“The Gunga,” he murmured.
“His mind wanders,” said Ananda.
Those standing next to Kamanita, who had heard what he said, interpreted it differently.
“He now wishes to be taken to the Gunga in order that the sacred waters may wash away his sins. But Mother Gunga is far from here—who could possibly carry him thither?”
“First to the Buddha, then the Gunga,” murmured Sariputta, with the half-contemptuous pity the wise man bestows on the fool who, beyond the reach of help, falls out of one superstition into another.
Suddenly, however, Kamanita’s eyes became wonderfully animated, a happy smile transfigured his face; he sought to raise himself. Ananda supported him.
“The heavenly Gunga,” he whispered, with weak but happy voice, and pointed with his right hand to the strip.
His body quivered, blood gushed from his mouth, and he passed away in Ananda’s arms.
Scarcely half an hour later Sariputta and Ananda, accompanied by the monks, entered the potter’s hall, greeted the Master respectfully, and sat down by his side.
“Well, my dear Sariputta,” asked the Master, after having given them a friendly greeting, “did the company of young monks under thy leadership reach the end of their long journey well and without accident? Didst thou have any lack of food, or medicine for the sick, by the way? And are the disciples happy and studious?”
“I am glad to be able to say, my reverend Master, that we lacked for nothing, and that the young monks, full of confidence and zeal, have but one desire, namely, to see the Master face to face. These noble youths, who know the word and profess the doctrine, I have brought with me, in order to present them without delay to the Master.”
At these words three young monks arose and greeted the Master with folded hands—
“Hail, Master, the Perfect Buddha—hail!”
“Ye are welcome,” said the Master, and invited them by a movement of his hand to be seated again.
“And didst thou, O Master, arrive after yesterday’s journey without over-fatigue or other evil effects? And hast thou spent a passable night in this hall?”
“Even so, my Brother. I arrived at dusk, very tired it is true, but without other ill effects from my journey, and spent a fairly good night in the company of a stranger pilgrim.”
“That pilgrim,” began Sariputta, “has been robbed of his life in the streets of Rajagriha by a cow.”
“And never dreaming with whom he had passed the night here,” added Ananda, “his one desire was to be brought to the feet of the Master.”
“Soon afterwards, to be sure, he demanded that he should be carried to the Gunga,” remarked Sariputta.
“Not so, Brother Sariputta,” Ananda corrected him; “for he spoke of the heavenly Gunga. With radiant countenance he recalled a vow, and, in doing so, uttered the name of a woman—Vasitthi, I believe—and so he died.”
“The name of some woman on his lips he went hence,” said Sariputta. “Where may he have entered again into existence?”
“Foolish, ye disciples, was the pilgrim Kamanita, as an unreasonable child. To this pilgrim, ye disciples, who went about in my name and wished to profess himself a follower of the doctrine of the Master, I expounded the doctrine fully, entering into every detail. And he took offence at the doctrine. The longings and aspirations of his heart were centred on bliss and heavenly joys. The pilgrim Kamanita, ye disciples, has entered again into existence in Sukhavati, in the Paradise of the West, there to enjoy the pleasures of heaven for thousands upon thousands of years.”
XXII
In the Paradise of the West
At the time when the Master uttered these words in the hall of the potter at Rajagriha, the pilgrim Kamanita awoke in the Paradise of the West.
Wrapped in a red mantle, whose rich drapings flowed down about him, delicate and glistening as the petals of a flower, he found himself sitting with crossed legs on a huge, similarly coloured lotus rose which floated in the middle of a large pond. On the wide expanse of water such lotus flowers were to be seen everywhere, red, blue, and white, some as yet mere buds, others, although fairly developed, yet still closed; but, at the same time, countless numbers were open like his own, and on almost every one a human form was throned, whose richly draped robes seemed to grow up out of the petals of the flower.
On the sloping banks of the pond, in the greenest of grass, there laughed such a wealth of flowers as made it seem that all the jewels of earth had taken the form of flowers, and had been reborn here. Their luminous play of colour they had retained, but the hard coat of mail they had worn during their earthly existence they had exchanged for the soft and clinging, the living vesture of the plants. In keeping with this change, was the fragrance they exhaled, which was more powerful than the most splendid essence ever enclosed in crystal, while yet possessing the whole heartsome freshness of the natural odour of flowers.
From this enchanting bank the ravished glance swept away between masses of splendid trees, some loftily piercing the sky, others with broader summit and deeper shade, many clad in emerald foliage, numbers resplendent with jewelled blossoms, standing now singly, now in groups, anon forming deep, forest glades, on to where craggy heights of the most alluring description displayed their graces of crystal, marble, and alabaster, here naked, there covered with dense shrubbery or veiled in airy drapery of flowers. But at one spot groves and rocks disappeared entirely to make room for a beautiful river, which poured its waters silently into the lake like a stream of starry light.
Over the whole region the sky formed an arch, the deep blue of which grew deeper as it neared the horizon, and under this dome hung white, massy cloudlets on which reclined lovely genii, who drew from their instruments the magic strains of rapturous melodies that filled the whole
