December 10 was Human Rights Day, which made me think of a rather neglected right—the right to say no to being forcibly “married off”, which is a common situation in our country. If two people can love and respect each other and make a mutually pleasing life together, it is, as they say, “a consummation devoutly to be wished”. But what if someone is just not into it and struggles to be an immovable object against the irresistible force of society? There is an unusual story about this that I would like to retell here. It is from the Ananusochiya Jataka or Jataka 328 in the Pali canon. As always, it is fascinating to observe how old stories address a range of human situations, and not always as you think they might.
This tale was apparently imparted by the Buddha himself, at his regular retreat in the Jetavana grove, which is now the Sahet-Mahet historical park in Uttar Pradesh. The Buddha told this story to a grieving local landowner who was unable to come to terms with a personal loss.
The tale goes that the Bodhisattva or Buddha in a previous life was born as Ananda, the son of a rich priest in holy Benares. He was raised very tenderly as the only child and sent to Taxila for higher education. When he returned, his parents declared that he should marry.
Ananda stoutly resisted this cosy plan, for he was of a fastidious, ascetic temperament and was wholly untempted by the pleasures of normal life. This unusual choice upset his parents deeply. They badgered him day and night to get married.
Finally, to buy peace, Ananda went to a goldsmith. His detailed instructions produced a golden statue of the “perfect woman”, lovely in every respect. “Now find me a golden girl like this statue and I suppose I’ll have to marry her,” he told his parents.
“How did you, an avowed ascetic, describe so much female beauty?” asked his annoyed mother.
“Detached observation, Mother,” said Ananda with a droll look.
Undeterred, his parents made a plan. They put together a team to take the statue around for many miles around Benares and locate the very girl for Ananda.
But weeks and months went by, and only the message “No luck yet” reached the anxious parents.
On its weary way back to Benares, the team stopped at a small town, and without hope, displayed the statue as usual. But a number of people stopped to stare and finally asked, “What are you doing with a statue of Samilla?”
Greatly excited, the team discovered that Samilla or Samillabhashini, the only child of a local priest, was beautiful beyond compare. But she was highly reserved and did not wish to be married. “I will be an ascetic after you die, please don’t force me to marry,” she pleaded. “Are you insane?” said her parents and packed her off.
Ananda and Samilla were both married against their wishes. On their wedding night, Samilla spoke her mind to Ananda: “I am an ascetic by temperament and choice. I rejected the marriage bed then and reject it now. My parents forced me to marry against my will.”
“You too?” said Ananda in relief.
They talked long into the night and made a pact to stay celibate, going to sleep at opposite ends of the bed in inviolate peace.
After that, Ananda’s parents did not suspect a thing for the young pair proved to be a devoted couple. They took an interest in each other’s doings and views and grew to be fast friends. If Ananda’s parents wondered why no children blessed the marriage, they forbore to ask, given the couple’s affection.
In the tenth year of his marriage, Ananda lost his parents to a sudden epidemic that swept Kashi. After their funeral, he had a serious talk with Samilla.
“I am now free to take to the road as an ascetic. All my money is yours and I set you free to marry again,” he said.
“I will go with you instead,” said Samilla firmly, and Ananda gladly agreed.
Giving up everything, they walked north to the Himalayan foothills and spent several happy years there in the lap of Nature.
But, says the Jataka, they came back to Benares for salt so that their teeth would last. They begged for food every day and slept in the parks.
One day, Samilla ate some spoilt rice given in alms. Very soon, she was in agonies, wracked by dysentery. Ananda led her to a cool hall and went away to beg. When he returned, he found that Samilla was dead, unable to bear the pain that tore at her delicate frame. Several people stood around in distress.
“Who is this lovely ascetic, sir?” they asked Ananda. “When I was a layman, she was my wife,” said Ananda, calmly eating the day’s alms.
“Why do you not grieve? It disturbs us, please explain,” said the people.
Ananda rinsed his mouth and answered collectedly, “Nothing is permanent. We all have to go one day, if not today, tomorrow.”
Ananda then swung Samilla up on his shoulder like how Shiva must have carried Sati and took her to the burning ghat. After her funeral, he went back to the hills and eventually died there.
“I was Ananda,” said the Buddha to the grieving landowner, “And Yashodhara, my wife when I was a layman, was Samilla.”
The Jataka, being a moral tale, ends starkly here. We are left to surmise on Ananda’s feelings. He was forced to reconcile theory with reality and it couldn’t have been easy. It must take great self-control, and sadhana or practice, to accomplish true detachment after losing a life companion. We must hope that he achieved it. His story, however, remains to haunt us and we may also try to catch a tantalising glimpse of what Ananda and Samilla may have looked like if we visit the Ajanta Caves.
Renuka Narayanan
Slug: Faithline