“He died, master?”
“Well, obviously he died, Ananda. The question is, do you know how?”
“Of old age?”
“He drowned, Ananda. And after he was dead, his wife asked me if I’d seen him.”
“The Devadatta crow was married, master?”
“Yes, and when his wife asked if I’d seen him, this is what I said: ‘The poor bird has found a watery grave.’ Ha.”
“Was Devadatta’s wife upset, master?”
“Her husband had just died, so yes, Ananda, she was upset. She wept profusely, in fact.”
“That is so sad.”
“No, it is not sad, Ananda, it’s not sad at all. Devadatta deserved it, he was trying to be like me so he died, just like he will before long in this lifetime.” I took a sip of tea, nodded. “I think everyone in the sangha despises Devadatta and thinks him an arrogant fool, Ananda. I truly do.”
“Other than his five hundred followers, you mean, master?”
“Devadatta’s followers are despicable fools, walking bags of shit and piss, Ananda!” (UD 5:8)
“Yes, master, I’m so sorry, master.”
A few more moments passed in silence, then Ananda said in a small voice: “Are you scared of Devadatta, master?”
I smiled indulgently. “Let me put it this way, Ananda: Is a lion scared?”
“Oh, definitely not.”
“The lion fills other creatures with fear, Ananda. He forces them to hide in their holes or run away when he roars. Even elephants, even elephants, shit themselves when they see the lion, that is how fearsome he is.”
“ … You are the lion, right, master?”
“Obviously I’m the lion, Ananda. I am fearsome to everyone: Animals, humans, Hungry Ghosts, demigods, demons. I even frighten the gods, Ananda.”
“That is amazing, master.”
“When the gods hear my words they are filled with terror. ‘But we thought we were superior, Tathagata.’ ‘Well, guess what, gods, you are not.’”
“Haha, stupid gods.”
“No, Ananda, the gods are not stupid. They are simply ignorant, just like everyone else.”
“Except you, master.”
“Except me, Ananda, that is exactly right. As to your question: Am I scared of Devadatta? What do you think the answer is?”
“ … Yes?”
“I want you to understand something, Ananda. In the end you will be punished for this kind of remark.”
22
But Devadatta did have a strange power over people, I cannot deny it. I later learned that he was a skilled hypnotist who mind-controlled many of his followers. I also later learned that he could shape-shift, that one time he turned himself into a man who wore a girdle made entirely of snakes, which was apparently quite disconcerting. (CV 7:2) In any case, his challenges against me continued; if anything, they intensified.
“Have you not instructed us to behave harmlessly towards all living things, Perfect One?” Devadatta asked one day. (DP 19)
“I have.”
“Should we not therefore refrain from eating animals?” (CV 7:2–3)
“My instructions were to not ‘harm’ animals, Devadatta. I never said don’t ‘eat’ them. If they’re already dead and you merely eat them—well, no harm done.”
“But wouldn’t it be more compassionate to not eat animals at all, Perfect One?”
“I think we all agree that one should not eat tigers.”
“No one eats tigers, Perfect One.”
“Which is good, because we should not. Nor should we eat lions, hyenas or leopards.”
“But again, no one eats lions, hyenas or leopards.”
“Or bears, definitely don’t eat bears. As for all the other animals, I repeat, as long as you don’t kill them it is perfectly fine to eat them.” (MV 6)
“But Perfect One—”
“Being a vegetarian is not what makes one ‘good,’ Devadatta. Understanding that life is pain, that is what makes one good.”
As the lesson ended and the group broke up, I smiled thinly at Devadatta. “No snare like delusion, is there, bikkhu?”
“On that we agree, Perfect One.”
“Easy to see in others, but much harder to see in oneself, eh?”
“Again, we agree. But I wonder, Perfect One: Is it not possible that the ultimate delusion might lie in thinking that one has achieved the ultimate enlightenment?”
“Ultimate enlightenment precludes delusion, Devadatta.” He tried to speak but I talked right over him. “Wake up, Devadatta. WAKE UP.”
“Perhaps I am already awake, Perfect One.”
“No, Devadatta, you are not. What you are, sadly, is a fish out of water, flopping around on the dry ground and honestly, not even worth eating. You are Mara’s fish, Devadatta, a devil fish and not tasty in the least. (DP 3:34) A man whose mind is trained does not smell like dead fish the way you do, Devadatta, rather what that man smells like is—”
“Flowers, Perfect One?”
“Sandalwood flowers, to be specific, and let me assure you, Devadatta, the scent of enlightenment is incomparable.” (DP 4:54–55)
That night, wanting to “nip things in the bud,” I visited Devadatta in his chambers.
“I understand you well, cousin,” I remember telling him. “You are, as you always have been, consumed with jealousy for me.”
“Oh?”
“All you have ever wished for is to be me, Devadatta, it is quite obvious. In one previous lifetime after another, this has been the case. Once, for instance, I was a lion who befriended a jackal—” (JBJAT)
“The jackal was me, obviously.”
“Yes. You said you wanted to serve me so I took you in and fed you but before long, do you know what happened, Devadatta?”
“I became proud?”
“Exactly so, you became proud. ‘I can hunt an elephant just like you can, lion,’ you boasted. ‘Beware, jackal,’ I warned you, ‘you are but puny and no match for an elephant.’ But did you listen to me?”
“I think I did not.”
“Correct, you did not. You tried to jump on an elephant’s head but you missed, landed at its feet and were instantly crushed. You laid there moaning in pain for a while and then you died. Do you know what I said at that point, Devadatta?”
“Something compassionate, I would think?”
“I recited a kind of poem.”
“How deep.”
“Here it is:
A jackal assumed a lion’s pride
Now he’s prone, now he’s died
Now his rashness he repents
Jackal’s worthless life is spent.”
“It’s so
