!” Mara would stare at me unblinkingly for a few seconds, seemingly surprised by my treatment of him. “The Buddha knows me,” I sometimes saw in his eyes before he skulked away. Then, not long afterwards, he’d be back. “You are bound by my shackles and you shall not escape me, monk!” he would shriek. “Go away, Mara,” I would respond, and that would lead to that same exact look: “The Buddha knows me,” followed by that same exact deflated trudge away. One time I really let Mara have it: “You’re like a crab with all its legs pulled off,” I told him. “You’re just a body, unable to move or help itself in any way, honestly. You’re a pathetic travesty.” (SY 4:1–24; MV 7:15) Lower lip trembling, Mara turned on his heel and speed-walked away.
A number of times Mara showed up while I was meditating, which I found especially irritating. I would feel his presence and glance over and there he would be, twirling his black moustache and smirking at me. He would instantly start yammering, always saying the exact same thing, “You cannot escape me, monk,” but I would invariably put him in his place by saying, “You are nothing, Mara,” at which point he would invariably slink away in defeat. Why he kept coming back, I have no idea; it actually got to be slightly embarrassing at times. “Do you have no dignity?” I wanted to ask Mara. One time after I told him to leave, Mara wandered a few feet away and sat on the ground, skinny shoulders slumped, absently poking at the dirt with a stick. (SY 4:24–25) “Why don’t you just stop trying, Mara?” I felt like asking him. “You’re making a complete fool of yourself.”
One night Mara’s three daughters, Lust, Appetite and Delight, spoke to him. Their advice, not surprisingly, was terrible. “Don’t be sad, father,” they told him. “We will catch the Buddha with our snare of lust and bring him under your power!” They flew down and instantly announced to me that they worshipped my feet. I ignored them. They then split themselves into a hundred women, all of whom told me they worshipped my feet. Once again, I ignored them. They then divided themselves into a multitude of women, from young to old, and all of them told me they worshipped my feet. “I don’t have the ‘foot fetish’ you all seem to believe I do,” I remember thinking to myself at that moment. (SY 4:24–25)
Another strange thing that happened at this time was my fight with a giant snake. I’d had, up to that point, a reasonably good relationship with snakes overall. The day of my great awakening, in fact, as I had approached the Bodhi tree, Kala the Snake-King had kindly informed me that because my splendor “shone forth like the sun,” I was on the verge of attaining perfect knowledge. “The birds salute you, soon-to-be Buddha!” Kala the Snake-King had proclaimed (ASV 12:113–15; MV 1:10–15), and that had been very encouraging. For some reason, however, this giant snake now wanted to fight me. It was a brutal fight; before long the hideous creature was blowing fire at me.
Everyone watching the fight was horrified. “That beautiful man is going to be destroyed by that giant, fire-breathing snake!” I heard someone cry. Of course they were mistaken—I was not going to be destroyed by the giant fire-breathing snake. Rather, I was going to blow fire right back at him and then stuff him into a huge bowl, which I then gave to the leader of the hermitage I was visiting. Irritatingly, the hermitage’s leader didn’t seem all that surprised by my gift. He also seemed strangely unimpressed when I subsequently parted some waters and flew around. (Among my powers at this time, by the way: Shooting fire out of both my hands and feet; walking through walls; walking on water; turning other people invisible; touching my ears with my tongue.) (DG 11; MV 1:7–54) I finally got sick of this leader’s insolence and openly put him in
