Word is, someone is going to expound the Dharma.
The dais for the lecture is, as usual, high. The smoke from the incense and candles drifts upward, mingling with the white breath exhaled by the devotees, blurring the up-turned faces. The speaker speaks of “suffering,” of “emptiness,” of “compassion.” Below, some sigh, some shed tears, as if they have finally found the true answer to life. I have never been one to understand much of this, only wondering where the roots of this “answer” truly lie.
I. On “Samsara”: A Perpetual Pawnshop
The first brick in the grand edifice of the Dharma is, I fear, not “compassion,” but “samsara” – the cycle of rebirth.
It is an ingenious invention. It stretches the ledger of life instantly, from the single page of this life to the endless pages of past and future lives. Why the suffering in this life? Debts incurred in a past life. Why the lowly status in this life? Misdeeds committed in bygone days. Everything is accounted for, not by human law or government, but within each person’s own unseen ledger of “karma.” Thus, the aggrieved can endure with peace of mind; the suffering can accept their lot as sweet. After all, it’s “you reap what you sow,” having nothing to do with others or the ways of the world.
If one pulls out this brick of “samsara,” the entire edifice would come crashing down. Without that infinitely extendable ledger, the suffering and lowliness of this life become an unaccountable mess, a stark, unavoidable injustice of the human world that must be faced head-on. How could that be allowed? Thus, this “samsara” becomes the most crucial ballast, offering a sliver of resigned stability amidst the stormy seas of fate. This stability is cold, yet for some, it is more vital than a warm meal.
II. On “Caste”: A Spiritual Poultice
In Siddhartha’s time, India’s caste system was more immovable than a mountain.
Anyone with eyes could see the rigid barriers. Born a Shudra, forever a Shudra; born a Brahmin, forever a Brahmin. The fleshly body seemed stamped with a seal at birth. This system, though “ancient,” was like a festering sore on a leg – exposed, unsightly, throbbing with a latent pain that threatened trouble.
So, the Dharma offered a spiritual poultice. It said: Hold your complaints about your birth. See that Brahmin? His present nobility may be the fruit of past cultivation. You, this Shudra? Your present lowliness may stem from past negligence. All is the “fruit of karma,” perfectly just. Endure, and cultivate your future life. This poultice does not heal the sore on the leg, but specializes in numbing the pain. Apply it, and the sore remains, but the pain becomes hazy and distant, transformed into fodder for “cultivation.” The iron curtain of the system is thus draped with a veil of compassion, appearing softer, and consequently, more firmly entrenched.
III. On “Under the Bodhi Tree”: A Prince’s State Budget
That Siddhartha was a prince is a point of utmost importance.
A prince sees the world differently from a farmer. The farmer sees only his own field and water; the prince must see the harvests of all the kingdom’s fields, the distribution of its waterways, and the “peace” that maintains all this without disorder. His “position” dictates that his question is not “How can I be happy?” but “How can the multitudes remain each in their place, without rebellion?”
Thus, under the Bodhi tree, what he balanced was perhaps not merely personal anguish, but a vast state budget. Warfare is costly, suppression is bloody, while the channeling of thought is the most economical. The prescription he devised was to turn each person inward, to settle their own private ledger of “karma,” and not to join hands in settling the collective account of the world’s injustices.
This is not conspiracy; it is perhaps a form of supremely shrewd, compassionate wisdom. In an age where caste was iron-clad and change seemed hopeless, he gave the hopeless “hope” (a future life), gave the angry an “explanation” (karmic retribution), and gave everyone an inward path, lest they all gaze outward at that immovable high wall together. The peace of the kingdom was thus quietly maintained within the masses’ “self-awareness.”
Epilogue
I do not say the Dharma is without merit. For countless souls struggling in a sea of suffering, it is indeed a ferryboat, a lighthouse. Moreover, its intricate philosophy is足以令人惊叹 (truly astonishing).
I merely wonder: What is the material used to build this ferry that carries us across the sea of suffering? And what is the oil that fuels this lamp illuminating our confusion?
Once, I seemed to see that statue of the Buddha with downcast eyes and a slight smile. Behind that compassionate smile, another face seemed to superimpose itself – the face of a Kshatriya prince, calmly surveying the realm and its people he must pacify, who finally found the most peaceful solution.
The incense still burns. The smoke coils upward, one ring after another, finally dispersing into nothingness. The sound of the Dharma lecture hums along, pleasant to the ear.
I push open the temple door and step outside. The sunlight is a bit harsh. On the ground, my shadow is short and very solid.
心河—平澜诗集 