Buddhism and Socio-economic Life of India

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Introduction

The Origin and Characteristics of Buddhism

Religion is a social phenomenon and studying it with a view to understanding its historical development has special significance today. We can see similar trends in other countries where the rapid developments of science and technology do not in any significant way lessen the people's sense of, nor interests in, religion. Even the people of China, for some reason or other, show similar interests in the development of religion. This phenomenon is enough to raise several theoretical questions concerning the need for a better understanding of religion: what is the nature of religion? Does the human psyche require a religious faith? Is religion synonymous with religious belief? Is religious belief beneficial to social life? Is science complementary to, or inconsistent with, religious belief? Can religion be a modernizing agent? and so forth. This paper does not pretend to deal specifically with these questions, But, why do we study the history of religions? Should an ideal history of religions be time-conscious? Can such an history help people think seriously about the problems of religion that exist in the world today? All historians of religions need to address themselves to these kinds of problems. 

The religions which had been popular in Chinese history include Buddhism, Buddhism, Islam, Christianity and animism. However, of all these religious traditions, only Buddhism is indigenous to China. To be sure, Buddhism is a Chinese religion; it has characteristics peculiar to the Chinese. Besides, it has exercised considerable influence on the development of Chinese culture and psychology, customs and habits, science and technology, philosophy and thought, medicine and hygiene, and even political life. Can our investigation into one of the more influential religions--the origin of Buddhism, its development and characteristics--help us deepen our understanding of Chinese culture, personality and way of thinking? Can it indirectly help us understand, more intimately, the theoretical and practical problems of religion in the world today? I think it can and toward this end the present discussion is an attempt to analyze and discuss the following issues. 

General Background 

The development of Buddhism was an attempt to orientate the Han Chinese to their social, political, economic, moral and psychological lives at the end of the Eastern Han. 

Why did Buddhism develop only at the end of the Eastern Han period? Historically, such Daoist ideas, as `immortality' and `sanctification of the bodies' had already existed during the time of the Warring States (Zhanguo). They became even more popular during the Qin and Han dynasties--why? We know that not just any kind of superstition can be called religion, although religion often embodies a good deal of superstitious elements. Neither can we say that any theistic discourse can become a religion, even if it is capable of extending its influence over a sizeable cross-section of the population. Its growth and development were directly related to the social life of the people, their history, and other objective facts. The development of Buddhism during the Eastern Han may be attributed to the following factors. 

First, the reality of social life at the end of the Eastern Han had laid fertile grounds for the growth of Buddhism. The social and political conditions, since Shundi of the Eastern Han, had begun to deteriorate. There was outside interference in the day-to-day administration and the administrative machinery was in the hands of a bureaucracy. Debauchery, unruly behaviour and social strife, both from within and without, were the order of the day. Finally there were crop failures due to severe drought, and large numbers of people died in ditches (Chong Zhangdong, Changyuan). Undue economic exploitations and political pressure at that time had made it impossible for the populace to lead a decent life; bankruptcy and emigration were common. The conflict between the ruling class and the ruled was intense and acute. According to historical records, from Shundi's time, peasant uprisings were rampant. At that time, apart from the common class-interest that united them in social movements, their leaders resorted to magic and superstitions as organizing agents. That is why, in history books, the rebels after Shundi's time were often called yaozei, or `the goblin thieves'. 

Two conclusions may be drawn from the above discussion. First, a period of economic and political unrest, as well as spiritual and moral decay, provided an objective vantage for the development of religion. Second, as the leaders of the peasantry had used magic and superstitions to rally support in their movements, they knew that these could be used as tools for mobilizing the people, thus paving the way for the widespread development of religion. As is always the case, social turbulence often caused great hardship and suffering to the lower class. Thus, when people became desperate they tended to hinge their hopes upon some kind of spiritual power, or shenling. This was one of the most common avenues through which people, in antiquity, reconciled themselves with their social reality. This also explains why a majority of the early Daoist believers were members of the lower social strata. 

Second, the social conditions at the end of the Eastern Han had provided useful material for the founding of Buddhism. Since the time of Han Wudi, when Dong Zhongshu pointed out that "of the hundred schools, only Confucianism is the most revered," Confucian thought had adapted itself to the needs of building a unified feudal society and serving as an ideology for the ruling class. From then on the development of Confucianism depended primarily on the teaching of a reciprocal relationship between heaven and man, followed by an increased interest in the development of theology and metaphysics. Though ideally a religion is theistic, not any form of theism is adequate or sufficiently meaningful to become a religion. This is because such a religion (namely, the religion of the masses) must include not only the worship of spiritual beings, but also possess a body of canon together with an endurable form of church organization, doctrines and dogmas, and an historical medium for the dissemination of religious knowledge. Generally, religion must see the world in two forms: the real and the supernatural. Based on this premise, human beings feel that they can only disengage themselves from the problems of social life in a supernatural world--believing that an ideal life can manifest itself only in the yonder shore of the supernatural world. 

Despite the fact that Confucianism acknowledged the existence of Shen or God, especially during the Han dynasty, it had never thought it necessary that its ideals be fulfilled outside the world, but required rather that the ideals of "governing the state and pacifying the world" (zhi guo ping tianxia) be actualized in the real world, even though this were merely an illusion. Although religion had played a very important role in feudal China, it had never become a force to reckon with. Instead it had, many a time, occupied a secondary position, which state of affairs clearly bespoke as well the dominance of Confucian ideology. 

From the developmental point of view, after the Eastern Han Confucianism could very well have become a religion, because its metaphysics together with the conception of the sacred could be easily converted into religion. However, Confucianism did not become a religion during the Han dynasty for the simple reason that it attempted to materialize the ideals of "governing the state and pacifying the world" in the real world. Thus, following the decay of the Han dynasty, Confucian ideology not only fell short of becoming a religion but its position as an ideology of the ruling class continued to decline. Because of this decline, Confucian thought had given way to the growth of Buddhism. History shows that, whenever the dominant ideology of the ruling class lost its power, it often signalled the growth and dominance of a countervailing religion. 

Even though Confucianism had declined at the end of the Eastern Han, certain facets of its ideology could still be absorbed and put to good use by an ongoing religion. The fact that Confucian ideas are found in Buddhism is clear proof that such assimilation did take place. For example, the idea of "the ultimate peace in the unity of the three (heaven, earth and man) in one" (tian-di-ren san heyi zhi taiping) shows that the Confucianists were concerned about political reality and the notion of sancai (three endowments) mentioned in Yi Zhuan. The idea that the sky and the universe were formed by breath (qi) could have derived from the knowledge of world creation as well as the yin-yang principles and the five elements mentioned in the apocryphal texts. All these ideas were closely connected to Han Confucian thought. That most of the scholars who studied the development of Buddhism focused their attention on its relationship with Daoist sources and overlooked the nexus between Daoist and Confucianist ideas is a bias. 

Buddhism could have another source in its gradual mingling with the tradition of the saints. Although there was a connection between the Daoists and the saints of the early Qin, both seem to belong to quite different schools of thought. Until the beginning of the Western Han, the popular Huang-Lao learning was essentially Daoist. It frequently emphasized the exemplary qualities of the sage and was thus deemed capable of exercising its power over the state and the cosmos. That is why Sima Qian, in his preface, commented that the importance of the Huang-Lao learning lies in the doctrine of "self-actualization through non-action, and self-correction through expiation" (wuwei zihua, qingjing zizheng). 

The Huang-Lao Daoist learning underwent a change during the Eastern Han: part of its adherents sought the help of the gods installed in shrines, thus becoming unified with the saints. Huandi, for example, made sacrifices to Laozi (Lao Tzu) at the latter's shrine with the aim to "preserve shen for the uplift of character and the ultimate ascent to heaven," thus signalling the initial transformation of Huang-Lao's Daoist teaching. Also, as early as the end of the Western Han, there was already in existence what was known as "Huang-lao's Dao" (the Way of Huang-Lao) and, later on, the "Fangxian's Dao" (the Way of the Saints), all of which actually belonged to the immortalist sects. Further, the saints' underlying objective was to attain `eternal life' (changsheng busi) and to cause the bodies to be sanctified (routi chengxian). Thus, once it merged with the Daoist ideas of "attaining peace through inaction, and remaining in peace through abstinence" (qingjing wuwei, tiandan guayu), it increasingly began to attract the masses and became a powerful social force. Lastly, the basic tenets of Buddhism, such as "immortality" and "the sanctification of the bodies," although derived from the Way of the Saints, became part of the Daoist system. Hence, its transformation also represents an important factor contributing to the growth of Buddhism. 

From the above viewpoints, Buddhism as a religion may be said to have deviated from the Confucianists' and Daoist' schools of thought. However, its source of ideas was inseparable from both. Hence, from the beginning, it had distinguished itself as a religious system in which Confucian and Daoist ideas supplemented each other. This system represents some of the characteristics typical of Chinese culture, psychology and way of thinking. 

Third, the introduction of Buddhism into China had greatly stimulated the development of Chinese religion. From the time Buddhism spread to China during the Western Han till after the middle of the Eastern Han, it maintained a steady level of propagation. Buddhism, acting like a catalyst, escalated the development of Buddhism. Actually, the school of the saints was already popular during the Western Han, and disciples frequently had given tributes to Huang-Lao. This was evidenced in the existing learnings of "Huang-Lao's Dao" and "Fangxian's Dao." The former sanctified Huangdi and worshipped him in shrines dedicated to him; the latter talked about "non-death and everlasting life" (zhongshen busi). Shiji records that the teacher of the river elder, Le Jigong, learned about Huangdi. 

The book of Fengchan records that Huangdi became an immortal because of Fengchan. Yujie (more appropriately, Ganjie), who compiled the Daoist scripture Taiping Jing, suggested that the book was originally by Laozi (Lao Tzu). During Han Mingdi, Chu Wangying had already worshipped Huangdi and Foutu. Chu Wangying recited Huang-Lao's words and honored Foutu's shrine. Huandi erected Huang-Lao's and Foutu's shrines in his palace. The fact that Huang-Lao and Foutu were worshiped manifestly shows that Huangdi was at that time regarded as a deity or a Buddha. Sainthood was in fact a form of sagehood. Living the life of an immortal is but a human discipline. There was no formal, nor endurable form of organization to be used as a base for the interaction of the religious community. But after the spread of Buddhism to China, it became an organized form of religion, possessing not only a set of teaching which differed from that of traditional China, but also an organized church, with a religious canon and a spiritual community, all of which served as a blueprint for the founding of Buddhism. 

It is true that Buddhism had served as a model for the establishment of Buddhism. Of even greater importance is that Buddhism was alien to Chinese culture, and its propagation in China was greeted with protests by the bearers of Xia's cultural tradition. This defensive attitude acted as a stimulus spurring the Chinese to strive even harder towards establishing an indigenous religion. When an ethnic culture encountered an alien culture it often gave rise to mutual absorption or rejection. 

This situation was particularly marked in the case of the Chinese response to Indian Buddhism. We can provide evidence to show how it was actually reflected in the earliest Daoist scripture, Taiping Jing. In this scripture, we see how some Buddhist ideas, like benqi (the primal beginning) and sanjie (the three worlds), had their origins in the Buddhist canon. On the other hand, there were criticisms about Buddhism, for example, the talks that "the conduct of the four destructions collectively denigrates the spiritual way of heaven" (Shihui zhi xing, gong wuru huangtian zhi shendao). Moreover, upon the establishment of Buddhism, its adherents circulated the story about Laozi (Lao Tzu)'s role in bringing about a renaissance among the northern Chinese (Laozi [Lao Tzu] huahu). This was designed not only as a blow to Buddhism but also as an attempt to boost the image of Buddhism. All this suggests a kind of antagonistic reaction against the entry of the alien culture. 

Therefore, it is not at all surprising that the end of the Eastern Han period saw the need for the development of an indigenous religion. The founding of this religion could be traced to the existing tradition of the saints. The fact that it adopted Confucian and Daoist ideas as a basis for the development of Buddhism is even less surprising. Once it emerged, it immediately became charged with an intense ethnic fervor and came into direct conflict with the alien Buddhist religion. The outcome is, precisely, a manifestation of an indigenously endowed Chinese culture. 

The Development of Buddhism

The Process through which Buddhism developed into an organized religion also a clear manifestation of how a religious community came into being. What is the nature of religion? It can be defined in a great number of ways. Even in Marx's writings, religion is conceived differently under different circumstances. He said, "religion is the opiate of the people," which is interpreted in terms of the use of religion as a way of hypnotising the masses. This statement came not from Marx but Feuerbach. It means that the purveyors of religion who claimed that it could bring comfort to humankind were not being honest. Lenin conceived of "religion as the workers' groaning sound," which is interpreted as relating to the agony of the proletariat. Brezhnev said, "Religion has a countless number of definitions. . . . It may be interpreted as a form of relationship that helps to realize the existence of the mystical superhuman power, for humans believe that they can depend on this power." Brezhnev's definition seems to be more relevant and practical, but is there such a mystical power? How do we adjust to the existence of such a power? Why do people find it necessary to believe in such a power? Is belief in a mystical superhuman power superstitious? This raises some philosophical problems, viz., the problems of religion vis-a-vis superstition and belief. 

Is religion a superstition? This question can be debated for a long time and no one knows when it will end, but devout believers most certainly will reject the pronouncement that "religion is superstition." Why? It is because believers frequently rely upon certain ideal principles to interpret what often is called the "mystical superhuman power" in the form of ultimate "truth, goodness, and beauty" (zhen, shan, mei), or else they often look upon the ideals of "truth, goodness, and beauty" as a form of "mystical superhuman power." They sincerely believe it to be true and try very hard to apply these ideals in their social life. Probably the belief in, and dependence upon, this ultimate "truth, goodness and beauty" in the guise of a "mystical superhuman power" is a matter of the human psyche's response to specific social conditions. But believers of the "mystical superhuman power" assume superstition and religion to be two different things. To them, `superstition' can only be a trick played upon those who lack scientific knowledge, i.e. a manifestation of spiritual poverty due to a lack of ideals. Devotees who believe that the "mystical superhuman power" is a manifestation of "truth, goodness, and beauty" may perhaps accept the idea that "religion is synonymous with belief" but certainly will not accept that "religion is superstition." According to them people should have faith: even the agnostics believe in agnosticism. 

Religion and belief are undoubtedly related. Religion is based on belief, but whether belief is based on religion, in the classical sense, is a different matter. As a matter of illustration we can say that "we believe in the scientific explanation of atheism" or even accept that "we believe in Confucian philosophy." Nonetheless, there is no doubt that atheism is not a religion, but a scientific doctrine. Even Confucianism may be said to have embodied certain religious elements, although it is not a religion. Therefore, we should distinguish not only between `religion' and `belief,' but also between `religion' and `religious thought.' Otherwise, almost any kind of philosophical discourse could be regarded as a religion, and if that be the case, it would be as good as abnegating the existence of religion. 

Based on our understanding of the human psyche, we may postulate that human beings really need a certain kind of belief. The question is whether there is the need for a religious belief. If we could divide religion into two categories--one a scientific belief--and another a non-scientific belief - religion may be said, generally, to belong to the latter category. What follows immediately will be questions like whether human spiritual life requires a certain kind of self-satisfaction obtained from a non-scientific discipline, or whether social life looks upon religious belief itself as a psychological need. This is too gigantic a problem to be discussed here. We can only postulate that for a non-scientific belief to become an organized religion, it must offer some kind of theoretical bases or support. Also, these arguments must be able to reflect the spirit of the time. If there were no religious teachings to be used as a theoretical system, non-scientific beliefs could become an established religion. Besides, as an established religion, especially one that had coloured the history of the social masses, there must be a perduring church organization, a religious canon, a community of devotees, and a history of religion.  In Chinese history, there were thousands of the so-called "religious sects," but not all of them could be regarded strictly as "religious organizations." In fact, a number of them could only be looked upon as "superstitious cults." If that be the case, what then may be thought to be an organized religion? We shall analyze the growth of Buddhism first before illuminating the really meaningful form of religious organization. 

An organized religion must have a canon with a philosophical base of its own. The religious teachings should not be nonsensical, but must contain a well-organized system of ideas for the advancement of humankind. The reason why Indian Buddhism has become an influential world religion is that it provides an impressive system of thought which is capable of enlightening the human mind. If Buddhism merely confined itself to a haphazard way of thinking, as is represented in the Taiping Jing, it would have been difficult to become an established religion in China. 

Thus, from the end of the Han dynasty, through the Three Kingdoms, till after the Western and Eastern Jin, there emerged Daoists like Ge Hong, Lu Xiujing, Kou Qianzhi, Tao Hongjing and others who, in an attempt to fulfill the requirement of the time, not only integrated some of the Daoist and Confucian ideas but also absorbed some of the Buddhist elements to enrich Buddhism. 

A really meaningful and influential religious community must have a formal or more serious form of church organization. Even though the ideas of `immortality' and `the sanctification of the bodies' were subsequently incorporated into the Daoist religion, the saints relied heavily on personal devotion without developing a distinctive church, and so they failed to develop a religion. It was not until the end of the Han dynasty that Buddhism became an established religion with a permanent membership of disciples, together with a body of clergy and church leaders. However, the regimes of the Three Kingdoms and the Western Jin banned this organization, subjecting it to dissolution until the Eastern Jin when Du Zhigong and others revived it and once again set it on course. 

An organized religion must also have a more permanent set of religious teaching and canon. Although Buddhism had its own precepts and canon when it was first instituted at the end of the Eastern Han, they were rather simple and impermanent in nature. From the Eastern Han onward, Buddhism gradually became more firmly established under the impact of Buddhism and with the tireless efforts of Lu Xiujing, Kou Qianzhi and others. 

An organized religion must have its own canon and scriptures for the guidance of its believers. Although there were a number of Daoist books, like the Laozi (Lao Tzu) and the Zhuangzi, before the Wei and the Jin dynasties, these books came to be accepted as scriptures only after being popularized by the devotees. All these books were written by Daoist philosophers of the early Qin, and they had hardly any connection with Daoist religion. It was due to the believers' attempt to look for historical evidences that they decided to upgrade them as scriptures. Taiping Jing, for example, was written before the inception of the Daoist religion. Hence, it served only as a groundwork for the development of Buddhism. However, by the time of the Eastern Jin and the Northern and Southern dynasties, when Buddhism was firmly rooted and a church was organized, a large quantity of scriptures expounding the Daoist canon began to appear (Ge Hong's Pao Pozi, This period saw the appearance of three distinctive categories of scriptures: Sanhuangjing (the Three Emperors Scripture), Shangqingjing (the High Pure Scripture), and Lingbaojing, (the Spirit Protected Scripture). All these scriptures subsequently combined to form the `three caves' (sandong) of the Dizhangjing, namely: the cave of the real (dongzhen), the cave of the gods (dongshen), and the cave of the occult (dongxuan). 

An established religion must have a spirit being, or shenling, as a specific object of worship and a history of its own. When Buddhism was first instituted it had inherited part of the saints' tradition. The Daoist disciples claimed that it was imparted to them by the immortals, mostly with Laozi (Lao Tzu)'s assistance. Until the Northern and the Southern dynasties, Daoist disciples created the "rank of the real being" based on the conception of the social hierarchy prevailing at the time. 

Tao Hongjing's Zhenlin Yueweitu (Real Spirit's Occupational Status Chart) divided the immortals into seven classes, the highest of which was occupied by the first three: the Primal Lord of Heaven (Yuanshi Tianzun), the Daoist Lord on High (Gaoshang Daojun), and the First Divine Daoist Lord (Yuanhuang Daojun). From then on, these three deities became the most honored in the objects of worship in the Daoist temples (daoguan). Since a religion always finds it necessary to undermine the existence of other competing religions, it has to create a history of its own in order to raise its own status. Thus, being an indigenous Chinese religion, Buddhism had to tackle the entry of alien Buddhism. Besides emphasizing the differences between `Chinese' and `non-Chinese' (huayi zhi bian) to undermine Buddhism, Daoists also spread the story of "Laozi (Lao Tzu) huahu" and elevated Laozi (Lao Tzu)'s position to that of Buddha Sakyamuni's teacher. Consequently, both Buddhism and Buddhism remained in conflict for a long time. 

However, it was not until the Eastern Jin and the Northern and Southern dynasties that Buddhism finally became an established religion. The various stages of its development may be summarized as follows. First, from the Eastern Jin onward, the Daoists began to revive their religion by reorganizing the Daoist community which had become scattered and unstable. At the same time, in order to overcome the inadequacy of Daoist teaching and theoretical formulations, Ge Hong and others had provided a body of Daoist canon and precepts. Thereafter, as an attempt to consolidate the founding of the Daoist church, a set of religious teaching was formulated; and in order to propagate Daoist teaching the required scriptures were made available. Lastly, so as to set the religion on a proper footing, a compendium of fairy tales and legendary stories was kept alive. The various phases involved in the development of Buddhism may thus be said to be characteristic of the circumstances under which a religious body came into existence. One of our aims of studying the history of religion is to use it as a source for illuminating the various phases of its development so as to enable us to assess, more accurately, the role it played in society. 

CHARACTERISTICS OF DAOISM 

As a form of religious philosophy Buddhism has special characteristics which can be illuminated only through comparison with other religions. 

An established religion has characteristics which are distinctively different from those of other religions. Besides such external forms, as church organization, religious doctrines and canon, as well as its conception of the sacred, its characteristics should be reflected in the theoretical system which forms the core of the religion. This theoretical system usually contains a body of basic ideals and conceptual schema. For instance, the ultimate reality of the Buddhist belief, as embodied in the concepts of self-denial, transcendentalism and nirvana, is the insignia which distinguishes it from other religions. The three doctrines of the medieval Christianity--namely, "the existence of God," "the resurrection of the soul" and "free will"--form its religious philosophy and conceptual schema. 

If that be the case, does Daoist philosophy contain any doctrines and tenets which differ from those of other religions? I think it does, especially in the earlier form of Buddhism. Whilst almost all religions ask the question, "what happens after the demise of a person?" Buddhism wanted to know "why humans don't die?" This basic question serves as the key to the theoretical system of Buddhism. All this shows that it has characteristics different from those of other religions. The early form of Buddhism held that its body of belief was made up of the tenet of "the ascent of the three in one," that is, "the unity of heaven, earth, and man for the attainment of the Great Peace" (tian-di-ren, sanzhe heyi yi zhi taiping); "the blending of the essence, breath, and shen to become a saint" (jing-qi-shen, sanzhe hunyi er cheng shenxian). From this it evolves into "non-death and eternal life" (zhongshen busi), "resurrection of the bodies" (routi feisheng), and "transformation of the breath into the three pure ones" (qihua sanqing), thus forming the basis of Buddhism. 

To understand the tenets of the Buddhist philosophy, one must know the meaning of nirvana. Hence, a Russian Buddhist scholar wrote a book analyzing the meaning of nirvana. In Mou zhongsan's book, he analyzed the concept of nirvana from the Chinese Buddhist viewpoint. In studying Christianity, one should analyze the concept of "God." Thus, Aurelius Augustinus (354-430) in his The City of God, formulated his thesis regarding the `godliness' of the `Almighty'. In his Shenxue Dazhuan, Thomas Aquinas (1225-1274) put forward five parameters to prove that "God exists." In Daoist philosophy, the basic concept is breath (qi), the existence of which may be proved by the following. 

First, the unity of the three in one refers to the unity of heaven, earth and man, and the reason why "heaven, earth and man" can be unified is due to the fact that the breaths of Tian-di-ren are the same. The three Jing-qi-shen (essence, breath, and god) blend to become one, and the reason why Jingqishen can be fused in one is due to the fact that the breaths of the Jingqishen are the same. 

Second, the so-called one breath giving birth to the three pure ones means the three most respected worthies of Buddhism were the manifestations of the breath, or the three layers of the most sacred heaven were manifested by breath, or qi. This also shows how the basic concept of Buddhism came to be formed. 

Third, although dao (the way) is the highest form of Daoist doctrine its early period identified three circumstances under which the relationship between dao and qi was highlighted. The first circumstance was that dao is more basic than qi, but dao cannot be isolated from qi. Another circumstance showed that qi is more basic than dao, because Buddhism used qi as its prime mover--for example, Liu Xie in his Mie Huo Lun (On the Extinction of Illusion), while citing Sampolun (The Three Breakthroughs), said "qi is the prime mover of dao." The third circumstance was the synthesis that dao is qi--for example, Tao Hongjing in his Yangsheng Yanminglu cited Fuqijing (Breathtaking Scripture) that "dao is qi." In studying the philosophical basis of the Daoist canon, if one could analyze the meaning of qi and the conceptual base upon which it is built, one would be able to gain further insight into the various salient features of Buddhism. 

Hegel in his Lectures on the History of Philosophy said, "the difference in cultures is due to the difference in the systems of ideas." If we compare Buddhism with other religious systems, the doctrines formulated by Daoist ideas, and the school of thought which formed the basis of these doctrines, we would be able to understand more clearly the characteristics of Buddhism. Although Buddhism is indigenous to the Chinese, it actually owes its development to the inspiration of Buddhism when the latter spread to China. Thus, we are able to identify the rival relationship between Buddhism and Buddhism as one of its special characteristics. 

The earliest Daoist scripture, Taiping Jing, on the one hand, shows that it was influenced by Buddhism. For example, it relates to the question of conformity, a concept which was already in use in traditional Chinese thought. But in Taiping Jing this was discussed in such a detailed and outstanding manner that it became obvious that it was influenced by the Hinayanist Zen Buddhist concept of "mind control" or "control of desire." On the other hand, the scripture also shows that it was antagonistic to Buddhism. For example, Taiping Jing's satirical expression, "the way of the four destructions" (sihui zhi xing), was clearly aimed at Buddhism. It also put forward the argument that "one's burden is one's responsibility" (chengfu) as a direct confrontation to the Buddhist concept of "reincarnation" (laishi baoying). After the Eastern Jin, Buddhism gradually developed into a full-fledged religion. It had a theoretical system of its own, and consequently its differentiation from Buddhism became more and more pronounced. At that time, the differences between Buddhism and Buddhism might be related to the following problems: (i) life and death and the form of god; (ii) the cause and effect of one's deeds and misdeeds (yinguo baoying); and (iii) this-worldly and other-worldly orientations. By analyzing of all these issues, we would be able to appreciate the special characteristics of Buddhism as a religion. 

In comparing Buddhism and Buddhism, we may encounter yet another question: why does not Buddhism become a world religion as did Buddhism rather than remaining merely a Chinese religion? From the historical point of view, it is possible that Buddhism could have spread to Korea at the end of the Northern and the Southern dynasties. 

Sanguo Shiji (The History of the Three Kingdoms) recorded how Buddhism spread to Korea at the beginning of the Tang dynasty but, shortly afterwards, Buddhism became popular in Korea and very soon it outran Buddhism, which thence forward ceased to retain its foothold there. During the same period, Buddhism passed through Korea to Japan, where it might have exercised some influence on Japan's Shinto, though this does not mean that the development of Shinto was due to the Daoist influence. Unlike Buddhism, however, Buddhism also failed to spread its wing over Japan. In history Buddhism had even less influence on other countries (notwithstanding its continuing impact on Chinese devotees who made their homes outside China). 

In my opinion, the main reason why Buddhism could not become a world religion is that it not only contains defects in its system of beliefs and practices, but also carries a heavy load of sentiments which are peculiarly Chinese. The goal Buddhism seeks to achieve is "non-death and eternal life" and "the sanctification of bodies." All this differs from the monotheistic doctrine that "the soul does not die." On the one hand, its theoretical arguments, such as "the sanctification of bodies" and "non-death and eternal life" are too crude and difficult to be absorbed. Consequently, Buddhism had no alternative but to take in some Buddhist ideas, such as "when the form ceases, its spirit remains" (xingjin shen bu mie) and "the three kalpas' wheel of karma" (somshi lunhui). 

Thus, the spread of Buddhism has been seriously restricted, whereas wherever it goes Buddhism has been able to take the place of Buddhism wherever the latter goes. On the other hand, Buddhism is too closely related to science. For the sake of preserving life, ensuring "non-death and eternal life" and sanctifying the dead it emphasizes a great deal of physical conditioning for lifting the breath (qi) of material reality to the highest level. Consequently, China's science and technology, especially medicine, came to be developed alongside Buddhism. Buddhism's use of science was bound to curtail its dynamism as a religion. 

Thus, the "non-science" and "anti-science" components, in conjunction with the basic qualities of science, began to contradict each other. Religion usually emphasizes "other-worldly orientations," but Buddhism seems to insist instead on "this-worldly orientations" instead. Its adherents believe that they could blend "the three (jing, qi, shen) to become saints" (sanzhe heyi er cheng xian). But as a religious system Buddhism also advocates the unity of the three (tian, di, ren) in one to ensure the Great Peace (sanzhe heyi er zhi taiping) and for this reason can be a potent disruptive force in the political process. In thus fabricating the supernatural world of the saints, Buddhism hopes to translate the real world into an ideal one--this undeniably is a conflict of ideas.  The study of the characteristics of Buddhism is of great importance for it enables us to understand the difference between Buddhism and other religions. By analyzing its characteristics we are able to illuminate the salient features of Chinese culture, psychology and philosophy, as well as the direction of developments in science and technology, medicine and hygiene, and the ensuing shortcomings hidden therein. For a people to succeed in development, they must know not only the present and the future, but also the past. They must come to grips not only with the reality of political life and economic exigencies, but also with their traditional culture, religious belief and pattern of thought. Herein lies the reason why serious research must be conducted on Buddhism so as to enable us to understand its role as a Chinese religion. 

THE DAOIST RELIGION OF CHINA

In Chinese history there have been various religions such as Buddhism, Buddhism, Islam and Christianity, both Catholic and Protestant, but among them only Buddhism is the religion of the Chinese people.* To be more precise, Buddhism is a religion of the Han people and has certain concrete features that come from this association. It has had a large influence on Chinese culture, psychology, customs, science and technology, medicine and hygiene, philosophy and even on Chinese politics and economics. How did the Daoist religion arise and what are its particular characteristics relative to other religions? 

Daoist religion was born at the time of the Han Emperor Shun-di at the end of the first century A.D. At this time China already had a written history of about 2,000 years. At the end of the Warring States period (that is, the third and second centuries B.C.) there had existed people called "immortals" who claimed that by certain practices they could `extend their lives and not die.' These `immortals' were only individuals practicing by themselves; they never formed any kind of religious organization. However, at the end of the Western Han period (at the beginning of the first century A.D.) Buddhism came to China from India. The entry of Buddhism had a transformative effect and sped up the foundation of a Chinese religion. Because Buddhism was a foreign culture entering China, however, it elicited a strong reaction among the Chinese people. 

The interaction of Chinese culture with a foreign culture led to both borrowing and criticizing. We can see both of these in the earliest of the Daoist religious writings, the Taiping Jing. In this work Daoists borrowed such Buddhist terms as the `three realms', but also criticized Buddhists for their so-called `four practices.' (These were the unfilial abandonment of father and mother to become a monk, the abandoning of wife and therefore the cutting off of future generations, the practice of begging, and the practice of eating excrement). The Daoists said that this was contravening the spiritual way of heaven. In particular, once established the Daoist religion set forth the doctrine of `Laozi (Lao Tzu) converting the barbarians' in order to criticize Buddhism. They said that Laozi (Lao Tzu), the original teacher of Buddhism in the Zhou period (the sixth century B.C.), had left China through the Hangu Pass and gone to India, where he had taught Shakyamuni, the historical Buddha. Therefore, the Buddha was the disciple of Laozi (Lao Tzu). 

The founder of the Daoist religion is generally recognized to be Zhang Daoling. There are two views in the Chinese scholarly community as to where the Daoist religion originated. The scholar Chen Yinge claims that the Daoist religion originated in Shandong, Jiangsu and other coastal areas. Another scholar, Meng Wentong, claims that it originated in Sichuan and was influenced by the customs and practices of minority peoples there. I think that the Daoist religion originated in the coastal areas because the immortals were active in this area. Further, Zhang Daoling himself was from Feng County in Jiangsu and only later went to Sichuan, where he formally established the organization of the Daoist religion. It is quite possible that certain elements of minority peoples' customs were absorbed into his teachings at that time. 

The Daoist religion that later developed in Sichuan and the Han River area is called Five Pecks of Rice Buddhism because people on entering the sect made an offering of five pecks of rice. It is also called Heavenly Teacher Buddhism because the leader of this sect, Zhang Daoling, was called the Heavenly Teacher. Heavenly Teacher Buddhism was passed on from Zhang to his son, Zhang Heng, and again transmitted to Zhang Lu, the latter's son. Zhang Lu established a Daoist kingdom in the Han River area, which he ruled for thirty years. Eventually he was defeated by Cao, to whom he surrendered. Zhang Lu's son, Zhang Sheng, fled to Longhu Mountain in Jiangxi where he became the fourth generation Heavenly Teacher. At the present time this sect of Buddhism has already been transmitted to its sixty-fifth generation. The sixty-fourth generation Heavenly Teacher is in Taiwan. His nephew is on the Chinese mainland continuing the tradition as the sixty-fifth generation Heavenly Teacher. This young Heavenly Teacher, a man in his twenties, came to my home to study the Daoist religion. 

After the Five Pecks of Rich school, in Yan (Hebei), Qi (Shandong), Jiang (Jiangsu), and Huai (Huaihe, Anhui), another sect of the Daoist religion was founded by Zhang Jiao called Taiping Buddhism. Zhang Jiao used the Daoist religion to organize an extremely large-scale peasant uprising. When this was put down, Taiping Buddhism largely disappeared. 

In the Three Kingdoms and Western Jin periods (the third century A.D.) the Daoist religion was hemmed in by imperial rulers and developed very little. However, in the Eastern Jin period (fourth century A.D.) the Daoist religion began to develop speedily and many nobles adhered to it. For example, the most famous aristocratic families of the time for generations believed in Buddhism. The most famous calligrapher in Chinese history, Wang Xizhi, was also a follower of the Daoist religion. One story recounts that Wang Xizhi particularly loved geese and wanted to buy the dozen or so geese raised by a Daoist priest. The priest would not sell, and Wang asked a second and a third time. Finally the priest said that if Wang would copy out for the whole Dao De Jing (Tao Te Ching) he would give him the geese. So Wang copied the entire work. 

An interesting development occurred in the Tang period (618-907), whose rulers had the surname Li. At this time the leaders of the Daoist religion were looking for a mythological figure they could venerate as the founder of the religion, and they came upon Laozi (Lao Tzu), who was also named Li. This was not a coincidence. First of all, even before the Daoist religion was formally established, Laozi (Lao Tzu) had been mythologized. Second, the Han dynasty had venerated Confucian thought as orthodoxy, which, of course, honored Confucius. The Daoists claimed that Laozi (Lao Tzu) was Confucius's teacher, thus hoping to overcome the Confucianists. Now, according to the Shiji, Laozi (Lao Tzu) was surnamed Li with a given name of Erh. Since the Tang emperors were also surnamed Li, in order to increase their own importance they said that they were descendants of Laozi (Lao Tzu). Because of this, the Tang emperors took the Daoist religion relatively seriously: emperor Xuanzong even wrote his own commentary on the Dao De Jing (Tao Te Ching). 

After the Daoist religion was established, on the one hand, it struggled with Buddhism and, on the other, it absorbed Buddhist thought. But the Daoist religion also has its own definite characteristics. Many religions seek to understand or answer such questions as What happens to human beings after death? For example, Buddhists seek to answer the question: What can people do after death to keep from being reborn into this world? The Daoists, however, seek to answer this question: How can people keep from dying? The ideal in the Daoist religion is for people to `extend their lives and not die,' to `fly up in this very body'--that is, to become an immortal. 

Regarding this question the Daoist religion has certain theories. Daoists claim that people have both a spirit or soul and a body, both of which are constructed from qi. The qi that makes up the spirit or soul is called soul-qi. The qi that makes up the body is called form-qi. Only when the soul-qi and the body-qi are joined together in a single person do we have life. People should seek two things--to live forever and to obtain good fortune. If you die, everything is finished, so in order to seek to extend life, first, you must get a body that does not decay so that the spirit or soul will have a place to abide. Then seek a method for the soul to stay with the body, otherwise you will be dead and not be able to achieve any kind of good fortune. 

Because of this Daoists seek ways to keep body and soul together, and Buddhism has various methods to accomplish this purpose. The most basic of these are of two sorts: the outer pill and the inner pill. The outer pill consists of using various minerals, especially mercury, in order to concoct a potion. It is hoped that by ingesting various potions one can keep one's body from decaying, and then the soul can continue forever in its midst. They claim that if you put a bronze mud on your feet and soak your feet in water for a very long time, you will not decay. If you can find the so-called golden pill, once you eat it your whole body will be able to live forever without decaying. 

The inner pill is a series of practices that cause the qi within the human body to circulate through certain channels. This is called "working on your qi' and is the same kind of thing that is known these days as qigong. If the qi continually circulates in the human body, the whole body will be suffused with the light of an extremely fine qi. The body itself will become as light as qi and the person will be able to ascend to heaven, which is called "to fly up in this very body." 

When Buddhism became a religion it had to have its own deities to venerate. At first the deity most venerated was the mythologized Laozi (Lao Tzu), called `Laojun' or 'Taishang Laojun.' Afterwards, under the influence of Buddhism, very many other deities were added. Originally Buddhism had only Shakyamuni as the Buddha, but afterwards they said that before Shakyamuni there had been seven other Buddhas. Towards the end of the Northern and Southern Dynasties a Daoist priest named Tao Hongjing wrote a book called Zhenling Weiye Tu in which he divided Daoist deities into seven levels. 

The highest level contained three deities. In the center was one called Yuanshi Tiandao. On his left was Gaoshang Daojun and on his right was Yuanhuang Daojun. Laozi (Lao Tzu), or Taishang Laojun, was placed below on the fourth level. Today in Daoist temples the formal hall is called the Hall of the Three Pure Ones, and most sects worship these three deities. However, not all Daoist sects are alike. Some still claim Taishang Laojun as the highest deity, saying that he existed before Heaven and Earth were dreaded and that in different times he has different causes. Originally he was Pan'gu Xiansheng. Heaven and Earth were separated by him, and he has various spiritual powers.  The Daoist religion has one female deity of particular power who is named Xiwang Mu (Queen Mother of the West). Xiwang Mu existed as a deity before the founding of the Daoist religion. In the Shanhaijing (from the fourth to the second century B.C.) Xiwang Mu is not yet a female deity, but either of undifferentiated sex or male. Only after the Mutianzi Zhuan does Xiwang Mu become a female deity. This book recounts the story of the Zhou King Mu (of about 1000 B.C.) who went to the Kunlun Mountains to seek Xiwang Mu. In the earliest Daoist scriptures, however, where it is said there that the character `Mu' indicates the proof of the longevity of the deity Xiwang Mu is merely a deity of long life. Thus `Mu' here does not necessarily mean a female deity. Only in the Jin and Northern and Southern Dynasties, when the Daoist religion set up Dongwang Gong as a counterpart to Xiwang Mu, did Xi-Wang Mu emerge as an important female deity. 

The Daoist religion took the human body and its cultivation very seriously, as in such matters as exilers, the inner and outer pill, and qigong. Because of this it has had a great influence on ancient medicine, pharmacology, chemistry and the nourishment of the human body. Many great Daoist leaders such as Ge Hong, Tao Hongjing and Sun Simiao were important scientists of Old China. Because of this, people today who research the history and development of Chinese science and technology cannot but study the history of the Daoist religion. The English historian of science, Joseph Needham, in his Science and Civilization in China, has relied extensively on the writings of the Daoist religion. 

Daoists have written many works. The earliest collection of Daoist works, called the Zhengtong Daozang, has five thousand volumes. It was compiled in 1445 in the tenth year of the Zhengtong Emperor of the Ming. Later, in the Wanli period, a supplement appeared. These are important resources for the study of the history of Chinese religion. 

In China today Daoism (Taoism) is one of the important religions. About three thousand people who have formally become Daoist priests, and several important Daoist temples have been restored. In Beijing there is a Daoist temple, called the Temple of the White Clouds (Baiyun Guan), which was established in the Yuan dynasty (the thirteenth century) and belongs to the Guanzhen sect of Daoism (Taoism). Its Hall of the Three Pure Ones is very fine; it also has two areas for the display of historical objects of the Daoist religion. In Chengdu, Sichuan there is the Green Goat palace and in Wuahn the Temple of Eternal Spring, both of which have been very well restored and belong to the Guanzhen Daoist sect. In Xian a Daoist temple called Louguan Tai belongs to the Northern sect of Daoism (Taoism). It was first built in the Northern Zhou dynasty (fifth century A.D.), but what exists now was rebuilt in the Ming (fifteenth and sixteenth centuries). It is said that in the Louguan Tai, Laozi (Lao Tzu), before he left for the West, dictated the Dao De Jing (Tao Te Ching) to the gatekeeper, named Yixi. 

Longhu Mountain in Jiangxi is the birthplace of the Zhengyi sect of Daoism (Taoism). Maoshan in Jiangsu is the birthplace of Tao Hongjing's Maoshan sect. Hangzhou has a Daoist temple in Geling where, it is said, Ge Hong refined the pill. At each of these Daoist temples are Daoist priests, young and old, male and female. At Beijing's Temple of the White Clouds a school of Daoist religion teaches priests how to read Daoist scriptures. Beijing also has a Daoist Association, a national organization publishing the Journal of the Chinese Daoist Association. At Sichuan University the Institute for the Study of Religion is dedicated solely to the Daoist religion and is editing a Daoist dictionary. Beijing University has established an Institute for the Study of the History of the Daoist Religion, where I teach. The Institute for the Study of World Religions at the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences in Beijing is doing a synopsis of the five thousand volumes of the Daoist canon. Two national conferences have been devoted to the study of the Daoist religion, one at Beijing University. Thus the study of Daoist currently is developing very quickly. 

The Kings 

When Buddhism arose there was no paramount sovereign in India. The kingly power was not, of course, unknown. There had been kings in the valley of the Ganges for centuries, long before Buddhism, and the time was fast approaching when the whole of India would be under the sway of monarchical governments. In those parts of India which came very early under the influence of Buddhism, we find, besides a still surviving number of small aristocratic republics, four kingdoms of considerable extent and power. Besides, there were a dozen or more of smaller kingdoms, like the German dutchies or the seven provinces into which England was divided in the time of the Heptarchy. No one of these was of much political importance. And the tendency towards the gradual absorption of these domains, and also of the republics, into the neighbouring kingdoms, was already in full force. The evidence at present available is not sufficient to give us an exact idea either of the extent of country, or of the number of the population, under the one or the other form of government; nor has any attempt been so far made to trace the history of political institutions in India before the rise of Buddhism. We can do no more, then, than state the fact—most interesting from the comparative point of view—that the earliest Buddhist records reveal the survival, side by side with more or less powerful monarchies, of republics with either complete or modified independence. It is significant that this important factor in the social condition of India in the sixth and seventh centuries B.C. has remained hitherto unnoticed by scholars either in Europe or in India. They have relied for their information about the Indian peoples too exclusively on the brahmin books. And these, partly because of the natural antipathy felt by the priests towards the free republics, partly because of the later date of most of the extant priestly literature, and especially of the law books, ignore the real facts. They convey the impression that the only recognised, and in fact universally prevalent, form of government was that of kings under the guidance and tutelage of priests. But the Buddhist records, amply confirmed in these respects by the somewhat later Jain ones, leave no doubt upon the point. 

As regards the monarchies, the four referred to above as then of importance are as follows: 

1. The kingdom of Magadha, with its capital at Rajagaha (afterwards at Pamaliputta), reigned over at first by King Bimbisara and afterwards by his son Ajatasattu. 
2. To the northwest there was the kingdom of Kosala—the Northern Kosala—with its capital at Savatthi, ruled over at first by King Pasenadi and afterwards by his son Vidudabha. 
3. Southwards from Kosala was the kingdom of the Vansas or Vatsas, with their capital at Kosambi on the Jumna, reigned over by King Udena, the son of Parantapa. 
4. And still farther south lay the kingdom of Avanti, with its capital Ujjeni, reigned over by King Pajjota. The royal families of these kingdoms were united by matrimonial alliances; and were also, not seldom in consequence of those very alliances, from time to time at war. Thus Pasenadi’s sister, the Kosala Devi, was the wife of Bimbisara, King of Magadha. When Ajatasattu, Bimbisara’s son by another wife (the Videha lady from Mithila), put his father Bimbisara to death, the Kosala Devi died of grief. Pasenadi then confiscated that township of Kasi, the revenues of which had been granted to the Kosala Devi as pin money. Angered at this, Ajatasattu declared war against his aged uncle. At first victory inclined to Ajatasattu. But in the fourth campaign he was taken prisoner, and not released untilhe had relinquished his claim. Thereupon Pasenadi not only gave him his daughter Vajira in marriage, but actually conferred upon her, as a wedding gift, the very village in Kasi in dispute. Three years afterwards Pasenadi’s son Vidudabha revolted against his father, who was then at Ulumba in the Sakiya country. The latter fled to Rajagaha to ask Ajata-sattu for aid; but was taken ill and died outside the city gates. We shall hear farther on how both Vidudabha, and his brother-in-law Ajatasattu, were subsequently in conflict with the adjoining republican confederacies, the former with the Sakiyans, the latter with the Vajjians of Vesali. 

The royal families of Kosambi and Avanti were also united by marriage. The commentary on verses 21-23 of the Dhammapada gives a long and romantic story of the way in which Vasula-datta, the daughter of King Pajjota of Avanti, became the wife, or rather one of the three wives, of King Udena of Kosambi. The legend runs that Pajjota (whose fierce and unscrupulous character is there painted in terms confirmed by one of our oldest authorities) inquired once of his courtiers whether there was any king whose glory was greater than his own, And when he was straightway told that Udena of Kosambi surpassed him, he at once determined to attack him. Being then advised that an open campaign would be certainly disastrous, but that an ambush—the more easy as Udena would go anywhere to capture a fine elephant—might succeed, he had an elephant made of wood and deftly painted, concealed in it sixty warriors, set it up in a defile near the boundary, and had Udena informed by spies that a glorious elephant, the like of which had never been seen, was to be found in the frontier forest. Udena took the bait, plunged into the defile in pursuit of the prize, became separated from his retinue, and was taken prisoner. 

Now Udena knew a charm of wonderful power over the hearts of elephants. Pajjota offered him his life and freedom if he would tell it. 

“Very well,” was the reply, “I will teach it you if you pay me the salutation due to a teacher.” 

“Pay salutation to you—never!” 

“Then neither do I tell you my charm.” 

“In that case I must order you to execution.” 

“Do as you like! Of my body you are lord. But not of my mind.” 

Then Pajjota bethought him that after all no one else knew the charm, and he asked Udena if he would teach it to someone else who would salute him. And being answered yes, he told his daughter that there was a dwarf who knew a charm; that she was to learn it of that dwarf; and then tell it to him, the King. And to Udena he said that a hunchback woman would salute him from behind a curtain, and that he had to teach her the charm, standing the while himself outside the curtain. So cunning was the King to bar their friendship. But when the prisoner day after day rehearsed the charm, and his unseen pupil was slow to catch it up and to repeat it, Udena at last one day called out impatiently, “Say it so, you hunchback! How thick lipped you must be, and heavy jawed!” 

Then she, angered, rejoined: “What do you mean, you wretched dwarf, to call such as I am hunchback?” And he pulled the corner of the curtain to see, and asked her who she was, and the trick was discovered, and he went inside, and there was no more talk that day of learning charms, or of repeating lessons. 

And they laid a counter-plot. And she told her father that a condition precedent to the right learning of the charm was the possession of a certain potent herb picked under a certain conjunction of the stars, and they must have the right of exit, and the use of his famous elephant. And her wish was granted. Then one day, when her father was away on a pleasure jaunt, Udena put her on the elephant, and taking also money, and gold-dust in bags of leather, set forth. 

But men told Pajjota the King; and he, angry and suspecting, sent a force in rapid pursuit. Then Udena emptied the bag of coins. And the pursuers waiting to gather them up, the fugitives forged ahead. When the pursuers again gained on them, Udena let loose a bagful of gold-dust. Again the pursuers delayed. And as they once more gained on the fugitives, lo! the frontier fortress, and Udena’s own troops coming out to meet their lord! Then the pursuers drew back; and Udena and Vasula-datta entered, in safety and in triumph, into the city; and with due pomp and ceremony she was anointed as his Queen. 

So far the legend; and it has a familiar sound as if echoes of two of our classical tales had been confused in India. No one would take it for sober history. It is probably only a famous and popular story retold of well-known characters. And when a learned scholar summarises it thus: “Udena eloped with her on an elephant, leaving behind him a bag full of gold in order to prevent a prosecution”— we see how easily a very slight change in expression may, in retelling, have altered the very gist of the tale. But it is sufficient evidence that, when the tradition arose, King Pajjota of Avanti and King Udens, of Kosambi were believed to have been contemporary rulers of adjoining kingdoms, and to have been connected by marriage and engaged in war. 

We hear a good deal else about this Udena, King of the Vacchas or Vansas of Kosambi. Formerly, in a fit of drunken rage, at a picnic, because his women folk left him, when he was sleeping, to listen to a religious discourse by Pindola (a highly respected and famous member of the Buddhist Order), he had Pindola tortured by having a nest of brown ants tied to him. Long afterwards the King professed himself an adherent of the Buddha’s in consequence of a conversation he had with this same man Pindola, on the subject of self-restraint. At another picnic the women’s pavilion was burnt, with his Queen, Samavati, and many of her attendants. His father’s name was Parantapa; and he had a son named Bodhi, after whom one of the Suttantas is named and concerning whom other details are given. But Udena survived the Buddha, and we are not informed whether Bodhi did, or did not, succeed him on the throne. 

Pasenadi, the King of Kosala, is described as a very different character. The whole of the Third Sanyutta, consisting of twenty-five anecdotes, each with a moral bias, is devoted to him. And there are about an equal number of references to him in other parts of the literature. Educated at the celebrated seat of learning, Takkasila, in the extreme northwest, he was placed, on his return, by his father, Maha Kosala, upon the throne, As a sovereign he showed himself zealous in his administrative duties, and addicted to the companionship of the good. And he extended his favour, in full accord with the well-known Indian toleration, to the religious of all schools of thought alike. This liberality of thought and conduct was only strengthened when, early in the new movement, he proclaimed himself an adherent, in a special sense, of the Buddha’s. This was in consequence of a talk he had with the Buddha himself. The King had asked him how he, being so young, as compared with other already well-known teachers, could claim an insight beyond theirs. The reply simply was that no “religieux” should be despised because of his youth. Who would show disrespect to a prince, or to a venomous serpent, or to a fire, merely because it was young? It was the nature of the doctrine, not the personal pecularities of the teacher, that was the test. 

Sumana, the King’s aunt, sister of his father, Maha Kosala, was present at this conversation, and made up her mind to enter the Order, but delayed doing so in order to nurse an aged relative. The delay was long. But on the death of the old lady, Sumana, then old herself, did enter the Order, and became an Arahat, and is one of the Buddhist ladies whose poems are preserved in the Theri Gatha. The aged relative was Pasenadi’s grandmother; so that we have four generations of this family brought before us. 

A comparison between Digha 1. 87 and Divyavadana 620—where the same action is attributed in the older book to King Pasenadi and in the younger to King Agnidatta—makes it highly probable that Pasenadi (used as a designation for several kings). is in reality an official epithet, and that the King’s real personal name was Agnidatta. Among the subjects chosen for the bas-reliefs on the Bharahat tope, in the third century B.C., is one representing Pasenadi issuing forth on his chariot, drawn by four horses with their tails and manes elaborately plaited, and attended by three servants. Above him is figured the Wheel of the Law, the symbol of the new teaching of which the King of Kosala was so devoted a supporter. 

It is stated that is was from the desire to associate himself by marriage with the Buddha’s family that Pasenadi asked for one of the daughters of the Sakiya chiefs as his wife. The Sakiyas discussed the proposition in their Mote Hall, and held it beneath the dignity of their clan. But they sent him a girl named Vasabha Khattiya, the daughter, by a slave girl, of one of their leading chiefs. By her Pasenadi had the son, Vidudabha, mentioned above. And it was in consequence of the anger kindled in Vidudabha’s heart at the discovery of the fraud that, having determined to wreak his vengeance on the Sakiyas, he, on coming to the throne, invaded their country, took their city, and put to death a great number of the members of the clan, without distinction of age or sex. The details of the story have not been found as yet in our oldest records. But the main circumstance of the war against the clan is very early alluded to, and is no doubt a historical fact. It is said to have preceded only by a year or two the death of the Buddha himself. 

The beginning of this story, on the other hand, seems very forced. Would a family of patricians in one of the Greek republics have considered a marriage of one of their daughters to a neighbouring tyrant beneath their dignity? And in the present case the tyrant in question was the acknowledged suzerain of the clan. The Sakiyas may have considered the royal family of Kosala of inferior birth to themselves. There is mention, in several passages, of the pride of the Sakiyas. But, even so, we cannot see, in the present state of our knowledge, why they should object. We know that the daughter of one of the chiefs of a neighbouring clan, equally free and equally proud, the Liccha-vis of Vesali, was married to Bimbisara, king of Magadha. It is, furthermore, almost certain that the royal family at Savatthi was simply one of the patrician families who had managed to secure hereditary consulship in the Kosala clan. For the chiefs among the Kosalas, apart from the royal family, and even the ordinary clansmen (the kula-putta), are designated by the very term (rajano, kings), which is applied to the chiefs and clansmen of those tribes which had still remained aristocratic republics. And it is precisely in a very natural tendency to exaggerate the importance of the families of their respective founders that the later records, both of the Jains and of the Buddhists, differ from the earlier ones. It is scarcely probable, therefore, that the actual originating cause of Vidudabha’s invasion of the Sakiya territory was exactly as set out above. He may have used the arrogance of the Sakiyas, perhaps, as a pretext. But the real reasons which induced Vidudabha to attack and conquer his relatives, the Sakiyas, were, most likely, the same sort of political motives which later on induced his cousin, Ajatasattu of Magadha, to attack and conquer his relatives, the Licchavis of Vesali. 

We hear already of Ajatasattu’s intention to attack them in the opening sections of the Book of the Great Decease, and the Buddha is represented as making the not very difficult forecast that eventually, when the Licchavis had been weakened by luxury, he would be able to carry out this intention. But it was not till more than three years afterwards that, having succeeded, by the treachery of the brahmin Vassakara, in sowing dissension among the leading families of Vesali, he swooped down upon the place with an overwhelming force, and completely destroyed it. 

We are also told that Ajatasattu fortified his capital, Rajagaha, in expectation of an attack about to be made by King Pajjota of Ujjeni. It would be most interesting to know whether the attack was ever made, and what measure of success it had. We know that afterwards, in the fourth century B.C., Ujjeni had become subject to Magadha, and that Asoka, when a young man, was appointed governor of Ujjeni. But we know nothing else of the intermediate stages which led to this result. 

About nine or ten years before the Buddha’s death, Devadatta, his first cousin, who had long previously joined the Order, created a schism in the community. We hear of Ajatasattu, then the Crown Prince, as the principal supporter of this Devadatta, the quondam disciple and bitter foe of the Buddha, who is the Judas Iscariot of the Buddhist story. 

About the same time Bimbisara, the King, handed over the reins of government to the Prince. But it was not long before Devadatta incited him, in order to make quite sure, to slay the King. And Ajatasattu carried out this idea in the eighth year before the Buddha’s death, by starving his father slowly to death. 

Once, subsequently, when remorse had fastened upon him, we hear of his going, with a great retinue, to the Buddha and inquiring of him what were the fruits, visible in this present life, of becoming a member of a religious order. An illustration of the King saluting the Buddha on this occasion is the subject of one of the bas-reliefs on the Bharhut Tope. As usual the Buddha himself is not delineated. Only his footprints are shown. 

At the close of the discourse the King is stated to have openly taken the Buddha as his guide in future, and to have given expression to the remorse he felt at the murder of his father. But it is also distinctly stated that he was not converted. There is no evidence that he really, after the moment when his heart was touched, continued to follow the Buddha’s teaching. He never, so far as we know, waited again either upon the Buddha, or upon any member of the Order, to discuss ethical matters. And we hear of no material support given by him to the Order during the Buddha’s lifetime. We are told, however, that, after the Buddha’s death, he asked (on the ground that he, like the Buddha, was a Kshatriya) for a portion of the relics; that he obtained them; and built a stupa or burial-mound over them. And though the oldest authority says nothing about it, younger works state that on the convocation of the First Council at Rajagaha, shortly after the decease, it was the King who provided and prepared the hall at the entrance to the Sattapanni cave, where the rehearsal of the doctrine took place. He may well have thus showed favour to the Buddhists without at all belonging to their party. He would only, in so doing, be following the usual habit so characteristic of Indian monarchs, of patronage towards all schools. Mention is made occasionally and incidentally of other kings—such as Avanti-putta, King of the Surasenas; and the Eleyya of A. 2. 188, who, together with his courtiers, was a follower and supporter of Uddaka, the son and pupil of Rama, and the teacher of Gotama. But the above four are the only ones of whom we have accounts in any detail. 

The Clans and Nations 

It is much the same with the clans. We have a good deal of information, which is, however, at the best only fragmentary, about three or four of them. Of the rest we have little more than the bare names. 

More details are given, very naturally, of the Sakiya clan than of the others. The general position of their country is intimated by the distances given from other places. It must have been just on the border of Nepalese and English territory, as is now finally settled by the recent discoveries of the tope or burial-mound put up by the Sakiyas over the portion they retained of the relics from the Buddha’s funeral pyre, and of Asoka’s inscription, in situ, recording his visit to the Lumbini garden in which the Buddha was born. Which of the numerous ruins in the immediate vicinity of these discoveries are those of Kapilavastu, the chief town of the clan, and which are the remains of the other townships belonging to them, will be one of the questions to be solved by future exploration. Names of such townships mentioned in the most ancient texts are Catuma, Samagama, Khomadussa, Silavati, Metalupa Ulumpa, Sakkara, and Devadaha. 

It was at the last-mentioned place that the mother of the Buddha was born. And the name of her father is expressly given as Anjana the Sakiyan. When, therefore, we find in much later records the statements that she was of Koliyan family; and that Prince Devadaha, after whom the town was so named, was a Koliyan chief, the explanation may well be that the Koliyans were a sort of subordinate subdivision of the Sakiya clan. 

The existence of so considerable a number of market towns implies, in an agricultural community, a rather extensive territory. Buddhaghosa has preserved for us an old tradition that the Buddha had eighty thousand families of relatives on the father’s side and the same on the mother’s side. Allowing six or seven to a family, including the dependents, this would make a total of about a million persons in the Sakiya territory. And though the figure is purely traditional, and at best a round number (and not uninfluenced by the mystic value attached to it), it is, perhaps, not so very far from what we might expect. 

The administrative and judicial business of the clan was carried out in public assembly, at which young and old were alike present, in their common Mote Hall (santhagara) at Kapilavastu. It was at such a parliament, or palaver, that King Pasenadi’s proposition was discussed. When Ambammha goes to Kapilavastu on business, he goes to the Mote Hall where the Sakiyas were then in session. And it is to the Mote Hall of the Mallas that Ananda goes to announce the death of the Buddha, they being then in session there to consider that very matter.

A single chief—how, and for what period chosen, we do not know—was elected as office-holder, presiding over the sessions, and, if no sessions were sitting, over the State. He bore the title of raja, which must have meant something like the Roman consul, or the Greek archon. We hear nowhere of such a triumvirate as bore corresponding office among the Licchavis, nor of such acts of kingly sovereignty as are ascribed to the real kings mentioned above. But we hear at one time that Bhaddiya, a young cousin of the Buddha’s, was the raja; and in another passage, Suddhodana, the Buddha’s father (who is elsewhere spoken of as a simple citizen, Suddhodana the Sakiyan), is called the raja. 

A new Mote Hall, built at Kapilavastu, was finished whilst the Buddha was staying at the Nigrodharama (the pleasaunce under the Banyan Grove) in the Great Wood (the Mahavana) near by. There was a residence there, provided by the community, for recluses of all schools. Gotama was asked to inaugurate the new hall, and he did so by a series of ethical discourses, lasting through the night, delivered by himself, Ananda, and Moggallana. They are preserved for us in full at M. 1. 353, foll., and S. 4. 182, foll. 

Besides this Mote Hall at the principal town we hear of others at some of the other towns above referred to. And no doubt all the more important places had such a hall, or pavilion, covered with a roof, but with no walls, in which to conduct their business. And the local affairs of each village were carried on in open assembly of the householders, held in the groves which, then as now, formed so distinctive a feature of each village in the long and level alluvial plain. It was no doubt in this plain, stretching about fifty miles from east to west, and thirty or forty miles to the southward from the foot of Himalaya Hills, that the majority of the clan were resident. 

The clan subsisted on the produce of their rice-fields and their cattle. The villages were grouped round the rice-fields, and the cattle wandered through the outlying forest, over which the peasantry, all Sakiyas by birth, had rights of common. There were artisans, probably not Sakiyas, in each village; and men of certain special trades of a higher standing; the carpenters, smiths, and potters for instance, had villages of their own. So also had the brahmins, whose services were in request at every domestic event. Khomadussa, for instance, was a brahmin settlement. There were a few shops in the bazaars, but we do not hear of any merchants and bankers such as are mentioned as dwelling at the great capitals of the adjoining kingdoms. The villages were separated one from another by forest jungle, the remains of the Great Wood (the Maha Vana), portions of which are so frequently mentioned as still surviving throughout the clanships, and which must originally (not so very long, probably, before the time under discussion) have stretched over practically the whole level country between the foot of the mountains and the Great River, the Ganges. After the destruction of the clans by the neighbouring monarchies this jungle again spread over the country. From the fourth century onwards, down to our own days, the forest covered over the remains of the ancient civilisation. 

This jungle was infested from time to time by robbers, sometimes runaway slaves. But we hear of no crime, and there was not probably very much, in the villages themselves—each of them a tiny self-governed republic. The Koliyan central authorities were served by a special body of peons, or police, distinguished, as by a kind of uniform, from which they took their name, by a special headdress. These particular men had a bad reputation for extortion and violence. The Mallas had similar officials, and it is not improbable that each of the clans had a somewhat similar set of subordinate servants. 

A late tradition tells us how the criminal law was administered in the adjoining powerful confederate clan of the Vajjians, by a succession of regularly appointed officers,—”Justices, lawyers, rehearsers of the law-maxims, the council of representatives of the eight clans, the general, the vice-consul, and the consul himself.” Each of these could acquit the accused. But if they considered him guilty, each had to refer the case to the next in order above them, the consul finally awarding the penalty according to the Book of Precedents. We hear of no such intermediate officials in the smaller clans; and even among the Vajjians (who, by the by, are all called “rajas” in this passage), it is not likely that so complicated a procedure was actually followed. But a book of legal precedents is referred to elsewhere, and tables of the law also. It is therefore not improbable that written notes on the subject were actually in use. 

The names of other clans, besides the Sakiyas, are:

1. The Bhaggas of Sumsumara Hill.

2. The Buhs of Allakappa.

3. Kalamas of Kesaputta.

4. The Koliyas of Rama-gama.

5. The Mallas of Kusinara.

6. The Mallas of Pava.

7. The Moriyas of Pipphalivana.

8. The Videhas of Mithila = The Vajjians. 

9. The Licchavis of Vesali. 

There are several other names of tribes of which it is not yet known whether they were clans or under monarchical government. We have only one instance of any tribe, once under a monarchy, reverting to the independent state. And whenever the supreme power in a clan became hereditary, the result seems always to have been an absolute monarchy, without legal limitations of any kind. 

The political divisions of India at or shortly before the time when Buddhism arose are well exemplified by the stock list of the Sixteen Great Countries, the Sixteen Powers, which is found in several places in the books. It is interesting to notice that the names are names, not of countries, but of peoples, as we might say Italians or Turks. This shows that the main idea in the minds of those who drew up, or used, this old list was still tribal and not geographical. The list is as follows: 

1. Anga

2. Magadha

3. Kasi

4. Kosala

5. Vajji

6. Malla

7. Ceti

8. Vansa

9. Kuru

10. Pancala

11. Maccha

12. Surasena

13. Assaka

14. Avanti

15. Gandhara

16. Kamboja 

1. The Angas dwelt in the country to the east of Magadha, having their capital at Champa, near the modern Bhagalpur. Its boundaries are unknown. In the Buddha’s time it was subject to Magadha, and we never hear of its having regained independence. But in former times it was independent, and there are traditions of wars between these neighbouring countries. The Anga raja in the Buddha’s time was simply a wealthy nobleman, and we only know of him as the grantor of a pension to a particular brahmin. 
2. The Magadhas, as is well known, occupied the district now called Behar. It was probably then bounded to the north by the Ganges, to the east by the river Champa, on the south by the Vindhya Mountains, and on the west by the river Sona. In the Buddha’s time (that is, inclusive of Anga) it is said to have had eighty thousand villages and to have been three hundred leagues (about twenty-three hundred miles) in circumference.
3. The Kasis are of course the people settled in the district round Benares. In the time of the Buddha this famous old kingdom of the Bharatas had fallen to so low a political level that the revenues of the township had become a bone of con-tension between Kosala and Magadha, and the kingdom itself was incorporated into Kosala. Its mention in this list is historically important, as we must conclude that the memory of it as an independent state was still fresh in men’s minds. This is confirmed by the very frequent mention of it as such in the Jatakas, where it is said to have been over two thousand miles in circuit. But it never regained independence; and its boundaries are unknown. 
4. The Kosalas were the ruling clan in the kingdom whose capital was Savatthi, in what is now Nepal, seventy miles north-west of the modern Gorakhpur. It included Benares and Saketa; and probably had the Ganges for its southern boundary, the Gandhak for its eastern boundary, and the mountains for its northern boundary. The Sakiyas already acknowledged, in the seventh century B.C., the suzerainty of Kosala. 
5. It was the rapid rise of this kingdom of Kosala, and the inevitable struggle in the immediate future between it and Magadha, which was the leading point in the politics of the Buddha’s time. These hardy mountaineers had swept into their net all the tribes between the mountains and the Ganges. Their progress was arrested on the east by the free clans. And the struggle between Kosala and Magadha for the paramount power in all India was, in fact, probably decided when the powerful confederation of the Licchavis became arrayed on the side of Magadha. Several successful invasions of Kasi by the Kosalans under their kings, Vanka, Dabbasena, and Kansa, are referred to a date before the Buddha’s time. And the final conquest would seem to be ascribed to Kansa, as the epithet “Conqueror of Benares” is a standing addition to his name. 
6. The Vajjians included eight confederate clans, of whom the Licchavis and the Videhans were the most important. It is very interesting to notice that while tradition makes Videha a kingdom in earlier times, it describes it in the Buddha’s time as a republic. Its size, as a separate kingdom, is said to have been three hundred leagues (about twenty-three hundred miles) in circumference. Its capital, Mithila, was about thirty-five miles northwest from Vesali, the capital of the Licchavis. There it was that the great King Janaka ruled a little while before the rise of Buddhism. And it is probable that the modern town of Janak-pur preserves in its name a memory of this famous rajput scholar and philosopher of olden time. 
7. The Mallas of Kusinara and Pava were also independent clans, whose territory, if we may trust the Chinese pilgrims, was on the mountain slopes to the east of the Sakiya land, and to the north of the Vajjian confederation. But some would place it south of the Sakiyas and east of the Vajjians. 
8. The Cetis were probably the same tribe as that called Cedi in older documents, and had two distinct settlements. One, probably the older, was in the mountains, in what is now called Nepal. The other, probably a later colony, was near Kosambi to the east and has been even confused with the land of the Vansa, from which this list makes them distinct. 
9. Vansa is the country of the Vacchas, of which Kosambi, properly only the name of the capital, is the more familiar name. It lay immediately to the north of Avanti, and along the banks of the Jumna. 
10. The Kurus occupied the country of which In-draprastha, close to the modern Delhi, was the capital; and had the Panchalas to the east, and the Matsyas to the south. Tradition gives the kingdom a circumference of two thousand miles. They had very little political importance in the Buddha’s time. It was at Kammassa-dhamma in the Kuru country that several of the most important Suttantas—the Maha Satipammhana, for instance, and the Maha Nidana—were delivered. And Rammhapala was a Kuru noble. 
11. The two Pancalas occupied the country to the east of the Kurus, between the mountains and the Ganges. Their capitals were Kampilla and Kanoj. 
12. The Macchas, or Matsyas, were to the south of the Kurus and west of the Jumna, which separated them from the Southern Pancalas. 
13. The Surasenas, whose capital was Madhura, were immediately south-west of the Macchas, and west of the Jumna. 
14. The Assakas had, in the Buddha’s time, a settlement on the banks of the Godhavari. Their capital was Potana, or Potali. The country is mentioned with Avanti in the same way as Anga is with Magadha, and its position on this list, between Surasena and Avanti, makes it probable that, when the list was drawn up, its position was immediately northwest of Avanti. In that case the settlement on the Godhavari was a later colony; and this is confirmed by the fact that there is no mention of Potana (or Potali) there. The name of the tribe is also ambiguous. Sanskrit authors speak both of Aumaka and of Auvaka. Each of these would be Assaka, both in the local vernacular and in Pali. And either there were two distinct tribes so called, or the Sanskrit form Auvaka is a wrong reading, or a blunder in the Sanskritisation of Assaka. 
15. Avanti, the capital of which was Ujjeni, was ruled over by King Canda Pajjota (Pajjota the Fierce) referred to above. The country, much of which is rich land, had been colonised or conquered by Aryan tribes who came down the Indian valley, and turned west from the Gulf of Kach. It was called Avanti at least as late as the second century A.D., but from the seventh or eighth century onwards it was called Malava. 
16. Gandhara, modern Kandahar, was the district of Eastern Afghanistan, and it probably included the northwest of the Panjab. Its capital was Tak-kasila. The King of Gandhara in the Buddha’s time, Pukkusati, is said to have sent an embassy and a letter to King Bimbisara of Magadha.
17. Kamboja was the adjoining country in the extreme northwest, with Dvaraka as its capital. 

From the political point of view this list is curious. Some names we should expect to find—Sivi, for instance, and Madda and Sovira, and Udyana and Virata—are not there. The Mallas and the Cetis occupy a position much more important than they actually held in the early years of Buddhism. Vesali, soon to become a “Magadha town,” is still independent. And Anga and Kasi, then incorporated in neighbouring kingdoms, arc apparently looked upon as of equal rank with the others. It is evident that this was an old list, corresponding to a state of things existent some time before, and handed on by tradition in the Buddhist schools. But this only adds to its interest and importance. 

Geographically also the list is very suggestive. No place south of Avanti (about 23° N.) occurs in it; and it is only at one place that the list goes even so far to the south as that. Not only is the whole of South India and Ceylon ignored in it, but there is also no mention of Orissa, of Bengal east of the Ganges, or even of the Dekkan. The horizon of those who drew up the list is strictly bounded on the north by the Himalayas, and on the south (except at this one point) by the Vindhya range, on the west by the mountains beyond the Indus, and on the east by the Ganges as it turns to the south. 

The books in which the list has been preserved have preserved also abundant evidence of a further stage of political movement. And in geographical knowledge they look at things from an advanced point of view. They know a very little farther south at the one point where the old list goes farthest in that direction. 

The expression DakkhiGapatha which occurs in an isolated passage in one of our oldest documents cannot indeed possibly mean the whole country comprised in our modern phrase the Dekkan. But it is used, in the very passage in question, as descriptive of a remote settlement or colony on the banks of the upper Godhavari. The expression does not occur in any one of the Four Nikayas. When it appears again, in a later stage, it seems still to refer only, in a vague way, to the same limited district, on the banks of the Godhavari. And it is coupled with Avanti, the Avanti of the ancient list. 

The expression, in its form, is curious. It means “the Southern Road,” a strange name to apply to any fixed locality. Already in a Vedic hymn though it is one of the latest, we hear of a banished man going along the “path of the South.” No doubt at different times different points on that path had been reached. In the Buddha’s time the most southerly town is given (at S. N. 1011) as Patimmhana, the place afterwards called Paithana, and Baithana by the Greeks (73° 2 E. by 21° 42’ N.). And the extreme southerly point reached at all is the hermitage on the Godhavari, about 20° N. One place still farther south may possibly be referred to incidentally as known in the Buddha’s time. A teacher of olden time named Tagara-sikhin, is several times mentioned. Sikhin is otherwise known as a name, and the distinctive epithet Tagara may possibly be local, and mean “of Tagara,” the modern Ter, 76° 12’ E. by 18°, 19’ N. But the point is very doubtful, the place is not mentioned elsewhere, and I think another explanation of the name is more likely. 

Besides this extension in the Dekkan, the Nikayas speak also of sea voyages out of sight of land and they mention the Kalinga forest, and the settlement on the coast there, with its capital Dantapura. The Vinaya has a probable reference to Bharu-kaccha, and the Udana one to Supparaka. These points, taken together (and no doubt others can be traced), show a marked advance in geographical knowledge. But it is suggestive to notice that the advance is limited, and that there is still no reference whatever either to South India or to Ceylon, which play so great a part in the story of the Ramayana. These geographical considerations are of very considerable importance for the history of later Vedic and early Sanskrit literature. They go far to confirm Professor Bhandarkar’s recent views as to the wholesale recasting of brahmin literature in the Gupta period. If Apastamba, for instance, as Hofrath Dr. Buhler thought, and Hiranya-Keuin, wrote in the south, below the Godhavari, then they must be later than the books whose evidence we have been considering. 

The consideration of this question has been hindered by a generally accepted hypothesis which does not fit the facts. It is supposed that the course of Aryan migration lay along the valleys of the Ganges and the Jumna. It cannot have been so simple. We must postulate at least two other lines of equal importance—one down the Indus, round the Gulf of Cutch, and so up to Avanti; and another along the foot of the mountains from Kashmir, by way of Kosala, to the Sakiya country, and so on through Tirhut to Magadha and Anga. There is a great deal more evidence available, both in literature and in the conclusions to be drawn from language, as to tribal migration in India than has yet been collected or analysed. Mr. Grierson, for instance, has only just recently pointed out the important fact that, even now, the dialects of Rajasthan have a close resemblance to the dialects spoken along the Himalayas not only in Nepal but as far west, at least, as Chamba. This would tend to show that their ancestors must have been living close together when they began their wanderings to the east and the south respectively. Both started from the Northern Panjab, and probably neither migration followed the Ganges route.

These children of hillmen tended to cleave to the hills; and, like mountaineers all the world over, were generally distinguished by a sturdy independence, both in politics and religion. Widely separated, they were always sympathetic; and any forward movement, such as Buddhism, readily found supporters among them. 

Another point on which this geographical evidence throws light is the date of the colonisation of Ceylon. That cannot have taken place in any considerable degree before the period in which the Nikayas were composed. We know it had become a well-established fact at the time of Asoka. It must have happened, therefore, between these two dates; and no doubt nearer to the earlier of the two. The Ceylon chronicles, therefore, in dating the first colony in the very year of the Buddha’s death (a wrong synchronism which is the cause of much confusion in their early chronology) must be in error. 

It would be of great assistance on several questions if we could form some conclusion as to the number of inhabitants in Northern India in the seventh century, B.C.; though any such conclusion would necessarily be of the vaguest description. To judge from the small numbers of the great cities, and from the wide extent of forest and wilderness, mentioned in the books, it cannot have been very-large. Perhaps the whole territory may have contained fifteen to twenty millions. In the fourth century, B.C., the confederation formed to oppose Alexander was able to muster an army of four hundred thousand. And in the third century, B.C., Megasthenes describes the army of Magadha as then consisting, in peace time, of two hundred thousand foot, three hundred elephants, and ten thousand chariots. 

The following is a list of the principal cities existing in India in the seventh century B.C. 

Ayojjha (from which the Anglo-Indian word Oudh is derived) was a town in Kosala on the river Sarayu. The city owes all its fame to the fact that the author of the Ramayana makes it the capital at the date of the events in his story. It is not even mentioned in the Mahabharata; and was quite unimportant in the Buddha’s time. There is another Ayojjha in the extreme west; and a third is said to have been situate on the Ganges.

Baranasi (Benares) on the north bank of the Ganges, at the junction between it and the river BaraGa. The city proper included the land between the BaraGa and a stream called the Asi, as its name suggests. Its extent, including the suburbs, is often stated to have been, at the time when it was the capital of an independent kingdom (that is, some time before the rise of Buddhism) twelve leagues, or about eighty-five miles. Seeing that Megasthenes gives the circuit of the walls of Pamaliputta, where he himself lived, as 220 stadia (or about twenty-five miles), this tradition as to the size of the city, or rather county, Benares at the height of its prosperity seems by no means devoid of credit. Its Town Hall was then no longer used as a parliament chamber for the transaction of public business. Public discussions on religious and philosophical questions were carried on in it. 

Champa, on the river of the same name, was the ancient capital of Anga. Its site has been identified by Cunningham with the modern villages of similar names twenty-four miles east of Bhagalpur; and is stated to have been sixty leagues from Mit-hila. It was celebrated for its beautiful lake, named after Queen Gaggara, who had had it excavated. On its banks was a grove of Champaka trees, well known for the fragrant odour of their beautiful white flowers. And there, in the Buddha’s time, wandering teachers were wont to lodge. The Indian colonists in Cochin China named one of the most important of their settlements after this famous old town. And the Champa in Anga was again, in its turn, so named after the still older Champa in Kashmir. 

Kampilla, the capital of the Northern Pancalas. It was on the northern bank of the Ganges, about long. 79° W., but its exact site has not yet been decided with certainty. 

Kosambi, the capital of the Vatsas or Vansas. It was on the Jumna, and thirty leagues, say 230 miles, by river from Benares. It was the most important entrepot for both goods and passengers coming to Kosala and Magadha from the south and west. In the Sutta Nipata (1010-1013) the whole route is given from a place south of Ujjen, through Kosambi to Kusinara, with the stopping-places on the way. The route from Kosambi to Rajagaha was down the river. In the Buddha’s time there were already four distinct establishments of his Order in the suburbs of Kosambi—the Badarika, Kukkuma, and Ghosita Parks, and the Mango Grove of Pavariya. The Buddha was often there, at one or other of these residences; and many of his discourses there have been handed down in the books. 

Madhura, on the Jumna, the capital of the Surasenas. It is tempting to identify it with the site of the modern Mathura, in spite of the difference in spelling. Very ancient remains have been found there. The king of Madhura in the Buddha’s time bore the title of Avanti-putto, and was therefore related to the royal family at Ujjeni. Madhura was visited by the Buddha, and was the residence of Maha Kaccana, one of his most influential disciples, to whom tradition attributes the first grammatical treatment of the Pali language, and after whom the oldest Pali grammar is accordingly named. 

As Madhura is mentioned in the Milinda (331) as one of the most famous places in India, whereas in the Buddha’s time it is barely mentioned, the time of its greatest growth must have been between these dates. It was sufficiently famous for the other Madhura, in Tinnevelly, first mentioned in the Mahavansa, to be named after it. A third Madhura, in the extreme north, is mentioned at Jat.  

Mithila, the capital of Videha, and the capital therefore of the kings Janaka and Makhadeva, was in the district now called Tirhut. Its size is frequently given as seven leagues, about fifty miles, in circumference.

Rajagaha, the capital of Magadha, the modern Rajgir. There were two distinct towns; the older one, a hill fortress, more properly Giribbaja, was very ancient, and is said to have been laid out by Maha Govinda the architect. The later town, at the foot of the hills, was built by Bimbisara, the contemporary of the Buddha, and is Rajagaha proper. It was at the height of its prosperity during, and immediately after, the Buddha’s time. But it was abandoned by Sisunaga, who transferred the capital to Vesali; his son Ka7asoka transferring it to Pamaliputta, near the site of the modern Patna. The fortifications of both Giribbaja and Rajagaha are still extant, 4½ and .3 miles respectively in circumference; the most southerly point of the walls of Giribbaja, the “Mountain Stronghold,” being one mile north of the most northerly point of the walls of the new town of Rajagaha, the “King’s House.” The stone walls of Giribbaja are the oldest extant stone buildings in India. 

Roruka, or in later times Roruva, the capital of Sovira, from which the modern name Surat is derived, was an important centre of the coasting trade. Caravans arrived there from all parts of India, even from Magadha. As Ophir is spelt by Josephus and in the Septuagint Sophir, and the names of the ivory, apes, and peacocks imported thence into Palestine are Indian names, it is not improbable that Roruka was the seaport to which the authors of the Hebrew chronicles supposed that Solomon’s vessels had traded. For though the more precise name of the port was Roruka, we know from such expressions as that used in the Milinda, p. 29, that the Indians talked about sailing to Sovira. The exact site has not yet been rediscovered, but it was almost certainly on the Gulf of Kach, somewhere near the modern Kharragoa. When its prosperity declined, its place was taken by Bharukaccha, the modern Bharoch, or by Supparaka, both on the opposite, the southern, side of the Kathiawad peninsula. 

Sagala. There were three cities of this name. But the two in the far East were doubtless named (even if the readings in the MSS. are correct, and I doubt them in both cases) after the famous Sagala in the extreme northwest, which offered so brave a resistance to Alexander, and where King Milanda afterwards reigned. It lay about 32° N. by 74° E., and was the capital of the Maddas. Cunningham thought he had found the ruins of it; but no excavations have been carried out, and the exact site is still therefore uncertain. 

Saketa, the site of which has been indentified with the ruins, as yet unexplored, at Sujan Kot, on the Sai River, in the Unao district of the modern province of Audh. In ancient times it was an important city in Kosala, and sometimes the capital. In the Buddha’s time the capital was Savatthi. Saketa is often supposed to be the same as Ayojjha (Oudh), but both cities are mentioned as existing in the Buddha’s time. They were possibly adjoining, like London and Westminster. But it is Saketa, and not Ayojjha, that is called one of the six great cities of India. The Anjana Wood near by Saketa is the place at which many of the Buddhist Suttas are said to have been spoken. The distance from Saketa northwards,to Savatthi was six leagues, about forty-five miles, and could be covered in one day with seven relays of horses. But there was a broad river on the way, only to be crossed by ferry; and there are constant references to the dangers of the journey on foot. 

Savatthi, or Sravasti, was the capital of Northern Kosala, the residence of King Pasenadi, and one of the six great cities in India during the lifetime of the Buddha. Archaeologists differ as to its position; and the decision of this vexed point is one of the first importance for the early history of India, as there must be many inscriptions there. It was six leagues north of Saketa, forty-five leagues northwest of Rajagaha, more than one hundred north-east of Supparaka, thirty leagues from Sankassa and on the bank of the Achiravati.

Ujjeni, the capital of Avanti, the Greek Ozçnç, about 77° E. and 23° N. There Kaccana, one of the leading disciples of the Buddha, and also Asoka’s son Mahinda, the famous apostle to Ceylon, were born. In later times there was a famous monastery there called the Southern Mount; and in earlier times the capital had been Mahissati. Vedisa, where the famous Bhilsa Topes were lately found, and Erakaccha, another well-known site, were in the vicinity. Vedisa was fifty leagues from Pamaliputta.

Vesali. This was the capital of the Licchavi clan, already closely related by marriage to the kings of Magadha, and the ancestors of the kings of Nepal, of the Mauryas, and of the dynasty of the Guptas. It was the headquarters of the powerful Vajjian confederacy, afterwards defeated, but not broken up, by Ajatasattu. It was the only great city in all the territories of the free clans who formed so important a factor in the social and political life of the sixth century B.C. It must have been a great and flourishing place. But though different guesses have been made as to its site, no one of them has yet been proved to be true by excavation. It was somewhere in Tirhut; and just three leagues, or, say, twenty-five miles, north of the Ganges, reckoned from a spot on the bank of that river, five leagues, say thirty-eight miles, from Rajagaha. Behind it lay the Great Forest, the Mahavana, which stretched northwards to the Himalayas. In that wood a hermitage had been built by the community for the Buddha, and there many of his discourses were delivered. And in an adjoining suburb, the founder of the Jains, who was closely related to some of the leading chiefs, was born. We hear of its three walls, each of them a gavuta, a cow’s call, distant from the next; and of the 7707 rajas, that is Licchavi chiefs, who dwelt there; and of the sacred pool in which they received their consecration. There were many shrines of pre-Buddhistic worship in and around the city, and the discovery and excavation of the site is most desirable. 

The same may indeed be said of all these ancient cities. Not one of them has been properly excavated. The archeeology of India is, at present, an almost unworked field. 

The Village 

In the Buddha’s time and in that portion of North India where the Buddhist influence was most early felt—that is to say in the districts including and adjoining those now called the United Provinces and Behar—the social conditions were, on the whole, simple. But there are several points of great interest on which they differed from those of the same districts now, and from those of related tribes in Europe then. 

Divergent theories have been propounded to ex-plain these differences. The influence of food and climate is assigned a paramount importance. Vegetarian diet is supposed to explain the physical and mental degeneracy proved by the presumed absence of political movements and ardent patriotism. Or the enervating and tropical heat of the sultry plains is supposed to explain at once the want of political vigour and the bad philosophy. Or the overwhelming mental effect of the mighty powers of nature—the vivid storms of thunder and lightning, the irresistible rays of the scorching sun, the depressing majesty of the great mountains—are called upon as a sufficient explanation of the inferiority of the Indian peoples. Or the contact with aboriginal tribes in a semi-savage state of development, the frequent intermarriages, and the consequent adoption of foolish and harmful superstitions, are put forward as the reasons for whatever we find strange in their life and thought. 

It is probable that economic conditions and social institutions were a more important factor in Indian life than geographical position. Now the social structure of India was based upon the village. We do not as yet know all the details of its organisation; and no doubt different villages, in different districts, varied one from another in the customs of land-tenure and in the rights of individual householders as against the community. 

It is a common error, vitiating all conclusions as to the early history of India, to suppose that the tribes with whom the Aryans, in their gradual conquest of India, came into contact, were savages. Some were so. There were hill tribes, gypsies, bands of hunters in the woods. But there were also settled communities with highly developed social organisation, wealthy enough to excite the cupidity of the invaders, and in many cases too much addicted to the activities of peace to be able to offer, whenever it came to a fight, a prolonged resistance. But they were strong enough to retain, in some cases, a qualified independence, and in others to impose upon the new nation that issued from the struggle many of their own ideas, many of the details of their own institutions. 

And in many cases it never came to a struggle at all. The country was immense. Compared with its wide expanse the tribes and clans were few. Often separated one from the other by broad rivers and impenetrable forest, there must have been ample opportunity for independent growth, and for the interaction of peaceful contact. 

These circumstances will explain the divergency in the village arrangements. But in some respects they were all similar. We nowhere hear of isolated houses. The houses were all together, in a group, separated only by narrow lanes. Immediately adjoining was the sacred grove of trees of the primeval forest, left standing when the forest clearing had been made. Beyond this was the wide expanse of cultivated field, usually rice-field. And each village had grazing ground for the cattle, and a considerable stretch of jungle, where the villagers had common rights of waste and wood. 

The cattle belonged severally to the householders of the village. But no one had separate pasture. After the crop was cut the cattle roamed over the field. When the crops were growing they were sent all together, under the charge of a herdsman, hired by the village collectively, to the village grazing grounds beyond the field. The herdsman was an important personage, and is described as “knowing the general appearance of each one of his charge and the marks upon it, skilled to remove flies’ eggs from their hide and to make sores heal over, accustomed to keep a good fire going with smoke to keep the gnats away, knowing where the fords are and the drinking places, clever in choosing pasture, leaving milk in the udders, and with a proper respect for the leaders of the herd.” 

The fields were all cultivated at the same time, the irrigation channels being laid by the community, and the supply of water regulated by rule, under the supervision of the headman. No individual or corporate proprietor needed to fence his portion of the fields. There was a common fence; and the whole field, with its rows of boundaries, which were also the water channels, bore the appearance of the patched robe of a member of the Buddhist Order. 

As a general rule the great field was divided into plots corresponding in number to that of the heads of houses in the villages; and each family took the produce of its share. But there was no such proprietory right, as against the community, as we are accustomed to in England. We hear of no instance of a shareholder selling or mortgaging his share of the village field to an outsider; and it was impossible for him to do so, at least without the consent of the village council. We have three instances of sales of land in the books. But in one case it was forest land cleared by the proprietor or his ancestors. A very old text apparently implies that a piece of ground was given as a sacrificial fee. But it is at once added that the earth itself said,—and Mother Earth was a most dread divinity,—”No mortal must give me away!” 

Neither had any individual the right of bequest, even to the extent of deciding the shares of his own family. All such matters were settled by custom, by the general sense of the community as to what was right and proper. And the general sense did not recognise the right of primogeniture. Very often a family, on the death of a householder, would go on as before under the superintendence of the eldest son. If the property were divided, the land was equally divided among the sons. And though the eldest son received an extra share (differing in different places and times) in the personal property, that also was otherwise divided equally. We find in the earliest law book, that of Gautama, a statement that the youngest son also, as in the analogous English law of gavelkind, received an extra share; but in the later law books this disappears. The women, too, had their personal property, chiefly jewelry and clothes; and the daughters inherited from the mother. They had no need of a separate share of the land, as they had the advantage of the produce falling to the share of their husbands and brothers. 

No individual could acquire, either by purchase or inheritance, any exclusive right in any portion of the common grassland or woodland. Great importance was attached to these rights of pasture and forestry. The priests claimed to be able, as one result of performing a particular sacrifice (with six hundred victims!), to ensure that a wide tract of such land should be provided. And it is often made a special point, in describing the grant of a village to a priest, that it contained such common. 

What happened in such a case was that the king granted, not the land (he had no property in the land), but the tithe due, by custom, to the government as yearly tax. The peasantry were ousted from no one of their rights. Their position was indeed improved. For, paying only the same tax as before, they thus acquired the protection of a strong influence, which would not fail, on occasion, to be exerted on their behalf. 

Not that they were usually without some such protection. It was through the village headman that all government business was carried on, and he had both opportunity and power to represent their case to the higher officials. From the fact that the appointment of this officer is not claimed for the king until the later law books it is almost certain that, in earlier times, the appointment was either hereditary, or conferred by the village council itself. 

This village headman had, no doubt, to prepare the road, and provide food, on the occasion of a royal person or high official visiting his village. But we find no mention of corvee, forced labour (raja-kariya) at this period. And even in the law books which refer to a later date, this is mentioned as a service due from artisans and mechanics, and not from villagers. 

On the other hand villagers are described as uniting, of their own accord, to build Mote-halls and Rest-houses and reservoirs, to mend the roads between their own and adjacent villages, and even to lay out parks. And it is interesting to find that women are proud to bear a part in such works of public utility.

The economic conditions in such villages were simple. None of the householders could have been what would now be called rich. On the other hand there was a sufficiency for their simple needs, there was security, there was independence. There were no landlords, and no paupers. There was little if any crime. What crime there was in the country (of which later) was nearly all outside the villages. When the central power was strong enough, as it usually was, to put down dacoity, the people, to quote the quaint words of an old Suttanta, “pleased one with another and happy, dancing their children in their hands, dwelt with open doors.” 

The only serious inroad upon that happiness seems to have been famine resulting from drought. It is true that Megasthenes, long ambassador at the court of Magadha, says that, owing to irrigation, famines were quite unknown. But we have too many references to times of scarcity, and that, too, in the very districts adjacent to Patna where Megasthenes lived, to accept his statement as accurate for the time we are discussing. As those references refer, however, to a date two centuries earlier, it is possible (but not, I think, very probable) that things, in this respect, had improved in the interval between the times referred to in our records, and that of Megasthenes. We shall see below, in the chapter on Chandragupta, that his statements often require correction. And this is, more probably, merely another instance of a similar kind. 

It was under some such economic conditions as these that the great bulk—say at least 70–80 per cent.—of the people lived. In the books, ancient and modern, a few of the remaining few are so much more constantly mentioned (precisely because they differ from the mass, and the mass is taken for granted as understood) that the impression given to the reader fs apt to be entirely misleading. These others—priests and kings, outcasts and jugglers, soldiers, citizens, and mendicant thinkers—played their part, and an important part. But the peoples of India, then much more even than now, were, first and foremost, village folk. In the whole vast territory from Kandahar nearly to Calcutta, and from the Himalayas southwards to the Run of Kach, we find mentioned barely a score of towns of any considerable size. It will have been seen, however, that the mass of the people, the villagers, occupied a social grade quite different from, and far above, our village folk. They held it degradation, to which only dire misfortune would drive them, to work for hire. They were proud of their standing, their family, and their village. And they were governed by headmen of their own class and village, very probably selected by themselves, in accordance with their own customs and ideals. 

Social Grades 

Perhaps the most important of these in their own eyes were the customs as to the holding and distribution of lands and property. But those as to religion on the one hand, and as to connubium and commensality on the other, had probably a greater effect on their real well-being and national progress. 

We have learnt in recent years that among primitive peoples all over the world there exist restrictions as to the connubium (the right of intermarriage), and as to commensality (the right of eating together). Customs of endogamy and exogamy, that is, of choosing a husband or wife outside a limited circle of relationship, and inside a wider circle, were universal. A man, for instance, may not marry in his own family, he may marry within his own clan, he may not marry outside the clan. Among different tribes the limits drawn were subject to different customs, were not the same in detail. But the limits were always there. There were customs of eating together at sacred tribal feasts from which foreigners were excluded; customs of not eating together with persons outside certain limits of relationship, except under special circumstances; customs by which an outsider could, by eating with men of a tribe, acquire certain rights of relationship with that tribe. Here again the details differ. But the existence of such restrictions as to commensality was once universal. 

In India also in the seventh century B.C. such customs were prevalent, and prevalent in widely different forms among the different tribes,—Aryan, Dravidian, Kolarian, and others,—which made up the mixed population. We have unfortunately only Aryan records. And they, of course, take all the customs for granted, being addressed to people who knew all about them. We have therefore to depend on hints; and the hints given have not, as yet, been all collected and sifted. But a considerable number, and those of great importance, have been already observed; so that we are able to draw out some principal points in a sketch that requires future filling in. 

The basis of the social distinctions was relationship; or, as the Aryans, proud of their lighter colour, put it colour. Their books constantly repeat a phrase as being common amongst the people,—and it was certainly common at least among the Aryan sections of the people,—which divided all the world, as they knew it, into four social grades, called Colours. At the head were the Kshatriyas, the nobles, who claimed descent from the leaders of the Aryan tribes in their invasion of the continent. They were most particular as to the purity of their descent through seven generations, both on the father’s and the mother’s side; and are described as “fair in colour, fine in presence, stately to behold.” Then came the brahmins, claiming descent from the sacrificing priests, and though the majority of them followed then other pursuits, they were equally with the nobles distinguished by high birth and clear complexion. Below these were the peasantry, the people, the Vaisyas or Vessas. And last of all came the Uudras, which included the bulk of the people of non-Aryan descent, who worked for hire, were engaged in handicraft or service, and were darker in colour. 

In a general way this classification corresponded to the actual facts of life. But there were insensible gradations within the borders of each of the four Colours, and the borders themselves were both variable and undefined. 

And this enumeration of the populace was not complete. Below all four, that is below the Uudras, we have mention of other “low tribes” and “low trades”—hina-jatiyo and hina-sippani. Among the first we are told of workers in rushes, bird-catchers, and cart-makers—aboriginal tribesmen who were hereditary craftsmen in these three ways. Among the latter—mat-makers, barbers, potters, weavers, and leather-workers—it is implied that there was no hard and fast line, determined by birth. People could, and did, change their vocations by adopting one or other of these “low trades.” Thus at Jat. 5. 290, foll., a love-lorn Kshatriya works successively (without any dishonour or penalty) as a potter, basket-maker, reed-worker, garland-maker, and cook. Also at Jat. 6. 372, a semmhi works as a tailor and as a potter, and still retains the respect of his high-born relations. 

Finally we hear in both Jain and Buddhist books of aboriginal tribes, Chandalas and Pukkusas, who were more despised even than these low tribes and trades. 

Besides the above, who were all freemen, there were also slaves: individuals had been captured in predatory raids and reduced to slavery, or had been deprived of their freedom as a judicial punishment; or had submitted to slavery of their own accord. Children born to such slaves were also slaves; and the emancipation of slaves is often referred to. But we hear nothing of such later developments of slavery as rendered the Greek mines, the Roman latifundia, or the plantations of Christian slave-owners, scenes of misery and oppression. For the most part the slaves were household servants, and not badly treated; and their numbers seem to have been insignificant.

Such were the divisions of the people. The three upper classes had originally been one; for the nobles and priests were merely those members of the third class, the Vessas, who had raised themselves into a higher social rank. And though more difficult probably than it had been, it was still possible for analogous changes to take place. Poor men could become nobles, and both could become brahmins. We have numerous instances in the books, some of them unconsciously preserved even in the later priestly books which are otherwise under the spell of the caste theory. 

And though each case is then referred to as if it were exceptional, the fact no less remains that the line between the “Colours” was not yet strictly drawn. The members of the higher Colours were not even all of them white. Some, no doubt, of the Kshatriyas were descended from the chiefs and nobles of the Dravidian and Kolarian tribes who had preserved, by conquest or by treaty, their independence or their social rank. And others of the same tribes were, from time to time, acquiring political importance, and with it an entry into a higher social grade. 

That there was altogether a much freer possibility of change among the social ranks than is usually supposed is shown by the following instances of occupation: 

1. A Kshatriya, a king’s son, apprentices himself successively, in pursuance of a love affair, to a potter, a basket-maker, a florist, and a cook, without a word being added as to loss of caste when his action becomes known. 
2. Another prince resigns his share in the kingdom in favour of his sister, and turns trader.
3. A third prince goes to live with a merchant and earns his living “by his hands.”
4. A noble takes service, for a salary, as an archer.
5. A brahmin takes to trade to make money to give away.
6. Two other brahmins live by trade without any such excuse. 
7. A brahmin takes the post of an assistant to an archer, who had himself been previously a weaver. 
8. Brahmins live as hunters and trappers. 
9. A brahmin is a wheelwright.

Brahmins are also frequently mentioned as engaged in agriculture, and as hiring themselves out as cowherds and even goatherds. These are all instances from the Jatakas. And a fortiori—unless it be maintained that Buddhism brought about a great change in this respect—the statt of things must have been even more lax at the time when Buddhism arose. 

The customs of connubium were by no means co-extensive with the four Colours, They depended among the Aryans on a quite different idea, that of the group of agnates (the Gotta); and among the other people either on the tribe, or on the village. No instance is known of the two parties to a marriage belonging by birth to the same village. On the other hand, there were numerous instances of irregular unions. And in some cases the offspring of such unions took rank even as nobles (Kshatriyas) or as brahmins.

As to customs of eating or not eating together, the books contain only a few hints. We have clear instances of a brahmin eating with a Kshatriya, another of a brahmin eating the food of a Chandala, and repenting of doing so. The whole episode of the marriage of the Sakiya maiden to Pasenadi, King of Kosala, turns on the belief that a Kshatriya will not eat, even with his own daughter, if she be slave-born. And we hear of sending people to Coventry (as we should say) for breach of such customs. Thus at J. 4. 388, brahmins are deprived, by their brother brahmins, of their status as brahmins, for drinking water mixed with the rice water a Chandala had used. And in an older document, one of the Dialogues, we are told how this was done. Three brahmins “for some offence or other, outlaw a brahmin, shaving him and cutting him dead by pouring ashes over him, thus banishing him from the land and from the township.” And the passage goes on to state that if Kshatriyas had done this to a Kshatriya the brahmins would still admit him to connubium, and allow him to eat with them at their sacred feasts. It then adds that “whosoever are in bondage to the notions of birth or of lineage, or to the pride of social position or connection by marriage, they are far from the best wisdom and righteousness.” We see, therefore, that the whole passage is tinged with Buddhist views. But it is none the less good evidence that at the time when it was written such customs, and such pride of birth, were recognised as a factor in the social life of the people. Again at Jat. 5. 280, we have, as the central incident of a popular story, the detail, given quite as a matter of course, that a brahmin takes, as his only wife, the discarded consort of a Kshatriya. The people laugh at him, it is true, but not because he is acting in any way unworthy of hts social standing, only because he is old and ugly. 

There are also numerous instances, even in the priestly manuals of custom, of unions between men and women of all degrees of social importance. These are not only between men of rank and girls of a lower social grade, but also between men of a lower, and women of a higher, position; and we ought not to be in the least surprised to find such cases mentioned in the books. Even without them we should know, from the existing facts, what must have happened. It is generally admitted that there are now no pure Aryans left in India. Had the actual custom been as strict as the brahmin theory this would not be so. Just as in England we find Iberians, Kelts, Angles, Saxons, Danes, and Normans now fused, in spite of theoretical restrictions on intermarriage, into one nation, so in Northern India the ancient distinctions, Aryan, Kolarian, and Dravidian, cannot, at the time of the rise of Buddhism, any longer be recognised. Long before the priestly theory of caste had been brought into any sort of working order, a fusion, sufficient at least to obliterate completely the old landmarks, was an accomplished fact; and the modern divisions, though race has also its share in them, use different names, and are based on different ideas. 

We may remark incidentally that there can have been no such physical repulsion as obtains between the advanced and savage races of to-day—a repulsion arising partly from great difference in customs and in intellectual culture, but still more largely dependent on difference of colour. On the other hand, though the fact of frequent intermarriage is undoubted; though the great chasm between the proudest Kshatriya on the one hand and the lowest Chandala on the other was bridged over by a number of almost imperceptible stages, and the boundaries between these stages were constantly being overstepped, still there were also real obstacles to unequal unions. Though the lines of demarcation were not yet drawn hard and fast, we still have to suppose, not a state of society where there were no lines of demarcation at all, but a constant struggle between attracting and repelling forces. 

It will sound most amazing to those familiar with brahmin pretensions (either in modern times in India, or in priestly books such as Manu and the epics) to hear brahmins spoken of as “low-born.” Yet that precisely is an epithet applied to them in comparison with the kings and nobles. And it ought to open our eyes as to their relative importance in these early times. 

The fact is that the claim of the priests to social superiority had nowhere in North India been then, as yet, accepted by the people. Even such books of the priests themselves as are pre-Buddhistic imply this earlier, and not the later, state of things with which we are so much familiar. They claim for the north-western, as distinct from the easterly, provinces a most strict adherence to ancient custom. The ideal land is, to them, that of the Kurus and Panchalas, not that of the Kasis and Kosalas. But nowhere do they put forward in their earlier books those arrogant claims, as against the Kshatriyas, which are a distinctive feature of the later literature. The kings are their patrons to whom they look up, from whom they hope to receive approval and rewards. And it was not till the time we are now discussing that they put forward claims, which we find still vigorously disputed by all Kshatriyas—and by no means only by those of noble birth (a small minority of the whole) who happen also to be Buddhists. 

We find, for instance, that the Jain books take it throughout as a matter of course, that the priests, as regards social standing, are below the nobles. This was the natural relation between the two, as we find throughout the world. Certain priests, in India as elsewhere, had very high social rank—Pokkharasadi and Sonadanda for instance. They were somewhat like the great abbots and bishops in our Middle Ages. But as a class, and as a whole, the priests looked up to the nobles, and were considered to be socially beneath them. 

Restrictions as to marriage and as to eating together, such as then existed in North India, existed also everywhere throughout the world, among peoples of a similar stage of culture. They are, it is true, the key to the origin of the later Indian caste system. But that system involves much more than these restrictions. And it is no more accurate to speak of caste at the Buddha’s time in India, than it would be to speak of it as an established institution, at the same time, in Italy or Greece. There is no word even for caste. The words often wrongly rendered by that modern expression (itself derived from a Portuguese word) have something to do with the question, but do not mean caste. The Colours (VaGGa) were not castes. No one of them had any of the distinctive marks of a caste, as the term is now used, and as it always has been used since it was first introduced by Europeans, and there was neither connubium nor commensality between the members of each. Jati is “birth”; and pride of birth may have had to do with the subsequent building up of caste prejudices; but it exists in Europe to-day, and is an idea very different from that of caste. Kula is “family” or “clan” according to the context. And though the mediæval caste system had much to do with families and clans, it is only misleading to confuse terms which are so essentially different, or to read back a mediæval idea into these ancient documents. The caste system, in any proper or exact use of the term, did not exist till long afterwards.

In The Town 

We have, unfortunately, no detailed description of the outward appearance of an ancient city. We are told of lofty walls, and strong ramparts with buttresses and watch-towers and great gates; the whole surrounded by a moat or even a double moat, one of water and one of mud. In a bas-relief on the Sanchi tope, dating from the second or perhaps the third century B.C., we have a representation of such city walls, and it is very probable that in earlier times the fortifications were often similar in kind. But we are nowhere told of the length of the fortifications or of the extent of the space they enclosed. It would seem that we have to think, not so much of a large walled city, as of a fort surrounded by a number of suburbs. For there is frequent mention of the king, or a high official, going out of the city when he wants to take an afternoon’s pleasure jaunt. And from the equally frequent mention of the windows of the great houses opening directly on to the streets or squares, it would appear that it was not the custom to have them surrounded by any private grounds. There were, however, no doubt, enclosed spaces behind the fronts of the houses, which latter abutted on the streets. We have several descriptions of the building of a house, showing the materials used, and we have bas-reliefs showing the general design of the frontage. The elaborate description of the underground palace, a sort of Welbeck Abbey of ancient days, constructed by Mahosadha in his famous tunnel, is full of points of interest in this connection. And the detailed account of the residences of members of the Order given in Vinaya Texts (3. 96, 104–115, 160–180) goes farther into minute details of the construction and ornamentation of the various portions of a human habitation. Then we have descriptions and bas-reliefs of the palace of the gods. And as gods are made in imitation of men, these are fair evidence also of the buildings in use by men at the time when the books were written, or the sculptures made. We have no space to enter fully into detail here. But the annexed illustration shows the ideas of a sculptor on the Bharahat tope as to the facade of a mansion, and the next shows his notion of what the meeting-hall of the gods, part of Vejayanta, the palace in heaven, was like.

It is not easy to determine from these illustrations whether the pillars and railings depicted are intended to represent woodwork, or stone carved in imitation of wood. I am inclined to think the latter is meant. If so, that would show that in the third century B.C. (the date of the bas-reliefs), stone was already much used. We have an extant example of stone walls surrounding a hill fortress before the sixth century B.C. (at Giribbaja, see above, p. 37). But in the books referring to this earlier period, there is no mention of stone except for pillars or staircases. A palace of stone is only once mentioned, and that is in fairy land. We must suppose that in earlier times the superstructure at least, of all dwellings was either of woodwork or brickwork. In either case it was often covered, both internally and externally, with fine chunam plaster-work, and brilliantly painted, in fresco, with figures or patterns. Elaborate directions are given in the Vinaya for the construction of this smooth plaster basis on which the frescoes were painted. And the names of four of the commoner patterns have been preserved. They are Wreath-work, Creeper-work, Five-ribbon-work, and Dragon’s-tooth-work. When figures predominated the result is often called a picture-gallery (cittagara). And though we cannot suppose that the art had reached the perfection afterwards attained in the Ajanta frescoes, the descriptions show that it had already advanced to a stage far removed from the early beginnings of pictorial ornamentation. 

The entrance to the great houses was through a large gateway. To the right and left of the entrance passage were the treasury and grain stores. The gateway led into an inner courtyard round which were chambers on the ground-floor. And above these chambers was a flat roof called the upari-pasada-tala, the upper flat surface of the house, where the owner sat, usually under a pavilion, which answered the purpose at once of a drawing-room, an office, and a dining-hall. 

We are told several times of a building of seven stories in height—a satta-bkumaka-pasada. No one of these has survived in India. But there is one of later date still standing at Pulasti-pura in Ceylon; and the thoasand stone pillars on which another was erected in the second century B.C. at Anuradhapura form one of the most interesting monuments of the same island. It seems almost impossible to avoid the conclusion that these curious buildings were not entirely without connection with the seven-storied Ziggarats which were so striking a feature among the buildings of Chaldæa. We know in other ways of connections between the civilisation of the Ganges Valley and that of Mesopotamia; and it would seem that in this case also the Indians were borrowers of an idea. But in India the use to which such seven-storied palaces was put was entirely private, and had nothing to do with any worship of the stars. 

We hear in several places that a public gambling hall formed an ordinary part of a king’s palace, either separately or as part of a great reception hall. It was especially laid down in Apastamba, ii 25, that it is the king’s duty to provide such a place; and later law books disclose a custom by which a share of the winnings went to the treasury. The gambling was with dice on a board with thirty-six squares; and the best description of the game, the details of which are very obscure, is at Jataka, vi. 281. There is a curious old bas-relief in which such a gambling saloon in the open air is represented with a split in the rock on which the gamblers are playing. The point of the story is evidently the splitting of the rock, which is not accidental, but fully intended by the sculptor. But we can only conjecture what it means, as the story has not yet been found elsewhere.

Another sort of building historically interesting were the hot-air baths, described in full in Vinaya Texts, iii. 105–110, 297. They were built on an elevated basement faced with brick or stone, with stone stairs up to it, and a railing round the verandah. The roof and walls were of wood, covered first with skins, and then with plaster; the lower part only of the wall being faced with bricks. There was an antechamber, and a hot room, and a pool to bathe in. Seats were arranged round a fireplace in the middle of the hot room; and to induce perspiration hot water was poured over the bathers, whose faces were covered with scented chunam (fine chalk). After the bath there was shampooing, and then a plunge into the pool. It is very curious to find at this very early date in the Ganges Valley a sort of bathing so closely resembling our modern so-called “Turkish Baths.” Did the Turks derive this custom from India? 

In another of our oldest documents, the Digha Nikaya, there is a description of another sort of bath, an open-air bathing tank, with flights of steps leading down to it, faced entirely of stone, and ornamented both with flowers and carvings. These bathing places must have been beautiful objects in the private grounds of the rich. Several very ancient ones are still to be seen at Anuradhapura in a fair state of preservation in spite of the more than two thousand years that have elapsed since they were first constructed. 

In the illustration of the first of these two bathing ponds, the platform, which appears as if built out into the pond, was, no doubt, the basement of a dressing pavilion supported on wooden pillars. It will be observed that it was cooled, in its turn, by a special little pond constructed to fill up one side of the platform. In the other illustration the pediments to support a canopy or awning over the steps leading down into the bath are still perceptible.

One other detail of these ancient buildings, especially noticed by Buddhaghosa in his enumeration of the parts of a palace in olden times, is the curious scroll work or string course in common use as exterior decoration. The details differ; so also do the materials used; they are usually wood or plaster, but occasionally stone, as in the annexed examples from the Bharhut Tope.

But the great houses must have been few in number. There was probably a tangle of narrow and evil-smelling streets of one-storied wattle and daub huts with thatched roofs, the meagre dwelling-places of the poor. And we must imagine long lines of bazaars, the shops (without windows, of course, and indeed with very little wall on that side) open to the streets, and mostly devoted, in the same street, to the sale of wares of a similar kind. 

Crowded the city must have been, and noisy. The oldest records boast of the fact, and we are not surprised to learn that a corner house, abutting on two streets, was highly prized. But the size of the few large cities is represented as so large, including the suburbs, that the crowding and noise were less probably in those days, at least outside the fortifications, than they are now. 

So far as the records at present show there seem to have been few sanitary arrangements. There is constant mention of drains; but they are for water only—either small ones to carry off the water from a bathroom or a chamber, or large ones to carry off the rain from within the fortifications. It was through these last that dogs and jackals got into the citadel; and sometimes even men used them as means of escape, at night, when the gates were closed. It is not likely that they at all corresponded, therefore, to the Roman cloaca. On the other hand the at present obscure arrangements to obviate the various sanitary difficulties arising from the living together of a number of members of the Order render it probable that in the palaces and larger mansions, at least similar arrangements may have been in use. 

The disposal of the dead was, in some respects, very curious. Deceased persons of distinction, either by birth or wealth or official position, or as public teachers, were cremated; and the ashes were buried under a so-called tope (in Pali thupa, in Buddhist Sanskrit stupa). But the dead bodies of ordinary people were disposed of in a unique way. They were put away in a public place (sivathika or amaka-susana, both of which, for want of a better word, are usually translated cemetery). There, as a rule, the bodies, or the remains of the pyre, were not buried, but left to be destroyed by birds or beasts, or dissipated by the process of natural decay. This spot was also used as the public place of execution especially by impalement. It was quite open to the public. But as we can readily understand, it was believed to be haunted; and was only frequented by the more austere sort of ascetics. 

Sometimes Dagabas or topes were erected in these cemeteries But more usually they were put up in the suburbs, either in private grounds, or, in cases of special honour, at some place where four cross-roads met. We are accustomed to think of them as especially Buddhist monuments. They were, in fact, pre-Buddhistic; and indeed only a slight modification of a world-wide custom. The use of barrows or cairns to mark a place of interment was not universal; but it was certainly very frequent in ancient times. And marked differences in their shape or size is rightly held to be evidence of race. The Aryans in India still used the round form. And the only curious point is that, in India, at the period under discussion, certain sections of the community were beginning to make them solid brick structures instead of heaps of earth, or of stones covered with earth, as had been the custom in more ancient times. This was done more especially by those who had thrown off their allegiance to the priests, and were desirous to honour the memory of their teachers, who were leaders of thought, or reformers, or philosophers. And whether we agree, or not, with the opinions these thinkers put forth, we must acknowledge the very great interest, from the historical point of view, of the fact that the only monuments of the kind yet discovered were built out of reverence, not for kings or chiefs or warriors or politicians or wealthy benefactors, but precisely for such thinkers, who propounded fresh solutions of the problems of life. We need not be surprised, therefore, to learn that the priestly records carefully ignore these topes. 

The first step was probably merely to build the cairn more carefully than usual, with stones, and to cover the outside with fine chunam plaster (in the use of which the Indians were adepts) to give a marble-like surface. The next step was to build the cairn of concentric layers of the huge bricks in use at the time, and to surround the whole with a wooden railing. None of the most ancient have survived, or been explored sufficiently to enable a restoration to be drawn. But we can tell very much about what they were from the later examples. This, for instance, is Cunningham’s plan and restoration of the famous Bharahat Stupa. 

And among the bas-reliefs carved on the stone railing are several topes as the sculptor of the day imagined they ought to be. 

We should notice however in the first of these carvings, designed to fill up the post of a stone railing, that the artist, in order to fill up the tall and narrow space he has to deal with, has allowed himself to give a disproportionate height to the ornamentation at the top of the dome. 

Even in the Buddha’s time the size of these monuments had already reached very considerable dimensions. The solid dome erected by the Sakiyas over their share of the ashes from the Buddha’s funeral pyre must have been about the same height as the dome of St. Paul’s, measured from the roof. And it is that dome, as seen from Waterloo Bridge, where the intervening houses hide the view of the church, and only the beautiful outline of the dome itself is seen against the sky, which gives to those who have never seen them the best idea of what these domes must have been. Unfortunately no one has yet attempted to make a restoration of one of these of the most ancient date. But Mr. W. Simpson has given us one of later date, and this is here appended for the sake of comparison. 

The appearance of such a dagaba in the landscape is also well shown in the annexed plate, from Mr. Cave’s Ruined Cities of Ceylon, of the Jetavana Dagaba.

This dagaba itself dates from the third century A.D., but the large irrigation “tank” shown in the foreground is probably the oldest dated one in India, as it was constructed before the time of Asoka. 

Economic Conditions 

There has been as yet no attempt to reconstruct a picture of the economic conditions at any period in the early history of India. Professor Zimmer, Dr. Fick, and Professor Hopkins have dealt incidentally with some of the points on the basis respectively of the Vedas, the Jatakas, and the Epics. But generally speaking the books on India have been so exclusively concerned with questions of religion and philosphy, of literature and language, that we seem apt to forget that the very necessities of life, here as elsewhere, must have led the people to occupy their time very much, not to say mostly, with other matters than those, with the earning of their daily bread, with the accumulation and distribution of wealth. The following remarks will be chiefly based on Mrs. Rhys-Davids’s articles on this important subject in the Economic Journal, for 1901, and in the Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, for 1901. And numbers given in this chapter as references, without letters referring to other sources, refer to the pages of the latter article. 

When the King of Magadha, the famous (and infamous) Ajatasattu, made his only call upon the Buddha, he is said to have put a puzzle to the teacher to test him—a puzzle characteristic of the King’s state of mind. It is this: “What in the world is the good of your renunciation, of joining an Order like yours? Other people (and here he gives a list), by following ordinary crafts, get something out of them. They can make themselves comfortable in this world, and keep their families in comfort. Can you, Sir, declare to me any such immediate fruit, visible in this world, of the life of a recluse?” The list referred to is suggestive. In the view of the King the best examples of such crafts were the following: 

1. Elephant-riders.

2. Cavalry. 

3. Charioteers. 

4. Archers. 

5–13. Nine different grades of army folk. 

14. Slaves. 

15. Cooks. 

16. Barbers. 

17. Bath-attendants. 

18. Confectioners. 

19. Garland-makers. 

20. Washermen. 

21. Weavers. 

22. Basket-makers. 

23. Potters. 

24. Clerks. 

25. Accountants. 

These are just the sort of people employed about a camp or a palace. King-like, the King considers chiefly those who minister to a king, and are dependent upon him. In the answer he is most politely reminded of the peasant, of the tax-payer, on whom both he and his depended. And it is evident enough from other passages that the King’s list is far from exhaustive. There is mention, in other documents of the same age, of guilds of work-people; and the number of these guilds is often given afterwards as eighteen. Four of these are mentioned by name.But a list of the whole eighteen has unfortunately not yet been found. It would probably have included the following: 

1. The workers in wood. They were not only carpenters and cabinet-makers, but also wheel-wrights; and the builders of houses, and of ships, and of vehicles of all sorts (863). 
2. The workers in metal. They made any iron implements — weapons of all kinds, ploughshares, axes, hoes, saws, and knives. But they also did finer work—made needles, for instance, of great lightness and sharpness, or gold and (less often) silver work of great delicacy and beauty (864). 
3. The workers in stone. They made flights of steps, leading up into a house or down into a reservoir; faced the reservoir; laid foundations for the woodwork of which the upper part of the houses was built; carved pillars and bas-reliefs; and even did finer work such as making a crystal bowl, or a stone coffer (864). Beautiful examples of these two last were found in the Sakiya Tope. 
4. The weavers. They not only made the cloths which the people wrapped round themselves as dress, but manufactured fine muslin for export, and worked costly and dainty fabrics of silk cloth and fur into rugs, blankets, coverlets, and carpets. 
5. Leather workers, who made the numerous sorts of foot-covering and sandals worn by the people mostly in cold weather; and also the embroidered and costly articles of the same kind mentioned in the books (865). 
6. Potters, who made all sorts of dishes and bowls for domestic use; and often hawked their goods about for sale. 
7. Ivory workers, who made a number of small articles in ivory for ordinary use, and also costly carvings and ornaments such as those for which India is still famous (864). 
8. Dyers, who coloured the clothes made by the weavers (864). 
9. Jewellers, some of whose handiwork has survived, and is also so often represented in bas-reliefs that we know fairly well the shape and size of the ornaments they made. 
10. The fisher folk. They fished only in the rivers. There is no mention of sea-fishing known to me. 
11. The butchers, whose shops and slaughterhouses are several times mentioned (873). 
12. Hunters and trappers, mentioned in various passages as bringing the animal and vegetable products of the woods, and also venison and game, for sale on carts into the city (873). It is doubtful whether they were formed into guilds. But their industry was certainly a very important one. The large stretches of forest, open to all, separating most of the settlements; the absence of any custom of breeding cattle for the meat-market; the large demand for ivory, fur, sinews, creepers, and all the other produce of the woods; and the congeniality of the occupation, all tended to encourage the hunters. And there is no reason to suppose that the very ancient instinct of the chase was confined to the so-called savages. The kings and nobles also, whether Aryan by blood or not, seem to have taken pleasure in it, quite apart from the economic question of food supply. But men of good birth followed it as a trade; and when brahmins did so (868) they are represented as doing so for profit. 
13. The cooks and confectioners, a numerous class, probably formed a guild. But there is no passage saying that they did. 
14. The barbers and shampooers had their guilds. They dealt in perfumes, and were especially skilled in arranging the elaborate turbans worn by the wealthier classes.
15. The garland-makers and flower-sellers (866). 
16. Sailors, occupied for the most part in the traffic up and down the great rivers, but also going to sea. In some of our earliest documents we hear of sea voyages out of sight of land; and in the later documents, such as the Jatakas, the mention of such voyages is frequent (872). So the earlier documents speak of voyages lasting six months made in ships (nava, perhaps, “boats”) which could be drawn up on shore in the winter, And later texts, of about the third century B.C., speak of voyages down the Ganges from Benares to the mouth of the river and thence across the Indian Ocean to the opposite coast of Burma; and even from Bharukaccha (the modern Baroch) round Cape Comorin to the same destination (871). It is clear, therefore, that during the whole of this period the occupation of sailor was neither unfrequent nor unimportant. 
17. The rush-workers and basket-makers (868). 
18. Painters (865). They were mostly house-painters. The woodwork of the houses was often covered with fine chunam plaster and decorated with painting. But they also painted frescoes. These passages tell us of pleasure-houses, adorned with painted figures and patterns, belonging to the kings of Magadha and Kosala; and such frescoes were no doubt similar in character to, but of course in an earlier style than, the well-known ancient frescoes of the seventh and eighth centuries a.d. on the Ajanta Caves, and of the fifth century on the Sigiri Rock in Ceylon. 

It is doubtful with regard to two or three in this list whether they were organised in guilds (seniyo, puga). But it is certain that these were among the most important branches of handicraft apart from agriculture; and most of them had, no doubt, their guilds not unlike the mediæval guilds in Europe. It is through their guilds that the king summons the people on important occasions (865). The Aldermen or Presidents (jemmhaka or pamukha) of such guilds are sometimes described as quite important persons, wealthy, favourites at the court. The guilds are said to have had powers of arbitration between the members of the guild and their wives. And disputes between one guild and another were in the jurisdiction of the maha-semmhi, the Lord High Treasurer, who acted as a sort of chief Alderman over the Aldermen of the guilds (865). 

Besides the peasantry and the handicraftsmen there were merchants who conveyed their goods either up and down the great rivers, or along the coasts in boats; or right across country in carts travelling in caravans. These caravans, long lines of small two-wheeled carts, each drawn by two bullocks, were a distinctive feature of the times. There were no made roads and no bridges. The carts struggled along, slowly, through the forests, along the tracks from village to village kept open by the peasants. The pace never exceeded two miles an hour. Smaller streams were crossed by gullies leading down to fords, the larger ones by cart ferries. There were taxes and octroi duties at each different country entered (875); and a heavy item in the cost was the hire of volunteer police who let themselves out in bands to protect caravans against robbers on the way (866). The cost of such carriage must have been great; so great that only the more costly goods could bear it. 

The enormous traffic of to-day in the carriage of passengers, food-stuffs, and fuel was non-existent. Silks, muslins, the finer sorts of cloth and cutlery and armour, brocades, embroideries and rugs, perfumes and drugs, ivory and ivory work, jewelry and gold (seldom silver),—these were the main articles in which the merchant dealt. 

The older system of traffic by barter had entirely passed away never to return. The later system of a currency of standard and token coins issued and regulated by government authority had not yet arisen. Transactions were carried on, values estimated, and bargains struck in terms of the kahapana, a square copper coin weighing about 146 grains, and guaranteed as to weight and fineness by punch-marks made by private individuals. Whether these punch-marks are the tokens of merchants, or of guilds, or simply of the bullion dealer, is not certain (874). 

No silver coins were used (877). There were half and quarter kahapanas, and probably no other sort. The references to gold coins are late and doubtful; and no such coins have been found. Some thin gold films with punch marks on them were found in the Sakiya Tope, but these are too flimsy to have been used in circulation as coins (878). It is interesting to notice that Alexander, when in India, struck a half kahapana copper piece, square (in imitation of the Indian money), and not round like the Greek coins of the time. 

It is only in later times that we hear (as for instance in Manu, 8. 401) of any market price being fixed by government regulation. In the sixth century B.C. there is only an official called the Valuer, whose duty it was to settle the prices of goods ordered for the palace—which is a very different thing (875). And there are many instances, incidentally given, of the prices of commodities fixed, at different times and places, by the haggling of the market (875). These are all collected together in the article referred to (at pp. 882, foll.); and the general result seems to be that though the kahapana would be worth, at the present value of copper, only five sixths of a penny, its purchasing power then was about equivalent to the purchasing power of a shilling now. 

Besides the coins, there was a very considerable use of instruments of credit. The great merchants in the few large towns gave letters of credit on one another. And there is constant reference to promissory notes (879). The rates of interest are unfortunately never stated. But interest itself is mentioned very early; and the law books give the rate of interest current at a somewhat later date for loans on personal security as about eighteen per cent. per annum (881). 

There were no banking facilities. Money was hoarded either in the house, or buried in jars in the ground, or deposited with a friend, a written record of the transaction being kept (881). 

The details of prices above referred to enable us to draw some conclusion as to the spending power of the poor, of the man of the middle classes, and of the wealthy merchants and nobles respectively. Of want, as known in our great cities, there is no evidence. It is put down as the direst misfortune known that a free man had to work for hire. And there was plenty of land to be had for the trouble of clearing it, not far from the settled districts. 

On the other hand, the number of those who could be considered wealthy from the standards of those times (and of course still more so from our own) was very limited. We hear of about a score of monarchs, whose wealth consisted mainly of the land tax, supplemented by other dues and perquisites; of a considerable number of wealthy nobles, and some priests, to whom grants had been made of the tithe arising out of certain parishes or counties or who had inherited similar rights from their forefathers; of about a dozen millionaire merchants in Takkasila, Savatthi, Benares, Rajagaha, Vesali, Kosambi, and the seaports (882), and of a considerable number of lesser merchants and middlemen, all in the few towns. But these were the exceptions. There were no landlords. And the great mass of the people were well-to-do peasantry, or handicrafts-men, mostly with land of their own, both classes ruled over by local headmen of their own selection. 

Before closing this summary of the most important economic conditions in Northern India in the sixth century B.C. it may be well to bring together the few notices we have in the books about the trade routes. There is nothing about them in the pre-Buddhistic literature. In the oldest Pali books we have accounts of the journeys of the wandering teachers; and as, especially for longer journeys, they will generally have followed already established routes, this is incidental evidence of such as were then in use by traders. Later on, we have accounts of routes actually followed by merchants, either on boats, or with their caravans of bullock carts. We can thus draw up provisionally the following list: 

1. North to South-west. Savatthi to Patimmhana (Paithan) and back. The principal stopping places are given (beginning from the south) as Mahissati, Ujjeni, Gonaddha, Vedisa, Kosambi, and Saketa. 
2. North to South-east. Savatthi to Rajagaha. It is curious that the route between these two ancient cities is never, so far as I know, direct, but always along the foot of the mountains to a point north of Vesali, and only then turning south to the Ganges. By taking this circuitous road the rivers were crossed at places close to the hills where the fords were more easy to pass. But political considerations may also have had their weight in the original choice of this route, still followed when they were no longer of much weight. The stopping places were (beginning at Savatthi), Setavya, Kapilavastu, Kusinara, Pava, Hatthi-gama, Bhandagama, Vesali, Pataliputta, and Nalanda. The road probably went on to Gaya, and there met another route from the coast, possibly at Tamralipti, to Benares. 
3. East to West. The main route was along the great rivers, along which boats plied for hire. We even hear of express boats. Upwards the rivers were used along the Ganges as far west as Sahajati, and along the Jumna as far west as Kosambi. Downwards, in later times at least, the boats went right down to the mouths of the Ganges, and thence either across or along the coast to Burma. In the early books we hear only of the traffic downward as far as Magadha, that is, to take the farthest point, Champa. Upwards it went thence to Kosambi, where it met the traffic from the south (Route 1), and was continued by cart to the south-west and northwest. 

Besides the above we are told of traders going from Videha to Gandhara, from Bharukaccha round the coast to Burma, from Benares down the river to its mouth and thence on to Burma, from Champa to the same destination. In crossing the desert west of Rajputana the caravans are said to travel only in the night, and to be guided by a “land-pilot,” who, just as one does on the ocean, kept the right route by observing the stars. The whole description of this journey is too vividly accurate to life to be an invention. So we may accept it as evidence not only that there was a trade route over the desert, but also that pilots, guiding ships or caravans by the stars only, were well known. 

In the solitary instance of a trading journey to Babylon (Baveru) we are told that it was by sea, but the port of departure is not mentioned. There is one story, the world-wide story of the Sirens, who are located in TambapaGGi-dipa, a sort of fairy land, which is probably meant for Ceylon. Lanka does not occur. Traffic with China is first mentioned in the Milinda (pp. 127, 327, 359), which is some centuries later. 

Writing—The Beginnings 

Literature of all kinds laboured under a curious disability. There were, for a long time, no writing materials — that is, none that could be used for the production and reproduction of books. And the Indians not only did not feel the want of them, but even continued, for centuries after materials had become available, to prefer, so far as books are concerned, to do without them. The state of things thus disclosed, being unique in the history of the world, deserves a detailed exposition. 

The oldest reference to writing is in a tract called the Silas, embodied in each of the thirteen Dialogues which form the first chapter of the first division of the Suttantas, or conversational discourses of the Buddha. This tract must therefore have been already in existence as a separate work before those Dialogues were put together by the early disciples within the first century after the Buddha’s death. The tract on the Silas may be dated, therefore, approximately about 450 B.C. The tract contains lists of things a member of the Buddhist Order would not do. And among these is a list of games, one of which is called Akkharika (Lettering), explained as “Guessing at letters traced in the air, or on a playfellow’s back.” As the context gives a number of children’s games, this was almost certainly regarded as such. And for children to have such a game, and to call it by the name “Lettering,” shows that the knowledge of an alphabet was fairly prevalent at the time in question. 

The collection of canon law laid down for members of the Order under the generic name of Vinaya (Discipline) is in its present shape somewhat, perhaps two or three generations, younger. In it there are several suggestive references. 

For instance, writing (lekha) is praised at Vin. iv. 7, as a distinguished sort of art; and whereas the sisters of the Order are, as a rule, to abstain from worldly arts, there are exceptions; and one of these is learning to write. A criminal “who had been written up in the king’s porch” (as we should say “who was wanted by the police”) was not to be received into the Order. In a discussion as to what career a lad should adopt, his parents say that if he adopt the profession of a “writer” he will dwell at ease and in comfort; but then, on the other hand, his fingers will ache. Were a member of the Order to write to a man setting out the advantage of suicide, then, for each letter in the writing, he commits an offence. 

It is evident, therefore, that writing was in vogue at the time these passages were composed: that it was made use of for the publication of official notices, and for the communication by way of letter between private individuals: that the ability to write was a possible and honourable source of livelihood: that the knowledge of writing was not confined to any particular class, but was acquired by ordinary folk, and by women: and that it was sufficiently prevalent to have been made the basis of a game for children. A long period, probably centuries, must have elapsed between the date when writing first became known to the few, and the date when such a stage could have been reached. 

But it is a long step from the use of writing for such notifications, public or private, to the use of it for the purpose of writing down any books, much less an extensive literature. And the very same texts we have just quoted show, and show in a manner equally indisputable, that, for such purposes, writing, however well known, had not yet come into use. 

For if books had been known and used in India at the period in question, then the manuscripts themselves, and the whole industry connected with them, must have played an important part in the daily life of the members of the Buddhist Order. Now the extant rules of the Order place clearly enough before our eyes the whole of the “personal property” of the community, or of its individuals. Every movable thing, down to the smallest and least important domestic utensil, is referred to, and its use pointed out. And articles in ordinary use among laymen, but not allowed to members of the Order, are mentioned also, in order to be disallowed. But nowhere do we find the least trace of any reference to books or manuscripts. 

This is really decisive. It is one of those rare cases where negative evidence, the absence of the mention of something where the mention of it would be reasonably expected, is good evidence. But this is not all. Positive evidence comes in at the precise point where it is wanted. There is pretty constant reference to the texts as existing, but existing only in the memory of those who had learnt them by heart. Here we have the explanation of how the difficulty was met. 

Thus at Anguttara, 3. 107, the dangers that may eventually fall upon the faith are being discussed. One is that the members of the Order will listen and give heed when poetical, pretty, ornate Suttantas are being repeated, and think them worthy of the trouble of being learnt by heart; but will neglect the deeper, more subtle, more philosophical treatises. 

So at Anguttara, 2. 147, among four causes of the decay of religion one is that “those Bhikshus who have learnt much (literally, heard much), to whom the tradition has been handed on, who carry (in their memory) the doctrine, and the discipline, and the indices thereto (that is, the tables of contents drawn up to assist the memory) they (those Bhikshus) may not be careful to make others repeat some Suttanta; and so, when they shall themselves have passed away, that Suttanta will become cut off at the root, without a place of refuge.” 

Again at Anguttara, 5. 136, we have the “nutriment” of a list of mental states, the conditions precedent without which they cannot be and grow. One of these states is learning, scholarship. One would expect to find that study, the reading of books, would be its “nutriment.” Not at all. It is said to be “repeating over to oneself.” A chance expression of this sort has particular value. For it implies that the basis of learning was what a man carried in his head, in his memory; and that constant repetition was required to prevent his losing it. It is a sort of expression that would have been impossible if books had been in general use. 

In the canon law also we find two suggestive rules. In the Vinaya Texts, 1. 267, the rule is that the Patimokkha, consisting of the 227 Rules of the Order, is to be recited monthly in each “residence” or monastic settlement. And if, among the brethren there, none should know the rules by heart, then they are (not to send for a copy, but) to send one of their younger members to some neighbouring fraternity, there to learn the Patimokkha, either with or without the explanations of the several rules, by heart. 

Shortly afterwards we have a rule forbidding the brethren to travel in the rainy season. But among the exceptions we find the case put that a layman knows how to recite some celebrated Suttanta. “If he send a messenger to the brethren, saying: ‘Might their reverences come and learn this Suttanta, otherwise this Suttanta will fall into oblivion?’ “—then they may go, so important is the emergency, even during the rains. 

It is evident from such passages—and many others might be quoted to a like effect—that the idea of recording, by writing, even a Suttanta, the average length of which is only about twenty pages of the size of this work, did not occur to the men who composed or used the canonical texts. They could not even have thought of the possibility of using writing as a means of guarding against such painful accidents. Yet, as we have seen, the Indian peoples had been acquainted with letters, and with writing, for a long time, probably for centuries before; and had made very general use of writing for short communications. It seems extraordinary that they should have abstained from its use on occasions which were, to them, so important. Now the reason why they did so abstain is twofold. 

In the first place writing was introduced into India at a late period in the intellectual development of its people—so late that, before they knew of it, they had already brought to perfection, to a perfection unparalleled in the history of the world, another method, and in some respects a very excellent method, of handing down literary productions. They would not lightly give up, for a new-fangled expedient, this tried and ancient one. 

In the second place, even had they desired to do so, they could not. For they did not become acquainted, at the same time when they came to know of writing, with the necessary materials for writing lengthy records. 

We have only just been able to see clearly this very curious state of things. But we now have three different lines of evidence all converging to a certain date as that of the introduction of writing into India: and it is the knowledge of that date which has led to the true explanation. 

The first line is that of the oldest references to writing in Indian literature as set out above. 

The second line is the discovery, due originally to Professor Weber, and lately greatly extended and confirmed by Hofrath Dr. Buhler, that a certain proportion of the oldest Indian letters are practically identical with letters on certain Assyrian weights, and on the so-called Mesa inscription of the seventh and sixth centuries B.C. About one-third of the twenty-two letters of the so-called Northern Semitic alphabet of that period are identical with the oldest forms of the corresponding Indian letters. Another third are somewhat similar. And the remaining third can, with great difficulty, be more or less—generally less—harmonised. Other scholars have made similar, but not such satisfactory, comparisons between the Indian letters and those of the Southern forms of the Semitic alphabet. And the conclusion hitherto drawn has been either, with Weber and Buhler, that the Indian alphabet is derived from the Northern Semites; or, with Dr. Deecke, Isaac Taylor, and others, that it is derived from that of the Southern Semites, in South Arabia. 

Now direct intercourse, at the requisite date, was possible, but not probable, along the coast, between India and South Arabia, where the resemblance is least. No one contends that the Indians had any direct communication with the men who, on the borders of Palestine, inscribed the Mesa stone, where the resemblance is greater. I venture to think, therefore, that the only hypothesis harmonising these discoveries is that the Indian letters were derived, neither from the alphabet of the Northern, nor from that of the Southern Semites, but from that source from which these, in their turn, had been derived—from the pre-Semitic form of writing used in the Euphrates Valley. 

As to the date, the derivation must have taken place at a time when the resemblance between the forms of the letters is greatest. It must have been, therefore, in the seventh century B.C. or earlier; for a comparison of later Babylonian or Semitic forms shows no sufficient agreement. And it is to be supposed that the origin of the Indian alphabet is previous to the time when the parent script was written from right to left. For the Indian, like our own, runs from left to right. Only the legend on one coin (described in Cunningham’s Coins of Ancient India) and a few short inscriptions in Ceylon, not yet published, run from right to left. Certain groups of letters also, in the inscriptions of the third century B.C., are intended to be read, as we should say, backwards. The direction of the writing was open to fluctuation when these (by no means the most ancient) records were made. 

The third line of evidence is that best brought together by Mr. Kennedy in his article in the Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society for 1898. It tends to show: 

1. That continued and extensive trading took place in the seventh century B.C. between Babylon and ports on the west coast of India. 
2. That it is highly improbable that there was any such trade much before that time. 
3. That it is not at all likely that the Indian merchants who went to Babylon went also farther inland, from Babylon to the west; or that they continued their voyages as far as Yemen; or that they reached Babylon overland, by way of the passes, across Afghanistan. 

There is still much to be done in the working out of the details of each of these three lines of evidence. No one of them is yet conclusive by itself. But the consensus of all three lends confirmation to each. And it may now be accepted as a working hypothesis that: 

1. Sea-going merchants, availing themselves of the monsoons, were in the habit, at the beginning of the seventh (and perhaps at the end of the eighth) century B.C., of trading from ports on the south-west coast of India (Sovira at first, afterwards Supparaka and Bharukaccha) to Babylon, then a great mercantile emporium. 
2. These merchants were mostly Dravidians, not Aryans. Such Indian names of the goods imported as were adopted in the west (Solomon’s ivory, apes, and peacocks, for instance, and the word “rice”) were adaptations, not of Sanskrit or Pali, but of Tamil words. 
3. These merchants there became acquainted with an alphabetic writing derived from that first invented and used by the white pre-Semitic race now called Akkadians. 
4. That alphabet had previously been carried, by wandering Semitic tribes, from Babylon to the west, both northwest and southwest. Some of the particular letters learnt by the Indian merchants are closely allied to letters found on inscriptions recorded by those Semitic tribes, and also on Babylonian weights, both of a date somewhat earlier than the time when the Indians made their trading journeys. 
5. After the merchants brought this script to India it gradually became enlarged and adapted to suit the special requirements of the Indian learned and colloquial dialects. Nearly a thousand years afterwards the thus adapted alphabet became known as the Brahmi Lipi, the Sublime Writing. VVhat name it bore in the interval—for instance, in Asoka’s time—is not known. From it all the alphabets now used in India, Burma, Siam, and Ceylon have been gradually evolved. 
6. When this script was first brought to India in the eighth or seventh century B.C., the Indians had already possessed an extensive Vedic literature handed down in the priestly schools by memory, and by memory alone. The alphabet soon became known to the priests. But they continued as before to hand down their books by the old method only. It is probable, however, that they began to make use of written notes to aid the memory on which they still, in the main, depended. 
7. The material on which the signs had been traced in Babylon was clay. They were traced in India with an iron style, on leaves, or on pieces of bark, chiefly birch bark. No ink was used; and these mere scratchings on such fragile substances were not only difficult to make out, but the leaves or bark were apt easily to be broken up or destroyed. 
8. It was not till long afterwards that a method of preparing large pieces of bark or the leaves of the Corypha talipot palm so as to prevent their breaking was discovered. It was not till long afterwards that an ink was discovered, which could be rubbed over such a leaf with letters scratched upon it, and would then remain in the scratches, thus making the writing easily legible. Till these discoveries had been made there were really no materials practically available for use as books. And it was probably chiefly because of the fact that the need of such materials was not felt that the discoveries were not much sooner made. 
9. To say indeed that the need was not felt is, as regards the Vedic schools, not nearly strong enough. The priests were, as a body, exceedingly keen to keep the knowledge of the mantras (the charms or verses), on which the magic of the sacrifice depended, in their own hands. There are some pretty rules about this in the later priestly law-books—rules that received, it should be noted, the cordial approval of Shankara. 

“The ears of a Sudra who listens, intentionally, when the Veda is being recited are to be filled with molten lead. His tongue is to be cut out if he recite it. His body is to be split in twain if he preserve it in his memory.” The priestly view was that God himself had bestowed the exclusive right of teaching upon the hereditary priests; who claimed to be, each of them, great divinities, even to the gods. 

We cannot, therefore, be far wrong if we suppose they were not merely indifferent to the use of writing as a means of handing on the books so lucrative to themselves, but were even strongly opposed to a method so dangerous to their exclusive privileges. And we ought not to be surprised to find that the oldest manuscripts on bark or palm leaf known in India are Buddhist; that the earliest written records on stone and metal are Buddhist; that it is the Buddhists who first made use of writing to record their canonical books; and that the earliest mention of writing at all in the voluminous priestly literature is in the Vasishmha Dharma Sutra—one of the later law books, and long posterior to the numerous references quoted above from the Buddhist canon. 

It is, of course, not impossible, a priori, that the priests in India had developed an alphabet of their own out of picture writing; and that it was on to such an alphabet that the borrowed letters were grafted. General Cunningham went even farther. He thought the alphabet was altogether developed, independently, on Indian soil. But we have at present, not only no evidence to that effect, but much the other way. All the present available evidence tends to show that the Indian alphabet is not Aryan at all; that it was introduced into India by Dravidian merchants; and that it was not, in spite of their invaluable services in other respects to Indian literature, to the priests, whose self-interests were opposed to such discoveries, but to traders, and to less prejudiced literary circles, that India owes the invention of those improvements in the mechanical aids to writing that enabled the long previously existent knowledge of letters to be applied at last to the production and preservation of books. 

Writing—Its Development 

It may be asked why the Indian merchants who brought the knowledge of the alphabet from Babylon to Western India did not also bring the method, then carried in Babylon to so great a degree of success, of writing—and of writing not only mercantile memoranda but also books—on clay tablets, on bricks. 

The problem is not without difficulty. But it does not arise only in India. Elsewhere also the traders or tribes who learnt the alphabet in the Euphrates Valley never adopted the habit of writing on bricks. Bricks and tablets and seals, all of them of clay, have been found, indeed, in widely separated parts of India, with letters, and even sentences, inscribed upon them. But the letters on the bricks, though most interesting as palæographic evidence, are merely mason’s marks; the inscribed clay tablets contain only short sentences of scripture; and the legends on the seals are only of the usual kind. The fact remains, therefore, that clay was not in any general use among the people as a material for writing books upon, or even short communications. As a specimen of writing on clay the annexed figure of a tablet discovered by Dr. Hoey, by whose kindness I am allowed to reproduce it, is interesting. It contains a Buddhist tract. Of course copper and gold plates were early and often used, of which the Takshila copper plates and one of the Maung-gon gold plates are here shown. 

On the other hand we have abundant evidence, both literary and archeological, of the use for such purposes of birch bark and palm leaves. The oldest specimen of a book in such writing hitherto discovered is the MS. found in the ruins of the Gosinga Vihara, thirteen miles from Khotan. This MS. is written with ink on birch bark in letters of the Kharocmri alphabet, an alphabet introduced overland into the extreme northwest of India about 500 B.C., and used locally in Gandhara (side by side with the other alphabet to which reference has been made above, and to which all existing Indian alphabets can be traced back). This MS., portions of which have just found their way both to Paris and St. Petersburg, must have been written in Gandhara shortly before or after the Christian era. And it contains an anthology of Buddhist religious verses taken from the canonical books, but given in a local dialect, younger than the Pali of the texts.

The next MS. in point of age is much younger. It is the one discovered by Captain Bower in Mingai, near Kuchar, containing medical receipts and formulas for snake-charming, and written in characters of the fourth or perhaps the fifth century A.D., with ink, on birch bark cut to imitate palm leaves. These leaves are also pierced with holes, through which a string can be passed to keep the leaves together—a plan always adopted for palm leaves, but very unsuitable for birch bark, which is so brittle that the string is apt to tear and break the leaves, as it had done in this case. The language used in this MS. is sufficiently near to classical Sanskrit for it to be called Sanskrit. But the five different short treatises of which this MS. consists contain, in varying degree, a good many colloquialisms. Other MSS. of great age have been recently discovered in Turkestan; but these are the oldest ones so far deciphered and edited. The others are still awaiting decipherment, and are in the hands of Dr. Hoernle for that purpose. 

Now as the Bower MS. is in Sanskrit (though not good Sanskrit), and the Gosinga MS. is in a dialect allied to, but younger than Pali, the natural conclusion would seem to be that, as Sanskrit is older than Pali, the texts contained in the Bower MS. must be older. That the MS. itself, the particular copy that has survived, is some centuries later, does not matter. Pali is to Sanskrit about as Italian is to Latin. Whatever the age of the MSS. in which the copies of them may be written, the text of a work by Vergil must be older than the text of a work by Dante. The conclusion seems, therefore, obvious that a work in Sanskrit, whatever the age of the MS. in which it is written, must be older than a work in Pali, and, a fortiori, older than a work in a dialect that is, philologically speaking, younger than Pali. 

Oddly enough the exact contrary is the case. Not only is the Gosinga MS. older than the Bower MS., but the verses contained in it are also older than the texts contained in the Bower MS., and that precisely because they are written in a dialect closely allied to Pali. And we should know this for certain even if we had only printed copies of these two works, that is, even if we had not the paleographic evidence of the age of the handwriting to guide us. For, in the period we are considering, the more closely a book or an inscription approximates to pure Sanskrit, unalloyed by colloquialisms, by Pali phrases and grammatical forms, the later it is—not-withstanding the fact that Sanskrit is, etymologically speaking, older than Pali. The explanation of this apparent anomaly is really perfectly plain and simple. It is clear enough from a comparison of the literature, but it is more easily shown, perhaps, by a comparison of the inscriptions. Take the inscription, for instance, on the vase discovered by Mr. Peppe in the Sakiya Tope—which is in my opinion the oldest inscription yet discovered in India—and what do we find? 

1. As to the language. It is entirely in the living language, in the vernacular. 
2. As to the orthography. The consonants are roughly and rudely written. 
3. The only vowels expressed, by signs hung on to the consonants, are i and u and (in one doubtful case) either e or o. 
4. No consonants are written double, in spite of the fact that double consonants, pronounced double (as in Italian of to-day), were a marked feature of the vernacular. 
5. No groups of consonants (such as the ndr in our word hundred or the pl and st in our word plastic, are written as groups. Thus the word for “of the Sakiyas” is written s ki y n , which is the nearest orthography the writer could get, or troubled himself to get, for the word as spoken in the living local dialect. This may have been either Sakiyanan or Sakkiyanan (pronounced Sak-kiyanang). 

It will be noticed that the orthography, therefore, is very imperfect. It is, strictly speaking, not so much an alphabet as a syllabary. The light vowel a, pronounced as in our word vocal, is supposed inherent in every consonant on to which no other vowel is hung. No attempt is yet made to distinguish between long and short vowels. No diphthongs are written. There is no expedient as yet to show that a consonant is to be pronounced as a final, that is, without the inherent a; and this, together with the absence of groups, is what renders it impossible to express the double consonants so frequent in the actual language. 

The next stage we have (that is, at present; no doubt as soon as archæological explorations are carried on systematically in India intermediate stages will be available) are the Asoka inscriptions. Of these thirty-four have so far been found, and M. Senart, in his Inscriptions de Piyadasi, has subjected all those discovered before 1886 to an exhaustive and detailed analysis. With these ought to be compared the greater number of the inscriptions on the Bharhut Tope, some of which are a little older, some a little younger, and only one or two a good deal younger than Asoka. 

Two tendencies are very marked in these inscriptions of the third century B.C. In the first place the orthographical expedients are very much improved. All the long vowels are now marked as such. Once we have a diphthong. Numerous groups of consonants are written as such. The letters as a whole are engraved much more neatly and regularly. The alphabet tends, therefore, to be much more accurate, more phonetic, fuller, more complete. 

On the other hand, the scribes or engravers, or both, have fallen into the habit of giving expression in their orthography to what they conceived to be the more learned and more proper forms of words, and of grammatical inflexions, rather than to the forms actually in use in the real, living language. The alphabet tends, therefore, to be much less accurate, to give a less faithful picture of the living speech. 

This last tendency is exactly analogous to what happened when our own spelling was being settled. Englishmen probably pronounced would and could much as they do now. But some one knew there had been an l in the earlier form of would (as in the German wollte). And so he spelt it with an l, which no longer existed in the real, living speech. Somebody else (who thought he would be quite learned, and proper, and on the safe side), spelt could also with an l, though the l existed, in this case, neither in the older form of the word nor in the living speech. And now we are saddled with the l in both words whether we like it or not. It was this latter tendency which won the day in India. Very gradually the efforts to represent the real facts of the language gave way to another effort altogether, the effort to give expression to the learned phraseology. 

The past history of the words came to be considered more than their actual sound. Both the language in the inscriptions, and the methods of spelling adopted in them, became more and more artificial. The double process went on through the centuries, until at last, at the very time when the alphabet had been so continually improved that it had become the most perfect instrument of phonetic expression the world has yet seen, the other process had also reached its climax, the living speech had completely disappeared from the monuments, and all the inscriptions are recorded in a dead language, in the so-called classical Sanskrit. The oldest inscription in pure Sanskrit so far discovered, that of Rudradaman at Girnar in the Kathiawad, is dated (no doubt in the Saka Era) in the year 72. It belongs, therefore, to the middle of the second century after Christ. It had taken four centuries from Asoka’s time to reach this stage. And though the end was not yet, and inscriptions in the vernacular, pedantically contorted, are still met with, from the fifth century onwards the dead language reigns supreme. 

The case of the coins is, if possible, even more instructive. The oldest coin which bears an inscription in Sanskrit is a unique coin of Satyadaman, belonging to the western Kshatrapa dynasty, whose approximate date is 200 A.D. Of the seven words contained in the inscription on this coin all have Sanskrit terminations, and only one offends against the rules of sandhi as observed in Sanskrit. All coins previous to this one bear legends either in Pali or in the vernacular. So, also, oddly enough, do all subsequent coins for a period of about two centuries. The experiment was evidently found to have been a failure, and was not repeated. Sporadically we find single words in Sanskrit occurring in legends, otherwise in the vernacular. These are evidence of the desire of the mint authorities, or of the mint officials, to appear learned. But the people did not fancy the innovation of Sanskrit legends, and the authorities apparently did not care to go on issuing coins not popular with the people. 

So in our own country up to as late as the end of the nineteenth century any important monumental record in honour of a wealthy or successful personage was almost always written in Latin. Coins still, for the most part, have their legends in Latin. And throughout Europe, up to a date not so very remote, works on a great variety of subjects were written, and education was often carried on, in that language. We have never reached the point, reached in the fifth century A.D. in India, that the dead language was exclusively used. But we were not so very far from it. And the conditions as to this matter in the two continents—for India is more of a continent than a country—were more similar than is often supposed. The dead language in each case was the language used in the sacrifice. The greater credit attaching to it was largely of a religious nature. But it was also a sort of lingua franca widely understood through many countries in which many various languages were respectively the language of the people. There was a time in each case when the clergy were in great part the main custodians of the learning of the day, so that the language of the church was the most convenient language in which to appeal to a larger circle of educated people than could be reached through any one vernacular. And in each case those who first used the vernacular were the men who wished to appeal to the people, who were advocating what they deemed to be reforms. 

There are, of course, differences also in these two cases. The most important of these is that, in India, the use of the vernacular came first in order of time. And one result of this was the curious dialect half-way between the vernacular and the dead language, which may be called equally well either mixed Sanskrit or mixed vernacular, according as it approximates more or less to the one or to the other. Another result was that, the vernacular being taken so early, the grammatical terminations still survived in it in a shape more or less akin to those in use in the dead language. When Dr. Johnson overlaid his English with a mass of Latin words, the process stopped at a kind of hybrid vernacular. When the Indian writers before and after the Christian Era did the same sort of thing, and began to adopt also the Sanskrit grammatical terminations, the end was inevitable. When they made use of a mixture of some real forms and words drawn from the vernacular, some such words slightly altered to make them look more learned, and some forms wholly artificial with no existence at all in living speech, the only possible consequence was that the first sort were called vulgar, the second blunders, and only the third declared to be right. The hybrid they thus made use of became increasingly too like Sanskrit to be able to contend against it; and from the end of the fourth century the latter alone was used. Then, linguistically speaking, death reigned supreme. The living language was completely overshadowed by the artificial substitute. The changeling had taken the place of the rightful heir. The parasite had overgrown and smothered the living tree from which it drew its sustenance, from which it had derived its birth. 

The loss, from the point of view of intellectual advancement, must have been very great. Who can doubt that Europe was fortunate in escaping (and it was a very narrow escape) a similar bondage? Classical Sanskrit, in consequence very largeiy of the rich fortune it had inherited from the vernacular as previously cultivated,—for Pali is not much farther removed from the vernacular than, say, Hume’s Essay from the spoken English of the day,—is rich in varied expressions. But, with its long compounds and its poverty in syntax, it is cumbrous and unwieldy as compared even with the Latin of the Middle Ages, and much more so if compared with any living tongue. It must be a disadvantage to write in any language in which one does not habitually speak and think. And the disadvantage is not lessened when the existing works in that language are charged with an unprogressive (not to say reactionary) spirit in religion, philosophy, and social views of life. 

It is therefore clear why Pali books written in India, or books in a dialect allied to Pali, or in a mixture of such a dialect and forms taken from pure Sanskrit, are each of them older than the books written in classical Sanskrit; and why a coin, a book, or an inscription, in so far as its language approximates to the regular Sanskrit, is later, and not earlier. The vernacular was used first. Then, gradually, what were considered more learned forms (taken from the dead language used in the priestly schools) were, in a greater and greater degree, made use of, till, finally, the regular Sanskrit became used exclusively. 

2

Language and Literature 

General View 

In early times there must have been several systems of literature preserved independently among the followers of different schools. No one of these schools preserved (that is, learnt by heart) the literature of the others. But each knew of the others, talked over the opinions maintained in them, considered in their own Suttas what was preserved in the Suttas of their opponents. We have a fair number of well-established instances of men who had received a long training in one school passing over to another. These men at least had thus acquired a familiarity, more or less complete, with two literatures. 

In the forests adjoining the settlements, the disciples of the various schools, living a hermit life, occupied themselves, according to the various tendencies of the schools to which they belonged, either in meditation or in sacrificial rites, or in practices of self-torture, or in repeating over to themselves, and in teaching to their pupils, the Suttas containing the tenets of their school. Much time was spent in gathering fruits and roots for their sustenance, or in going into the village for alms. And there was difference of opinion, and of practice, as to the comparative importance attached to the learning of texts. But the hermitages where the learning, or the repeating, of texts was unknown were the exceptions. 

Then, besides the Hermits, there was another body of men, greatly respected throughout the country, quite peculiar to India, and not known even there much before the rise of Buddhism, called the Wanderers (Paribbajaka). They were teachers, or sophists, who spent eight or nine months of every year wandering about precisely with the object of engaging in conversational discussions on matters of ethics and philosophy, nature lore and mysticism. Like the sophists among the Greeks, they differed very much in intelligence, in earnestness, and in honesty. Some are described as “Eel-wrigglers,” “Hair-splitters,” and not without reason if we may fairly judge from the specimens of their lucubrations preserved by their opponents. But there must have been many of a very different character, or the high reputation they enjoyed, as a body, would scarcely have been maintained. We hear of halls put up for their accommodation, for the discussion by them of their systems of belief. Such was “The Hall” in Queen Mallika’s park at Savatthi, and the “Gabled Pavilion” put up by the Licchavi clan in the Great Wood adjoining their capital of Vesali, and often mentioned in the books as the resort of the Wanderers. Or a special space was set apart for them in the groves adjoining the settlement,—such were the sweet-smelling Champaka Grove on the borders of the lake dug out by Queen Gaggara at Champa; the Mora-nivapa, the place where the peacocks were fed, at Rajagaha, and others. 

The Wanderers are often represented as meeting one another at such places, or at the rest-houses (chowltries) which it was a prevalent custom for villagers to put up on the roadside for the common use of travellers. And they were in the habit, on their journeys, of calling on other Wanderers, or on the learned brahmins, or on the Hermits, resident in the neighbourhood of the places where they stopped. So Digha-nakha calls on the Buddha, the Buddha visits Sakuludayi, Vekhanassa calls on the Buddha, Keniya does the same, and Potali-putta calls on Samiddhi. The residents also, both to testify respect and to listen to their talk, used to call on the Wanderers when the latter stayed in or near a village—evidence both of the popularity of the Wanderers, and of the frequent interchange of opinion. 

The Wanderers, some of whom were women, were not ascetics, except so far as they were celibates, The practices of self-mortification are always referred to as carried out by the Hermits in the woods. The Buddha, before he attained Nirvana under the Tree of Wisdom, had been such a self-torturer (tapasa) in the woods on the banks of the Neranjara. Thenceforward he became a Wanderer. It was easy to pass from one career to the other. But they were quite distinct, were spoken of by different names, and in the priestly law-books we find quite different regulations laid down for the Hermits on the one hand, and the Wanderers on the other.

We have the names of a considerable number of the individuals in both of these classes. And not only the personal names. In those cases when a number of individuals acknowledged the leadership of one teacher, or adhered to the same set of opinions (whether attributed to one teacher or not), they had also corporate names. Thus the members of that Order which we call the Buddhist Order were called Sakyaputtiya Samanas. Each order was called a Sangha. The members of the Sangha which we call the Jain Order were called the Niganthas, “The Unfettered.” There was an Order the members of which were called the Ajivaka, the “Men of the Livelihood.” Both of these orders were older than the Buddhist. The Jains have remained as an organised community all through the history of India from before the rise of Buddhism down to to-day. The Ajivakas still existed as an organised community down to the time of Asoka’s grandson Dasaratha, who gave them, as we learn from the inscriptions on the caves, certain cave-hermitages. They have long ago died out. And with the disappearance of the Order, the Suttas containing their ideas have vanished also. For during a long period they existed only in the memories of the members of the Order; and even after writing was applied to the preservation of such literary works, it was only the members of the Order or lay adherents of the school who would copy them. There are many references in Jain and Buddhist books to this Order, and to the opinions they professed. And it will be possible, when these have been fully compared and summarised, to arrive at a more or less complete and accurate view of their tenets. 

The names of other orders, of which we know little more than the names, have been preserved in the Anguttara. And the existence of at least two or three others can be inferred from incidental references. There is still in existence a Vaikhanasa Sutra, of about the third century A.D., which purports to contain the rules of an Order founded by one Vikhanas. It has just been mentioned that a certain Vekhanassa, a Wanderer, called on the Buddha. It is not improbable that he belonged to that Order. In a note on Panini, iv. 3. 110, there are mentioned two brahmin orders, the Karmandinas and the Parasarinas. Now in the Majjhima (3. 298) the opinions of a certain Parasariya, a brahmin teacher, are discussed by the Buddha. It is very probable that he was either the founder or an adherent of the second of these schools. In any case the Order still existed at the time when the note to PaGini was made; and it is probably referred to in an inscription mentioned by Cunningham. Of the other schools or corporate bodies of Wanderers, or of Hermits, only the names are known. But as even the names throw light on the movement they may here be mentioned. They are: 

1. Munda-savaka.—”The disciples of the Shave-ling.” 
2. Jamilaka.—”Those who wear their hair in braids.” To do so was the rule for those of the Hermits who were brahmins, and perhaps other hermits also did so. In that case they cannot have formed one corporate body. 
3. MagaGdika.—This name is probably derived from the name of the founder of a corporate body. But all their records have perished, and we know nothing of them otherwise. 
4. Tedandika.—”The bearers of the triple staff.” This is probably the name given, in the Buddhist community, to those of the Wanderers (not Hermits) who were brahmins. They were not allowed, by their rules, to wear their hair in braids, but must either have their heads shaved entirely, or so shaved as to leave a forelock only. 
5. Aviruddhaka.—”The friends.” We know as yet nothing otherwise about them. 
6. Gotamaka.—”The followers of Gotama.” These are almost certainly the followers of Devadatta, the Buddha’s cousin, who founded an Order in opposition to the Buddhist Order, on the ground that the latter was too easy-going in its regulations as to food, and did not favour asceticism. 
7. Devadhammika.—”Those who follow the religion of the gods” or perhaps “of the god.” On neither interpretation do we know the exact meaning of the term. 

We find in this curious list several names, used technically as the designation of particular orders, or bodies of religieux, but in meaning applicable quite as much to most of the others. They all claimed to be pure as regards means of livelihood (like the Ajivakas); to be unfettered (like the NigaGmhas); to be friends (like the Aviruddhakas); they were all, except the Jamilakas, Wanderers, they were all mendicants (Bhikshus). The names can only gradually have come to have the special meaning of the member of one division or order, only. We find a similar state of things in the names of Christian sects in England to-day. And a considerable time must have elapsed before the names could thus have become specialised. 

All this is very suggestive from more than one point of view. And as some of these points are of the first importance for a right understanding of the questions of language and literature, I may be allowed to enlarge a little on one or two of them. It is clear, in the first place, that there was no obstacle, arising from diversity of language, to intercourse—and that not merely as regards ordinary conversation about the ordinary necessities of daily life, but as regards philosophical and religious discussions of a subtle and earnest kind. The common language thus widely understood—used from the land of the Kurus in the west to Magadha in the east, north-wards at Savatthi and Kusinara in the Nepal hills, and southwards in one direction as far as Ujjen—could not have been Sanskrit. Classical Sanskrit was not yet in existence; and the language used in the BrahmaGas was neither sufficiently known outside the widely scattered schools of the brahmins, nor of a nature to lend itself easily to such discussions. The very last thing one would say of it would be to call it a conversational idiom. Neither is it probable that each one could have spoken in the dialect of the peasantry of his own place of origin. It would have been impossible to use such a dialect for the discussion of such subjects as are described as the matter of these dialogues. 

The only reasonable and probable explanation is that the Wanderers talked in a language common among the cultured laity (officials, nobles, merchants, and others), which bore to the local dialects much the same relation as the English of London, in Shakespeare’s time, bore to the various dialects spoken in Somersetshire, Yorkshire, and Essex. The growth of such a language had only just then become possible. It was greatly promoted by (if not, indeed, the immediate result of) the growth of the great kingdom of Kosala. This included, just before the rise of Buddhism, all, and more than all, of the present United Provinces. And it gave occasion and security for peaceful intercourse, both of a commercial and of an official kind, from one end to the other of its extensive territory. It was precisely these political conditions which favoured also the rapid growth of the institution or custom of the Wanderers, of whom we have no evidence prior to the establishment of the Kosalan power, and who doubtless contributed much to the cultivation of the more intellectual side of the common language which was enabled to grow up under the protective shield of the Kosalan peace. 

The question has been much complicated and obscured by the impressions derived from the Sanskrit dramas which early in the history of our acquaintance with Indian literature became known to Europeans. In them the men of any social standing speak Sanskrit, except occasionally when addressing women. And even the women, especially those of higher rank, are supposed to understand, and occasionally, mostly when verses are put into their mouths, to speak it. Otherwise in the dramas the characters talk, not the vernacular, but the literary Prakrits. 

It is probable, even at the time when the dramas were written, that as a matter of fact every one, in ordinary daily life, spoke neither Sanskrit nor Prakrit, but simply the vernaculars. It is only the authors, when addressing a cultured public at a date when Sanskrit had become the paramount literary language, who thought it proper, in their dramas, to divide up the speeches between Sanskrit and the equally unreal literary Prakrits. But however that may be, even if Sanskrit were then used by ordinary people in their daily intercourse,—which seems to me quite incredible,—that is still of no value at all as evidence of the condition of things twelve centuries before, in a much more simple and natural state of society. 

Another point is that though brahmins take part in the religious and philosophical conversations of those early times, and in the accounts of them are always referred to with respect, and treated with the same courtesy that they always themselves (with one or two instructive exceptions) extended also to others, yet they hold no predominant position. The majority of the Wanderers, and the most influential individuals among them, are not brahmins. And the general impression conveyed by the texts is that the Wanderers and other non-priestly teachers were quite as much, if not more esteemed than the brahmins by the whole people—kings, nobles, officials, merchants, artisans, and peasantry. 

“But that is only a matter of course,” will be the obvious objection. “The books you quote, if not the work of bitter opponents, were at least composed under rajput influence, and are prejudiced against the brahmins. The law-books and the epics represent the brahmins as the centre round which everything in India turns; and that not only because of the sacredness of their persons, but because of their marked intellectual superiority to the rest of the people. Or take the European books on Indian literature and religion. They treat these subjects as practically identical with literature and religion as shown in brahmin books. Surely, then, the brahmins must have been predominant in the intellectual life of the period you are considering.” 

“These are not two independent testimonies,” one would reply. “The European writers would be perfectly willing to consider other texts, if they only had them. They have been perfectly right in using the material before them. And in editing texts they naturally chose first those nearest at hand. But even so, with practically only priestly books to judge by, they are by no means unanimous in accepting the views of those texts as to the exclusive supremacy of the brahmins in early times.” 

Consider, for instance, the opinion of Professor Bhandarkar—himself, be it noted, a high-caste brahmin, and not only the most distinguished of native scholars, but so versed in the methods of historical criticism that his opinion is entitled to special weight. In a strikingly suggestive and important paper he calls attention to the evidence of the inscriptions. In the second century after Christ they begin to record grants of land to brahmins. In the third there are also a few instances. From the fourth century onwards there are quite numerous inscriptions showing a marked rise in brahmin influence. The Gupta kings are then stated to have carried out the most complicated and expensive sacrifices, such as the Horse-sacrifice. Each of two inscriptions records the erection of a sacrificial post, another an endowment for lighting lamps in a temple to the sun. There are grants of villages for the performance of sacrificial rites; and numerous grants of land to brahmins, and to the temples in their charge. But for the four centuries before that (that is to say, from 300 B.C. to 100 A.D.) no brahmin, no brahmin temple, no brahmin god, no sacrifice or ritualistic act of any kind is ever, even once, referred to. There is a very large number of gifts recorded as given by kings, princes, and chiefs, by merchants, goldsmiths, artisans, and ordinary householders; but not one of them is given in support of anything—of any opinion or divinity or practice—with which the brahmins had anything to do. And whereas the later inscriptions, favouring the brahmins and their special sacrifices, are in Sanskrit, these earlier ones, in which they are not mentioned, are in a sort of Pali—not in the local vernacular of the place where the inscriptions are found, but in a dialect similar, in many essential respects, to the dialect for common intercourse, based on the vernacular, which, I suggest, the Wanderers must have used, in their discussions, at the time when Buddhism arose. 

This marked distinction in the inscriptions of the two periods—both as to the object of the gifts they record, and as to the language in which they are written—leads Professor Bhandarkar to the following conclusion: 

“The period that we have been speaking of [that is, from the beginning of the second century B.C. to the end of the fourth century after] has left no trace of a building or sculpture devoted to the use of the Brahmin religion. Of course Brahminism existed; and it was probably, during the period, being developed into the form which it assumed in later times. But the religion certainly does not occupy a prominent position, and Buddhism was followed by the large mass of the people from princes down to the humble workman.” And he goes on to say that the language of the earlier inscriptions “indicates a greater deference for the people who used it, than for Brahmanic learning.” 

If this opinion be accepted as accurate for that period (200 B.C.–400 A.D.)—and it certainly seems incontrovertible—then, a fortiori, it must be accepted in yet larger measure for the period four centuries earlier. As Professor Hopkins says: 

“Brahminism has always been an island in a sea. Even in the Brahmanic age there is evidence to show that it was the isolated belief of a comparatively small group of minds. It did not even control all the Aryan population.” 

With regard to the inscriptions, M. Senart has shown conclusively, by an exhaustive study of the whole subject, that they at no time, either in spelling or in vocabulary, present us with a faithful picture of any vernacular. The degree in which they become more and more nearly allied to Sanskrit is a curious and interesting barometer by which we can gauge the approach of the impending revolution in politics, religion, and literature. And the gradual change in their form, though that form never gives us the real vernacular, is an invaluable assistance in establishing the linguistic history of India. To treat that question at all fully, even in an elementary manner, would demand at least a volume. But the main features may be summarised as follows. We have, in the following order (as to time): 

1. The dialects spoken by the Aryan invaders of India, and by the Dravidian and Kolarian inhabitants they found there. 
2. Ancient High Indian, the Vedic. 
3. The dialects spoken by the Aryans, now often united by marriage and by political union with the Dravidians, in their settlements either along the spurs of the Himalaya range from Kashmir to Nepal, or down the Indus Valley and then across to Avanti, or along the valleys of the Jumna and the Ganges. 
4. Second High Indian, Brahmanic, the literary language of the BrahmaGas and Upanishads. 
5. The vernaculars from Gandhara to Magadha at the time of the rise of Buddhism, not so divergent probably as not to be more or less mutually intelligible. 
6. A conversational dialect, based probably on the local dialect of Savatthi, the capital of Kosala, and in general use among Kosala officials, among merchants, and among the more cultured classes, not only throughout the Kosala dominions, but east and west from Delhi to Patna, and north and south from Savatthi to Avanti. 
7. Middle High Indian, Pali, the literary language based on No. 6, probably in the form in which it was spoken in Avanti. 
8. The Asoka dialect, founded on No. 6, especially as spoken at Patna, but much influenced by the aim at approximation to Nos. 7 and 11. 
9. The Ardha-Magadhi, the dialect of the Jain Angas. 
10. The Lena dialect of the cave inscriptions from the second century B.C. onwards, based on No. 8, but approximating more and more to the next, No. 11, until it merges altogether into it. 
11. Standard High Indian, Sanskrit—elaborated, as to form and vocabulary, out of No. 4; but greatly enriched by words first taken from Nos. 5 to 7, and then brought back, as to form, into harmony with No. 4. For long the literary language only of the priestly schools, it was first used in inscriptions and coins from the second century A.D. onwards; and from the fourth and fifth centuries onwards became the literary lingua franca for all India. 
12. The vernaculars of the India of the fifth century A.D. and onwards. 
13. Prakrit, the literary form of these vernaculars, and especially of Maharashtri. These are derived, not from No. 11 (Sanskrit), but from No. 12, the later forms of the sister dialects to No. 6. 

The technical terms Sanskrit and Prakrit are used strictly, in India, as shown in Nos. 11 and 13. Sanskrit is never used for No. 2 or No. 4. Prakrit is never used for No. 7 or No. 8. Sanskrit was, and is, written in India in various alphabets, a scribe in the north using that form of the Brahmi alphabet current in the district in which he wrote, and a scribe in the south using the corresponding form of the Dravidian alphabet. The particular one of these many alphabets usually selected for use in Europe is an alphabet from Western India of the ninth century A.D.; and it is, therefore, often called the Sanskrit alphabet. As appears from the foregoing list, the centre of linguistic predominance has naturally shifted, in India, with political power. At first it was in the Panjab; then in Kosala; then in Magadha; and finally, when Sanskrit had become the lingua franca, it was in Western India that the most important vernacular was found. It is only in Ceylon that we have documents sufficient to follow the continuous development of a vernacular that has been able to hold its own against the depressing influence of the dead language used in the schools, And the relation there between the vernacular, the language of the inscriptions (based on the vernacular, but subject to the constant and increasing influence of a desire to show knowledge of the “higher” languages), the language used in poetry, Elu (the Prakrit of Ceylon), and Pali, which was there a dead language, used in the schools, is most instructively parallel, throughout, to the history of language in India. 

Throughout the long history of Aryan speech Dravidian dialects were also spoken; and in the north, I venture to think, to a much larger extent and much later in time than is usually supposed. Our No. 2, Vedic, is largely subject to Dravidian influence, both in phonetics and in vocabulary. The Aryan vernaculars throughout, and all the literary forms of speech,—Pali, Sanskrit, and Prakrit,—are charged with it in a degree no less than that in which the descent and the blood-relationships of the many peoples of India are charged with non-Aryan elements—and that is saying a great deal. 

The fact that south of the Godavari we find the reverse state of things—Dravidian dialects charged with Aryan elements—shows that the Aryan settlements there were late, and not very important in regard to numbers. And it took a long time, in spite of a fair sprinkling of brahmin colonists, for the brahmin influence, now so supreme, to reach its supremacy in those parts. The mass of the more wealthy classes, and the more cultured people, in the south, were Buddhists and Jain before they were Hindu in faith. As late as the fifth and sixth centuries we have Pali books written in Kancipura and Tanjur; and as Buddhism declined Jainism became predominant. It was only after the rise of brahmin influence in Northern India in the fourth and fifth centuries, and after it had become well established there, that it became the chief factor also in the south. But when once it had reached that stage, it developed so strongly as to react with great results on the north, where the final victory was actually won during the period from Kumarila to Sankara (700 to 830 A.D.), both of them born in the south, and one of them, apparently, of half Dravidian blood. 

The victory was won. But how far was it a victory? The brahmins had become the sole arbiters in law and social institutions. Their theory of castes had been admitted, and to their own castes was accorded an unquestioned supremacy. Their claim to the exclusive right to teach was practically acknowledged. Of those rajputs who had disputed their authority, the Buddhists and Jains were both reduced to feeble minorities, and the rest had become mostly subservient. All philosophy, except their own pantheistic theosophy, had been driven out of the field. But Vedic rights and Vedic divinities, the Vedic language and Vedic theology, had also gone under in the struggle. The gods of the people received now the homage of the people. Bloody sacrifices were still occasionally offered, but to new divinities; and brahmins no longer presided over the ritual. Their literature had to be recast to suit the new worship, to gain the favour and support of those who did not reverence and worship the Vedic gods. And all sense of history had been lost in the necessity of garbling the story of the past so as to make it tally with their own pretensions. It was when they had ceased to depend on their rights as priests of those sacrifices not much used by the people (who preferred the less costly cult of their local gods), when they had become the champions, the literary defenders, the poets, of the popular gods, that they succeeded in their aim. They had probably gained what most of them wanted most. And in deserting the faith of their forefathers to adopt other views it is by no means certain that they were not first really converted, that they gave up anything they themselves still wanted to keep. The most able of them had ceased philosophically to care for any such divinities as the Vedic ones, and it was a matter of indifference to them what gods the people followed. A small and decreasing minority continued to keep alive the flickering lamp of Vedic learning; and to them the Indian peoples will one day look back with especial gratitude and esteem. 

This rapid sketch of the general history of language and literature in India is enough to show that there also, precisely as in Europe, a dominant factor in the story is the contest between the temporal and spiritual powers. Guelph and Ghibelin, priest and noble, rajput and brahmin, these are the contending forces. From India we had hitherto only that version of the long war, of its causes and of its consequences, which has been preserved by the priestly faction. They make out that they were throughout the leading party. Perhaps so. But it is well to consider also the other side; and not to forget the gravity of the error we should commit if we should happen, in reliance on the priestly books, to antedate, by about a thousand years, the victory of the priests; to suppose, in other words, that the condition of things was the same at the beginning of the struggle as it was at the end. 

It is difficult to avoid being misunderstood. So I would repeat that the priests were always there, were always militant, were always a power. Many of them were learned. A few of them, seldom the learned ones, were wealthy. All of them, even those neither learned nor wealthy, had a distinct prestige. There was never wanting among them a minority distinguished, and rightly distinguished, for earnestness or for intellectual power, or for both. This minority contributed largely to the influence of forward movements both in philosophy and in ethics. Certain members of it were famous as leaders, not only in the brahmin schools, but also among the Wanderers. Even among the Jains and Buddhists a minority of the most influential men were brahmins. But it is a question of degree. Their own later books persistently exaggerate, misstate, above all (that most successful method of suggestio falsi) omit the other side. They have thus given a completely distorted view of Indian society, and of the place, in it, of the priests. They were not the only learned, or the only intellectual men, any more than they were the only wealthy ones. The religion and the customs recorded in their books were not, at any period, the sole religion, or the only customs, of the many peoples of India. The intellectual movement before the rise of Buddhism was in large measure a lay movement, not a priestly one. During the subsequent centuries, down to the Christian era, and beyond it, the priests were left high and dry by the vigorous current of the national aims and hopes. Even later than that how different is the colouring of the picture drawn by the Chinese pilgrims from that of the priestly artists. And we shall continue to have but a blurred and confused idea of Indian history unless, and until, the priestly views are checked and supplemented throughout by a just and proportionate use of the other views now open to research. 

Literature 

The Pali Books 

In the last chapter we have seen that in the sixth century B.C. there was in India a very considerable amount of literature of a special sort. Hampered as it was by the absence of written books, by the necessity of learning by heart, and of constantly repeating, the treatises in which it was contained, the extent of the literature is evidence of a considerable degree both of intelligence and of earnestness in effort among the people of India in those days. A great deal of it, perhaps the larger portion of it, has absolutely perished. But a considerable part of the results of the literary activity of each of three different schools has survived. It is by a comparison of three sets of documents, each of them looking at things from a different point of view, that we have to reconstruct the history of the time. 

Of these three the surviving books—if books they may be called which had never yet been written—composed and used by those of the brahmins who earned their livelihood by the sacrifices, have been now, for the most part, edited and translated; and a large part of the historical results to be won from them have been summarised and explained. But much remains to be done. The documents of the other two schools may be expected to throw fresh light on passages in the brahmin books now misunderstood. The unhappy system of taking these ancient records in the sense attributed to them by modern commentators with much local knowledge but no historical criticism, with great learning but also with considerable party bias, was very naturally adopted at first by European scholars who had everything to learn. The most practical, indeed the only then possible, course was to avail oneself of the assistance of those commentaries, or of the living pandits whose knowledge was entirely based upon them. In the interpretation of the Vedic hymns this method, followed in Wilson’s translation, has now been finally abandoned. But it still survives in many places in the interpretation of the documents nearest to the date of the rise of Buddhism. And we still find, for instance, in the most popular versions of the Upanishads, opinions that are really the outcome of centuries of philosophic or theosophic discussions, transplanted from the pages of Shankara in the ninth century A.D. into these ancient texts of the eighth or seventh century B.C. 

This method of interpretation takes effect in two ways. A passage in the vague and naive style of those old thinkers (or, rather, poets) is made more exact and precise, is given what is, no doubt, a clearer meaning, by putting into it the later ideas. And in the translation of single words, especially those of philosophic or ethical import, a connotation, which they had really acquired many centuries afterwards, is held applicable at the earlier date. In both these cases a better commentary could be drawn from the general views, and from the exact meaning of philosophic terms, preserved in documents much nearer in time to the Upanishads, though opposed to them on many essential points. As Professor Jacobi says: 

“The records of the Buddhists and Jainas about the philosophic ideas current at the time of the Buddha and the Mahavira, meagre though they be [he is speaking of the incidental references to the ideas they did not accept], are of the greatest importance to the historian of that epoch.” 

Of these records the Pali ones (thanks, in great part, to the continuous efforts, during the past twenty years, of the Pali Text Society), are very nearly all now available. We can say not only what they do, but (which is often of even more importance) what they do not, contain. The Jain records are unfortunately as yet known only in fragments. It is the greatest desideratum for the history of this period that they should be made accessible in full. The philosophical and religious speculations contained in them may not have the originality, or intrinsic value, either of the Vedanta or of Buddhism. But they are none the less historically important because they give evidence of a stage less cultured, more animistic, that is to say, earlier. And incidentally they will undoubtedly be found, as the portions accessible already show, to contain a large number of important references to the ancient geography, the political divisions, the social and economic conditions of India at a period hitherto very imperfectly understood. 

It is difficult to appreciate the objections made to the authenticity and authority of these documents. The arguments advanced in 1884 by Professor Jacobi seem quite incontrovertible, and indeed they have not been seriously disputed. The books purport to be substantially the ones put together in the fourth century B.C. when Bhadrabahu was head of the community. The Jains themselves, of all divisions or schools, acknowledge that there had been older books (the Purvas, the Former Ones), now lost. Had they been inventing the story this is not the way in which they would have put it. 

They would have claimed that the existing books were the original literature of their Order. The linguistic and epigraphic evidence so far available confirms in many respects both the general reliability of the traditions current among the Jains, and the accuracy of this particular detail. Of course the name given in this tradition to the older books cannot have been the original name. They were only “former” as compared with the eleven Angas that are still preserved. And the existing books, if of the fourth century, can only be used with critical care as evidence of institutions, or events, of the sixth century B.C. Still, even so, we have here important materials for Indian history, at present only very imperfectly utilised. 

It is really much the same with the existing records of the other school, of the men we now call Buddhists. They have as yet been only very imperfectly utilised, though they are better and more completely known than the last. This is partly, no doubt, because we call them Buddhists, and imagine them, therefore, to belong to a separate class, quite distinct from other Indians of that epoch. The Buddhists were, as a matter of fact, characteristically and distinctively Indian. They probably, at least during the fourth and third centuries B.C., formed the majority of the people. And the movement of thought out of which all these schools arose, so far from being a negligible quantity, as the priestly books suggest, was one of the most dominant factors the historian of the fourth, fifth, and sixth centuries B.C. has to consider. 

As to the age of the Buddhist canonical books, the best evidence is the contents of the books themselves—the sort of words they use, the style in which they are composed, the ideas they express. Objection, it is true, has recently been raised against the use of such internal evidence. And the objection is valid if it be urged, not against the general principle of the use of such evidence, but against the wrong use of it. We find, for instance, that Phallus-worship is often mentioned, quite as a matter of course, in the Mahabharata, as if it had always been common everywhere throughout Northern India. In the Nikayas, though they mention all sorts of what the Buddhists regarded as foolish or superstitious forms of worship, this particular kind, Siva-worship under the form of the Linga, is not even once referred to. The Mahabharata mentions the Atharva Veda, and takes it as a matter of course, as if it were an idea generally current, that it was a Veda, the fourth Veda. The Nikayas constantly mention the three others, but never the Atharva. Both cases are interesting. But before drawing the conclusion that, therefore, the Nikayas, as we have them, are older than the existing text of the Mahabharata, we should want a very much larger number of such cases, all tending the same way, and also the certainty that there were no cases of an opposite tendency that could not otherwise be explained. 

On the other hand, suppose a MS. were discovered containing, in the same handwriting, copies of Bacon’s Essays and of Hume’s Essay, with nothing to show when, or by whom, they were written; and that we knew nothing at all otherwise about the matter. Still we should know, with absolute certainty, which was relatively the older of the two; and should be able to determine, within a quite short period, the actual date of each of the two works. The evidence would be irresistible because it would consist of a very large number of minute points of language, of style, and, above all, of ideas expressed, all tending in the same direction. 

This is the sort of internal evidence that we have before us in the Pali books. Any one who habitually reads Pali would know at once that the Nikayas are older than the Dhamma Sangani; that both are older than the Katha Vatthu; that all three are older than the Milinda. And the Pali scholars most competent to judge are quite unanimous on the point, and on the general position of the Pali literature in the history of literature in India. 

But this sort of evidence can appeal, of course, only to those familiar with the language and with the ideas. To those who are not, the following points may be suggestive: 

On the monuments of the third century B.C. we find the names of donors—donors of different parts of the building—inscribed on those parts (pillars, rails, and bas-reliefs). When the names are common ones, certain epithets are added, to distinguish the donors from other persons bearing the same name. Such epithets are either local (as we might say, John of Winchester) or they specify an occupation (as we might say, John the carpenter, or John the clerk) or are otherwise distinctive. Among these epithets have been found the following: 

1. Dhamma-kathika.—”Preacher of the System” (the Dhamma)—the “System” being a technical term in the Buddhist schools to signify the philosophical and ethical doctrine as distinguished from the Vinaya, the Rules of the Order. 
2. Pemakin.—”One who had (that is, knew by heart) the Pimaka.” The Pimaka is the traditional statements of Buddhist doctrine as contained in the Sutta Pimaka. The word means basket, and as a technical term applied to a part of their literature: it is used exclusively by the Buddhists. 
3. Suttantika.—”A man who knows a Suttanta by heart.” 
4. Suttantakini.—”A woman who knows a Suttanta by heart.” Suttanta is, again, a technical term used exclusively of certain portions of the Buddhist canonical books, more especially of the Dialogues. It means literally the “end of the Suttas.” In its technical sense it is the aim, object, outcome of them; and is applied to the Dialogues as giving, in a more complete and elaborate form, the general result of those shorter Suttas on which they are based. 
5. The brahmins have an analogous term, Vedanta, applied, in post-Buddhistic writings, at first in the Uvetauvatara and Mundaka Upanishads and often afterwards, to the Upanishads, as being the highest outcome of the Vedas. Previously to this the word is only found in its literal sense, “the end of the Veda,” and the secondary sense is, therefore, probably adapted from the corresponding (and earlier) Buddhist term. 
6. Pancha-nekayika.—”One who knows the Five Nikayas by heart.” The five Nikayas, or “Collections,” as a technical term used of literary works, is applied to the canonical Buddhist texts, and to them only. Of the five, the first two contain the Suttantas, the next two are made up of Suttas arranged in two different ways, and the fifth is a supplementary collection, mostly of later works. As the word Nikaya also means a school, or sect, it is somewhat ambiguous, and was gradually replaced by the word Agama, continually used in the later Sanskrit literature. The same remark holds good of the technical term Suttanta. That also was gradually replaced by the shorter and easier phrase Sutta. 

The expressions here explained are used on Buddhist monuments and refer to Buddhist books. They are conclusive proof that some time before the date of the inscriptions (that is, roughly speaking, before the time of Asoka), there was a Buddhist literature in North India, where the inscriptions are found. And further, that that literature then had divisions known by the technical names of Pimaka, Nikaya, and Suttanta, and that the number of Nikayas then in existence was five. 

But this is not all. Asoka, in his Bhabra Edict, addressed to the Buddhist Order (the Sangha), recommends to the Brethren and Sisters of the Order, and to the lay disciples of either sex, frequently to hear (that is to learn by heart), and to meditate upon, certain selected passages. And of these he, most fortunately, gives the names. They are as follows: 

Ariya-vasani (now found in the Digha Nikaya, in the portion called the Sangiti Suttanta). 

Anagata-bhayani (now found in the Anguttara Nikaya, vol. iii. pp. 105–108). 

Muni Gatha (now found in the Sutta Nipata, verses 206–220). 

Moneyya Sutta (now found in the Iti-vuttaka, p. 67, and also in the Anguttara Nikaya, vol. i. p. 272). 

Upatissa Pasina.—“The question put by Upatissa” (more commonly known as Sariputta). There are so many such questions in the books that opinions differ as to which of them is the one most probably referred to. 

There is a word at the commencement of this list which may either be an adjective applied to the whole list, or the name of another passage. However this may be, this Edict of Asoka’s gives the actual titles of some of the shorter passages included, in his time, in those books, the larger divisions of which are mentioned in the inscriptions just referred to. 

Now the existing literature, divided into the same larger divisions, contains also the shorter passages. To suppose that it was composed in Ceylon is to suppose that, by an extraordinary series of chances, the Ceylon writers happened to hit upon just the identical technical terms, two of them then almost fallen out of use, that had been used in these old inscriptions (of which they knew nothing) for the names they gave to the larger divisions of the literature they made. And we must further suppose that, by another extraordinary series of chances, they happened to include in those divisions a number of shorter passages, each of them corresponding exactly to those mentioned by name, long before their time, in Asoka’s Edict, of which also they knew nothing. To adopt such a theory as the most probable explanation of the facts would be nothing less than absurd. 

How is it, then, will be the immediate question, that this theory in almost, if not in all, the current books on Buddhism or on Indian history is taken for granted; that the Pali canonical literature is always called “the Southern Recension” or “the Singhalese Canon”? 

The expression is ambiguous, and apt to be misleading. But though it is doubtless sometimes used in such a way as to suggest that these books were composed in Ceylon, this is not its real meaning, and it is never so used by careful writers. It simply means that of the few works known to the European scholars who first studied Buddhism, the MSS. of some came from Ceylon; and that such works were therefore called southern, to distinguish them from the others, known from MSS. which had come from Nepal, and therefore called northern. 

It is very possible that Burnouf, to whom the popularity of this mode of speech is mainly due, leaned at first to the opinion that the canonical works had been actually written in Ceylon. He always spoke of them in his first work as “the Pali books of Ceylon,” not as “the Pali books of India.” But that phrase is also ambiguous. Very conscious how meagre, and for the most part how late, were the works he used, he was much too careful a scholar to express, at first, any clear opinion at all. At the end of his long labours, however, he certainly was quite clearly of the contrary opinion. For at the very close of his magnificent work, at p. 862 of the “Lotus,” he suggests that the Pali works “may have been popular among inferior castes, and the great mass of the people, in Magadha and Audh, while the Buddhist Sanskrit works were in use among the brahmins.” He at that time regarded them all, herefore, as North Indian works. And considering that he knew nothing of the inscriptions, and had only the internal evidence to guide him, this suggestion, though not exactly right, reflects the greatest credit on his literary judgment. Had he started with this view, we should probably have been saved the use of the ambiguous phrases, so suggestive of these works being written in Ceylon, which have had so great an influence in retarding the acceptance of the view that that great pioneer in Buddhist studies came at last, himself, to hold. 

Not only ought such phrases to be dropt out of any works, on these subjects, claiming to be scholarly; but even the phrases “northern” and “southern” should be avoided. This seems a pity, for they look so convenient. But the convenience is delusive if they convey a wrong impression. And I venture to assert that most people draw the conclusion that we have two distinct Buddhisms to deal with, one made in Nepal, the other made in Ceylon. Every one now agrees that this is all wrong. What we have is not two, but very many different sorts of Buddhism; for almost every book gives us a different doctrine. 

The more authoritative and ancient books, whether written in Pali or in Buddhist Sanskrit, are none of them either northern or southern. They all, without any exception,—if we disregard the absurdly unimportant detail of the place from which our modern copies of them are derived,—claim to belong, and do actually belong, to the Middle Country, as the Indians call it, that is, to the Ganges Valley. Each differs from the next (in point of date) by small gradations in doctrine. There are such differences even within the Nikayas themselves. Many Sanskrit books, though they differ, by containing certain details of later opinion, from the oldest Pali ones, still, on the whole, have to be classed with the Pali rather than with the other Sanskrit works. The Sanskrit Maha Vastu, for instance (“The Sublime Story”) is much nearer to the Pali Cariya Pitaka (“The Tradition as to Conduct”) than it is to such Sanskrit books as the “Lotus of the Good Law.” All three alike had their origin in the Middle Country—where exactly, in that country, we cannot, with respect to any one of the three, determine. The only two ancient works we can specify as distinctly northern in origin, the Milinda and the Gosinga Anthology, are neither of them written in Sanskrit, and are identical in doctrine with what is called southern Buddhism. Is it not rather absurd to have to ticket as southern just the very two books we know to be the most northern in origin? 

There is not now, and never has been, any unity either of opinion or of language in what is called northern, or in what is called southern Buddhism. There is a distinct disadvantage in continually suggesting a unity which has no existence in fact. In a word, the current division of Buddhist literature into northern and southern is entirely unscientific, and misleading. It contains a suggestio falsi in at least two important respects. It cuts across the only division that has a scientific basis, the division, not according to the locality whence we get our modern copies, but according to time, according to date of origin. 

Why then continue the use of an ambiguous phraseology which may be (and which we know, from experience, will be) misunderstood? The only way to avoid endless confusion is to drop the use of it altogether. And I take this opportunity of acknowledging my error in having used it so long myself. In my Buddhism, from the fifteenth edition onwards the mistake has been corrected. So slight is the change that no one is likely to have noticed it. The word “northern” has been replaced by “Tibetan,” “Japanese,” “Mahayanist,” etc., according to the context. There has been no loss in clearness, or in conciseness, and much gain in precision. 

We must take our Pali canonical books then to be North Indian, not Singhalese in origin; and the question as to whether they have suffered from their sometime sojourn under the palm groves of the mountain viharas in the south must be decided by a critical study of them in their present condition. Toward such a study there are some points that can already be made. 

The books make no mention of Asoka. Had they undergone any serious re-editing after the reign of the great Buddhist Emperor (of whom the Buddhist writers, whether rightly or wrongly, were so proud), is it probable that he would have been so completely ignored? 

The books never mention any person, or any place, in Ceylon; or even in South India. They tell us a goodly number of anecdotes, usually as introductions to, or in illustration of, some ethical point. It would have been so easy to bring in a passing reference to some Ceylon worthy—in the same way as the brahmin Buddhaghosa does so often, in his Attha Salini, which was revised in Ceylon. If the Pimaka books had been tampered with, would not opportunity have been taken to yield to this very natural impulse? 

We know a great deal now of developed or corrupted doctrine current in Ceylon, of new technical terms invented, of new meanings put into the older phrases. Not one single instance has yet been found of any such later idea, any such later form of language, any such later technical term, in any one of the canonical books. 

The philosophic ideas of the ancient Buddhism, and the psychological ideas on which they were based, were often curtly, naïvely, confusedly expressed. In Ceylon they had been much worked up, polished, elucidated, systematised. From several works now accessible we know fairly well the tone and manner of these later—and, as they must have seemed to Ceylon scholars, clearer, fuller—statements of the old ideas. In no single instance yet discovered has this later tone and manner found its way into the canonical books. 

It would seem, then, that any change that may have been made in these North Indian books after they had been brought into Ceylon must have been insignificant. It would be a great advantage if we should be able to find even one or two instances of such changes. We should then be able to say what sort and degree of alteration the Ceylon scholars felt justified in making. But it is clear that they regarded the canon as closed. 

While the books were in North India, on the other hand, and the canon was not considered closed, there is evidence of a very different tone. One whole book, the Katha Vatthu, was added as late as the time of Asoka; and perhaps the Parivara, a mere string of examination questions, is not much older. One story in the Peta Vatthu is about a king Pingalaka, said in the commentary to have reigned over Surat two hundred years after the Buddha’s time; and another refers to an event fifty-six years after the Buddha’s death. The latter is certainly in its right place in this odd collection of legends. The former may (as the commentator thinks) have been added at Asoka’s Council. Even if it were, that would be proof that they then thought no harm of adding to the legendary matter in their texts. And the whole of this little book of verses, together with the Vimana Vatthu (really only the other half of one and the same work), is certainly very late in tone as compared with the Nikayas. 

The same must be said of two other short collections of ballads. One is the Buddha Vansa, containing a separate poem on each of twenty-five Buddhas, supposed to have followed one another in succession. The other is the Cariya Pimaka, containing thirty-four short Jataka stories turned into verse. Both of these must also be late. For in the Nikayas only seven Buddhas are known; and Jatakas, in the technical sense, are not yet thought of. This particular set of Jatakas is also arranged on the basis of the Paramitas, a doctrine that plays no part in the older books. The Ten Perfections (Paramita) are qualities a Buddha is supposed to be obliged to have acquired in the countless series of his previous rebirths as a Bodhisatva. But this is a later notion, not found in the Nikayas. It gradually grew up as the Bodhisatva idea began to appeal more to the Indian mind. And it is interesting to find already, in these latest of the canonical books, the germs of what afterwards developed into the later Mahayana doctrine, to which the decline of Buddhism, in the opinion of Professor Bhandarkar, was eventually so greatly due. 

This question of the history of the Jataka stories will be considered in greater detail in our next chapter. What has been here said (and other similar evidence will, no doubt, be hereafter discovered) is amply sufficient to show that some parts of the Canon are later than others; and that the books as we have them contain internal evidence from which conclusions may fairly be drawn as to their comparative age. Such conclusions, of course, are not always so plain as is the case in the four instances—the Peta and Vimana Vatthus, the Buddha Vansa, and the Cariya Pimaka—just considered. For example, let us take the case of the Sutta Nipata. 

This also is a short collection of poems. It contains fifty-four lyrics, each of them very short, arranged in four Cantos; and then sixteen others, as a fifth Canto, strung together by a framework of story. The last Canto (called the Parayana) had evidently once existed as a separate poem. It is so treated by the commentator, who calls it a Suttanta; and it is in fact about as long as one of those Suttantas in the Digha Nikaya which consist of verses strung together by a framework of story in prose. It is six times quoted or referred to by name, as a separate poem, in the Nikayas. 

The preceding Canto, the fourth, is called “The Eights,” most of the lyrics in it containing eight stanzas apiece. This Canto is also referred to by name as a separate work, in other parts of the Canon. And it must in very earlier times have been already closely associated in thought with the fifth Canto, for the two together are the subject of a curious old commentary, the only work of the kind included in the Nikayas. That this commentary, the Niddesa, takes no notice of the other three Cantos would seem to show that, when it was composed, the whole of the five Cantos had not yet been brought together into a single book. 

Of the thirty-eight poems in the earlier three Cantos no less than six are found also in other parts of the Canon They had existed as separate hymns, popular in the community, before they were incorporated into the several collections in which they are now found. When we find also that numerous isolated verses in these thirty-eight poems occur elsewhere in very ancient documents, the most probable explanation is that these were current as proverbs or as favourite sayings (either in the community, or perhaps among the people at large) before they were independently incorporated in the different poems in which they are now found. 

We find, then, that single verses, single poems, and single Cantos, had all been in existence before the work assumed its present shape. This is very suggestive as to the manner of growth not only of this book, but of all the Indian literature of this period. It grew up in the schools; and was the result rather of communistic than of individual effort. No one dreamed of claiming the authorship of a volume. In the whole of the Buddhist canonical works one only, and that the very latest, has a personal name attached to it, the name of a leading member of the Order said to have lived in the time of Asoka. During the previous three centuries authorship is attributed not to treatises, or even poems, but only to verses; and to verses in two only out of the many collections of verses that have been preserved. Out of twenty-nine books in the Canon no less than twenty-six have no author at all, apart from the community. 

This is decisive as to popular feeling on the point. And even in the priestly schools the then prevalent custom was not greatly different. Their works also were not produced by individuals, but grew up in the various schools of the priestly community. And no priestly work ascribed to an individual author can be dated much before the time of Asoka. 

And yet another point, which will turn out, unless I am much mistaken, to be of striking importance for the history of Indian literature, arises in connection with the Sutta Nipata. The fifth Canto regarded as a single poem, and about one-third of all the other poems in the collection, are of the nature of ballads. They describe some short incident, the speeches being always in verse, but the story itself usually in prose (though in a few instances this also is in verse). They resemble in this respect a very large number of Suttas found in other portions of the Canon. And even a few of the Suttantas— such as the “Riddles of Sakka,” for instance (certainly one of our oldest documents, for it is quoted by name in the SaCyutta)—are characteristic specimens of this kind of composition. It is, in fact, next to the prose Sutta, the most popular style for literary effort during this period. 

This manner of expressing one’s ideas is now quite unknown. But it has been known throughout the world as the forerunner of the epic. Professor Windisch has subjected those of these ballads that are based on the temptation legends to an exhaustive study in his masterly monograph, Mara und Buddha. He says, apropos of the two ballads on this subject in the Sutta Nipata: 

“These two Suttas might have been regarded as a fragment of an epic had we otherwise found any traces of an ancient Buddha Epic. But that is not to be thought of. Far rather are these Suttas to be looked upon as the early beginnings out of which, in certain circumstances, a Buddha Epic could eventually arise. 

“We can mark with special ease how an Epic arises, and of what process an Epic, as a particular form of literature, is the consummation. Some years ago I drew attention to the historical points we have here to take into consideration in a lecture to the Congress of philologians at Gera on the Irish legends and the question of Ossian. There I laid the chief stress on the old-Irish legends, but compared also the legends in ancient India. The latter subject was independently dealt with by Oldenberg in his well-known articles on the Akhyana hymns where the subject referred to (the relations of the Epic to previous literary forms) is dealt with in detail and thoroughly explained. Professor Geldner then considered the same subject, partly from new points of view, inasmuch as he followed them out also in the case of the Avesta, in his article in the ‘Vedische Studien.’ Now we find also in the Buddhist literature, as Oldenberg was the first to point out, this epic narrative in mixed prose and verse.… The persons who act, the place where they act, and the action itself form the constituent elements of the narrative. But the latter only springs into life when the persons acting are also represented as speaking. Now the speeches are frequently what it is least possible to keep historically accurate, where, therefore, the fancy of the narrator and the art of the poet come most into play. Conversation (speech and rejoinder) is the first part of the narrative to be put into verse, and that especially at the crucial points of the story. Here the beginnings of epic and drama lie close together. That the more ancient epics in all countries contain many speeches and counter speeches can be seen too from the Iliad. It is only in the later epic form that this dramatic element is kept in the background. So in the old-Greek drama also we have an epic element in the speeches of the messengers. But a poem becomes completely epical only when to the speeches in verse is added also the framework of the story in metrical form. And the last stage is that the speeches grow shorter, or fall out, and only events are given in verse.”

Both the general accuracy and the great importance of this far-reaching generalisation will be admitted by all. Now we have in the Nikayas all sorts of the earliest forms of the evolution referred to. We find (in the Thera- and Theri-Gatha, for instance) only the speeches in verse in the canonical books, and the framework of prose, without which they are often unintelligible, handed on, by tradition, in the Commentary. We find (as in the Suttantas in the second volume of the Digha, or in the Udana) speeches in verse, and framework in prose, both preserved in the canonical book. And we find ballads (such as the two Suttas discussed by Professor Windisch) in which speeches and framework are both preserved in verse. But it is not till long afterwards, in the time of Kanishka, that we have a fully developed Buddha Epic. 

Are we then to suppose that the Indians had a rnental constitution different from that of the other Aryan tribes (after all, their relatives in a certain degree) throughout the world? Or are we to suppose that the Buddhist community formed a section so completely cut off from the rest of the people that they were uninfluenced by the existence, in their immediate surroundings, of the great Indian Epics. The Ramayana, as Professor Jacobi has shown, was composed in Kosala, on the basis of ballads popularly recited by rhapsodists throughout that district. But the very centre of the literary activity of the Buddhists was precisely Kosala. After the Ramayana had become known there as a perfect epic, with the distinctive marks of the epic style, would such of the people in Kosala as had embraced the new doctrine have continued to use only the ancient method of composition? This would be quite without parallel. But we have to choose between this supposition (not a probable one) and the alternative proposition—that is to say, that whatever the date to be assigned to this ballad literature, in mixed prose and verse, preserved in the Nikayas, the date of the Mahabharata and of the Ramayana, as Epics, must be later. 

We may be pretty sure that if the Epics had existed at the period when this Buddhist literature was composed, they would have been referred to in it. But they are not. On the other hand, the ballads in prose and verse, such as those sung by the rhapsodists (the stage out of which the epics were evolved), are referred to under their technical name of akkhanas (Sanskrit akhyanas) in one of the oldest documents. Mention is there made of various sorts of public spectacles, and one of these is the reciting of such Akhyanas. And when the commentator in the early part of the fifth century A.D. explains this as the reciting of the Bharata, the Ramayana, and so on, that is, as exegesis, perfectly right. This was the sort of thing referred to. But his remark is evidence of the existence of the perfect Epics, only at his own time, not at the time of the old text he is explaining. 

This may seem, I am afraid, to have been a digression. But it is really very much to the purpose, when discussing Indian literature in this period, to bring out the importance of the wide prevalence of the versifying faculty, and to discuss the stage to which it had reached, the style of composition in which it was mostly used. We hear of four kinds of poets:—the poet of imagination (who makes original verses): the poet of tradition (the repeater of current verses); the poet of real life (or perhaps of worldly as distinct from religious topics); and the improvisatore. We have several instances in the books of such impromptu verses. Though they were probably not quite so impromptu as they are described to be, we need not doubt the fact that the art was then a recognised form of ability. And when a man is charged with being “drunk with poesy” (kavey-yamatto) the rapt and far-away look of the poet in the moment of inspiration cannot have been altogether unfamiliar. 

It is interesting to notice that, just as we have evidence at this period of the first steps having been taken towards a future Epic, so we have evidence of the first steps towards a future drama—the production before a tribal concourse on fixed feast days of shows with scenery, music, and dancing. There is ample evidence in the Buddhist and Jain records, and in Asoka inscriptions, of the existence of these samajjas, as they were called, as a regular institution. That they are not mentioned in the priestly books need inspire no doubt upon the point. This is only another instance of the priestly habit of persistently ignoring what they did not like. We see from the Sigalovada Suttanta that recitations, or the telling of stories, in mixed prose and verse (akkhana), also took place at these meetings. But this seems, from the evidence at present attainable, to have been distinct; and the interpretation of the word I have rendered “scenery” is open to doubt. We cannot talk, therefore, as yet, of drama. When we see, however, that these meetings took place at sacred places, on the hilltops, and that high officials were invited and had special seats provided for them, we find ourselves in presence, not of private undertakings, but of such religious and communal ceremonies as those to which the beginnings of drama have elsewhere also been traced back. It is true that the kind of religion which we have here to consider is not the religion of the brahmins. The general prohibition which forbade a brahmin to see or hear dancing or music must have included such performances. But it was at that time none the less on that account, a very vital and popular part of the national faith.

I have dealt in this chapter, not with the contents, which I have described elsewhere, but only with the outward form and style of the literature. It shows a curious contrast between the value of the ideas to be expressed and the childlike incapacity to express them well. We have here, as to style, only the untrained adolescence of the Indian mind. But what vigour it has! The absence of writing materials seems naturally to have affected less the short poems than the style of the prose, and there is much rough and rugged beauty both in the ballads and in the lyrics. Now the style, and much of the thought, is not Buddhist but Indian; and is in some respects the only evidence we possess of the literary ability, at that time, of the Indian peoples. If only we had still some of the ballads out of which the Epics were subsequently formed, they would, I am convinced, show equal limitations, but also equal power. In after times we have evidence of more successful study of the arts and methods of rhetoric and poetry. But never do we find the same virility, the same curious compound of humour and irony and love of nature on the one hand, with a deadly earnestness, and really on the whole a surprisingly able grasp of the deepest problems of life, on the other. As we shall see presently in the case of the philosophy, so also is it true of the literature that it is in this period that India came nearest to having a Golden Age. And the learned, ornate poetry of later times is to the literature of this period what the systemisations and learned commentaries of Buddhaghosa and Uankara are to the daring speculations and vivid life of the early Upanishads and of the Four Nikayas. 

The Jataka Book

The Jataka book, which we have now had before us for some years, in full, in the admirable edition of the Pali text by Professor Fausböll, is now also approaching its completion in the English translation published at Cambridge under the supervision of Professor Cowell. It is so full of information on the daily habits and customs and beliefs of the people of India, and on every variety of the numerous questions that arise as to their economic and social conditions, that it is of the utmost importance to be able to determine the period to which the evidence found in this book is applicable. The problem is somewhat complicated. But if only the right distinctions be drawn, the solution of it seems to me substantially sure, and really perfectly simple. 

That we should have to draw distinctions between different parts of the same book is nothing surprising. As Professor Deussen has said of the early Upanishads, and as Professor Winternitz has said of the Maha-Bharata, so also may be said of the Nikayas and of the Vinaya (and even of some portions of the Abhidhamma), that “we must judge each separate piece by itself.” And this is really only the very natural and necessary result of what has been pointed out above, that the books grew up gradually, that they were not books in our modern sense, and that they had no single authors. 

The distinctions we have to draw will best be shown by an example. The following is an abstract of a typical Jataka. 

THE BANYAN-DEER BIRTH STORY

“Follow rather the Banyan Deer.” This the Master told when at Jetavana about the mother of Kumara Kassapa,’ and so on. 

Then follows the story of this lady, how, after being wrongly found guilty of immoral conduct, she had been declared innocent through the intervention of the Buddha. Then it is said that the brethren talking this matter over at eventide, the Buddha came there, and learning the subject of their discourse said: “Not now only has the Tathagata proved a support and protection to these two [the lady and her son]; formerly also he was the same.” Then, on request, he revealed that matter, concealed by change of birth. “Once upon a time, when Brahmadatta was reigning in Benares, the Bodhisatta was reborn as a deer, a king of the deer, by name the Banyan Deer,” and so on. 

This is the Jataka proper. It tells how there were two herd of deer shut in in the king’s park. The king or his cook went daily to hunt for deer for venison. For each one killed many were wounded or harassed by the chase. So the golden coloured Banyan Deer, king of one of the herds, went to the king of the other herd, the Branch Deer, and persuaded him to a compact that lots should be cast, and that, every day, the one deer on whom the lot fell should go voluntarily to the cook’s place of execution, and lay his head upon the block. And this was done. And so by the daily death of one the rest were saved from torture and distress. 

Now one day the lot fell upon a pregnant doe in Branch Deer’s herd. She applied to the king of that herd to order that the lot, “which was not meant to fall on two at once,” should pass her by. But he harshly bade her begone to the block. Then she went to King Banyan Deer and told her piteous tale. He said he would see to it, and he went himself and laid his head on the block. 

Now the king had decreed immunity to the two kings of the respective herds. When the cook saw King Banyan Deer lying there with his head on the block, he went hastily and told the king (the king of the men). The latter mounted his chariot, and with a great retinue went to the spot, and said: 

“My friend, the king of the deer, did I not grant your life? Why are you here?” Then the king of the deer told him all. And the man-king was greatly touched, and said: “Rise up! I grant you your lives, both to you and to her!” Then the rejoinder came: “But though two be thus safe, what shall the rest of the herds do, O king of men?” So they also obtained security. And when the Banyan Deer had similarly procured protection for all the various sorts of living things, the king of the deer exhorted the king of men to justice and mercy, preaching the truth to him “with the grace of a Buddha.” 

And the doe gave birth to a son, beautiful as buds of flowers, and he went playing with the Branch Deer’s herd. Then his mother exhorted him in a verse: 

“Follow rather the Banyan, dear; 

Cultivate not the Branch! 

Death, with the Banyan, were better far, 

Than, with the Branch, long life.” 

And the Banyan Deer made a compact with the men that wherever leaves were tied round a field the deer should not trespass, and he made all the deer keep to the bargain. From that time, they say, the sign of the tying of leaves was seen in the fields.

This is the end of the Jataka proper, the “Story of the Past.” 

Then the Teacher identified the characters in the story as being himself and his contemporaries in a former birth. “He who was then the Branch is now Devadatta, his herd the members of the Order who followed Devadatta in his schism, the doe is now Kumara Kassapa’s mother, the deer she gave birth to is now her son Kumara Kassapa, the king of the men is now Ananda, but Banyan, the king of the deer, was I myself.” 

The bas-relief here reproduced from the Bharhut Tope illustrates, on one picture, several scenes from this Jataka. 

In this story we have first the outer framework, constituted by the introductory episode and the concluding identification. Encased in this we have the Jataka proper, the “Story of the past,” as it is called in Pali. And in this again we have what is, in the existing canonical Jataka book, the kernel of the whole, the verse. Each of these has a separate history. 

The oldest form in which we find any Jataka is, as might be naturally expected, the simple fable or parable itself, without the outer framework at all, and without the verse. Thus in one of the Nikayas we have an exhortation to maintain a constant presence of mind, for that is “the proper sphere “ of a religieux. Should he do otherwise, should he allow worldly things to agitate his mind, then will he fall—as the field quail, when he left his customary and ancestral haunts, fell into the power of the hawk. And the fable is told as an introduction to the exhortation. It has, as yet, no framework. And it contains no verse. It has not yet, therefore, become a Jataka. 

But one of the Jatakas is precisely this very fable, in identical words for the most part. It is decked out with a framework of introductory story and concluding identification, just as in the example just given. And two verses are added, one in the fable itself, and one in the framework. And there can be no question as to which is the older document; for the Jataka quotes as its source, and by name and chapter, the very passage in the SaCyutta in which the fable originally occurs.

The heroes of two of these stories, Makha Deva and Maha-sudassana, are already in these older documents identified at the end of the stories with the Buddha in a previous birth. In the Maha-sudassana, in the Litta, and in the second of the two older versions of the Baka story, the verses are given. In all the rest both identification and verses are still, as yet, wanting. 

The reverse case is about as frequent; that is to say, stories are told in the older documents, and the hero is expressly identified with the Buddha in a previous birth, and nevertheless these stories are not included in our Jataka collection. Such stories even before the Jataka book grew up were called Jatakas. There is a very ancient division found already in the Nikayas, of Buddhist literature into nine classes. One of these is “JatakaC,” that is to say, Jatakas. And this must refer to such episodes in previously existing books. It cannot refer to the Jataka book now included in the Canon, for that was not yet in existence. And it is important to notice that in no one of these instances of the earliest compositions that were called Jatakas is the Buddha identified in his previous birth with an animal. He is identified only with famous sages and teachers of olden time. This was the first idea to be attached to the word Jataka. What we find in the canonical book is a later development of it. 

Such are the oldest forms, in the Buddhist literature, of the Jatakas. And we learn from them two facts, both of importance. In the first place these oldest forms have, for the most part, no framework and no verse. They are fables, parables, legends, entirely (with two exceptions) in prose. 

Secondly, our existing Jataka book is only a partial record. It does not contain all the Jatakas that were current, in the earliest period of their literature, among the Buddhist community. 

So much is certain. But I venture to go farther and to suggest that the character of these ten earlier Jatakas, in their pre-Jataka shape, enables us to trace their history back beyond the Buddhist literature altogether. None of them are specially Buddhist. They are modified, perhaps, more or less to suit Buddhist ethics. But even the Maha-sudassana, which is the most so, is in the main simply an ancient Indian legend of sun worship. And the rest are pre-Buddhistic Indian folklore. There is nothing peculiarly Buddhist about them. Even the ethics they inculcate are Indian. What is Buddhist about them, in this their oldest shape, is only the selection made. There was, of course, much other folklore, bound up with superstition. This is left out. And the ethic is, of course, of a very simple kind. It is milk for babes. This comes out clearly in the legend of the Great King of Glory—the Maha-sudassana. In its later Jataka form it lays stress on the impermanence of all earthly things, on the old lesson of the vanity of the world. In its older form, as a Suttanta, it lays stress also on the Ecstasies (the Jhanas), which are perhaps pre-Buddhistic, and on the Sublime Conditions (the Brahma-Viharas), which are certainly distinctively Buddhistic (though a similar idea occurs in the later Yoga Sutra, 1. 33). These are much deeper, and more difficult, matters. 

So much for the earliest forms in which we find the Jatakas. The next evidence in point of date is that of the bas-reliefs on the Bharhut and Sanchi Stupas— those invaluable records of ancient Indian archeology of which so much use has been made in this volume. Among the carvings on the railings round these stupas are a number of scenes, each bearing as a title in characters of the third century B.C., the name of a Jataka; and also other scenes, without a title, but similar in character. Twenty-seven of the scenes have been recognised as illustrating passages in the existing Jataka Book. Twenty-three are still unidentified, and some of these latter are meant, no doubt, to illustrate Jataka stories current in the community, but not included in the canonical collection. 

Now let the reader compare the bas-relief above (p. 193) with the Jataka story given above (pp. 190, foll). In the background three deer are being shot at, two are running away, one is looking back in fear, one has fallen. In the foreground, to the left, a deer lies with its head on the block. In the centre foreground, the king of the deer, distinguished by his antlers, crouches beside the block, and close by him is a man, presumably the cook. In the centre the king of the deer exhorts the king of the men. 

It may be noticed in passing that this strange device of putting several scenes of the same story on one plate is not confined to Indian art. The Greeks did the same, and it was common in Europe at the time of the revival of the arts after the dark ages. But while the Indian artist has not hesitated to suggest in his plate so many points in the story, he omits all reference to the verse, or even to that episode in which the verse occurs. The bas-relief, however, resembles the verse in one important respect. It would be absolutely unintelligible to anyone not familar with the story as told in prose. It is the same with all these bas-reliefs. None of them, except as explained below, illustrate the verse, or the framework of the story. None are intelligible without a knowledge of the prose. 

The exception referred to is the figure on the Bharhut Stupa (Plate xxvi.), unfortunately broken, but bearing in clear letters the inscription, “Yam bamano avayesi Jataka.” These are the opening words of the verse in this story which, in the printed edition, is called the Andhabhuta Jataka. This is exactly as if the deer story above were called the “Follow rather the Banyan” Jataka. The fact is, as I pointed out already in 1880, that very great uncertainty prevails as to the titles of these stories, the same story being very often called in the existing collection by different names. Even one of these very old bas-reliefs itself has actually inscribed over it two distinct names in full. The carving illustrates a fable about a cat and a cock; and it is labelled, in Pali, both “Cat Jataka” and “Cock Jataka.” As I then said: 

“The reason for this is very plain. When a fable about a lion and a jackal was told (as in No. 157) to show the advantage of a good character, and it was necessary to choose a short title for it, it was called the ‘Lion Jataka’ or the ‘Jackal Jataka’ or even the ‘Good Character Jataka.’ And when a fable was told about a tortoise, to show the evil results which follow on talkativeness (as in No. 215), the fable might as well be called the ‘Chatterbox Jataka’ as the ‘Tortoise Jataka’; and it is referred to accordingly under both those names. It must always have been difficult, if not impossible, to fix upon a short title which should at once characterise the lesson to be taught, and the personages through whose acts it was taught. And different names would thus arise, and become interchangeable.”

We should not be surprised, therefore, to find in this one instance the catchwords of the verse used also as a title. And it is a most fortunate thing that in this solitary instance the words of the verse are extant in an inscription of the third century B.C. 

The next evidence we have to consider is that of the Jataka Book itself. The canonical work, containing the verses only (and therefore quite unintelligible without a commentary), is very rare even in MSS., and has not yet been edited. It would be very interesting to see what it has to say about the titles, and whether it gives any various readings in the verses. 

What we have, in the well-known edition by Professor Fausböll, is the commentary. We do not know its date. But as we know of no commentaries of this sort written before the fifth century A.D. — they were all handed down till then by word of mouth—it is probable that this one also is of about the same date. The author gives a slight account of himself in the opening verses, but without mentioning his name. He names three scholars who instigated him to undertake the work, and says it is based on the tradition as then handed on in the Great Monastery at Anuradhapura in Ceylon. Twice in the seven long volumes he alludes to Ceylon scholars of the second century A.D. And though he only does so in notes, we may fairly conclude from all this that he probably wrote in Ceylon. Professor Childers thought he was identical with the Buddhaghosa famous as the author of other great commentaries. But for reasons given elsewhere, this is, I think, impossible. How far, then, did our unknown author vary from the tradition handed down to him? How far had that tradition, with respect at least to the historical inferences suggested by it, preserved the tone and character of that much more ancient date to which the verses themselves can be assigned? It is a difficult question, and can only be finally solved when, by a careful and detailed study of the whole of these volumes, we shall have been able to discover every case of probable age, and to weigh the general result to be derived from them all. Dr. Luders, in two admirable articles on the Isisinga Legend, has shown how, in two or three instances, the prose version in the commentary gives us a version of the story, later, in some respects, than that implied by the verses. This is not exactly the point we are considering, but it is closely allied to it. Dr. Fick has subjected all the references contained in the Jataka Book to the social conditions in North-eastern India to a detailed and careful analysis. He has come to the conclusion that, as regards the verses and the prose part of the stories themselves, as distinct from the framework, they have been scarcely altered from the state they were in when they were handed down from mouth to mouth among the early Buddhists, and that they can be referred undoubtedly, in all that relates to those social conditions, to the time of the Buddha himself. Hofrath Buhler, perhaps the very highest authority we had in Indian history, and a scholar whom no one will accuse of partiality to Buddhism, says: 

“The chief point for consideration is if, in effecting the loan, the Buddhist monks altered much; and especially if the descriptions of life which the Jatakas contain have been made to agree with that of the times when Buddhism had become a power in India. The answer can only be that there are remarkably few traces of Buddhism in those stories, and that they do not describe the condition of India in the third or fourth century B.C., but an older one.” 

And he gives his reasons: 

“The descriptions of the political, religious, and social conditions of the people clearly refer to the ancient time before the rise of the great Eastern dynasties of the Nandas and the Mauryas, when Pamaliputra had become the capital of India. The Jatakas mention neither the one nor the other, and they know nothing of great empires which comprised the whole or large parts of India. The number of the kingdoms, whose rulers play a part in the Stories, is very considerable. The majority of the names, as Madra, the two Pancalas, Kosala, Videha, Kasi, and Vidarbha, agree with those mentioned in the Vedic literature; while a few others, like Kalinga and Assaka, occur, in brahminical literature, first in the Epics and in PaGini’s Sutras. The characteristic names of the Andhras, the Pandyas, and the Keralas are not mentioned. 

“Though a political centre was wanting, frequent statements regarding the instruction of the young brahmins and nobles show that there was an intellectual centre, and that it lay in Takkasila, the capital of distant Gandhara. . . . And it is very credible that Gandhara, the native country of PaGini, was a stronghold of brahminical learning certainly in the fourth and fifth centuries B.C., and perhaps even earlier. The statements regarding the religious condition of India point to an equally early period. Just as the Three Vedas are the basis of the higher instruction, so the prevalent religion is that of the path of works with its ceremonies and sacrifices, among which several, like the Vajapeya and the Rajasuya, are specially and repeatedly mentioned. Side by side with these appear popular festivals, celebrated, when the Nakshatra had been proclaimed, with general merrymakings and copious libations of sura, as well as the worship of demons and trees, all of which go back to the earliest times, Nor are the hermits in the woods and the wandering ascetics unknown. . . . The state of civilisation described in the Jatakas is in various respects primitive, and particularly noteworthy is the prevalence of wood architecture, which, on the evidence of the earliest sculptures, had almost disappeared in the third century B.C. The Jatakas even describe the palaces of kings as usually constructed of wood. Many other details might be added, but the facts given are sufficient for our purpose.” 

Professor Fausböll himself, the editor of the Jataka book, expresses, in the preface to the last volume, a very similar opinion. The consensus of opinion among these distinguished scholars—the only ones who have written on this particular point —is sufficient, at least, to shift the burden of proof. Instead of neglecting altogether, for the history of India, what the Jataka says, we may make historical inferences from statements made in the stories themselves (not in the framework) as presumptive evidence for the period in which, by a fortunate chance, the stories were preserved for us by their inclusion in the Basket of Buddhist tradition. That tradition is found to have preserved, fairly enough, in political and social matters, the earlier view. The verses, of course, are the most trustworthy, as being, in language, some centuries older. But the prose, which must have accompanied them throughout, and is taken for granted in the illustrations on the ancient bas-reliefs, ought also, in such questions, to have due weight attached to it. 

We may already note some points in the comparative age of the Jatakas, as compared one with another, especially at two stages in the formation of the tradition. The whole of the longer stories, some of them as long as a modern novelette, contained in vol. vi. of the edition, are later, both in language and in their view of social conditions in India, than those in the earlier volumes. Yet several of those latest in the collection are shown by the bas-reliefs to have been already in existence in the third century B.C. And this holds good, not only of the verses, but also of the prose, for the bas-reliefs refer to the prose portions of the tales. 

So also, at an earlier stage, it is possible to conclude that some of the tales, when they were first adopted into the Buddhist tradition (that is, certainly, not later than the beginning of the third century, B.C.), were already old. We have seen above that, out of those tales of which we can trace the pre-Jataka book form, a large proportion, 60 to 70 per cent., had no verses. Now, in the present collection, there are a considerable number of tales which, as tales, have no verses. The verses (necessarily added to make the stories into Jatakas) are found only in the framework. And there are other tales, where the verses do not occur in the story itself, but are put, like a chorus, into the mouth of a fairy (a devata) who has really nothing else to do with the story. It follows, I think, that these stories existed, without the verses, before they were adopted into the Buddhist scheme of Jatakas by having verses added to them; and that they are, therefore, probably, not only pre-Buddhistic, but very old. 

On the other hand, as we have seen in the last chapter, the very custom, on which the Jataka system is based, of handing down tales or legends in prose, with only the conversation in verse, is itself pre-Buddhistic. And the Jataka Book is only another example, on a very extensive scale, of that pre-Epic form of literature of which there are so many other, shorter, specimens preserved for us in the earlier canonical texts. 

To sum up: 

1. The canonical Book of the Jatakas contains only the verses. It was composed in North India, in the so-called ‘Middle Country,’ before the time of Asoka. It is still unpublished. 
2. It is absolutely certain that, with these verses, there must have been handed down, from the first, an oral commentary giving the stories in prose; for the verses without the stories are unintelligible. 
3. Bas-reliefs of the third century B.C. have been found illustrating a number of these prose stories. One of these bas-reliefs gives also half of a verse. 
4. There are Jataka stories in those canonical books that are older than the Jataka Book. 
5. These oldest extant Jatakas are similes, parables, or legends. They usually give us neither framework nor verses. In them the Buddha, in his previous birth, is never identified with an animal, or even with an ordinary man. He is identified only with some famous sage of bygone times. 
6. Our present edition is not an edition of the text, but of the commentary. It was written probably in the fifth century A.D. in Ceylon by an author whose name is not known. 
7. This commentary, which contains all the verses, contains also the prose stories in which they occur. To each such story it further gives a framework of introductory episode (stating when and where and on what occasion the story is supposed to have been spoken by the Buddha); and of final identification (of the characters in each story with the Buddha and his contemporaries in a previous birth). 
8. This commentary is a translation into Pali of the commentary as handed down in Ceylon. That earlier commentary, now lost, was in the Singhalese language throughout, except as regards the verses, which were in Pali. 
9. The Pali commentary, as we now have it, has in the stories preserved, for the most part, the tradition handed down from the third century B.C. But in one or two instances variations have already been discovered. 
10. As regards the allusions to political and social conditions, they refer, for the most part, to the state of things that existed in North India in and before the Buddha’s time. 
11. When the original Jataka was being gradually formed most of the stories were taken bodily over from the existing folklore of North India. 
12. Some progress has already been made in determining the relative age, at that time, of the stories. Those in the sixth and last volumes are both the longest and latest. Some of these were already selected for illustration on the bas-reliefs of the third century B.C. 
13. All the Jatakas have verses attached to them. In a few instances these verses are in the framework, not in the stories themselves. Such stories, without the verses, have probably preserved the original form of the Indian folklore. 
14. In a few instances, the verses, though in the stories, are in them only as a sort of chorus, and do not form part of the narrative. In these instances, also, a similar conclusion may be drawn. 
15. The whole collection forms the most reliable, the most complete, and the most ancient collection of folklore now extant in any literature in the world. 

Animism 

It is the accepted belief that it is in the literature of the brahmins that we find the evidence as to the religious beliefs of the peoples of India in the sixth and seventh centuries B.C. This seems to me more than doubtful. The priests have preserved for us, not so much the opinions the people actually held, as the opinions the priests wished them to hold. When we consider the enormous labour of keeping up and handing down the priestly books— and this had to be done, as we have seen, entirely through learning the books by heart—we are filled with admiration for the zealous and devoted students who have thus preserved for us a literature so valuable for the history of human thought. The learned brahmin, and not only in this respect, is a figure of whom India is justly proud. And when we consider how vague and inaccurate are the accounts preserved in the writings of the Christian fathers of any views except those they themselves considered to be orthodox, we see how unreasonable it would be to expect that the brahmins, whose difficulties were so much greater, should have been able to do more. What they have done they have done accurately and well. But the record they have saved for us is a partial record. 

What had happened with respect to religious belief is on a par with what had happened with respect to language. From Takka-sila all the way down to Champa no one spoke Sanskrit. The living language, everywhere, was a sort of Pali. Many of the old Vedic words were retained in more easily pronounceable forms. Many new words had been formed, on analogy, from the existing stock of roots. Many other new words had been adopted from non-Aryan forms of speech. Many Aryan words, which do not happen to occur in the Vedic texts, had nevertheless survived in popular use. And meanwhile, in the schools of the priests, and there only, a knowledge of the Vedic language (which we often call Sanskrit) was kept up. But even this Sanskrit of the schools had progressed, as some would say, or had degenerated, as others would say, from the Vedic standard. And the Sanskrit in actual use in the schools was as far removed from the Vedic dialect as it is from the so-called classical Sanskrit of the post-Buddhistic poems and plays. 

So with the religion. Outside the schools of the priests the curious and interesting beliefs recorded in the Rig Veda had practically little effect. The Vedic thaumaturgy and theosophy had indeed never been a popular faith, that is, as we know it. Both its theological hypotheses and its practical magic (in the ritual) show already a stage very much advanced beyond the simpler faith which they, in fact, presuppose. The gods more usually found in the older systems—the dread Mother Earth, the dryads and the dragons, the dog-star, even the moon and the sun—have been cast into the shade by the new ideas (the new gods) of the fire, the exciting drink, and the thunderstorm. And the charm of the mystery and the magic of the ritual of the sacrifice had to contend, so far as the laity were concerned, with the distaste induced by its complications and its expense. 

But a comparison with the general course of the evolution of religious beliefs elsewhere shows that the beliefs recorded in the Rig Veda are not primitive. A consideration of the nature of those beliefs, so far as they are not found elsewhere, shows that they must have been, in the view of the men who formulated them, a kind of advance on, or reform of, the previous ideas. And at least three lines of evidence all tend to show that—certainly all the time we are here considering, and almost certainly at the time when the Rig Veda was finally closed— there were many other beliefs, commonly held among the Aryans in India, but not represented in that Veda. 

The first of these three lines is the history of the Atharva Veda. This invaluable old collection of charms to be used in sorcery had been actually put together long before Buddhism arose. But it was only just before that time that it had come to be acknowledged by the sacrificial priests as a Veda— inferior to their own three older ones, but still a Veda. This explains why it is that the Atharva is never mentioned as a Veda in the Buddhist canonical books. They are constantly mentioning the three Vedas and the ancient lore connected with the three. They are constantly poking fun at the hocus-pocus of witchcraft and sorcery, and denying any efficiency either to it, or to the magic of the sacrifice. But in the view of the circles in which these books arose the Atharva collection had not yet become a Veda. 

Yet it is quite certain that the beliefs and practices to which the Atharva Veda is devoted are as old, if not older, than those to which the three other Vedas refer; and that they were commonly held and followed by the Aryans in India, The things recorded in the Rig may seem to us as absurd as those in the Atharva. But we cannot avoid the conclusion that the priests who made the older collection were consciously exercising a choice, that they purposely omitted to include certain phases of current belief because those phases did not appeal to them, did not suit their purposes, or did not seem to them worthy of their deities. And when we remember that what they shut out, or nearly shut out, was the lowest kind of savage superstition and sorcery, it is not easy to deny them any credit in doing so. 

The second is the general view of religious beliefs, as held by the people, given to us in the Epics, and especially in the Maha Bharata. It is, in many respects, altogether different from the general view as given in the Vedic literature. We do not know as yet exactly which of the conceptions in the Maha Bharata can be taken as evidence of the seventh century B.C. The poem has certainly undergone one, if not two or even three, alterations at the hand of later priestly editors. But though the changes made in the poems are due to the priests, they were so made because the priests found that ideas not current in their schools had so much weight with the people that they (the priests) could no longer afford to neglect them. They must have recast the poem with two main objects in view—in the first place to insist on the supremacy of the brahmins, which had been so much endangered by the great popularity of the anti-priestly views of the Buddhists and others; and in the second place to show that the brahmins were in sympathy with, and had formally adopted, certain popular cults and beliefs highly esteemed by the people. In any case, there, in the poem, these cults and beliefs, absent from the Vedic literature, are found in full life and power. And though this line of evidence, if it stood alone, would be too weak to bear much weight, the most likely explanation seems to be that here also we have evidence, to some extent at least, of beliefs not included in the Vedic literature, and yet current among, and powerfully affecting, both the Aryan and the semi-Aryan peoples of India. 

The third line is based on the references to the religious beliefs, not of the Buddhists themselves, but of the people, recorded in the Buddhist Canon. As these have never yet been collected or analysed, and as they are in many ways both interesting and suggestive, it may be useful to point out shortly here the more important of them. 

The standard passages on this question are three, the one in prose, the other two in verse, and all found in our oldest documents. The first is in the Silas, and begins thus: 

“Whereas some recluses and brahmins, while living on food provided by the faithful, are tricksters, droners out of holy words for pay, diviners, exorcists, ever hungering to add gain to gain, Gotama the recluse holds aloof from such deception and patter.” 

There then follows a long enumeration, most valuable to the historian, of all kinds of animistic hocus-pocus —evidently forming part of the beliefs of the people in the valley of the Ganges in the sixth century B.C., for how otherwise could such “low arts “ have been the source of gain to the brahmins and others who practised them? We are told of palmistry, divination of all sorts, auguries drawn from the celestial phenomena, prognostications by interpretation of dreams, auguries drawn from marks on cloth gnawed by mice, sacrifices to Agni,—it is characteristic to find these in such company, —oblations of various sorts to gods, determining lucky sites, repeating charms, laying ghosts, snake charming, using similar arts on other beasts and birds, astrology, the power of prophecy, incantations, oracles, consulting gods through a girl possessed or by means of mirrors, worshipping the Great One, invoking Siri (the goddess of Luck), vowing vows to gods, muttering charms to cause virility or impotence, consecrating sites, and more of the same kind. It is a queer list; and very suggestive both of the wide range of animistic superstitions, and of the proportionate importance, then and to the people at large, of those particular ones included in the Veda. 

It may be noticed in passing that we have representations, of a very early date, of this Siri, the goddess of Luck, of plenty and success, who is not mentioned in the Veda. One of these is marked in plain letters Sirima Devata; and like Diana of the Ephesians, she bears on her breast the signs of her productivity. The other shows the goddess seated, with two elephants pouring water over her. It is the oldest instance of the most common representation of this popular goddess; and figures of her, exactly in this form, can be bought today in the bazaars of Northern India. 

That Siri was already a popular deity in the Buddha’s time explains the fact that the priests had been compelled to acknowledge her and to invent a special legend to excuse their doing so; and that they incidentally mention her, once again, in mystic conjunction with the dread deities of the Moon, and the Sun, and Mother Earth. Even these other three, though noticed in the Veda, are put far into the background compared with Indra, Agni, Soma, and Varuna; but it is highly probable that they really occupied a very much larger share in the minds of the people of India than these sparse notices in the Veda would tend to show. In modern mythology Siri or Uri is regarded as a consort of Vishnu. 

The other two passages, in verse, form whole Suttantas—the Maha Samaya Suttanta, No. 20, in the Digha, now edited for the Pali Text Society, and translated in my Dialogues of the Buddha, vol. ii.; and the Amanamiya Suttanta, No. 32, in the same collection. In the first of these two poems some unknown early Buddhist poet describes how all the gods of the people come to pay reverence, at Kapilavastu, to the new teacher, and to his order of mendicant recluses. In the second of them another unknown poet describes how certain of the gods come to ask him to adopt a form of words which will turn the hearts of other deities unfriendly to the new doctrine, and make them leave it and its followers in peace. And the form of words gives the names of all the gods whom it is considered desirable thus to propitiate. 

These two poems form a suggestive parallel to the method followed by the brahmins of adopting, one by one, the popular faiths. It shows how similar are the motives that influence religious leaders, however diametrically opposed their views may be. And in both cases the effort had a similar result. The object was to reconcile the people to different ideas. The actual consequence was that the ideas of the people, thus admitted, as it were, by the back door, filled the whole mansion, and the ideas it was hoped they would accept were turned out into the desert, there ultimately to pass absolutely away. Nearer home, too, we may call to mind similar events. 

Our two poets are naturally anxious to include in their lists all the various beliefs which had most weight with those whom they would fain persuade. The poet of the Maha Samaya (the Great Concourse) enumerates first the spirits of the Earth and of the great Mountains. Then the Four Great Kings, the guardians of the four quarters, East and South and West and North. One of these four, Vessavana Kuvera, is the god who in the second poem is the spokesman for all the rest. 

Then come the Gandharvas, heavenly musicians, supposed to preside over child-bearing and birth, and to be helpful to mortals in many ways. 

Then come the Nagas, the Siren-serpents, whose worship has been so important a factor in the folklore, superstition, and poetry of India from the earliest times down to-day. Cobras in their ordinary shape, they lived, like mermen and mermaids, beneath the waters, in great luxury and wealth, more especially of gems, and sometimes, as we shall see, the name is used of the Dryads, the tree-spirits, equally wealthy and powerful. They could at will, and often did, adopt the human form; and though terrible if angered, were kindly and mild by nature. Not mentioned either in the Veda or in the pre-Buddhistic Upanishads, the myth seems to be a strange jumble of beliefs, not altogether pleasant, about a strangely gifted race of actual men; combined with notions derived from previously existing theories of tree-worship, and serpent-worship, and river-worship. But the history of the idea has still to be written. These Nagas are represented on the ancient bas-reliefs as men or women either with cobra’s hoods rising from behind their heads or with serpentine forms from the waist downwards. 

Then come the Garulas, or Garudas, the Indian counterpart of the harpy and griffin, half man, half bird, hereditary enemies of the Nagas, on whom they feed. They were also, perhaps, originally a tribe of actual men, with an eagle or a hawk as their token on their banner. 

Then come a goodly crowd of Titans, and sixty kinds of gods, of whom only about half a dozen are Vedic, the other names offering only puzzles which await the solution of future enquirers. First we have the gods of kindly nature and good character; then the souls or spirits supposed to animate and to reside in the moon and the sun (the moon is always mentioned first), in the wind, the cloud, the summer heat; then the gods of light; then a curious list of gods, personifications of various mental qualities; then the spirits in the thunder and the rain; and, lastly, the great gods who dwell in the highest heavens (that is, are the outcome of the highest speculation), like Brahma himself, and Paramatta, and Sanan Kumara. 

The list seems inclusive enough. But why does it make no mention of tree-gods? For if we take as our guide, and we could scarcely do better, Mrs. Philpot’s excellent monograph on The Sacred Tree, in which the most important facts as to tree-worship throughout the world are collected and classified, we find that a number of fancies about trees, varying from the most naive results of the savage soul-theories up to philosophic speculations of an advanced kind, have been widely current among all forms of faith, and have been traced also in India. 

Now, so far as I can call to mind, none of these fancies (with one interesting exception, on which see below) is referred to in the principal early books setting out the Buddhist doctrine—the Four Nikayas, for instance, and the Sutta Nipata. But in older and later documents several of these beliefs can be found. The conclusion is obvious. Those beliefs as to tree-worship mentioned in pre-Buddhistic literature formed part, at the time of the rise of Buddhism, of the religion of the people. They were rejected by the early Buddhists. But they continued to form part of the religion of those of the people who were uninfluenced by the new teaching. And one or two of them found their way back into one or other of the later schools of Buddhism. 

Already in the Vedas themselves we have a number of passages in which trees are invoked as deities. This is decisive of the attitude of mind of the Aryans in early times in India. For it was, of course, not the trees as such, but the souls or spirits supposed to dwell within them, to haunt them, that were looked upon as gods. That this notion survived down to the rise of Buddhism is shown in the Upanishads. If the soul leaves the tree, the tree withers, but the soul does not die. These souls may have dwelt, and may dwell again, in human bodies. And long after the rise of Buddhism ideas associated with this belief are often referred to. Offerings are made to these tree-spirits, even human sacrifices are offered, they were consulted as oracles, and expected to give sons and wealth, they injure those who injure the trees in which they dwell, and they are pleased when garlands are hung upon the branches, lamps are lighted round it, and Bali offerings are made (that is food is thrown), at the foot of the tree. The brahmin priests, too, are enjoined in their books of sacred law and custom to throw such Bali offerings to the tree-spirits. 

All the above is tree-worship—or more correctly dryad-worship—pure and simple. When we find the world-soul spoken of as a tree that has its roots in heaven, that is poetry, a simile based perhaps on the mystery of growth, but still only a simile. The idea of the Kalpa-rukkha, the Wishing Tree, which will give one all one wants, has not as yet been traced back earlier than some centuries after the date we are considering. 

But Fergusson’s explanation of the old monuments as being devoted to tree-worship requires altogether restating. With all his genius he was attempting the impossible when he tried to interpret the work of Indian artists without a knowledge of Indian literature. His mistake was really very natural. At first sight such bas-reliefs as those here figured seem most certainly to show men and animals worshipping a tree, that is the spirit residing in a tree. But on looking farther we see that the tree has over it an inscription stating that it is “the Bodhi Tree, the tree of wisdom, of Kassapa the Exalted One “ Every Buddha is sup posed to have attained enlightenment under a tree. The tree differs in the accounts of each of them. Our Buddha’s “Wisdom Tree,” for instance, is of the kind called the Assattha or Pippal tree. Now while in all the oldest accounts of Gotama’s attainment of Buddha-hood there is no mention of the tree under which he was sitting at the time, yet already in a Suttanta it is incidentally mentioned that this event took place under a Pippal tree; and this is often referred to in later books. In these old sculptures the Buddha himself is never represented directly, but always under a symbol. What we have here then is reverence paid to the tree, not for its own sake, and not to any soul or spirit supposed to be in it, but to the tree either as the symbol of the Master or because it was under a tree of that kind that his followers believed that a venerated Teacher of old had become a Buddha. In either case it is a straining of terms, a misrepresentation or at best a misunderstanding, to talk of tree-worship. The Pippal was sacred tree at the date of these sculptures,—sacred that is, to the memory of the beloved Master who had passed away; and it had acquired the epithet of “Tree of Wisdom.” But the wisdom was the wisdom of the Master not of the tree or of the tree-god, and could not be obtained by eating of its fruit. 

These ideas are of course post-Buddhistic. They could have arisen in a perfectly natural way simply because the tradition was that Gotama had, at that crisis in his life, sat under a Pippal tree. And it is very possible that the tradition may, so soon afterwards, have been perfectly right. We know as an actual fact that thinking was much more frequent, in that beautiful climate, in the open air, than between four walls. The appreciation of the beauties of nature, so conspicuous in many of the early Buddhist poems, is an Indian, not a Buddhist trait. And it was to a prevalent Indian, not only a Buddhist, sentiment that the Buddha is represented to have appealed, when at the end of some earnest dialogue on a weighty point of ethics or philosophy, he is said to have been wont to close with the appeal: “Here are trees; think this matter out!” It is therefore by no means impossible that it was under a Pippal tree the Buddha clenched the essential points in his new doctrine of life. And, if so, is it not quite conceivable that his disciples should have recollected so simple and natural a fact connected with what they regarded, not only as the turning-point in his career, as his Nirvana, but as the turning-point in the history of the world? 

Another hypothesis is possible—that the disciples, in all good faith, associated their Master with this particular tree because it already, before his time, had been especially sacred above all other trees. The tradition may then have been the result of this feeling. The tree was certatnly held in high esteem even as early as the Vedic poems. Vessels for the mystic Soma cult were made of its wood; and so were the caskets containing the medicinal herbs used in the mystic craft of the physician of the day. The upper portion in the fire-drill—and the production of fire was held to be a mystery—was of the wood of the Pippal tree. And in one passage the tree in heaven under which the souls of the blessed recline is likened to a Pippal. Whether this would be sufficient reason for the rise of the tradition may be doubtful. But such associations would certainly add to its hold on popular imagination, if it had once otherwise arisen. 

It is, however, never to the Pippal tree to which the folklore quoted above attributed divine power. It happens always to be some other tree. And we know too little to be able to be quite sure that this is merely a matter of chance. The tree-deities were called Nagas, and were able at will, like the Nagas, to assume the human form; and in one story the spirit of a banyan tree who reduced the merchants to ashes is called a Naga-raja, the soldiers he sends forth from his tree are Nagas, and the tree itself is “the dwelling-place of the Naga.” This may explain why it is that the tree-gods are not specially and separately mentioned in the Maha Samaya list of deities who are there said by the poet to have come to pay reverence to the Buddha. In any case we must add tree-worship, the worship of powerful spirits supposed to dwell in trees, to the list of those beliefs, scarcely noticed in the Vedas, that were an important part of the religion of the peoples of Northem India at the time of the rise of Buddhism. 

In neither of these two lists is Indra, the great god of the Veda, even mentioned. His place, as bearer of the thunderbolt, is taken by Sakka, who is in many, if not in most, respects a quite different conception. We should never forget in what degree all these gods are real. They had no real objective existence. But they were real enough as ideas in men’s minds. At any given moment the gods of a nation seem eternal, unchangeable. As a matter of fact they are constantly slightly changing. No two men, thinking of the same god, even on the same day, and amid the same surroundings, have quite the same mental image; nor is the proportionate importance of that god as compared with their respective conceptions of other gods (that is, as compared with their other ideas) quite the same. Just as a man’s visible frame, though no change may at any moment be perceptible, is never really the same for two consecutive moments, and the result of constant minute variations becomes clear after a lapse of time, so the idea summed up by the name of a god becomes changed by the gradual accretion of minute variations; and this change, after a lapse of time (it may be generations, it may be centuries), becomes so clear that a new name arises, and gradually, very gradually, ousts the older one. Then the older god is dead. As the Buddhist poets put it, “the flowers of the garlands he wore are withered, his robes of majesty have waxed old and faded, he falls from his high estate, and is re-born into a new life.” He lives again, as we might say, in the very outcome of his former life, in the new god who, under the new name, reigns in men’s hearts. 

So Jupiter ousted Chronos, and Indra himself had almost ousted Trita, even in the Veda; and Indra and others had almost ousted Varuna. So in the period we are considering had Sakka, in his turn, almost ousted Indra. Though the epic poets afterwards did their best to re-establish Indra on the throne, they had but poor success; for his name and his fame had dwindled away. And we catch sight of him, in these records, just as he is fading dimly away on the horizon, and changing his shape into that of the successor to his dignity and power. 

It is the same, but in each case in different degrees, with other Vedic gods. It were tedious here to go at length into each case. Isana, the vigorous and youthful form of the dread Uiva of the future, is already on a level with Soma and Varuna. And Pajapati and Brahma will soon come to be considered as co-partners with Sakka in the lordship over all the gods. The worship of Agni is scoffod at as on a par with the hocus-pocus of witchcraft and divination, and it is soon to be laughed to scorn in the amusing tales of the folklore of the people. Vayu, the wind god, never very important, is just mentioned in our list, but nowhere else in texts of that age, and will soon also be the laughing-stock of the story-teller. Varuna is still a power, ranked with the highest, but he will soon be reduced to a tree-god, a Naga king, a lord of the oracle girls, who, possessed by the god, will, as Pythias, prophesy smooth things. And Vishnu, though mentioned in our poem under the name of Veshu, has scarcely as yet appeared above the horizon. Pajjunna is still the rain-god in the Suttantas; he is mentioned in both poems; and has retained this character even in the folklore. 

I know of no other Vedic gods mentioned in this literature. Dyaus, Mitra, and Savitri, Pushan, the Adityas, the Auvins and the Maruts, Aditi and Diti and Urvaui, and many more, are all departed. They survive only within the enclosures of the Vedic schools. The people know them no longer. 

Now there is no doubt a long interval of time between the close of the Rig Veda collection of hymns and the rise of Buddhism. The Vedic anthology, small as it is, may not give, even for its own time, a complete statement of Indian belief. Some of the differences between Vedic mythology and popular religion at the time of the rise of Buddhism may therefore be due to the influence of an unrecorded past. But this can only explain a part, and probably a small part, of the difference. The old gods, that is the old ideas, when they have survived, have been so much changed; so many of them have not survived at all; so many new ones have sprung into vigorous life and wide-reaching influence, that one conclusion is inevitable. The common view that the Indians were very different from other folk in similar stages of development, that to that difference was due the stolid, not to say stupid, conservatism of their religious conceptions, that they were more given to superstition, less intellectual, than for instance the Greeks and Romans, must be given up. Derived partly from a too exclusive study of the priestly books, partly from reading back into the past a mistaken view of modern conditions, it cannot stand against the new evidence derived from the Jain and Buddhist literatures written, or rather composed, in independence of the priests. The real facts lead to the opposite view. They show a constant progress from Vedic times onwards. Some reasons for this will be suggested in the next chapter. But whatever the facts, and whatever the reasons for them, we are not likely to cease from hearing that parrot cry of self-complacent ignorance, “The immovable East”—the implied sop to vanity is too sweet to be neglected. 

The Brahmin Position 

These details of the lower phases of religion in India in the sixth century B.C. have great and essential similarity with the beliefs held, not only at the same time in the other centres of civilisation,— in China, Persia, and Egypt, in Italy and Greece,— but also among the savages of then and now. But there is a further and more striking resemblance. Sir Henry Maine has said: “Nothing is more remarkable than the extreme fewness of progressive societies—the difference between them and the stationary races is one of the greatest secrets enquiry has yet to penetrate.” 

Whatever the secret, above and beyond the influence of economic conditions, may have been, we know that civilisation, of a kind at least, extended back in time, on the four great river basins of the Nile and the Euphrates, the Ganges and the Yellow River, not merely through centuries, but through thousands of years, if reckoned from to-day. Yet in each of those places—though there was a real and progressive civilisation, and ideas and customs were no doubt constantly changing and growing—there was a certain dead level, if not a complete absence of what we should call philosophic thought. The animistic hypotheses, the soul-theories, of their savage ancestors seemed sufficient, even to the progressive races, to explain all that they saw or felt. Men varied, but never dreamed of rejecting, the soul-theories. They did not even build up on the basis of them any large and general views, either of ethics, or of philosophy, or of religion. Then suddenly, and almost simultaneously, and almost certainly independently, there is evidence, about the sixth century B.C., in each of these widely separated centres of civilisation, of a leap forward in speculative thought, of a new birth in ethics, of a religion of conscience threatening to take the place of the old religion of custom and magic. In each of these countries similar causes, the same laws regulating the evolution of ideas, had taken just about the same number of centuries to evolve, out of similar conditions, a similar result. Is there a more stupendous marvel in the whole history of mankind? Does any more suggestive problem await the solution of the historian of human thought? 

The solution will not be possible till we have a more accurate knowledge of the circumstances which led up, in each country, to the awakening. And in India one important factor in the preceding circumstances seems to me to have been, hitherto, too much neglected. The intense interest, from the world-history point of view, of the sixth century B.C. —the best dividing line, if there ever was any, between ancient history and modern, between the old order and the new—would be sufficient excuse, if one were needed, for a somewhat detailed consideration of this particular point. 

In India, as elsewhere, the whole of the popular animistic notions mentioned in the last chapter, and no doubt others also, survived in full force. But no one man believed in them all, or even knew of them all. In that part of the priestly literature which has come down to us a certain selected portion of these beliefs is taken, as it were, under priestly patronage, has received the stamp of respectability, has been given such social rank as the priests could confer. They seldom, perhaps never, stepped outside the charmed circle of animistic magic. But what they chose was probably, on the whole, of a better kind than what they left to itself. Even so the contents of the priestly books on ritual, though a rich mine of materials for a history of magic and superstition, are unspeakably banal. M. Sylvain Levi, the author of the most authoritative work on this subject, says in the introduction to his summary of the Brahmana theory of sacrifice: 

“It is difficult to imagine anything more brutal and more material than the theology of the BrahmaGas. Notions which usage afterwards gradually refined, and clothed with a garb of morality, take us aback by their savage realism.” 

Or again : 

“Morality finds no place in this system. Sacrifice, which regulates the relation of man to the divinities, is a mechanical act, operating by its own spontaneous energy (par son energie intime); and that, hidden in the bosom of nature, is only brought out by the magic art of the priest.” 

To these writers, the sacrifice, if only rigidly carried out in each one of its details, is the source of all profit and advantage. The gods (who are quite unmoral, not immoral, though they are represented in these texts as having been guilty of falsehood, chicanery, and incest) are utterly unable to counteract the effect of such a sacrifice. Indeed they owe their own supremacy, their own position in heaven, to sacrifices they themselves had thus carried out to older gods. And it is by the same means that they continue to defeat the Asuras, that is the Titans, the rival gods, who would otherwise storm the gates of heaven. 

There were no temples, and probably no images. The altars were put up anew for each sacrifice in a field or garden belonging to the sacrificer. The benefit to accrue from the sacrifice went to him, and to him alone. He therefore had to pay for the performance, for the animals to be slaughtered, for the numerous work people employed, and for the fees for the priests. 

“As to the fees, the rules are precise, and the propounders of them are unblushing. The priest performs the sacrifice for the fee alone, and it must consist of valuable garments, kine, horses, or gold;—when each is to be given is carefully stated. Gold is coveted most, for ‘this is immortality, the seed of Agni,’ and therefore peculiarly agreeable to the pious priest.”

It would be unnecessary to go into the interminable detail of such sacrifices. They are expounded very fully and carefully in Professor Hillebrandt’s standard works on the subject. The expense must have been very great, even for the less complicated; and it is probable that this had something to do with the fact that a way was discovered to obtain the desired result without sacrifice. 

The nearer we get to the time of Buddhism the greater is the importance we find attached to this second method, that of tapas,—self-mortification, or more exactly, self-torture. The word occurs, in this its technical sense, in the latest hymns included in the Rig Veda. It is literally “burning, glow”; and had then already acquired the secondary sense of retirement into solitude in the forest, and the practise there of austerity, bodily self-mortification,— not at all with the idea of atonement or penance, but under the impression that self-torture of this kind would bring about magical results. Just as the sacrificer was supposed, by a sort of charm that his priests worked for him in the sacrifice, to compel the gods, and to attain ends he desired, so there was supposed to be a sort of charm in tapas by which a man could, through and by himself, attain to mystic and marvellous results. The distinction seems to have been that it was rather worldly success, cattle, children, and heaven, that were attained by sacrifice; and mystic, extraordinary, superhuman faculties that were attained by Tapas. 

Then, by a natural anthropomorphism, the gods too, in later works, were supposed—just as they had been supposed to offer sacrifice—to practise tapas, austerity. And it was not a mere distinction without a difference, it was a real advance in thought, when this sort of physical self-mastery, of the conquest of will over discomfort and pain, came to be placed above sacrifice. It had been by sacrifice that the gods had made the world. Now it came to be said, in different cosmological legends, that one god or another had brought forth the world by tapas. And a Brahmana text declares: 

“Heaven is established on the air, the air on the earth, the earth on the waters, the waters on truth, the truth on the mystic lore (of the sacrifice), and that on Tapas.”

It will be noticed that tapas is here put in the most important place, higher than sacrifice, which is, in its turn, higher than truth—a most suggestive order, as we shall see later on. We have no details in the books of this period of the particular practices in which the austerity, the self-mortification, consisted. It was no doubt of various kinds, and would tend, in course of time, to be elaborated. But we have a full statement of the stage it had reached in the Buddha’s time, as set forth by a naked ascetic in a Dialogue he had with Gotama. This professor of self-torture enumerates twenty-two methods of self-mortification in respect of food, and thirteen in respect of clothing, and among these the ascetic may make his choice. And he keeps his body under in other ways: 

“He is a ‘plucker-out-of-hair-and-beard’ (destroying by a painful process the possibility of pride in mere beauty of appearance)—or he is a ‘stander-up’ (rejecting the use of a seat)—or he is a ‘croucher-down-on-the-heels’ (moving about painfully by jumps)—or he is a ‘bed-of-thorns-man’ (putting thorns or iron spikes under the skin on which he sleeps)—or he sleeps on a plank, or on the bare ground, or always on the same side—or he is ‘clad-in-dust’ (smearing his naked body with oil and standing where dust clouds blow, he lets dust and dirt adhere to his body).” 

Later on, in the epic for instance, the list grows longer, the penances harder, the self-torture more revolting. But from this time onwards, down to quite modern times, this tapas, self-mortification, is a permanent idea and practice in the religious life of India. As is well known it is not confined to India. Tennyson, in the monologue of St. Simeon Stylites, has given us a powerful analysis of the sort of feelings that lay at the root of this superstition in the West. But the theological views that give the tone to the Christian saint’s self-revelation are very different from those we find in India. The Indian way of looking at the whole conception is much more akin to the way Diogenes thought when he lived, like a dog, in his tub-kennel. The Greek word cynic is indeed exactly analogous to the Indian expression kukkura-vatiko, “one who behaves like a dog,” as applied (quite courteously) to the sophist, the naked ascetic, Seniya. There is no question here of penance for sin, or of an appeal to the mercy of an offended deity. It is the boast of superiority advanced by the man able, through strength of will, to keep his body under, and not only to despise comfort, but to welcome pain. By this it is not, of course, intended to imply that the Christian did not advance a similar claim. He did. But it was, in his case, overshadowed by other considerations which are absent in India. 

Both in the East and the West the claim was often accepted. We hear a good deal in India of the reverence paid to the man who (to quote the words of a Buddhist poet), 

“Bescorched, befrozen, lone in fearsome woods, 

Naked, without a fire, afire within, 

Struggled in awful silence toward the goal!” 

Simeon, by the mere strength of popular acclaim, became a saint, even almost before he died. Diogenes, and his parallel in India, Mahavira, founded important schools which have left their mark on history. And ought we, after all, to be surprised that those who despise earthly comfort, and subject themselves to voluntary torture, should be looked upon, with a kind of fearsome awe, as more holy, as better, than other men? There was some justice in the view. And until experience had shown the other side of the question—the attendant disadvantages, and the inadequate results of strength of will when applied to physical ends—it was inevitable that the self-mastery quite evident in such practices should appeal strongly to the minds of the people. 

We find the other side put forward in India from two directions, one mainly philosophic, the other mainly ethical. The manner in which both these movements came about was perfectly natural, though it was much influenced by the custom already referred to as peculiar, at that period of the world’s history, to India. Students are often represented as begging, just as students did in Europe in the Middle Ages. And we hear of sophists, just as we do in the history of Greek thought. But the peculiarity was that, before the rise of Buddhism, it was a prevalent habit for wandering teachers also— and not only students—to beg. Such wandering teachers, who were not necessarily ascetics except in so far as they were celibates, are always represented as being held in high esteem by the people. In the monarchies the royal family, in the clans the community, put up (as we have seen above) public halls where such Wanderers (Paribbajaka) could lodge, and where conversational discussions, open to everyone, were held on philosophic and religious When he is being defeated the problems put are such as this: Why are creatures born without teeth, then teeth grow, and when the creatures become old then the teeth decay? The answer of his opponent, the orthodox priest, is: The preliminary offerings of a sacrifice have no formulas of invitation, therefore creatures are born without teeth (!). The chief sacrifice has, therefore teeth grow (!). The closing acts in the sacrifice have no such formulas, therefore in old age teeth decay (!). Other explanations, equally lucid and convincing, are given for the growth and decay of the procreative power, etc. Such are the deep mysteries Uddalaka Aruni is scoffed at (in the priestly manual which has preserved this interesting old story) for not knowing. 

This is a foreshadowing of the well-known Buddhist story of the woman sophist who wandered from village to village offering to meet all the world in argument, and when beaten in a disputation, became the pupil of her Buddhist conqueror. In the centuries between the date of these two legends the whole system had grown up. But unfortunately there is so little about it in the priestly books that it is not easy to trace its progress. 

The priests, very naturally, did not like the gradually growing esteem in which a body of men (and women) were held who despised the sacrifice, the source of the priests’ income and reputation. But they were quite helpless in the matter. The sacrifices the priests were ready to offer had entirely lost any significance they may have once possessed as national or tribal ceremonies. They were now merely magic rites performed for the benefit of one individual and at his expense. In the priestly books it is taken for granted that every one entitled to do so is desirous to have the sacrifices performed for him. In actual life there were probably many who gibed at the cost; and preferred, if they wanted magic, magic of other and cheaper kinds. In any case there was no central organisation of the priesthood; there were no permanent temples to their gods, and such sacred shrines as the people could frequent were the sacred trees or other objects of veneration belonging to the worship of the local gods, and quite apart from the cultus or the influence of the priests. 

And the latter were divided against themselves. They vied with one another for sacrificial fees. The demand for their services was insufficient to maintain them all. Brahmins followed therefore all sorts of other occupations; and those of them not continually busied about the sacrifice were often inclined to views of life, and of religion, different from the views of those who were. We find brahmins ranking tapas, self-torture, above sacrifice. We find brahmins among those who reckoned insight above either, and who, whether as laymen or as Wanderers, joined the ranks of the other side. Unable therefore, whether they wanted or not, to stay the progress of newer ideas, the priests strove to turn the incoming tide into channels favourable to their Order. They formulated—though this was some time after the rise of Buddhism—the famous theory of the Aœramas, or Efforts, according to which no one could become either a Hermit or a Wanderer without having first passed many years as a student in the brahmin schools, and lived after that the life of a married householder as regulated in the brahmin law-books. It was a bold bid for supremacy. If successful it might have put a stop to the whole movement. But it remained a dead letter—probably always, certainly during the period we are here considering. It is quite true that the priestly manuals, especially those later than the Christian era, take it as a matter of course that the rule was observed. But they do not give us the actual facts of life in India. They give, and are only meant to give, what the priests thought the facts ought to be. And there is ample evidence even in the priestly literature itself of a gradual growth in the theory, of differing views about it, and of its loose hold on the people.

In the second place, the priests, already before the rise of Buddhism, had (as appendices to their sacred books on the sacrifice) short treatises setting out, as the highest truth, those forms of speculation which they held most compatible with their own mysteries. Their procedure, in this respect, was exactly parallel to their treatment of gods not included in their own pantheon, but too powerful and popular to be left alone. 

It is quite evident, from the outcome of the whole movement, that there must have been other ideas current besides those that the priests thus adapted and handed down in their text-books. And we have valuable evidence, in the lay literature of a later date, as to what these other ideas were, so that in this respect also, as in other matters, the priestly books have preserved an invaluable, but still only a partial, record. 

The ideas they selected are, as would naturally be expected, those based on the same animistic notions as underlay their own views of the sacrifice. A soul in these texts—the pre-Buddhistic Upanishads —is supposed to exist inside each human body, and to be the sole and sufficient explanation of life and motion. In the living body, in its ordinary state, the soul dwells in a cavity in the heart. It is described as being in size like a grain of barley or rice. It is only in later speculation that it grows to be of the size of the thumb, and to be called therefore “the dwarf.” 

In shape it is like a man. Its appearance was evidently found difficult to portray, even in simile; but it is said in different passages to be like smoke-coloured wool, like cochineal, like flame, like a white lotus, like a flash of lightning, like a light without smoke. Beliefs vary as to what it is made of. One passage says it consists of consciousness, mind, breath; eye and ears; earth, water, fire, and ether; heat and no heat; desire and no desire; anger and no anger; law and no law—in a word, of all things. 

We see from this that the soul was supposed to be material—the four elements of matter are there—but selected mental qualities are also in it. In another curious and deeply mystical old text the elements of matter come first, and we are told of five souls, each inside the other, each the same yet different from the one outside it, each of them in shape as a man, and made respectively of food, breath, mind, consciousness, and joy. 

Certain forms of disease were supposed to be due to the fact that the soul had escaped out of the body; and charms are recorded for bringing it back. In dream sleep also the “soul” is away from the body. “Therefore they say: Let no one wake a man brusquely; for that is a matter difficult to be cured for him if the soul find not its way back to him.” 

During the dream the soul, after leaving the body, wanders at its will, builds up a world according to its fancy, creates for itself chariots and houses, lakes and rivers, manifold shapes, a gorgeous playground wherein it acts and enjoys and suffers, “either rejoicing with women, or laughing with its friends, or beholding horrible sights.” Till at last, tired out,— just as a falcon after roaming hither and thither in the sky, tired, flaps its wings and is wafted to its nest,—so the soul returns from that playground of his to the body, when in deep, fast sleep it wants no more, and dreams no more. It is a charming and beautiful picture. 

Such dreams are premonitions of good luck or the reverse, which gave rise, in India then, as throughout the world in similar stages of culture, to many foolish fancies. 

When the soul has come back to the body, which remains recumbent in dreamless sleep, the soul pervades the whole of it, down to the tips of the hair and nails, by means of seventy-two thousand arteries called Hita (the Good). And oddly enough it is precisely then that the soul is supposed to obtain light. 

We are not told how the soul gets out of, and back into, the body. This is not surprising, for the opinions expressed as to how the soul got into its first body—whether at conception or at quickening or at birth—are contradictory. All views on this point were no doubt neither more nor less hazy then in India than they are now in the West. There are passages which suppose the soul to have existed, before birth, in some other body; and other passages which suppose it to have been inserted, at the origin of things, into its first body downwards, through the suture at the top of the skull, into the heart. But there is a passage which affirms that the soul was inserted upwards, through the intestines and the belly, into the head. And we find a curious speculation, of which there are three variants, on the transfer of the soul by generation, through the seed. 

One of these is the theory that certain human souls, on going to the moon, become food to the gods there, and are thus united to the gods as a consequence of their good deeds. When the efficacy of their good deeds is exhausted, they pass from the gods to the ether, from the ether into the air, from the air into the rain, from the rain on to the earth, from the earth into plants which become food to males, and from the males they pass into females. 

At the death of an ordinary man the top part of the heart becomes lighted up, and the soul, guided by that light, departs from the heart into the eye, and through the eye to some other body, exalted or not, according to the deeds the man has done in that body the soul is now leaving. But the soul of the man whose cravings have ceased goes, through the suture of the skull (at the top of the head), to Brahman. In each case there are many stopping-places on the way, but the theories differ both about these and about other details. I have discussed these points elsewhere. And a careful search would no doubt reveal passages even in other parts of the priestly literature acknowledging views which do not happen to be referred to in the older Upanishads, but which bear the stamp of great antiquity —such passages as Maha-bharata, xii. 11.704, where we are told that if, as the dying man draws up his knees, the soul goes out of him by way of the knees, then it goes to the Sadhyas. 

But there is an almost entire unanimity of opinion in these Upanishads that the soul will not obtain release from rebirth either by the performance of sacrifice in this birth or by the practice of penance. It must be by a sort of theosophic or animistic insight, by the perception, the absolute knowledge and certainty, that one’s own soul is identical with the Great Soul, the only permanent reality, the ultimate basis and cause of all phenomena. 

The ideas had therefore just made, at the time when our history begins, a complete circle. The hypothesis of a soul—a material, but very subtle sort of homunculus within the body—had been started to explain the life and motion, sleep and death, of human beings. By analogy, logically enough, it had been extended, ever more and more widely, to explain similar phenomena in the outside world. There must be a soul in the sun. How else could one explain its majestic march across the heavens, evidently purposeful, its rising and its setting, its beauty and light and glow? If its action was somewhat mysterious, who was to limit or define the motives of the soul of so glorious a creature? There was no argument about it. It was taken for granted; and any one who doubted was simply impious. These souls in nature—gods they called them—had, of course, no existence outside the brains of the men who made them. They were logical corollaries of the human soul. And the external souls, the gods, were therefore identical in origin and nature with the souls supposed to live inside human bodies. But the very men who made these external souls, the gods, looked upon them as objective realities, quite different from their own souls. They—the gods—were always changing— that is to say, men’s ideas about them were always changing, moving, being modified. The long history of Indian mythology is the history of such changes, by no means always dependent on theological reasons. And with each change the objective reality of the external souls, the gods, their difference from the souls of men, seemed more clear and certain than ever. 

Then came the reaction. The gods began, not in popular belief, but among thinkers, to be more and more regarded as identical one with the other until at last, just before Buddhism, the hypothesis was started of a one primeval soul, the world-soul, the Highest soul, the Paramatman, from whom all the other gods and souls had proceeded. There was a deep truth in this daring speculation. But the souls inside men were held in it to be identical with god, the only original and true reality; whereas, historically speaking, soul was the original idea and the gods (and god) had grown out of it. 

We have abundant evidence that this grand generalisation was neither due to the priests who adopted it, nor had its origin in the priestly schools. Precisely as regards the highest point of the generalisation, the very keystone of the arch, the priestly, literature has preserved the names of the rajput laymen who thought it out and taught it to the priests. And among the priests who had the greatest share in adopting it, in procuring admission for it into their sacred books, is mentioned the very Uddalaka Aruni, the Gotama, whose defeat in argument on “spiritual matters” has been recorded above. 

When this point had been reached, speculation on the basis of the soul theory could go no further. The only modification possible was in the ideas as to the nature and qualities of the souls, internal and external, and as to the relations between them. And to this point speculation reached, but later, and less clearly, in China also, and in Greece. But it was in India, and in India only, that the further step was taken, by Gotama the rajput and his disciples, to abandon the soul theory altogether; and to build up a new philosophy (whether right or wrong is not here the question) on other considerations in which soul or souls played no part at all. 

That this thoroughgoing and far-reaching step was taken by laymen should not surprise us. To suppose that the Indians were more superstitious at that time than other folk, more under the thumb of their priests, is to misunderstand the evidence. On the contrary there was a well-marked lay feeling, a real sense of humour, a strong fund of common-sense, a wide-spread feeling, in all such matters, of courtesy and liberality. How otherwise can we explain the fact, already pointed out, of the most complete and unquestioned freedom, both of thought and expression, which the world had yet witnessed? 

We shall probably be ignoring an important factor in the history of the time if we omit to notice that this state of things was due, in great part, to the very easy and simple economic conditions of those days. 

3

The Buddhist Way to Economic Stability 

The word ‘Manussa,’ man, had different etymological meanings given it by eastern scholars in the past. While popular or general Indian tradition traces the origin of the word to ‘Manu’ the mythical progenitor of the human race, in the Buddhist texts the derivation of the word is given as ‘manassa-ussannataya=manussa’- man, because of his highly developed state of mind (as compared to the underdeveloped or rudimentary mental state of the lower animal). According to Buddhist thought man ranks as the highest of beings due to the vast potential of the human mind.

Kautilya’s Arthasastra and Brhaspati’s Arthasastra - two famous ancient treatises on economics - were both written after the Buddha’s lifetime. They held one common feature, and that, - under title of Arthasastra both writers had written on politics and economics, leaving out the most important factor, of ethics and the moral development of man himself.

Of the Pali term “Attha” (-Sanskrit ‘artha’) - which has more than one meaning according to Buddhism, the word as signifying success is used at two separate levels, i.e. ‘attha’ meaning success, and ‘uttamattha’ meaning the highest success. The latter concerns man’s mental and spiritual development resulting in the realization of supramundane knowledge of the Four Noble Truths, in the conquest of Self and attainment to spiritual perfection or Arahanthood. Generally speaking, the word ‘attha’ as success, relates to the various aspects of man’s socio-economic development - such as the economy, politics, education, health, law and morality of a society. It refers to social progress due to the harmonious unification of all the above factors, contributing to the prosperity and peaceful co-existence of a people.

Except in the case of legal administration of the Sangha, no single discourse of the Buddha deals fully on any one of the above factors of social progress. Yet reading through the numerous discourses (or Suttas) it is possible to develop a fully consistent and complete view-point of the Buddha’s stand on each of the above topics drawn from the various discourses of the Buddha. A socio-economic system based on Buddhist principles and practices could easily be formulated to suit today’s modern progressive society.

In recent times many books have been written on the subject of economics and economic theory, all of them either from the Capitalist or Socialist point of view. Neither of these systems pays attention to, nor considers the inner development of man as an important factor in the growth of society. Hence there has been a rapid deterioration in human values and standards of behaviour in all classes of society. Science and technology have taken gigantic strides forward to send man to the moon, and it will not be long before he visits other planets. But fears are expressed that if the present trend towards moral degeneration continues, before long it would be impossible to differentiate human action from that of the animal. This fear is not baseless. It would be a great tragedy indeed were man to turn beast even in one of the many bestial aspects of behaviour belonging to the lower animals. Thus what the world requires today is a socially stable economic system which yields the highest place to man’s moral development and cultivation of human values.

The Buddha lived in a society entangled and confused by sixty-two divergent views and one hundred and eight types of craving. There were hundreds who went about in search of an escape from this entanglement of views. Once the Buddha was asked the question: (Jata sutta)

The inner tangle and the outer tangle.

This world is entangled in a tangle.

Who succeeds in disentangling this tangle?

The Buddha who explained that all these tangles have mind as the fore-runner, answered thus. When a wise man, established well in virtue, Develops consciousness and understanding, ‘Men as a bhikkhu ardent and sagacious He succeeds in disentangling this tangle.

Realising the importance of the external factors in man’s endeavour towards disentangling himself from the inner tangle, the Buddha gave many discourses on the ways and means of overcoming the outer tangle. Some of these teachings were meant only for the bhikkhus. Others were only for laymen. The rest were meant for both bhikkhus and laymen, although in the latter case, the discourses were mainly directed to the bhikkhus. In one such discourse, he approved the acceptance by the bhdddius of the four requisites namely robes, food, shelter and medicine. Man could live without all other modern contraptions but for life to go on, these four requisites are essential. Wealth is required by man to obtain these four requisites and to meet his other needs.

The Noble Eightfold Path which could be classified under right values and right action, enables man to achieve the highest ends. For economic stability and well-being, the Buddhist system stresses three factors in the Vyagghapajja Sutta.

1. Utthana Sampada: Production of wealth through skilled and earnest endeavour.

2. Arakkha Sampada: Its protection and savings.

3. Samajivikata - Living within one’s means.

Utthana Sampada

The Buddha when encouraging the production of wealth makes special reference to six job ranges prevalent at that time:

1. Agriculture

2. Trade

3. Cattle breeding

4. Defence services

5. Government services

6. Professional services

India was predominantly an agricultural country. Hence many references in the discourses were made to agriculture. For example in the ‘Sadapunnappavaddhana Sutta’ it is mentioned that providing of irrigation facilities results in yielding continuous merit. In the ‘Samyutta Nikaya’ it is mentioned that the greatest asset for agriculture is cattle, while in the Sutta Nipatha cattle from whom man obtains milk, ghee, curd, butter and whey, of much nutritious value, are described as the best friends of a country. In developing countries, water and draught power provided by cattle, are basic needs for agriculture.

In the discourse pertaining to a layman’s happiness (domestic and otherwise) (Cahapati Sukha), foremost is mentioned the satisfaction derived by a layman from the possession of wealth obtained through righteous means. (Atthi Sukka). However, the Buddha warns man against the tendency to become a slave to the mere accumulation of wealth for its own sake. Ibis would lead to both physical and mental suffering later. Adequate means of livelihood to support oneself and family, to help relatives and friends, and to distribute among the needy and the deserving, would lead to contentment and inner satisfaction. This in turn would result in the moral and spiritual development of man.

In the ‘Kutadanta Sutta’ the Buddha shows how peace and prosperity and freedom from crime comes to a country through the equitable distribution of wealth among its people.

He says: ‘Long ago, 0 Brahman, there was a king by name Wide-realm (Maha-Vijita), mighty with great wealth and large property with stores of silver and gold, of aids to enjoyment, of goods and corn; with his treasure houses and his garners full. Now when Ying Wide-realm was once sitting alone in meditation he became anxious at the thought: I have in abundance all the good things a mortal can enjoy. The whole wide circle of the earth. is mine by conquest to possess. “Twere well if I were to offer a great sacrifice that should ensure me weal and welfare for many days.”

And he had the Brahman, his chaplain, called; and telling him all that he had thought, he said: “So I would fain, 0 Brahman, offer a great sacrifice - let the venerable one instruct me how - for my weal and my welfare for many days.”

Thereupon the Brahman who was chaplain said to the king: ‘The king’s country, Sire, is harassed and harried. There are dacoits abroad who pillage the villages and townships, and who make the roads unsafe. Were the king, so long as that is so, to levy a fresh tax, verily his majesty would be acting wrongly. But perchance his majesty might think: I will soon put a stop to these scoundrels’ game by degradation and banishment, and fines and bonds and death! But their licence cannot be satisfactorily put a stop to do so. The remnant left unpunished would still go on harassing the realm. Now there is one method to adopt to put a thorough end to this disorder. Whosoever, there be in the king’s realm who devote themselves to keeping cattle and the farm, to them let his majesty the king give food and seed corn. Whosoever, there be in the king’s realm who devote themselves to trade, to them let his majesty the king give wages and food. Then those men, following each his own business, will no longer harass the realm; the king’s revenue will go up; the country will be quiet and at peace; and the populace, pleased one with another and happy, dancing their children in their arms, will dell with open doors. ”The King Wide-realm, O Brahman, accepted the word of his chaplain, and did as he had said. And the men, following their business, harassed the realm no n-tore. And the king’s revenue went up. And the country became quiet and at peace. And the populace, pleased one with another and happy, dancing their children in their arms, dwelt with open doors.

So King Wide-realm had his chaplain called, and said: The disorder is at an end. The country is at peace. (Dialogues of the Buddha - Part I, pp. 175-6).

Arakkha Samapada

This means the worldly happiness derived from the constant protection of one’s wealth (that has been righteously obtained) from burglary, fire, floods etc. As the Buddha has extolled the virtue of savings, this factor too could be considered in this context.

Obtaining money on credit (or loans) was prevalent even during the Buddha’s time. Persons like Anathapindika were the bankers of the day. The Buddhist texts make references to instances where he gave loans both to the state as well as to ordinary people. However, Buddhism does not approve of excessive borrowing for as the saying goes “borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry” - and the Buddha’s advocacy of a life free from debts (anana sukha) as being conducive to the happiness of a layman supports this statement. In the ‘Samannaphala Sutta,’ the Buddha compares the SamannaPhala (or fruit of a recluse’s life) to the happiness derived by a person, who having been in debt frees himself of all his debts, and now supports his family and children from the savings he has managed to put aside. The importance of making savings from one’s earnings is stressed in this manner. In general, the Buddha gives details of the proper use of one’s earnings. But in the ‘Sigalovada Sutta.’ He admonishes particularly a big magnate, Sigala to apportion his savings into four and to spend one part of it for his daily upkeep and that of his family. Two portions were to be invested in his business; and the fourth put aside for any emergency.

Sanmjivikata

This is the third of the three basic principles in the Buddhist Economic system. A person should spend reasonably in proportion to his income, neither too much nor too little. In the discourse relating to the householders’ happiness (gahapati sukha) enjoyment of one’s income appropriately and wisely (bhoga sukha) is given as one of the four factors conducive to lay happiness.

In the Pattakamma Sutta the manner in which a person should spend his wealth is given in detail as follows:

1. Expenditure on food and clothing and other needs.

2. Maintenance of parents, wife and children and servants.

3. For illness and other emergencies.

4. For charitable purposes.

5. For the performance of the following: 

(i) treating one’s relatives;

(ii) treating one’s visitors;

(iii) offering alms in memory of the departed; 

(iv) offering merit to the deities;

(v) payment of state taxes and dues in time. 

The Buddha extols simple living as being more conducive to the development of one’s mind. A society progresses to the extent the mind of the individual is developed. Administration of such a society becomes easier, when law and order is well established. Knowing this, ancient kings in Sri Lanka gave much publicity to the contents of the Ariyavamsa Sutta.’ In this Sutta, preached by the Buddha for the benefit of the bhikkhus, the latter are exhorted to be contented with 

(i) The robes (clothes) they receive (whether coarse or fine)..

(ii) Alms (food) they receive (whether unpalatable or delicious).

(iii) The abodes (houses) they receive (whether simple or luxurious).

(iv) Meditation (development of mind).

Becoming content with the first three it is possible to reduce economic restlessness, and at the same time to inculcate the habits and values of simple living. Through meditation the human mind develops itself both morally and spiritually, resulting in reducing social disharmony and insurrection which arise first in the minds of men and then put into action. Peace and progress of a country is thus assured. In this modern world although highly advanced in science and technology, with its rapid expansion of knowledge, there appears to be a steady deterioration of human values. Present day politics, the economy, and educational systems are some of the more important reasons for this state of affairs. In this context it is considered desirable that the existing political and economic thought and educational systems should be changed so as to give priority to the development of human values.

Buddhism is both a path of emancipation and a way of life. As a way of life it interacts with the economic, Political and social beliefs and practices of the people. It is felt that the time is now most opportune to make known to the world each of the above aspects of society within the framework of Buddhist Ethics and the basic principles of Buddhism. The progress of a country depends ultimately on the progress of the individual. Over 2500 years ago, the Buddha was born into a confused society entangled in various views regarding life and thought in general. Through Buddhism it was possible to disentangle this tangle of views and to reduce this confusion. Today too, in This Confused Society it is generally believed that Buddhism could again help in lighting a path through the darkness of this confusion.

4

Buddhism and Global Economic Justice

The central problem today is that we are long past the time when “human activities and their effects can be neatly compartmentalised within nations, within sectors (energy, agriculture, trade) and within broad areas of concern (environmental, economic, social). These compartments have begun to dissolve.” It is claimed that “this applies in particular to the various global ‘crises’ that have seized public concern, particularly over the past decade. These are not separate crises: an environmental crisis, a development crisis and an energy crisis. They are all one.”

Poverty of Growth

In short, it is a crisis of the relation of humankind to its environment both in regard to the present and the future. Part of the reason for the present and emerging crises is humankind’s ideological confrontation which finds its basis in craving (tanha). If the worst effects of these multiple crises are to be averted, it is essential to identify both their causes and the steps for their solution. On a world scale it is stated that industrial production has grown more than fiftyfold over the past century with “four-fifths of the growth [having taken place] since 1950.” Despite this enormous expansion in production, partly due to increased consumption and war-expenditures besides arms production, the scale of poverty and the numbers affected by destitution have increased. According to estimates of the International Labour Organization, in 1977 “more than seven hundred million people live[d] in acute poverty and [were] destitute.” Besides, “countless millions suffer from debilitating diseases of various sorts and lack access to the most basic medical services. . . . The tragic waste of human resources in the Third World is symbolized by nearly three thousand million persons unemployed or underemployed in the mid-1970s.” In such a situation, the urgency of eliminating or at least mitigating the worst effects of such economic injustices assume considerable importance.

Righteous Universal Rule: Its Earliest Exposition

In Buddhism there are many relevant points which could inform processes for solving human poverty and economic injustice. It was the conception of the Buddha that the Middle Path could serve as the way for both material and spiritual progress, its applicability having relevance to personal liberation from suffering, with application by extension to the national and global context. Among the Buddha’s discourses relevant to this problem is the “Discourse on the Lion’s Roar of a Universal Monarch” (Chakkavatti Sihanada Suttanta).

If among the problems of today, the arms race and wasteful military expenditures constitute the biggest stumbling block to a more liberal sharing of financial and material resources globally, it is interesting to note that this sutta envisions a universal monarch who wins over a kingdom and expands his domain by righteous means without recourse to the force of arms or intrigue. In this context “righteous means” describes the pursuit of the welfare of all without the violation of anyone’s rights. The concept of justice that inspires this universal monarch or ruler entails providing every being, human and animal, righteous protection while also eliminating all injustice. The universal monarch should seek advice, especially from those leading morally good lives, on how to ameliorate such grave problems as destitution, for its very existence is a form of injustice. In the Buddha’s vision, economic progress and stability of humankind should not be secured for their own sake, but towards ensuring the moral and spiritual progress of humankind. The Buddha’s “Discourse on the Lion’s Roar of a Universal Monarch” also explains how singling out material progress alone can lead to social disorder and moral decay with consequences such as an increase in crime and a degeneration of the quality of life. Today the truth of this is evident in the “developed” countries. “The more industrialized and developed is a country, the higher the level of criminality and vice versa.”

Dangers of Tunnel Vision

It is interesting to recall what a celebrated economist like Lord Keynes said in the 1930s, speculating on the “economic possibilities for our grandchildren.” He stated, “For at least another hundred years, we must pretend to ourselves and to everyone that fair is foul and foul is fair: for foul is useful and fair is not. Avarice and usury and precaution must be our gods for a little longer still. For only they can lead us out of the tunnel of economic necessity into daylight.”

The single-minded evaluation of developmental growth measured in terms of Gross National Product cannot possibly go on unlimited. The relentless pursuit of economic goals regardless of environmental as well as moral considerations has resulted in almost a pathological growth of sensualist trends. An example from the developed countries is that in the U.K., the U.S.A. and France, not to mention the USSR, alcoholism has assumed the proportions of a major health problem. In some of these as well as others, the drug addiction problem has become acute, especially among the youth.

Conscientiousness in Resource Use

In Buddhism excessive acquisitive greed and hoarding of money or possessions is deplored. Frugality is encouraged as a positive virtue. Once, Ven. Ananda Thero explained to a king how gifts offered to bhikkhus are put to maximum use. The extent to which resource conservation was practiced in early times is illustrated by the multiple uses to which discarded robes were put. Discarded robes were used as coverlets, as mattress covers, as rugs, thereafter as dusters and finally kneaded with clay and used to repair cracked walls and floors of temples. In contrast, today there is an increase in marketing of particularly non-essential products. This growth results in a phenomenal increase in resource consumption. One of the most environmentally damaging has been the large-scale destruction of forests, especially the tropical forests. The scale of resource consumption can be illustrated by North America’s consumption of world resources, which within a matter of forty years has equalled the level of what humankind had consumed during the last four thousand years.

Material and Spiritual Growth can be Conjoined

It is a Buddhist idea that the state of nature was contaminated by the concept of private property. The modern idea of social contract has its roots in Buddhism. In the Buddha’s “Discourse on the Establishment of the Principle of Righteousness” (Dhammachakkapavattana Sutta), the Buddha’s views on religion, economics and society can be discerned. The Noble Eightfold Path includes the cultivation and development of right understanding, right mindedness, right speech, right action, right living, right effort, right attentiveness and right concentration. Understood in a comprehensive manner their purpose is to inculcate a moral life to be adopted by both householders and by those who have renounced lay life for advanced spiritual development.

The Buddha’s “Discourse on the Knowledge of the Beginning” (Agganna Suttanta) can be understood as an attempt to deal with the fourfold caste system which relates the speculative story of the “fall of man.” The Buddha made provision for a communal set up for monks and nuns. Apart from the eight items of personal use such as clothing, the begging bowl, and so on, all other items are considered the property of the commune (sangha). This system was introduced for the regulation of the affairs of the sangha exclusively. However, this practice is not without value, by way of example, for lay society. More universally applied, however, was the abolition of social inequality by the Buddha by introducing equality among the sangha, the bhikkhu community, irrespective of the origins of its members by way of caste or rank before entering the Order. Buddhism all along upheld a principle which Karl Marx declared as follows: “to vindicate the simple laws of morals and justice which ought to govern the regulations of private individuals as the rules paramount to the intercourse of nations.” This constituted part of the Principles of Rulership which Buddhist rulers were enjoined to follow. Given the current crisis situation and the relative failure of contemporary economic approaches to the solution of the problems of poverty and economic justice, it may be desirable to examine the Buddhist framework to see if there is a Buddhist way of placing development on a more dynamic and meaningful foundation.

Buddhist Economics for Full Employment

E.P. Schumacher, writing on “Buddhist Economics,” stated that since “‘Right Livelihood’ is one of the requirements of the Buddhist Noble Eightfold Path . . . there must be such a thing as Buddhist Economics.” He held, for example, that “the Buddhist point of view takes the function of work to be at least threefold: to give a man a chance to utilise and develop his faculties; to enable him to overcome his ego-centredness by joining with other people in a common task; and to bring forth the goods and services needed for a becoming existence.”

It is especially noteworthy that in the pursuit of Right Livelihood what is enjoined is the practice of blameless and honourable occupation. Forms of employment involving trade in armaments (sattha vanijja), slaves (satta vanijja), intoxicants and narcotics (majje vanijja) and poisons (visa vanijja) are to be avoided.

If achievement of full employment is one basis for accomplishing global economic justice, “the very start of Buddhist economic planning would be planning for full employment . . . for everyone who needs an ‘outside’ job. It would not be the maximization of employment, nor the maximization of production. . . . While the materialist is mainly interested in goods, the Buddhist is mainly interested in liberation” and the path is to be traversed along the “middle way” eschewing the extremes of material comfort-seeking and mortification of the human body. Schumacher further held that the “marvel of the Buddhist way of life is the utter rationality of the pattern of amazingly small means leading to extraordinarily satisfactory results.”

More than expenditure for the advancement of human welfare, it is the waste on armaments that has contributed greatly to the debt and inflation problems that plague the world today and doubtless will become increasingly intolerable in the future. This is aggravated by the ecological deficits that will further endanger the prospect of human survival. It needs to be emphasized that the “social philosophy of the Buddha is grounded on the basic concept of the fundamental oneness and unity of humankind. Buddhist social ethics therefore has a universal appeal which gaily transcends all geographic, ethnic and temporal barriers. . . . The fundamental teachings of the Buddha, with their universal and timeless appeal and validity constitute the structure of Buddhist culture. . . . The Buddha has emphasized the inseparable connection between ethics and politics and the desirability of conducting public life in a manner consistent with moral values.”

Today’s situation does substantiate to a considerable extent the analysis of the causality of suffering in society as propounded in the Chakkavatti Sihanada Suttanta, already referred to. The realisation should dawn upon us before it is too late that the proper development of society requires that “economic socialism must necessarily harmonise itself with political democracy, so that both could together provide the freedoms and liberties for the realisation of the ultimate aims of individual betterment and perfection.” Buddhist economics and politics together, consistently applied and in conjunction with Buddhist ethics, can help uplift human society from its present predicament.

Needs: Early Re-Structuring of Global Systems

As the World Commission on Environment and Development pointed out in the report Our Common Future, the next few decades are crucial. “The time has come to break out of past patterns. Attempts to maintain social and ecological stability through old approaches to development and environmental protection will increase instability. Security must be sought through change. . . . Yet we are aware that such a reorientation on a continuing basis is surely beyond the reach of the present decision-making structures and institutional arrangements both national and international.”

The task of national and international leadership is to plan to fill this void. Although there are no universal monarchs today as envisioned in the Buddha’s “Discourse on the Lion’s Roar of a Universal Monarch” some advice given by the retiring universal monarch to his successor may have a moral for the rulers of today. It included the message: Soon those ascetics and priests in your kingdom who have abstained from intoxicants, who are established in forbearance and truthfulness, each of whom tames himself, appeases himself, them you should approach from time to time with the questions: ‘What Sir, is good? What is bad? What is blameworthy? What should be cultivated? What should not be cultivated? What action of mine will contribute to illfare and suffering for long? What action of mine, on the contrary, will contribute to welfare and happiness forever?’ Having heard from them, you should completely avoid what is bad and adopt and practice what is good. This, son, is the duty of a universal monarch.

Buddhism encourages the observance of ethical and moral values in practical life. Apart from the observance of the Five Precepts (pancha sila) which constitute the minimum moral obligation of the lay Buddhist, there is the general advocacy of the practice of charity (dana), discipline (sila) and meditation (dhavana); all this is not to the exclusion of the pursuit of personal happiness for the laity which includes enjoyment of judiciously or honestly earned wealth. Detailed expositions of these matters, as applicable to the life of the laity, are also dealt with in a number of discourses of the Buddha. Some of these include blessings (Mangala Sutta; Sutta Nipata II.4); advice on domestic and social relations (Sigala Sutta, Digha Nikaya No. 31); universal love (Metta Sutta, Sutta Nipata 1.8) and the expositions of the path to socioeconomic progress (Kutadanta Sutta, Digha Nikaya, Part I).

A point that needs stressing, however, is that: “The materialist view of life admits of no absolute ethical principles.

As this non-religious or actively anti-religious influence gains ground, the concept of ethics as being a matter of mere expediency spreads along with it. In this way the collapse of religious values has exposed us to the greatest danger in modern times, the subjugation of the individual and the rights to the requirements of materialistic state policies.”

Union of State Law and Moral Law

On the contemporary relevance of Buddhist approaches to modern problems, Professor K.N. Jayatillake has stated: “This philosophy of the Buddha comprehends a theory of knowledge, a theory of reality, an ethical system, a social and political philosophy as well as suggestions of philosophy of law and international relations. A careful examination of the essentials of these aspects of its philosophy show that they are interrelated and interconnected.”

In one of his prophetic writings, the Japanese Buddhist saint Nichiren predicted, that “the union of state law and Buddhist truth shall be established . . . and the moral law (kaiho) will be achieved in the actual life of mankind.” Even if the concept of a universal monarch is not a reality today, as far as world institutions go, the United Nations is an apex world body.

The hopes for humankind must lie in the greatest strengthening of this world body or through its possible reconstitution so that such a world organization can play a meaningfully effective role in the emerging “global village” where national frontiers lose significance and where humankind in interpersonal and collective relations will act in greater harmony for advancing the “common future” in a spirit of fellowship, understanding and goodwill while conveying a spirit of universal love and paying due regard to moral values of perennial significance to all. Perhaps, under such circumstances, national rivalries as they exist today can be submerged and the establishment of a world where economic justice prevails can be made a reality. 

The Appeal of Buddhism in the West

Many many years ago, while travelling in Tibet, the 8th century Indian sage Padmasambhava  made the following prediction; “ When the iron eagle flies and horses run on wheels, the Tibetan people will be scattered over the earth and the Dhamma will go to the land of the red man” (the  colour of Westerners or Caucasians was considered to be reddish pink by Asians).  We now live in an era of iron eagle airplanes and fast paced cars that have taken the place of horses on wheels while the Tibetan people are scattered all over the world primarily because of the Chinese occupation of Tibet. True to his prediction the Buddha Dhamma has spread from the mountains of Tibet and the forest monasteries of Sri Lanka, Thailand and Burma to the West. Buddhism is one of the fastest growing religions in North America, Europe and Australia. Buddhism has taken root in the West as ordained monks, nuns, and lay devotees from the West practice and teach the Dhamma to both Western and Eastern audiences.

The Appeal of Buddhism

What has caused this surge of interest in Buddhism from the Western World?  While it would not be prudent to list one single cause I would like to begin by quoting some well known Western monks who have adopted the Buddha Dhamma and dedicated their life to the practice and spread of the Teachings. When Bhikkhu Bodhi of the Bodhi Monastery in USA. was questioned on his opinion as to why Buddhism was becoming so popular in the United States of America he replied as follows:

“It is not difficult to understand why Buddhism should appeal to Americans at this particular junction of our history. Theistic religions have lost their hold on the minds of many educated Americans and this has opened up a deep spiritual vacuum that needs to be filled. For many, materialistic values are profoundly unsatisfying, and Buddhism offers a spiritual teaching that fits the bill. It is rational, experiential, practical, and personally verifiable. It brings concrete benefits that can be realized in one’s own life; it propounds lofty ethics and an intellectually cogent philosophy.  Also less auspiciously, it has an exotic air that attracts those fascinated by the mystical and esoteric”.

Ajahn Sumedho, the Chief Monk of the Amaravati Forest Monastery, in the United Kingdom was asked why he chose Buddhism as his religion and path to emancipation. He said:

“What impressed me about Buddhism was that it did not ask me merely to believe. It was a way (path) where one was free to doubt. It offered a practical way of finding out the Truth through one’s own experience rather than through accepting the teachings of other people.

I realized that was the way I had to do it because it is in my nature to doubt and question rather than to believe. Therefore religions that ask one to accept on faith were simply out. I could not even begin to get near them”

Bhikku Bodhi and Ajahn Sumedo have given us a starting point for examining the reasons for the marked increase of Western interest in the Buddha Dhamma.  However, to have a full understanding of this phenomenon including why it is happening at this point in time in our history we have to examine the nature and character of those that are adopting the Buddha’s Path to Freedom. This examination would lead us to the cause of the Western interest in Buddhism at a time when there is a decline of Buddhism in Eastern countries such as Korea and Sri Lanka.

Darren Nelson in his article, 

“Why is Buddhism the Fastest Growing Religion in Australia? “ asks the question, “ How is it possible that a 2500 year old philosophy, which began five hundred years before Christianity and one thousand years before the Muslim faith is relevant to modern life in Australia?”  In answering his question he suggests the following: “It does not preach a dogma of a strange cult, nor seek converts with evangelistic fervor. Those Australians who actively convert to Buddhism do so voluntarily, and are usually well-educated middle-age professional who are attracted to a sense of inner peace”.

Jan Nattier in her article “American Buddhists: Who are they? “ confirms this socio-economic assessment of the Western Buddhist, which she has termed Elite Buddhism. She claims that the American Buddhist is upper-middle class, well educated, financially comfortable and overwhelmingly of European-American constituency. Recent statistics and information seems to confirm this assessment.  While 2.5% of the American population are of the Jewish faith 25% of the American Buddhist population were formally of the Jewish faith.  The concentration of Jewish Buddhists then is 10 times more in the Buddhist population than in the average American population. In general Jewish Americans are well educated, financially comfortable and most definitely at the high end of the socio-economic scale.

In the last decade the Western media has also focused its attention on Buddhism.  Several years ago the C.B.C. radio program, Tapestry, announced that Buddhism was the fastest growing religion in North America. By the middle of 1999 The Dharma Web Ring was the largest religious web ring in the world with the highest number of daily hits. America’s fascination with Buddhism has spread to Hollywood and been translated into such movies as Little Buddha, Seven Years in Tibet, and Kundun.  In October 1999, the Times magazine was titled, America’s Fascination with Buddhism. It focused on celebrities such as Steven Seagal, Tina Turner, Richard Gere, Adam Yauchand. Phil Jackson etc. who had all adopted the Buddha’s Teaching and incorporated His teachings into their daily lives.  His Holiness the Dalai Lama who was a recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize in 1989 has through his talks, seminars and publications brought the Buddha Dhamma to the forefront and made the Dhamma synonymous with peace and compassion.

What are the characteristics of the Buddhist philosophy that attracts well-educated upper middle class Westerners and celebrities? Bhikku Bodhi acknowledged a fundamental change in society when he said, “Theistic religions have lost their hold on many educated Americans”. With Western science’s acceptance of Darwin’s Theory of Evolution and the archeological and geological evidence that dates the earth as being many millions of years old many schools, universities and museums have updated their curriculums. Acceptance of creation in 6 days and an earth with a finite limited life span of a few thousand years has waned. 

Events in the last decade like September 11, 2001 in USA have further eroded the belief of an omnipotent compassionate creator God. More and more educated Westerners are questioning the cause of physically and mentally challenged babies and the role of an omnipotent God in a world filled with pain and suffering.  Recent statistics published by the World Hunger web site had significant impact on the West. Current estimates state that one person dies of starvation every 4 seconds, and of these deaths are children. How does one reconcile these and other natural disasters which cause enormous suffering with the role and example set by a compassionate omnipotent God? 

The concept of a God that takes only his followers to heaven and places those of all other religions (about 80% of the world population), in eternal hell is losing appeal. Once such beliefs brought fear into the minds of people, instilled obedience and resulted in forced and coerced evangelizing by well meaning missionaries who wanted to save the world. Now it brings embarrassment in countries that are actively combating racism with recognition of multi-culturism and religious freedom. In the past it was believed that questioning God was a sacrilege, now many young Westerners have no qualms asking questions and they expect reasonable answers.  These individuals are seeking a spiritual experience to fill the void left by the movement away from theistic religions and are drawn to Buddhism. They are finding in Buddhism, a religion that encourages questioning and experiential wisdom before acceptance. This is seen as a fresh breath of air by those who have analytical minds and see no merit in blind faith.  Ajahn Sumedo summarized the need of these educated Westerner when he said; “Religions that asks one to accept on faith were simply out.” 

Modern man likes to experience and see things for himself. This has resulted in a great emphasis on meditation in the Western practice of Buddhism.  It is only through insight mediation, Vipassana, that we can see for ourselves and experience the Truth of the Buddha’s teachings.  Preferring to see for themselves as opposed to gathering knowledge through learning, Western Buddhists have emphasized the importance of meditation and the development of the mind. Whilst Eastern devotees have concentrated on developing spirituality through the practice of generosity and morality (infinite compassion and loving kindness to all living beings) our Western counterparts have surpassed us by using virtue as the foundation for mental culture and incorporating meditation in their daily life.  As such the commitment of Western Buddhists is strong for they are Buddhists by conviction and they have experiential wisdom.

While His Holiness the Dalai Lama’s charismatic personality and inspiring talks have made Tibetan (Vajrayana) Buddhism popular in the West, students of Ajahn Chah and Mahasi Sayadaw have introduced the Thai and Burmese Theravada Forest Monastery tradition to the West. Theravada Buddhism with dutanga practices in the forest monastery tradition has taken root in the West as Western monks such as Ajahn Sumedho, Ajahn Geoff, Ajahn Passano and Ajahn Amaro head monastery’s for Western monks and nuns.  Branch monasteries are now appearing in UK, USA, New Zealand, Italy, Switzerland, Australia and Canada. Ajahn Mun who reintroduced the forest monastery tradition in Thailand is recognized as an Arahanth as are his disciples Ajahn Chah, Ajahn Lee Dhammadaro and Ajahn Maha Boowa.  These great contemporary disciples of the Buddha have shared their experiential wisdom with the West. This sharing has resulted in providing many followers with the opportunity to experience the truth of the Buddha’s teaching through practice.

The internet which hosts great Buddhist web sites produced by Western Buddhists such as “Access to Insight, Buddhasasana web site, and Teachings of the Elders have made it possible for the interested Westerner to access quality books with ease. Prolific writers such as Ajahn Geoff of the Metta Forest Monastery in California have translated sections of the Vinaya Pitaka and the Sutta Pitaka from Pali to English for free distribution. He has further enriched the body of books available by translating the teachings of the great Thai Arahanths into English. Lay disciples such as Jack Kornfield and Gil Fionsdal have advanced the spread of the Buddha Dhamma with their dynamic presence, writings and meditation classes.

What is the cause of this surge of interest in Buddhism from the Western World?  In my opinion, the reason for the increased Western interest in Buddhism is the scientific approach of the Buddha, His infinite compassion to all living beings, and His teaching by example.  Buddhism addresses both the intellect and the heart.  In the Kalama Sutta the Buddha asked his followers to examine the Teaching carefully and accept that which is conducive to the moral benefit of self and others.  As Buddhist we should not accept the Teachings simply because of tradition, because it is spoken and rumoured by many, because it is found written in our religious books or even because we respect the teacher or elder who teaches it.  There is no blind faith in Buddhism.  The French philosopher Voltaire said, “Faith is to believe in something which your reason tells you can not be true.” The Buddha asked us to examine His teachings as the wise test gold and to accept what appeals to our reason as being wholesome. Before acceptance the Buddha invited us to come see and experience the truth. This scientific approach of test and experience has through out history, attracted many an intellectual to the Buddha’s teachings.  Some scholars from the past who are worthy of note are Professor Vincent Fallsball of Copenhagen, Herman Oldenberg, Max Muller, Paul Dahlike and Winternitz of Germany, Sylvan Levi and Poussin of France, H.C. Warren and E. W. Burlingams of the USA, and Professor Stcherbatsky of Russia. Albert Einstein went so far as to claim that;

“The religion of the future will be a cosmic religion.  It should transcend a personal God, avoid dogmas and theology.  Covering both the natural and spiritual, it should be based on a religious sense arising from the experience of all things natural and spiritual and a meaningful unity.  Buddhism answers this description.   If there is any religion that would cope with modern scientific needs it would be Buddhism.”

However, people require more than just intellectual stimulation from a religion.  A religion must have truth, compassion, tolerance, and be uplifting to help mankind reach their highest potential.  It should bring calm and inner peace to individuals living in a world that is crumbling with greed, hatred and materialism. The Buddha through example elevated man to his highest potential by teaching a path of wisdom, infinite compassion and loving-kindness.  It is this combination of wisdom and compassion, the benefits of which can be experienced in this very life, that has attracted mankind to Buddhism throughout all ages.  It is also this that has led to the peaceful existence and spread of Buddhism without bloodshed or evangelizing over two thousand five hundred years.  Possibly the greatest compliment that the West paid to Buddhism was when the United Nations recognized the Buddha for his pioneering contribution to the peace and welfare of mankind through the first official celebration of Vesak (the day marking the birth, enlightenment and passing away of the Lord Buddha). On May 15th 2000, New York born Bhikkhu Bodhi  inspired the dignitaries and masses in his enlightening message to the United Nations when he said: 

“Ever since the fifth century B.C., the Buddha has been the Light of Asia, a spiritual teacher whose teaching has shed its radiance over an area that once extended from the Kabul Valley in the west to Japan in the east, from Sri Lanka in the south to Siberia in the north.  The Buddha’s sublime personality has given birth to a whole civilization guided by lofty ethical and humanitarian ideals, to a vibrant spiritual tradition that has ennobled the lives of millions with a vision of man’s highest potentials. His graceful figure is the centerpiece of magnificent achievements in all the arts - in literature, paintings, sculpture and architecture”.

The Stability of Buddhism

While the Western World’s fascination with Buddhism cannot be denied the question of whether this is a passing fad or a permanent transformation for the Western Culture must be asked.  The Buddha’s words tell us that for a religion to take root in a country and stabilize it must have ordained monks who in turn have been ordained by ordained monks from that country. While the first wave of Western monks in the Theravada tradition were ordained in Thailand, Burma and Sri Lanka we now have Western monks ordaining Western monks.  At present, the West is still experimenting with the various traditions of Buddhism. They are sifting through the ethnic traditions that have been imported by Asian immigrants, the textural material, which is now readily available, and the direct experiences from meditation. There is no doubt that over time Western Buddhism will incorporate the unique characteristic of its people and their needs and stabilize.  In 1938 a Japanese Shinto monk noted that it took three centuries for China to adopt Buddhism from India. It would be unrealistic to expect a miracle in the West!

In my opinion, in order for Buddhism to stabilize in the West they need to accomplish two things. First they need to move beyond the concept of Buddhism as an individual religious preference and incorporate it in everyday practice of families and larger social networks.  The heavy emphasis on meditation with experiential wisdom attracts University students and upper-middle class educated adults. Currently there does not seem to be a formal avenue open for the children of these first generation Western Buddhists to adopt the Dhamma and for families to incorporate the Dhamma in their daily life.  While the most effective method of sharing the Dhamma with Western children is yet to be seen, in 1995 the Blackheath Primary School of New South Wales adopted Buddhist instruction in addition to Catholic and Protestant options at the request of a group of parents.

Second they must build strong institutions to take the place of the informal associations of those interested in the Dhamma. With the ordination of Western monks and nuns and monasteries for Western Sangha this may be just a question of time. However, the assimilation may be slow as the Judo Christian clergy are financially independent and the West is not accustomed to providing the requisites of the Sangha who have renounced all possessions. May be it is at this juncture that the Asian and Western Buddhists will merge.  The mutual learning between Western and Asian Buddhists would strengthen and provide the foundation for Buddhism to flourish in the West. Each group has much to learn from the other.  Credit must be given to Asian Buddhists for the stable system that has resulted in the preservation of the Dhamma for over 2,500 years. Western Buddhists should examine and adopt from the East that which would result in long-term stability and social benefit to ensure that the  “Buddhism boom” in the United States, which occurred in the 1890’s and faded in the 1920', does not replicate.

In the meantime the response from mainstream religions will greatly impact Buddhism’s stability in the West. Father Johnston, a Jesuit priest spoke of the value of Buddhist meditation when he visited Sydney in January 1997.  Addressing those gathered at the Religion, Literature and Arts Conference at the Australian Catholic University, Father Johnston spoke of the Christian churches need to introduce aspects of Eastern Mysticism such as meditation, yoga and Zen - if they wanted to increase the current numbers attending weekly services. 

However, the response to the popularity of Buddhism and its contribution to society has not been all positive. The Anglican Bishop of Wollongong, (south of Sydney) the Reverend Reg Piper sees Buddhism as a philosophy that is evil. He expressed his opposition to the opening of a fifty million dollar Taiwan based temple just south of Berkley. He directly opposed the Buddhist monks of the Nan Tien temple plan to promote their style of humanistic Buddhism, which emphasizes the oneness, and co-existence of the global village. The following extract is from an interview given on Tuesday, June 18, 1996 when Bishop Piper made an appearance on ABC’s 7.30 report to express his opposition to the opening of the Nan Tien temple. 

Bishop Piper: See, when you have the bible view of humankind, generally if it is outside the framework of truth the bible terms it as evil.

Reporter: It is a deception?

Bishop Piper: In that respect, yes. When ever it is not based in the truth of Christ, it would be a deception.  Because Buddhism is basically an atheistic religion. There is no God.

Reporter: Why is that a problem?

Bishop Piper: Because God has revealed himself through Christ.  Christ has been raised from the dead. He said he is God. There is no other way to the truth and no other way to really live except through Christ.

The growing interest in Buddhism has so worried Bishop Piper that he has made a video called “In Search of Paradise A Biblical Response to Buddhism” to warn all Christians of the evil deception of Buddhism that has arrived to convert them. 

While such extreme beliefs will deter some from living the benefits of the Buddha Dhamma, it will also contribute to some Westerners moving away from theistic religions. The Western potential for the practice of the Dhamma with its educated and affluent society is vast.  As the Indian sage Padmasambhava foretold the Buddha Dhamma has spread from the mountains of Tibet and the forest monasteries of Sri Lanka, Thailand and Burma to the West. It will enrich and awaken Western society as it has every other culture that it has touched.

5

The Problem of Specialization

In a discussion of Buddhist economics, the first question that arises is whether such a thing actually exists, or whether it is even possible. The image of a Buddhist monk quietly walking on alms round does not readily come to mind as an economic activity for most people. Skyscrapers, shopping centers and the stock market would more accurately fit the bill. At present the economics that we are acquainted with is a Western one. When talking of economics or matters pertaining to it, we use a Western vocabulary and we think within the conceptual framework of Western economic theory. It is difficult to avoid these constraints when talking about a Buddhist economics. We might find ourselves in fact discussing Buddhism with the language and concepts of Western economics. Even so, in the course of this book, I hope to at least provide some Buddhist perspectives on things that can be usefully employed in economics.

While economic thinking has been in existence since the time of Plato and Aristotle, the study of economics has only really crystallized into a science in the industrial era. Like other sciences in this age of specialization, economics has become a narrow and rarefied discipline; an isolated, almost stunted, body of knowledge, having little to do with other disciplines or human activities.

Ideally, the sciences should provide solutions to the complex, interrelated problems that face humanity, but cut off as it is from other disciplines and the larger sphere of human activity, economics can do little to ease the ethical, social and environmental problems that face us today. And given the tremendous influence it exerts on our market-driven societies, narrow economic thinking may, in fact, be the primary cause of some of our most pressing social and environmental troubles.

Like other sciences, economics strives for objectivity. In the process, however, subjective values, such as ethics, are excluded. With no consideration of subjective, moral values, an economist may say, for instance, that a bottle of whiskey and a Chinese dinner have the same economic value, or that drinking in a night club contributes more to the economy than listening to a religious talk or volunteering for humanitarian work. These are truths according to economics.

But the objectivity of economics is shortsighted. Economists look at just one short phase of the natural causal process and single out the part that interests them, ignoring the wider ramifications. Thus, modern economists take no account of the ethical consequences of economic activity. Neither the vices associated with the frequenting of night clubs, nor the wisdom arising from listening to a religious teaching, are its concern.

But is it in fact desirable to look on economics as a science? Although many believe that science can save us from the perils of life, it has many limitations. Science shows only one side of the truth, that which concerns the material world. By only considering the material side of things, the science of economics is out of step with the overall truth of the way things are. Given that all things in this world are naturally interrelated and interconnected, it follows that human problems must also be interrelated and interconnected. One-sided scientific solutions are bound to fail, and the problems bound to spread.

Environmental degradation is the most obvious and dangerous consequence to our industrialized, specialized approach to solving problems. Environmental problems have become so pressing that people are now beginning to see how foolish it is to place their faith in individual, isolated disciplines that ignore the larger perspective. They are starting to look at human activities on a broader scale, to see the repercussions their actions have on personal lives, society, and the environment.

From a Buddhist perspective, economics cannot be separated from other branches of knowledge. Economics is rather one component of a concerted effort to remedy the problems of humanity; and an economics based on Buddhism, a “Buddhist economics,” is therefore not so much a self-contained science, but one of a number of interdependent disciplines working in concert toward the common goal of social, individual and environmental well-being.

One of the first to integrate the Buddha’s teachings with economics (and indeed to coin the phrase “Buddhist economics”) was E. F. Schumacher in his book Small is Beautiful. In his essay on  Buddhist economics, Mr. Schumacher looks to the Buddhist teaching of the Noble Eightfold Path to make his case. He affirms that the inclusion of the factor of Right Livelihood in the Eightfold Path, in other words the Buddhist way of life, indicates the necessity of a Buddhist economics. This is Mr. Schumacher’s starting point.

Looking back, we can see that both the writing of Small is Beautiful, and the subsequent interest in Buddhist economics shown by some Western academics, took place in response to a crisis. Western academic disciplines and conceptual structures have reached a point which many feel to be a dead end, or if not, at least a turning point demanding new paradigms of thought and methodology. This has led many economists to rethink their isolated, specialized approach. The serious environmental repercussions of rampant consumerism have compelled economists to develop more ecological awareness. Some even propose that all new students of economics incorporate basic ecology into their curriculum.

Mr. Schumacher’s point that the existence of Right Livelihood as one of the factors of the Noble Eightfold Path necessitates a Buddhist economics has a number of implications. Firstly, it indicates the importance given to Right Livelihood (or economics) in Buddhism. Secondly, and conversely, it means that economics is taken to be merely one amongst a number of factors (traditionally eight) that comprise a right way of life, that is, one capable of solving the problems of life.

Specialization can be a great benefit as long as we don’t lose sight of our common goal: as a specialized study, economics allows us to analyze with minute detail the causes and factors within economic activities. But it is a mistake to believe that any one discipline or field of learning can in itself solve all problems. In concert with other disciplines, however, economics can constitute a complete response to human suffering, and it is only by fully understanding the contributions and limitations of each discipline that we will be able to produce such a coordinated effort.

Unfortunately, as it stands, economics is grossly out of touch with the whole stream of causes and conditions that constitute reality. Economics, and indeed all the social sciences, are, after all, based on man-made or artificial truths. For example, according to natural laws, the action of digging the earth results in a hole. This is a fixed cause and effect relationship based on natural laws. However, the digging which results in a wage is a conventional truth based on a social agreement. Without the social agreement, the action of digging does not result in a wage. While economists scrutinize one isolated segment of the cause and effect process, the universe manifests itself in an inconceivably vast array of causes and conditions, actions and reactions. Focused as they are on the linear progression of the economic events that concern them, economists forget that nature unfolds in all directions. In nature, actions and results are not confined to isolated spheres. One action gives rise to results, which in turn becomes a cause for further results. Each result conditions further results. In this way, action and reaction are intertwined to form the vibrant fabric of causes and conditions that we perceive as reality. To understand reality, it is necessary to understand this process.

The Two Meanings of Dhamma 

For many people, the term “Buddhist economics” may evoke the image of an ideal society where all  economic activity — buying and selling, production and consumption — adheres to strict ethical standards. But such an idealized image, attractive as it may sound, does not convey the full depth of the Buddha’s teachings. The Buddha’s teachings point to Dhamma, or truth. In Buddhism the term Dhamma is used to convey different levels of truth, both relative truths and ultimate truth.

Those truths regarding ethical behaviour — both on a personal day-to-day basis and in society — are called cariyadhamma. These are the truths related to matters of good and evil. Dhamma in its larger sense is saccadhamma, truth, or sabhavadhamma, reality: it includes all things as they are and the laws by which they function. In this sense, Dhamma is used to describe the entire stream of causes and conditions, the process by which all things exist and function.

Unlike the narrower scope of cariyadhamma, which refers to isolated ethical considerations, sabhavadhamma points to nature or reality itself, which is beyond concerns of good and evil. In this all-encompassing sense, Dhamma expresses the totality of natural conditions, that which the various branches of science seek to describe.

Thus, the Buddha’s teachings give us more than just ethical guidelines for a virtuous life. His teachings offer a grand insight into the nature of reality. Given the twofold meaning of the term Dhamma, it follows that an economics inspired by the Dhamma would be both attuned to the grand sphere of causes and conditions and, at the same time, guided by the specific ethical teachings based on natural reality. In other words, Buddhist economists would not only consider the ethical values of economic activity, but also strive to understand reality and direct economic activity to be in harmony with “the way things are.”

Ultimately, economics cannot be separated from Dhamma, because all the activities we associate with economics emerge from the Dhamma. Economics is just one part of a vast interconnected whole, subject to the same natural laws by which all things function. Dhamma describes the workings of this whole, the basic truth of all things, including economics. If economics is ignorant of the Dhamma — of the complex and dynamic process of causes-and-effects that constitutes reality — then it will be hard pressed to solve problems, much less produce the benefits to which it aims.

Yet this is precisely the trouble with modern economic thinking. Lacking any holistic, comprehensive insight and limited by the narrowness of their specialized view, economists single out one isolated portion of the stream of conditions and fail to consider results beyond that point. An example: there exists a demand for a commodity, such as whiskey. The demand is supplied by production — growing grain and distilling it into liquor. The whiskey is then put on the market and then purchased and consumed. When it is consumed, demand is satisfied. Modern economic thinking stops here, at the satisfaction of the demand. There is no investigation of what happens after the demand is satisfied.

By contrast, an economics inspired by Dhamma would be concerned with how economic activities influence the entire process of causes and conditions. While modern economics confines its regard to events within its specialized sphere, Buddhist economics would investigate how a given economic activity affects the three interconnected spheres of human existence: the individual, society, and nature or the environment. In the case of the demand for a commodity such as whiskey, we would have to ask ourselves how liquor production affects the ecology and how its consumption affects the individual and society.

These are largely ethical considerations and this brings us back to the more specialized meaning of Dhamma, that relating to matters of good and evil. It is said in the Buddhist scriptures that good actions lead to good results and bad actions lead to bad results. All of the Buddha’s teachings on ethical behaviour are based on this principle. It is important to note here that, unlike the theistic religions, Buddhism does not propose an agent or arbitrating force that rewards or punishes good and evil actions. Rather, good and evil actions are seen as causes and conditions that unfold according to the natural flow of events. In this regard, Dhamma (in the sense of ethical teachings) and Dhamma (in the sense of natural reality) are connected in that the Buddhist ethical teachings are based on natural reality. Ethical laws follow the natural law of cause and effect: virtuous actions naturally lead to benefit and evil actions naturally lead to harm, because all of these are factors in the stream of causes and conditions.

Given its dynamic view of the world, Buddhism does not put forth absolute rules for ethical behaviour. The ethical value of behaviour is judged partly by the results it brings and partly by the qualities which lead to it. Virtuous actions are good because they lead to benefit; evil actions are evil because they lead to harm. There is a belief that any method used to attain a worthy end is justified by the worthiness of that end. This idea is summed up in the expression “the end justifies the means.” Communist revolutionaries, for instance, believed that since the objective is to create an ideal society in which all people are treated fairly, then destroying anybody and anything which stands in the way of that ideal society is justified. The end (the ideal society) justifies the means (hatred and bloodshed).

The idea that “the end justifies the means” is a good example of a human belief which simply does not accord with natural truth. This concept is a human invention, an expedient rationalization which contradicts natural law and “the way things are.” Beliefs are not evil in themselves, but when they are in contradiction with reality, they are bound to cause problems. Throughout the ages, people with extreme political and religious ideologies have committed the most brutal acts under the slogan “the end justifies the means.” No matter how noble their cause, they ended up destroying that which they were trying to create, which is some kind of happiness or social order.

To learn from history, we must analyze all the causes and conditions that contributed to the unfolding of past events. This includes the qualities of mind of the participants. A thorough analysis of the history of a violent revolution, for example, must consider not only the economic and social climate of the society, but also the emotional and intellectual makeup of the revolutionaries themselves and question the rational validity of the intellectual ideals and methods used, because all of these factors have a bearing on the outcome.

With this kind of analysis, it becomes obvious that, by the natural laws of cause and effect, it is impossible to create an ideal society out of anything less than ideal means — and certainly not bloodshed and hatred. Buddhism would say that it is not the end which justifies the means, but rather the means which condition the end. Thus, the result of slaughter and hatred is further violence and instability. This can be witnessed in police states and governments produced by violent revolution — there is always an aftermath of tension, the results of kamma, which often proves to be intolerable and social collapse soon follows. Thus the means (bloodshed and aggression) condition the end (tension and instability).

Yet while ethics are subject to these natural laws, when we have to make personal ethical choices right and wrong are not always so obvious. Indeed, the question of ethics is always a highly subjective matter. Throughout our lives, we continually face — and must answer for ourselves — questions of right and wrong. Our every choice, our every intention, holds some ethical judgment.

The Buddhist teachings on matters relating to good and evil serve as guides to help us with these subjective moral choices. But while they are subjective, we should not forget that our ethical choices inevitably play themselves out in the world according to the objective principle of causes and conditions. Our ethics — and the behaviour that naturally flows from our ethics — contribute to the causes and conditions that determine who we are, the kind of society we live in and the condition of our environment.

One of the most profound lessons of the Buddha’s teachings is the truth that internal, subjective values are directly linked to the dynamic of external objective reality. This subtle realization is at the heart of all ethical questions. Unfortunately, most people are only vaguely aware of how their internal values condition external reality. It is easy to observe the laws of cause and effect in the physical world: ripe apples fall from trees and water runs down hill. But because people tend to think of themselves as individuals separate from the universe, they fail to see how the same laws apply to internal subjective values, such as thoughts and moral attitudes. Since ethics are “subjective,” people think they are somehow unconnected to “objective” reality.

According to the Buddhist view, however, ethics forms a bridge between internal and external realities. In accordance with the law of causes and conditions, ethics act as “subjective” causes for “objective” conditions. This should be obvious when we consider that, in essence, ethical questions always ask, “Do my thoughts, words and deeds help or harm myself and those around me?” In practice, we rely on ethics to regulate the unwholesome desires of our subjective reality: anger, greed, hatred. The quality of our thoughts, though internal, constantly conditions the way we speak and act. Though subjective, our ethics determine the kind of impact our life makes on the external, objective world.

How Ethics Condition Economics

To be sure, the distinction between economics and ethics is easily discernible. We can look at any economic situation either from an entirely economic perspective, or from an entirely ethical one. For example, you are reading this book. From an ethical perspective, your reading is a good action, you are motivated by a desire for knowledge. This is an ethical judgment. From the economic perspective, on the other hand, this book may seem to be a waste of resources with no clear benefit. The same situation can be seen in different ways.

However, the two perspectives are interconnected and do influence each other. While modern economic thinking rejects any subjective values like ethics, the influence of ethics in economic matters is all too obvious. If a community is unsafe — if there are thieves, the threat of violence, and the roads are unsafe to travel — then it is obvious that businesses will not invest there, tourists will not want to go there, and the economy will suffer. On the other hand, if the citizens are law-abiding, well-disciplined and conscientiously help to keep their community safe and clean, businesses will have a much better chance of success and the municipal authorities will not have to spend so much on civic maintenance and security.

Unethical business practices have direct economic consequences. If businesses attempt to fatten their profits by using substandard ingredients in foodstuffs, such as by using cloth-dye as a coloring in children’s sweets, substituting chemicals for orange juice, or putting boric acid in meatballs (all of which have occurred in Thailand in recent years), consumers’ health is endangered. The people made ill by these practices have to pay medical costs and the government has to spend money on police investigations and prosecution of the offenders. Furthermore, the people whose health has suffered work less efficiently, causing a decline in productivity. In international trade, those who pass off shoddy goods as quality merchandise risk losing the trust of their customers and foreign markets — as well as the foreign currency obtained through those markets.

Ethical qualities also influence industrial output. If workers enjoy their work and are industrious, productivity will be high. On the other hand, if they are dishonest, disgruntled or lazy, this will have a negative effect on the quality of production and the amount of productivity.

When it comes to consumption, consumers in a society with vain and fickle values will prefer flashy and ostentatious products to high quality products which are not so flashy. In a more practically-minded society, where the social values do not tend toward showiness and extravagance, consumers will choose goods on the basis of their reliability. Obviously, the goods consumed in these two different societies will lead to different social and economic results.

Advertising stimulates economic activity, but often at an ethically unacceptable price. Advertising is bound up with popular values: advertisers must draw on common aspirations, prejudices and desires in order to produce advertisements that are appealing. Employing social psychology, advertising manipulates popular values for economic ends, and because of its repercussions on the popular mind, it has considerable ethical significance. The volume of advertising may cause an increase in materialism, and unskillful images or messages may harm public morality. The vast majority of ads imbue the public with a predilection for selfish indulgence; they condition us into being perfect consumers who have no higher purpose in life than to consume the products of modern industry. In the process, we are transformed into ‘hungry ghosts,’ striving to feed an everlasting craving, and society becomes a seething mass of conflicting interests.

Moreover, advertising adds to the price of the product itself. Thus people tend to buy unnecessary things at prices that are unnecessarily expensive. There is much wastage and extravagance. Things are used for a short while and then replaced, even though they are still in good condition. Advertising also caters to peoples’ tendency to flaunt their possessions as a way of gaining social status. When snob-appeal is the main criterion, people buy unnecessarily expensive products without considering the quality. In extreme cases, people are so driven by the need to appear stylish that they cannot wait to save the money for the latest gadget or fashion — they simply use their credit cards. Spending in excess of earnings can become a vicious cycle. A newer model or fashion is advertised and people plunge themselves deeper and deeper into debt trying to keep up. In this way, unethical advertising can lead people to financial ruin. It is ironic that, with the vast amount of ‘information technology’ available, most of it is used to generate ‘misinformation’ or delusion.

On the political plane, decisions have to be made regarding policy on advertising — should there be any control, and if so, of what kind? How is one to achieve the proper balance between moral and economic concerns? Education is also involved. Ways may have to be found to teach people to be aware of how advertising works, to reflect on it, and to consider how much of it is to be believed. Good education should seek to make people more intelligent in making decisions about buying goods. The question of advertising demonstrates how activities prevalent in society may have to be considered from many perspectives, all of which are interrelated.

Taking a wider perspective, it can be seen that the free market system itself is ultimately based on a minimum of ethics. The freedom of the free market system may be lost through businesses using unscrupulous means of competition; the creation of a monopoly through influence is one common example, the use of thugs to assassinate a competitor a more unorthodox one. The violent elimination of rivals heralds the end of the free market system, although it is a method scarcely mentioned in the economics textbooks.

To be ethically sound, economic activity must take place in a way that is not harmful to the individual, society or the natural environment. In other words, economic activity should not cause problems for oneself, agitation in society or degeneration of the ecosystem, but rather enhance well-being in these three spheres. If ethical values were factored into economic analysis, a cheap but nourishing meal would certainly be accorded more value than a bottle of whiskey.

Thus, an economics inspired by Buddhism would strive to see and accept the truth of all things. It would cast a wider, more comprehensive eye on the question of ethics. Once ethics has been accepted as a legitimate subject for consideration, ethical questions then become factors to be studied within the whole causal process. But if no account is taken of ethical considerations, economics will be incapable of developing any understanding of the whole causal process, of which ethics forms an integral part.

Modern economics has been said to be the most scientific of all the social sciences. Indeed, priding themselves on their scientific methodology, economists take only measurable quantities into consideration. Some even assert that economics is purely a science of numbers, a matter of mathematical equations. In its efforts to be scientific, economics ignores all non-quantifiable, abstract values.

But by considering economic activity in isolation from other forms of human activity, modern economists have fallen into the narrow specialization characteristic of the industrial age. In the manner of specialists, economists try to eliminate all non-economic factors from their considerations of human activity and concentrate on a single perspective, that of their own discipline.

In recent years, critics of economics, even a number of economists themselves, have challenged this “objective” position and asserted that economics is the most value-dependent of all the social sciences. It may be asked how it is possible for economics to be free of values when, in fact, it is rooted in the human mind. The economic process begins with want, continues with choice, and ends with satisfaction, all of which are functions of mind. Abstract values are thus the beginning, the middle and the end of economics, and so it is impossible for economics to be value-free. Yet as it stands, many economists avoid any consideration of values, ethics, or mental qualities, despite the fact that these will always have a bearing on economic concerns. Economists’ lack of ethical training and their ignorance of the workings of mental values and human desire is a major shortcoming which will prevent them from solving the problems it is their task to solve. If the world is to be saved from the ravages of overconsumption and overproduction, economists must come to an understanding of the importance of ethics to their field. Just as they might study ecology, they should also study ethics and the nature of human desire, and understand them thoroughly. Here is one area in which Buddhism can be of great help.

6

Buddhist Perspectives on Economic Concepts

The basic model of economic activity is often represented in economic textbooks thus: unlimited wants are controlled by scarcity; scarcity requires choice; choice involves an opportunity cost (i.e., choosing one means foregoing the other); and the final goal is maximum satisfaction. The fundamental concepts occurring in this model — want, choice, consumption and satisfaction — describe the basic activities of our lives from an economic perspective. These concepts are based on certain assumptions about human nature. Unfortunately, the assumptions modern economists make about human nature are somewhat confused.

Buddhism, on the other hand, offers a clear and consistent picture of human nature: a view which encompasses the role of ethics and the twofold nature of human desire. Let us now take a look at some economic concepts in the light of Buddhist thinking.

Value

In the previous chapter, we discussed the two kinds of desire, chanda and tanha. Given that there are two kinds of desire, it follows that there are two kinds of value, which we might term true value and artificial value. True value is created by chanda. In other words, a commodity’s true value is determined by its ability to meet the need for well-being. Conversely, artificial value is created by tanha — it is a commodity’s capacity to satisfy the desire for pleasure. To assess an object’s value, we must ask ourselves which kind of desire — tanha or chanda — defines it. Fashionable clothes, jewelry, luxury cars and other status-symbols contain a high degree of artificial value because they cater to people’s vanity and desire for pleasure. A luxury car may serve the same function as a cheaper car, but it commands a higher price largely because of its artificial value. Many of the pleasures taken for granted in today’s consumer society — the games, media thrills and untold forms of junk foods available — are created solely for the purpose of satisfying tanha, have no practical purpose at all and are often downright detrimental to well-being. For the most part, advertising promotes this artificial value. Advertisers stimulate desires by projecting pleasurable images onto the products they sell. They induce us to believe, for example, that whoever can afford a luxury car will stand out from the crowd and be a member of high society, or that by drinking a certain brand of soft drink we will have lots of friends and be happy.

The true value of an object is typically overshadowed by its artificial value. Craving and conceit, and the desire for the fashionable and sensually appealing, cloud any reckoning of the true value of things. How many people, for instance, reflect on the true value or reasons for eating food or wearing clothes?

 Consumption

The question of consumption is similar to that of value. We must distinguish which kind of desire our consumption is intended to satisfy: is it to answer the need for things of true value, or to indulge in the pleasures afforded by artificial value? Consumption is said to be one of the goals of economic activity. However, economic theory and Buddhism define consumption differently.

Consumption is the alleviation or satisfaction of desire, that much is agreed. Modern economics defines consumption as simply the use of goods and services to satisfy demand. Buddhism, however, distinguishes between two kinds of consumption, which might be termed “right” consumption and “wrong” consumption. Right consumption is the use of goods and services to satisfy the desire for true well-being. It is consumption with a goal and a purpose. Wrong consumption arises from tanha; it is the use of goods and services to satisfy the desire for pleasing sensations or ego-gratification.

While the Buddhist perspective is based on a wide view of the stream of causes and effects, the specialized thinking of economics identifies only part of the stream: demand leads to consumption which leads to satisfaction. For most economists that’s the end of it, there’s no need to know what happens afterwards. In this view, consumption can be of anything whatsoever, so long as it results in satisfaction. There is little consideration of whether or not well-being is adversely affected by that consumption.

Consumption may satisfy sensual desires, but its true purpose is to provide well-being. For example, our body depends on food for nourishment. Consumption of food is thus a requirement for well-being. For most people, however, eating food is also a means to experience pleasure. If in consuming food one receives the experience of a delicious flavor, one is said to have satisfied one’s desires. Economists tend to think in this way, holding that the experience of satisfaction is the end result of consumption. But here the crucial question is: What is the true purpose of consuming food: satisfaction of desires or the attainment of well-being?

In the Buddhist view, when consumption enhances true well-being, it is said to be successful. On the other hand, if consumption results merely in feelings of satisfaction, then it fails. At its worst, consumption through tanha destroys its true objective, which is to enhance well-being. Heedlessly indulging in desires with no regard to the repercussions often leads to harmful effects and a loss of true well-being. Moreover, the compulsive consumption rampant in consumer societies breeds inherent dissatisfaction. It is a strange thing that economics, the science of human well-being and satisfaction, accepts, and indeed lauds, the kind of consumption that in effect frustrates the realization of its own objectives.

By contrast, right consumption always contributes to well-being and forms a basis for the further development of human potentialities. This is an important point often overlooked by economists. Consumption guided by chanda does much more than just satisfy one’s desire; it contributes to well-being and spiritual development. This is also true on a global scale. If all economic activities were guided by chanda, the result would be much more than just a healthy economy and material progress— such activities would contribute to the whole of human development and enable humanity to lead a nobler life and enjoy a more mature kind of happiness.

Moderation

At the very heart of Buddhism is the wisdom of moderation. When the goal of economic activity is seen to be satisfaction of desires, economic activity is open-ended and without clear definition — desires are endless. According to the Buddhist approach, economic activity must be controlled by the qualification that it is directed to the attainment of well-being rather than the “maximum satisfaction” sought after by traditional economic thinking. Well-being as an objective acts as a control on economic activity. No longer are we struggling against each other to satisfy endless desires. Instead, our activities are directed toward the attainment of well-being. If economic activity is directed in this way, its objectives are clear and its activities are controlled. A balance or equilibrium is achieved. There is no excess, no overconsumption or overproduction. In the classical economic model, unlimited desires are controlled by scarcity, but in the Buddhist model they are controlled by an appreciation of moderation and the objective of well-being. The resulting balance will naturally eliminate the harmful effects of uncontrolled economic activity.

Buddhist monks and nuns traditionally reflect on moderation before each meal by reciting this reflection:

“Wisely reflecting, we take alms food, not for the purpose of fun, not for indulgence or the fascination of taste, but simply for the maintenance of the body, for the continuance of existence, for the cessation of painful feeling, for living the higher life. Through this eating, we subdue old painful feelings of hunger and prevent new painful feelings (of overeating) from arising. Thus do we live unhindered, blameless, and in comfort.” [M.I.10; Nd. 496]

The goal of moderation is not restricted to monastics: whenever we use things, be it food, clothing, or even paper and electricity, we can take the time to reflect on their true purpose, rather than using them heedlessly. By reflecting in this way we can avoid heedless consumption and so understand “the right amount,” the “middle way.”

We also come to see consumption as a means to an end, which is the development of human potential. With human development as our goal, we eat food not simply for the pleasure it affords, but to obtain the physical and mental energy necessary for intellectual and spiritual growth toward a nobler life.

Non-consumption

Lacking a spiritual dimension, modern economic thinking encourages maximum consumption. It praises those who eat the most — three, four or more times a day. If someone were to eat ten times a day, so much the better. By contrast, a Buddhist economics understands that non-consumption can contribute to well-being. Though monks eat only one meal a day, they strive for a kind of well-being that is dependent on little.

On Observance days, some Buddhist laypeople also refrain from eating after midday and, in so doing, contribute to their own well-being. Renunciation of the evening meal allows them to spend time in meditation and reflection on the Buddha’s teachings. The body is light and the mind easily calmed when the stomach is not full. Thus Buddhism recognizes that certain demands can be satisfied through non-consumption, a position which traditional economic thinking would find hard to appreciate. Refraining from eating can play a role in satisfying our nonmaterial, spiritual needs.

It’s not that getting down to eating one meal a day is the goal, of course. Like consumption, non-consumption is only a means to an end, not an end in itself. If abstinence did not lead to well-being, it would be pointless, just a way of mistreating ourselves. The question is not whether to consume or not to consume, but whether or not our choices lead to self-development.

Overconsumption

Today’s society encourages overconsumption. In their endless struggle to find satisfaction through consuming, a great many people damage their own health and harm others. Drinking alcohol, for instance, satisfies a desire, but is a cause of ill-health, unhappy families and fatal accidents. People who eat for taste often overeat and make themselves ill. Others give no thought at all to food values and waste money on junk foods. Some people even become deficient in certain vitamins and minerals despite eating large meals every day. (Incredibly, cases of malnutrition have been reported.) Apart from doing themselves no good, their overeating deprives others of food.

So we cannot say that a thing has value simply because it provides pleasure and satisfaction. If satisfaction is sought in things that do not enrich the quality of life, the result often becomes the destruction of true welfare, leading to delusion and intoxication, loss of health and well-being.

A classic economic principle states that the essential value of goods lies in their ability to bring satisfaction to the consumer. Here we may point to the examples given above where heavy consumption and strong satisfaction have both positive and negative results. The Buddhist perspective is that the benefit of goods and services lies in their ability to provide the consumer with a sense of satisfaction at having enhanced the quality of his or her life. This extra clause is essential. All definitions, whether of goods, services, or personal and social wealth, must be modified in this way.

Contentment

While not technically an economic concern, I would like to add a few comments on the subject of contentment. Contentment is a virtue that has often been misunderstood and, as it relates to consumption and satisfaction, it seems to merit some discussion.

The tacit objective of economics is a dynamic economy where every demand and desire is supplied and constantly renewed in a never-ending and ever-growing cycle. The entire mechanism is fueled by tanha. From the Buddhist perspective, this tireless search to satisfy desires is itself a kind of suffering. Buddhism proposes the cessation of this kind of desire, or contentment, as a more skillful objective.

Traditional economists would probably counter that without desire, the whole economy would grind to a halt. However, this is based on a misunderstanding of the nature of contentment. People misunderstand contentment because they fail to distinguish between the two different kinds of desire, tanha and chanda. We lump them together, and in proposing contentment, dismiss them both. A contented person comes to be seen as one who wants nothing at all. Here lies our mistake.

Obviously, people who are content will have fewer wants than those who are discontent. However, a correct definition of contentment must be qualified by the stipulation that it implies only the absence of artificial want, that is tanha; chanda, the desire for true well-being, remains. In other words, the path to true contentment involves reducing the artificial desire for sense-pleasure, while actively encouraging and supporting the desire for quality of life.

These two processes — reducing tanha and encouraging chanda — are mutually supportive. When we are easily satisfied in material things, we save time and energy that might otherwise be wasted on seeking objects of tanha. The time and energy we save can, in turn, be applied to the development of well-being, which is the objective of chanda. When it comes to developing skillful conditions, however, contentment is not a beneficial quality. Skillful conditions must be realized through effort. Too much contentment with regards to chanda easily turns into complacency and apathy. In this connection, the Buddha pointed out that his own attainment of enlightenment was largely a result of two qualities: unremitting effort, and lack of contentment with skillful conditions.

Work

Buddhist and conventional economics also have different understandings of the role of work. Modern Western economic theory is based on the view that work is something that we are compelled to do in order to obtain money for consumption. It is during the time when we are not working, or “leisure time,” that we may experience happiness and satisfaction. Work and satisfaction are considered to be separate and generally opposing principles. Buddhism, however, recognizes that work can either be satisfying or not satisfying, depending on which of the two kinds of desire is motivating it. When work stems from the desire for true well-being, there is satisfaction in the direct and immediate results of the work itself. By contrast, when work is done out of desire for pleasure-objects, then the direct results of the work itself are not so important. With this attitude, work is simply an unavoidable necessity to obtain the desired object. The difference between these two attitudes determines whether or not work will directly contribute to well-being. In the first case, work is a potentially satisfying activity, and in the second, it is a necessary chore.

As an example of these two different attitudes, let us imagine two research workers. They are both investigating natural means of pest control for agricultural use. The first researcher, Mr. Smith, desires the direct fruits of his research — knowledge and its practical application — and takes pride in his work. The discoveries and advances he makes afford him a sense of satisfaction.

The second, Mr. Jones, only works for money and promotions. Knowledge and its application, the direct results of his work, are not really what he desires; they are merely the means through which he can ultimately obtain money and position. Mr. Jones doesn’t enjoy his work, he does it because he feels he has to.

Work performed in order to meet the desire for well-being can provide inherent satisfaction, because it is appreciated for its own sake. Achievement and progress in the work lead to a growing sense of satisfaction at every stage of the work’s development. In Buddhist terminology, this is called working with chanda. Conversely, working out of desire for pleasure is called working with tanha. Those working with tanha are motivated by the desire to consume. 

But since it is impossible to consume and work at the same time, the work itself affords little enjoyment or satisfaction. It should also be pointed out that work in this case postpones the attainment of satisfaction, and as such will be seen as an impediment to it. When work is seen as an impediment to consumption it can become intolerable. In developing countries this is readily seen in the extent of hire-purchase debt and corruption, where consumers cannot tolerate the delay between working and consuming the objects of their desires.

In modern industrial economies, many jobs preclude satisfaction, or make it very difficult, by their very nature. Factory jobs can be dull, undemanding, pointless, even dangerous to health. They breed boredom, frustration, and depression, all of which have negative effects on productivity. However, even in menial or insignificant tasks, there is a difference between working with tanha and working with chanda. Even in the most monotonous of tasks, where one may have difficulty generating a sense of pride in the object of one’s labors, a desire to perform the task well, or a sense of pride in one’s own endeavors, may help to alleviate the monotony, and even contribute something of a sense of achievement to the work: even though the work may be monotonous, one feels that at least one is developing good qualities like endurance and is able to derive a certain enthusiasm for the work.

As we have seen, the fulfillment of tanha lies with seeking and obtaining objects which provide pleasant feelings. While this seeking may involve action, the objective of tanha is not directly related in a causal way to the action undertaken. Let’s look at two different tasks and examine the cause and effect relationships involved: (1) Mr. Smith sweeps the street, and is paid $500 a month; (2) If Little Suzie finishes the book she is reading, Daddy will take her to the movies.

It may seem at first glance that sweeping the street is the cause for Mr. Smith receiving his wage; that is, sweeping the street is the cause, and money is the result. But in fact, this is a mistaken conclusion. Correctly speaking, one would say: the action of sweeping the street is the cause for the street being cleaned; the cleanness of the street is a stipulation for Mr. Smith receiving his wage, based on an agreement between employer and employee.

All actions have results that arise as a natural consequence. The natural result of sweeping the street is a clean street. In the contract between employer and employee, a stipulation is added to this natural result, so that sweeping the street also brings about a payment of money. This is a man-made, or artificial, law. However, money is not the natural result of sweeping the street: some people may sweep a street and get no money for it, while many other people receive wages without having to sweep streets. Money is a socially contrived or artificial condition. Many contemporary social problems result from confusion between the natural results of actions and the human stipulations added to them. People begin to think that a payment of money really is the natural result of sweeping a street, or, to use another example, that a good wage, rather than medical knowledge, is the natural result of studying medicine.

As for Little Suzie, it may seem that completing the book is the cause, and going to the movies with Dad is the result. But in fact finishing the book is simply a stipulation on which going to the movies is based. The true result of reading the book is obtaining knowledge.

Expanding on these examples, if Mr. Smith’s work is directed solely by tanha, all he wants is his $500, not the cleanness of the street. In fact, he doesn’t want to sweep the street at all, but, since it is a condition for receiving his wage, he must. As for Little Suzie, if her true desire is to go to the movies (not to read the book), then reading will afford no satisfaction in itself; she only reads because it is a condition for going to the movies.

When people work solely out of tanha, their true desire is for consumption, not action. Their actions — in this case, sweeping and reading — are seen as means of obtaining the objects of desire — the salary and a trip to the movies. When they work with chanda, on the other hand, Mr. Smith takes pride in (i.e., desires) the cleanness of the street and little Suzie wants the knowledge contained in the book. With chanda, their desire is for action and the true results of that action. Cleanness is the natural result of sweeping the street and knowledge is the natural result of reading the book. When the action is completed, the result naturally and simultaneously arises. When Mr. Smith sweeps the street, a clean street ensues, and it ensues whenever he sweeps. When Little Suzie reads a book, knowledge arises, and it arises whenever she reads the book. With chanda, work is intrinsically satisfying because it is itself the achievement of the desired result.

Thus, the objective of chanda is action and the good result which arises from it. When their actions are motivated by chanda, Mr. Smith applies himself to sweeping the street irrespective of his monthly wage, and little Suzie will read her book even without Daddy having to promise to take her to the movies. (In reality, of course, most people do work for the wages, which are a necessity, but we also have the choice to take pride in our work and strive to do it well, which is chanda, or to do it perfunctorily simply for the wage. Thus, in real life situations, most people are motivated by varying degrees of both tanha and chanda.)

As we have seen, actions motivated by chanda and actions motivated by tanha give rise to very different results, both objectively and ethically. When we are motivated by tanha and are working simply to attain an unrelated object or means of consumption, we may be tempted to attain the object of desire through other means which involve less effort. If we can obtain the objective without having to do any work at all, even better. If it is absolutely necessary to work for the objective, however, we will only do so reluctantly and perfunctorily.

The extreme result of this is criminal activity. If Mr. Smith wants money but has no desire (chanda) to work, he may find working for the money intolerable and so resort to theft. If Little Suzie wants to go the movies, but can’t stand reading the book, she may steal money from her mother and go to the movies herself.

With only tanha to get their salary but no chanda to do their work, people will only go about the motions of performing their duties, doing just enough to get by. The result is apathy, laziness and poor workmanship. Mr. Smith simply goes through the motions of sweeping the street day by day until pay day arrives, and Little Suzie reads the book simply to let Daddy see that she has finished it, but doesn’t take in anything she has read, or she may cheat, saying she has read the book when in fact she hasn’t.

When sloppiness and dishonesty of this type arise within the work place, secondary checks must be established to monitor the work. These measures address the symptoms but not the cause, and only add to the complexity of the situation. For example, it may be necessary to install a supervisor to inspect Mr. Smith’s work and check his hours; or Little Suzie’s brother may have to look in and check that she really is reading the book. This applies to employers as well as employees: workers’ tribunals must be established to prevent greedy or irresponsible employers from exploiting their workers and making them work in inhumane conditions or for unfair wages. When tanha is the motivating force, workers and employers are trapped in a game of one-upmanship, with each side trying to get as much for themselves as they can for the least possible expense.

Tanha is escalated to a considerable extent by social influences. For instance, when the owners of the means of production are blindly motivated by a desire to get rich for as little outlay as possible, it is very unlikely that the workers will have much chanda. They will be more likely to follow the example of their employers, trying to get as much as they can for as little effort as possible. This tendency can be seen in the modern work place. It seems, moreover, that the more affluent a society becomes, the more this tendency is produced — the more we have, the more we want. This is a result of the unchecked growth of tanha and the lack of any viable alternative. Meanwhile, the values of inner contentment and peace of mind seem to have been all but lost in modern society. In rare cases, however, we hear of employers and employees who do work together with chanda. This happens when the employer is responsible, capable and considerate, thus commanding the confidence and affection of employees, who in return are harmonious, diligent, and committed to their work. There have even been cases of employers who were so caring with their employees that when their businesses failed and came close to bankruptcy, the employees sympathetically made sacrifices and worked as hard as possible to make the company profitable again. Rather than making demands for compensation, they were willing to take a cut in wages.

Production and Non-production

The word “production” is misleading. We tend to think that through production new things are created, when in fact it is merely changes of state which are effected. One substance or form of energy is converted into another. These conversions entail the creation of a new state by the destruction of an old one. Thus production is always accompanied by destruction. In some cases the destruction is acceptable, in others it is not. Production is only truly justified when the value of the thing produced outweighs the value of that which is destroyed. In some cases it may be better to refrain from production. This is invariably true for those industries whose products are for the purpose of destruction. In weapons factories, for example, non-production is always the better choice. In industries where production entails the destruction of natural resources and environmental degradation, non-production is sometimes the better choice. To choose, we must distinguish between production with positive results and production with negative results; production that enhances well-being and that which destroys it.

In this light, non-production can be a useful economic activity. A person who produces very little in materialistic terms may, at the same time, consume much less of the world’s resources and lead a life that is beneficial to the world around him. Such a person is of more value than one who diligently consumes large amounts of the world’s resources while manufacturing goods that are harmful to society. But modern economics could never make such a distinction; it would praise a person who produces and consumes (that is, destroys) vast amounts more than one who produces and consumes (destroys) little.

In the economics of the industrial era the term production has been given a very narrow meaning. It is taken to relate only to those things that can be bought and sold — a bull fight, where people pay money to see bulls killed, is seen as contributing to the economy, while a child helping an elderly person across the street is not; a professional comedian telling jokes on stage, relaxing his audience and giving them a good time, is taken to be economically productive because money changes hands, while an office worker with a very cheerful disposition is not considered to have produced anything by his cheerfulness toward those around him. Nor is there any accounting of the economic costs of aggressive action and speech that continually create tension in the work place, so that those affected have to find some way to alleviate it with amusements, such as going to see a comedian.

Competition and Cooperation

Modern economics is based on the assumption that it is human nature to compete. Buddhism, on the other hand, recognizes that human beings are capable of both competition and cooperation. Competition is natural: when they are striving to satisfy the desire for pleasure — when they are motivated by tanha — people will compete fiercely. At such times they want to get as much as possible for themselves and feel no sense of sufficiency or satisfaction. If they can obtain the desired object without having to share it with anyone else, so much the better. Inevitably, competition is intense; this is natural for the mind driven by tanha.

This competitive instinct can be redirected to induce cooperation. One might unite the members of a particular group by inciting them to compete with another group. For example, corporate managers sometimes rally their employees to work together to beat their competitors. But this cooperation is based entirely on competition. Buddhism would call this “artificial cooperation.” True cooperation arises with the desire for well-being — with chanda. Human development demands that we understand how tanha and chanda motivate us and that we shift our energies from competition towards cooperative efforts to solve the problems facing the world and to realize a nobler goal.

Choice

“Whether a given want is a true need, a fanciful desire, or a bizarre craving is of no matter to economics. Nor is it the business of economics to judge whether such wants should be satisfied,” say the economics texts, but from a Buddhist perspective the choices we make are of utmost importance, and these choices require some qualitative appreciation of the options available. Choice is a function of intention, which is the heart of kamma, one of Buddhism’s central teachings. The influence of kamma affects not only economics but all areas of our lives and our social and natural environment. Economic decisions, or choices, which lack ethical reflection are bad kamma — they are bound to bring undesirable results. Good economic decisions are those based on an awareness of the costs on the individual, social and environmental levels, not just in terms of production and consumption. These economic decisions are kamma. Every time an economic decision is made, kamma is made, and the process of fruition is immediately set in motion, for better or for worse, for the individual, for society and the environment. Thus it is important to recognize the qualitative difference between different courses of action and to make our choices wisely.

Life Views

Everybody holds views on these matters, although most of us are unconscious of them. Buddhist teachings stress that these views exert a tremendous influence on our lives. The Pali word for view is ditthi. This term covers all kinds of views on many different levels — our personal opinions and beliefs; the ideologies, religious and political views espoused by groups; and the attitudes and world-views held by whole cultures and societies.

Views lead to ramifications far beyond the realm of mental states and intellectual discourse. Like ethics, views are linked to the stream of causes and conditions. They are “subjective” mental formations that inevitably condition events in “objective” reality. On a personal level, one’s world-view affects the events of life. On a national level, political views and social mores condition society and the quality of day-to-day life.

The Buddha warned that views are potentially the most dangerous of all mental conditions. Unskillful views can wreak unimaginable damage. The violence of the Crusades, Nazism and Communism, to name just three disastrous fanatical movements, were fueled by extremely unskillful views. Skillful views, on the other hand, are the most beneficial of mental conditions. As the Buddha said: “Monks, I see no other condition which is so much a cause for the arising of as yet unarisen unskillful conditions, and for the development and fruition of unskillful conditions already arisen, as wrong view ...” [A.I.30]

This begs the question: what view of life is behind modern economics? Is it a skillful or an unskillful one? At the risk of oversimplifying, let us say that the goal of modern life is to find happiness. This view is so pervasive in modern societies that it is rarely even recognized, let alone examined or questioned. The very concept of “progress” — social, economic, scientific and political — assumes that society’s highest goal is to reach a state where everyone will be happy. The United States Declaration of Independence poetically embodies this ideal by asserting mankind’s right to “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” While certainly a good-hearted aspiration, the view that happiness is the goal of life betrays a fundamental confusion about the truth of life. “Happiness” is never more than an ill-defined, elusive quality. Many people equate happiness with sense pleasure and the satisfaction of their desires. For these people, happiness remains a remote condition, something outside themselves, a future prize that must be pursued and captured. But happiness cannot be obtained through seeking, only through bringing about the causes and conditions which lead to it, and these are personal and mental development. From the Buddhist point of view, people often confuse tanha — their restless craving for satisfaction and pleasure — with the pursuit of happiness. This is indeed an unskillful view, because the craving of tanha can never be satisfied. If the pursuit of happiness equals the pursuit of the objects of tanha, then life itself becomes a misery. To see the consequences of this unfortunate view, one need only witness the depression and angst of the citizens in so many modern cities filled with limitless distractions and pleasure centers. Rather than leading to contentment and well-being, the pursuit of happiness so often leads to restlessness and exhaustion in the individual, strife in society and unsustainable consumption of the environment.

By contrast, the Buddhist view of life is much less idealistic but much more practical. The Buddha said simply, “There is suffering.” [Vin.I.9; S.V.421; Vbh.99] This was the first of his Four Noble Truths, the central tenets of Buddhism. He went on to describe what suffering is: “Birth is suffering; old age is suffering; sickness is suffering; death is suffering; sorrow, lamentation, pain, grief and despair are suffering; separation from the loved is suffering; getting what you don’t want is suffering; not getting what you want is suffering ...”

There is little question that these things exist in life and they are all unpleasant, but the tendency of our society is to deny them. Death, in particular, is rarely thought or spoken about as a personal inevitability. Denying these things, however, does not make them go away. This is why the Buddha said that suffering is something that should be recognized. The first Noble Truth is the recognition that all things must pass and that ultimately there is no security to be had within the material world. This is the kind of truth the Buddha urged people to face — the painfully obvious and fundamental facts of life. The second Noble Truth explains the cause of suffering. The Buddha said that suffering is caused by craving based on ignorance (that is, tanha). In other words, the cause of suffering is an internal condition. We may ask, “Does craving cause old age?”: it is not craving that causes old age, but rather craving for youth which makes old age a cause of suffering. Old age is inevitable; craving is not. The Buddha said that craving can be eliminated, which brings us to the third Noble Truth, which concerns the cessation of suffering. With the complete and utter abandonment of craving, suffering ceases. But how to do that? In the fourth Noble Truth the Buddha tells how. It is the Noble Eightfold Path for the cessation of suffering, through training of body, speech and mind in accordance with the Buddhist code of Right View, Right Thought, Right Speech, Right Action, Right Livelihood, Right Effort, Right Mindfulness and Right Concentration. It is fairly obvious from the Four Noble Truths that the Buddhist view of life is very much at odds with the view common to modern societies. Whereas Buddhism says “There is suffering,” modern societies say, “There is happiness, and I want it now!” The implications of this simple shift in perception are enormous. A society that views the purpose of life as the pursuit of happiness is one that is recklessly pursuing some future dream. Happiness is seen as something that is inherently lacking and must be found somewhere else. Along with this view comes dissatisfaction, impatience, contention, an inability to deal with suffering, and a lack of attention to the present moment.

On the other hand, with a view of life that appreciates the reality of suffering, we pay more attention to the present moment so that we can recognize problems when they arise. We cooperate with others to solve problems, rather than competing with them to win happiness. Such a view also influences our economic choices. Our production and consumption are geared less toward the pursuit of sense gratification (tanha) and more toward relieving suffering (chanda). If this Buddhist view were taken up on a national or global scale, rather than seeking to satisfy every demand, our economies would strive to create a state free of suffering, or a state which is primed for the enjoyment of happiness (just as a healthy body is one which is primed to enjoy happiness).

Only through understanding suffering can we realize the possibility of happiness. Here Buddhism makes a distinction between two kinds of happiness: dependent happiness and independent happiness. Dependent happiness is happiness that requires an external object. It includes any happiness contingent on the material world, including wealth, family, honor and fame. Dependent happiness, being dependent on things that can never be ours in an ultimate sense, is fickle and uncertain. Independent happiness, on the other hand, is the happiness that arises from within a mind that has been trained and has attained some degree of inner peace. Such a happiness is not dependent on externals and is much more stable than dependent happiness.

Dependent happiness leads to competition and conflict in the struggle to acquire material goods. Any happiness arising from such activity is a contentious kind of happiness. There is, however, a third kind of happiness which, while not as exalted as the truly independent kind, is nevertheless more skillful than the contentious kind. It is a happiness that is more altruistically based, directed toward well-being and motivated by goodwill and compassion. Through personal development, people can appreciate this truer kind of happiness — the desire to bring happiness to others (which in Buddhism we call metta). With this kind of happiness, we can experience gladness at the happiness of others, just as parents feel glad at the happiness of their children. This kind of happiness might be called “harmonious happiness,” as distinct from the contentious kind of happiness. It is less dependent on the acquisition of material goods and arises more from giving than receiving. Although such happiness is not truly independent, it is much more skillful than the happiness resulting from selfish acquisition. The most assured level of happiness is the liberation resulting from enlightenment, which is irreversible. But even to train the mind, through study and meditation practice, to achieve some inner contentment is a powerful antidote to the dissatisfaction of the consumer society. And with the clarity of inner calm comes an insight into one of life’s profound ironies: striving for happiness, we create suffering; understanding suffering, we find peace.

7

Buddhism and Social Action

The Fundamentals 

It is the manifest suffering and folly in the world that invokes humane and compassionate social action in its many different forms. For Buddhists this situation raises fundamental and controversial questions. And here, also, Buddhism has implications of some significance for Christians, humanists and other non-Buddhists.

By “social action” we mean the many different kinds of action intended to benefit mankind. These range from simple individual acts of charity, teaching and training, organized kinds of service, “Right Livelihood” in and outside the helping professions, and through various kinds of community development as well as to political activity in working for a better society.

Buddhism is a pragmatic teaching which starts from certain fundamental propositions about how we experience the world and how we act in it. It teaches that it is possible to transcend this sorrow-laden world of our experience and is concerned first and last with ways of achieving that transcendence. What finally leads to such transcendence is what we call Wisdom. The enormous literature of Buddhism is not a literature of revelation and authority. Instead, it uses ethics and meditation, philosophy and science, art and poetry to point a Way to this Wisdom. Similarly, Buddhist writing on social action, unlike secular writings, makes finite proposals which must ultimately refer to this Wisdom, but which also are arguable in terms of our common experience. In the East, Buddhism developed different schools of “traditions,” serving the experiences of different cultures, ranging from Sri Lanka through Tibet and Mongolia to Japan. Buddhism may thus appear variously as sublime humanism, magical mysticism, poetic paradox and much else. These modes of expression, however, all converge upon the fundamental teaching, the “perennial Buddhism.” This pamphlet is based upon the latter, drawing upon the different oriental traditions to present the teachings in an attempt to relate them to our modern industrial society.

From the evidence of the Buddha’s discourses, or suttas in the Digha Nikaya, it is clear that early Buddhists were very much concerned with the creation of social conditions favourable to the individual cultivation of Buddhist values. An outstanding example of this, in later times, is the remarkable “welfare state” created by the Buddhist emperor, Asoka (B.C. 274-236). Walpola Rahula stated the situation — perhaps at its strongest — when he wrote that “Buddhism arose in India as a spiritual force against social injustices, against degrading superstitious rites, ceremonies and sacrifices; it denounced the tyranny of the caste system and advocated the equality of all men; it emancipated woman and gave her complete spiritual freedom.” (Rahula, 1978). The Buddhist scriptures do indicate the general direction of Buddhist social thinking, and to that extent they are suggestive for our own times. Nevertheless it would be pedantic, and in some cases absurd, to apply directly to modern industrial society social prescriptions detailed to meet the needs of social order which flourished twenty-three centuries ago. The Buddhist householder of the Sigalovada Sutta  experienced a different way of life from that of a computer consultant in Tokyo or an unemployed black youth in Liverpool. And the conditions which might favor their cultivation of the Middle Way must be secured by correspondingly different — and more complex — social, economic and political strategies.

It is thus essential to attempt to distinguish between perennial Buddhism on the one hand and, on the other, the specific social prescriptions attributed to the historical Buddha which related the basic, perennial teaching to the specific conditions of his day. We believe that it is unscholarly to transfer the scriptural social teaching uncritically and with careful qualification to modern societies, or to proclaim that the Buddha was a democrat and an internationalist. The modern terms “democracy” and “internationalism” did not exist in the sense in which we understand them in the emergent feudal society in which the Buddha lived. Buddhism is ill-served in the long run by such special pleading. On the other hand, it is arguable that there are democratic and internationalist implications in the basic Buddhist teachings.

In the past two hundred years society in the West has undergone a more fundamental transformation than at any period since Neolithic times, whether in terms of technology or the world of ideas. And now in the East while this complex revolution is undercutting traditional Buddhism, it is also stimulating oriental Buddhism; and in the West it is creating problems and perceptions to which Buddhism seems particularly relevant. Throughout its history Buddhism has been successfully reinterpreted in accordance with different cultures, whilst at the same time preserving its inner truths. Thus has Buddhism spread and survived. The historic task of Buddhists in both East and West in the twenty-first century is to interpret perennial Buddhism in terms of the needs of industrial man and woman in the social conditions of their time, and to demonstrate its acute and urgent relevance to the ills of that society. To this great and difficult enterprise Buddhists will bring their traditional boldness and humility. For certainly this is no time for clinging to dogma and defensiveness.

Social Action and the Problem of Suffering

In modern Western society, humanistic social action, in its bewildering variety of forms, is seen both as the characteristic way of relieving suffering and enhancing human well-being and, at the same time, as a noble ideal of service, of self-sacrifice, by humanists of all faiths.

Buddhism, however, is a humanism in that it rejoices in the possibility of a true freedom as something inherent in human nature. For Buddhism, the ultimate freedom is to achieve full release from the root causes of all suffering: greed, hatred and delusion, which clearly are also the root causes of all social evils. Their grossest forms are those which are harmful to others. To weaken, and finally eliminate them in oneself, and, as far as possible, in society, is the basis of Buddhist ethics. And here Buddhist social action has its place.

The experience of suffering is the starting point of Buddhist teaching and of any attempt to define a distinctively Buddhist social action. However, misunderstanding can arise at the start, because the Pali word dukkha, which is commonly translated simply as “suffering,” has a much wider and more subtle meaning. There is, of course, much gross, objective suffering in the world (dukkha-dukkha), and much of this arises from poverty, war, oppression and other social conditions. We cling to our good fortune and struggle at all costs to escape from our bad fortune.

This struggle may not be so desperate in certain countries which enjoy a high material standard of living spread relatively evenly throughout the population. Nevertheless, the material achievements of such societies appear somehow to have been “bought” by social conditions which breed a profound sense of insecurity and anxiety, of restlessness and inner confusion, in contrast to the relatively stable and ordered society in which the Buddha taught.

Lonely, alienated industrial man has unprecedented opportunities for living life “in the context of equipment,” as the philosopher Martin Heidegger so aptly put it. He has a highly valued freedom to make meaning of his life from a huge variety of more or less readily available forms of consumption or achievement — whether career building, home making, shopping around for different world ideologies (such as Buddhism), or dedicated social service. When material acquisition palls, there is the collection of new experiences and the clocking up of new achievements. Indeed, for many their vibrating busyness becomes itself a more important self-confirmation that the goals to which it is ostensibly directed. In developing countries to live thus, “in the context of equipment,” has become the great goal for increasing numbers of people. They are watched sadly by Westerners who have accumulated more experience of the disillusion and frustration of perpetual non-arrival.

Thus, from the experience of social conditions there arises both physical and psychological suffering. But more fundamental still is that profound sense of unease, of anxiety or angst, which arises from the very transience (anicca) of life (viparinama-dukkha). This angst, however conscious of it we may or may not be, drives the restless search to establish a meaningful self-identity in the face of a disturbing awareness of our insubstantiality (anatta). Ultimately, life is commonly a struggle to give meaning to life — and to death. This is so much the essence of the ordinary human condition and we are so very much inside it, that for much of the time we are scarcely aware of it. This existential suffering is the distillation of all the various conditions to which we have referred above — it is the human condition itself.

Buddhism offers to the individual human being a religious practice, a Way, leading to the transcendence of suffering. Buddhist social action arises from this practice and contributes to it. From suffering arises desire to end suffering. The secular humanistic activist sets himself the endless task of satisfying that desire, and perhaps hopes to end social suffering by constructing utopias. The Buddhist, on the other hand, is concerned ultimately with the transformation of desire. Hence he contemplates and experiences social action in a fundamentally different way from the secular activist. This way will not be readily comprehensible to the latter, and has helped give rise to the erroneous belief that Buddhism is indifferent to human suffering. One reason why the subject of this pamphlet is so important to Buddhists is that they will have to start here if they are to begin to communicate effectively with non-Buddhist social activists. We should add, however, that although such communication may not be easy on the intellectual plane, at the level of feelings shared in compassionate social action experience together, there may be little difficulty.

We have already suggested one source of the widespread belief that Buddhism is fatalistic and is indifferent to humanistic social action. This belief also appears to stem from a misunderstanding of the Buddhist law of Karma. In fact, there is no justification for interpreting the Buddhist conception of karma as implying quietism and fatalism. The word karma (Pali: kamma) mean volitional action in deeds, words and thoughts, which may be morally good or bad. To be sure, our actions are conditioned (more or less so), but they are not inescapably determined. Though human behaviour and thought are too often governed by deeply ingrained habits or powerful impulses, still there is always the potentiality of freedom — or, to be more exact, of a relative freedom of choice. To widen the range of that freedom is the primary task of Buddhist mind training and meditation.

The charge of fatalism is sometimes supported by reference to the alleged “social backwardness” of Asia. But this ignores the fact that such backwardness existed also in the West until comparatively recent times. Surely, this backwardness and the alleged fatalistic acceptance of it stem from the specific social and political conditions, which were too powerful for would-be reformers to contend with. But apart from these historic facts, it must be stressed here that the Buddha’s message of compassion is certainly not indifferent to human suffering in any form; nor do Buddhists think that social misery cannot be remedied, at least partly. Though Buddhist realism does not believe in the Golden Age of a perfect society, nor in the permanence of social conditions, yet Buddhism strongly believes that social imperfections can be reduced, by the reduction of greed, hatred and ignorance, and by compassionate action guided by wisdom.

From the many utterances of the Buddha, illustrative of our remarks, two may be quoted here: “He who has understanding and great wisdom does not think of harming himself or another, nor of harming both alike. He rather thinks of his own welfare, of that of others, of that of both, and of the welfare of the whole world. In that way one shows understanding and great wisdom.”— Anguttara Nikaya (Gradual Sayings) Fours, No. 186

“By protecting oneself (e.g., morally), one protects others; by protecting others, one protects oneself.”  — Samyutta Nikaya (Kindred Sayings), 47; Satipatthana Samy., No. 19 In this section we have introduced the special and distinctive quality of Buddhist social action. In the remainder of Part One we shall explore this quality further, and show how it arises naturally and logically from Buddhist teaching and practice.

The Weight of Social Karma

Individual karmic behaviour patterns are created by the struggles of the individual human predicament. They condition the behaviour of the individual and, in traditional Buddhist teaching, the subsequent rounds of birth and rebirth. We suggest, however, that this karmic inheritance is also expressed as social karma. Specific to time and place, different social cultures arise, whether of a group, a community, a social class or a civilization. The young are socialized to their inherited culture. Consciously and unconsciously they assimilate the norms of the approved behaviour — what is good, what is bad, and what is “the good life” for that culture.

The social karma — the establishment of conditioned behaviour patterns — of a particular culture is and is not the aggregate of the karma of the individuals who comprise the culture. Individuals share common institutions and belief systems, but these are the results of many different wills, both in the past and the present, rather than the consequence of any single individual action. It is, however, individual karmic action that links the individual to these institutions and belief systems. Each individual is a light-reflecting jewel in Indra’s net, at the points where time and space intersect. Each reflects the light of all and all of each. This is the mysticism of sociology or the sociology of mysticism!

Human societies, too, suffer the round of birth and rebirth, of revolution and stability. Each age receives the collective karmic inheritance of the last, is conditioned by it, and yet also struggles to refashion it. And within each human society, institutions, social classes, and subcultures, as well as individuals, all struggle to establish their identity and perpetuate their existence.

Capitalist industrial society has created conditions of extreme impermanence, and the struggle with a conflict-creating mood of dissatisfaction and frustration. It would be difficult to imagine any social order for which Buddhism is more relevant and needed. In these conditions, egotistical enterprise, competitive conflict, and the struggle for status become great social virtues, while, in fact, they illustrate the import of the three root-causes of suffering— greed, hatred, and delusion.

“These cravings,” argues David Brandon, “have become cemented into all forms of social structures and institutions. People who are relatively successful at accumulating goods and social position wish to ensure that the remain successful... Both in intended and unintended ways they erect barriers of education, finance and law to protect their property and other interests... These structures and their protective institutions continue to exacerbate and amplify the basic human inequalities in housing, health care, education and income. They reward and encourage greed, selfishness, and exploitation rather than love, sharing and compassion. Certain people’s life styles, characterized by greed and overconsumption, become dependent on the deprivation of the many. The oppressors and oppressed fall into the same trap of continual craving” (Brandon, 1976, 10-11). It should be added that communist revolution and invasion have created conditions and social structures which no less, but differently, discourage the spiritual search.

Thus we see that modern social organization may create conditions of life which not only give rise to “objective,” non-volitionally caused suffering, but also tend to give rise to “subjective,” volitionally caused karmic suffering, because they are more likely to stimulate negative karmic action than do other kinds of social organization. 

Thus, some of us are born into social conditions which are more likely to lead us into following the Buddhist way than others. An unskilled woman factory worker in a provincial factory town is, for example, less likely to follow the Path than a professional person living in the university quarter of the capital city. 

A property speculator, wheeling and dealing his samsaric livelihood anywhere is perhaps even less likely than either of them to do so. However, all three may do so. Men and women make their own history, but they make it under specific karmic conditions, inherited from previous generations collectively, as well as individually. The struggle is against nurture, as well as nature, manifested in the one consciousness. “The present generation are living in this world under great pressure, under a very complicated system, amidst confusion. Everybody talks about peace, justice, equality but in practice it is very difficult. This is not because the individual person is bad but because the overall environment, the pressures, the circumstances are so strong, so influential” (Dalai Lama, 1976, p. 17).

In short, Buddhist social action is justified ultimately and above all by the existence of social as well as individual karma. Immediately it is simply concerned with relieving suffering; ultimately, in creating social conditions which will favor the ending of suffering through the individual achievement of transcendent wisdom. But is it enough, to take a beautiful little watering can to a flower dying in sandy, sterile soil? This will satisfy only the waterer. But if we muster the necessary plows, wells, irrigation systems and organized labor, what then will become of the spiritual life amongst all this busyness and conflict? We must next consider this fundamental question.

Is not a Buddhist’s prime task to work on him- or herself?

Answer: YES and NO

Buddhism is essentially pragmatic. Buddhism is, in one sense, something that one does. It is a guide to the transformation of individual experience. In the traditional Buddhist teaching, the individual sets out with a karmic inheritance of established volitions, derived from his early life, from earlier lives and certainly from his social environment, a part of his karmic inheritance. Nevertheless, the starting point is the individual experiencing of life, here and now.

Our train of argument began with the anxiety, the profound sense of unease felt by the individual in his naked experience of life in the world when not masked by busyness, objectives, diversions and other confirmations and distractions. Buddhism teaches that all suffering, whether it be anxiety, or more explicitly karmic, brought-upon-ourselves-suffering, or “external” suffering, accidental and inevitable through war, disease, old age and so on — arise ultimately from the deluded belief in a substantial and enduring self. In that case, what need has the individual Buddhist for concern for other individuals, let alone for social action since his prime task is to work on himself in order to dissolve this delusion? Can he only then help others?

The answer to these questions is both yes and no. This does not mean half-way between yes and no. It means yes and no. It means that the answer to these fundamental questions of Buddhist social action cannot ultimately be logical or rational. For the Buddhist Middle Way is not the middle between two extremes, but the Middle Way which transcends the two extremes in a “higher” unity.

Different traditions of Buddhism offer different paths of spiritual practice. But all depend ultimately upon the individual becoming more deeply aware of the nature of his experience of the world, and especially of other people and hence of himself and of the nature of the self. “To learn the way of the Buddha is to learn about oneself. To learn about oneself is to forget oneself. To forget oneself is to experience the world as pure object — to let fall one’s own mind and body and the self-other mind and body” (Zen Master Dogen: Shobogenzo). Meditation both reveals and ultimately calms and clarifies the choppy seas and terrifying depths of the underlying emotional life. All the great traditions of spiritual practice, Buddhist — and non-Buddhist — emphasize the importance of periods of withdrawal for meditation and reflection. Their relative importance is not our present concern. However, in all Buddhist traditions the training emphasizes a vigilant mindfulness of mental feelings in the course of active daily life, as well as in periods of withdrawal. It all advocates the parallel development of habitual forms of ethical behaviour (sila).

“We need not regard life as worth [either] boycotting or indulging in. Life situations are the food of awareness and mindfulness... We wear out the shoe of samsara by walking on it through the practice of meditation” (Chogyam Trungpa, 1976, p. 50). The same message comes across forcefully in the Zen tradition: “For penetrating to the depths of one’s true nature... nothing can surpass the practice of Zen in the midst of activity... The power or wisdom obtained by practicing Zen in the world of action is like a rose that rises from the fire. It can never be destroyed. The rose that rises from the midst of flames becomes all the more beautiful and fragrant the nearer the fire rages” (Zen Master Hakuin, 1971, p. 34).

It is open to us, if we wish, to extend our active daily life to include various possible forms of social action. This offers a strong immediate kind of experience to which we can give our awareness practice. Less immediately, it serves to fertilize our meditation — “dung for the field of bodhi.” Thirdly, it offers wider opportunities for the cultivation of sila — the habituation to a selfless ethic.

The above remarks are about taking social action. They refer to the potential benefits of social action for individual practice. They are less “reasons” for social action than reasons why a Buddhist should not desist from social action. The mainspring of Buddhist social action lies elsewhere; it arises from the heart of a ripening compassion, however flawed it still may be by ego needs. This is giving social action, with which we shall be concerned in the next section.

Social action as a training in self-awareness (and compassionate awareness of others) may be a discipline more appropriate to some individual temperaments, and, indeed, to some cultures and times, than to others. We are not concerned with advocating it for all Buddhists, but simply to suggesting its legitimacy for such as choose to follow it. For Buddhism has always recognized the diversity of individual temperaments and social cultures that exist, and has offered a corresponding diversity of modes of practice.

Buddhist Social Action as Heartfelt Paradox

As we have noted, the significance of social action as mindfulness training is, of course, incidental to that profound compassionate impulse which more — or less — leads us to seek the relief of the suffering of others. Our motives may be mixed, but to the extent that they are truly selfless they do manifest our potential for Awakening and our relatedness to all beings.

Through our practice, both in the world and in withdrawn meditation, the delusion of a struggling self becomes more and more transparent, and the conflicting opposites of good and bad, pain and pleasure, wealth and poverty, oppression and freedom are seen and understood in a Wisdom at once serene and vigilant. This Wisdom partakes of the sensitivity of the heart as well as the clarity of thought.

In this Wisdom, in the words of R.H. Blyth, things are beautiful— but not desirable; ugly — but not repulsive; false — but not rejected. What is inevitable, like death, is accepted without rage; what may not be, like war, is the subject of action skillful and the more effective because, again, it is not powered and blinded by rage and hate. We may recognize an oppressor and resolutely act to remove the oppression, but we do not hate him. Absence of hatred, disgust, intolerance or righteous indignation within us is itself a part of our growth towards enlightenment (bodhi). Such freedom from negative emotions should not be mistaken for indifference, passivity, compromise, loving our enemy instead of hating him, or any other of these relativities. This Wisdom transcends the Relativities which toss us this way and that. Instead, there is an awareness, alert and dispassionate, of an infinitely complex reality, but always an awareness free of despair, of self-absorbing aggression, or of blind dogma, an awareness free to act or not to act. 

Buddhists have their preferences, and in the face of such social cataclysms as genocide and nuclear war, they are strong preferences, but they are not repelled into quietism by them. What has been said above has to be cultivated to perfection by one following the Bodhisattva ideal. We are inspired by it, but very few of us can claim to live it. Yet we shall never attain the ideal by turning our backs upon the world and denying the compassionate Buddha nature in us that reaches out to suffering humanity, however stained by self love those feelings may be. Only through slowly “Wearing out the shoe of samsara” in whatever way is appropriate to us can we hope to achieve this ideal, and not through some process of incubation. This Great Wisdom (prajna) exposes the delusion, the folly, sometimes heroic, sometimes base, of human struggle in the face of many kinds of suffering. This sense of folly fuses with the sense of shared humanity in the form of compassion (karuna). Compassion is the everyday face of Wisdom. In individual spiritual practice though, some will incline to a Way of Compassion and others to a Way of Wisdom, but finally the two faculties need to be balanced, each complementing and ripening the other.

He who clings to the Void

And neglects Compassion

Does not reach the highest stage.

But he who practices only Compassion

Does not gain release from the toils of existence.  

— (Saraha, 1954)

To summarize: Buddhist or non-Buddhist, it is our common humanity, our “Buddha nature,” that moves us to compassion and to action for the relief of suffering. These stirrings arise from our underlying relatedness to all living things, from being brothers and sisters one to another. Buddhist spiritual practice, whether at work or in the meditation room, ripens alike the transcendental qualities of Compassion and Wisdom.

Social action starkly confronts the actor with the sufferings of others and also confronts him with his own strong feelings which commonly arise from such experience, whether they be feelings of pity, guilt, angry partisanship or whatever. Social action is thus a powerful potential practice for the follower of the Way, a “skillful means” particularly relevant to modern society. Finally, it is only some kind of social action that can be an effective and relevant response to the weight of social karma which oppresses humanity and which we all share.

The Action 

Giving and Helping

All social action is an act of giving (dana), but there is a direct act which we call charitable action, whether it be the UNESCO Relief Banker’s Order or out all night with the destitutes’ soup kitchen. Is there anything about Buddhism that should make it less concerned actively to maintain the caring society than is Christianity or humanism? “Whoever nurses the sick serves me,” said the Buddha. In our more complex society does this not include the active advancement and defense of the principles of a national health service?

The old phrase “as cold as charity” recalls numerous possibilities for self-deception in giving to others and in helping them. Here is opportunity to give out goodness in tangible form, both in our own eyes and those of the world. It may also be a temptation to impose our own ideas and standards from a position of patronage. David Brandon, who has written so well on the art of helping, reminds us that “respect is seeing the Buddha nature in the other person. It means perceiving the superficiality of positions of moral authority. The other person is as good as you. However untidy, unhygienic, poor, illiterate and bloody-minded he may seem, he is worthy of your respect. He also has autonomy and purpose. He is another form of nature” (Brandon, 1976, p. 59).

There are many different ways in which individual Buddhists and their organizations can give help and relieve suffering. However, “charity begins at home.” If a Buddhist group or society fails to provide human warmth and active caring for all of its members in their occasional difficulties and troubles — though always with sensitivity and scrupulous respect for privacy — where then is its Buddhism? Where is the Sangha?

In our modern industrial society there has been on the one hand a decline in personal and voluntary community care for those in need and, on the other, too little active concern for the quality and quantity of institutional care financed from the public purse that has to some extent taken its place. One facet of this which may be of particular significance for Buddhists, is a failure to recognize adequately and provide for the needs of the dying. In recent years there has been a growing awareness of this problem in North America and Europe, and a small number of hospices have been established by Christian and other groups for terminally ill people. However, only a start has been made with the problem. The first Buddhist hospice in the West has yet to be opened. And, less ambitiously, the support of regular visitors could help many lonely people to die with a greater sense of dignity and independence in our general hospitals.

Teaching

Teaching is, of course, also a form of giving and helping. Indeed, one of the two prime offenses in the Mahayana code of discipline is that of withholding the wealth of the Dharma from others. Moreover, teaching the Dharma is one of the most valuable sources of learning open to a Buddhist.

Here we are concerned primarily with the teaching of the Dharma to newcomers in Buddhism, and with the general publicizing of Buddhism among non-Buddhists.

Buddhism is by its very nature lacking in the aggressive evangelizing spirit of Christianity or Islam. It is a pragmatic system of sustained and systematic self-help practice, in which the teacher can do no more than point the way and, together with fellow Buddhists, provide support, warmth and encouragement in a long and lonely endeavor. There is here no tradition of instant conversion and forceful revelation for the enlightenment experience, however sudden, depends upon a usually lengthy period of careful cultivation. Moreover, there is a tolerant tradition of respect for the beliefs and spiritual autonomy of non-Buddhists.

Nevertheless, a virtue may be cultivated to a fault. Do we not need to find a middle way between proselytizing zeal and aloof indifference? Does not the world cry out for a Noble Truth that “leads to the cessation of suffering”? The task of teaching the Dharma also gives individual Buddhists an incentive to clarify their ideas in concise, explicit everyday terms. And it requires them to respond positively to the varied responses which their teaching will provoke in others.

It will be helpful to treat the problem on two overlapping levels, and to distinguish between (a) publicizing the Dhamma, and (b) introductory teaching for enquirers who interest has thus been awakened.

At both the above levels activity is desirable both by a central body of some kind and by local groups (in many countries there will certainly be several “central bodies,” representing different traditions and tendencies). The central body can cost-effectively produce for local use introductory texts and study guides, speakers’ notes, audiocassettes, slide presentations and “study kits” combining all of these different types of material. 

It has the resources to develop correspondence courses such as those run by the Buddhist Society in the United Kingdom which offer a well-tried model. And it will perhaps have sufficient prestige to negotiate time on the national radio and television network.

Particularly in Western countries there are strong arguments for organizations representing the different Buddhist traditions and tendencies to set up a representative Buddhist Information and Liaison Service for propagating fundamental Buddhism and some first introductions to the different traditions and organizations. It would also provide a general information clearing house for all the groups and organizations represented. It could be financed and controlled through a representative national Buddhist council which, with growing confidence between its members and between the different Buddhist organizations which they represented, might in due course take on additional functions. Certainly in the West there is the prospect of a great many different Buddhist flowers blooming, whether oriental or new strains developed in the local culture. This is to be welcomed, but the kind of body we propose will become a necessity to avoid confusion for the outsider and to work against any tendency to sectarianism of a kind from which Buddhism has been relatively free.

Local groups will be able to draw upon the publicity and teaching resources of national centers and adapt these to the needs of local communities. Regular meetings of such groups may amount to no more than half a dozen people meeting in a private house. Sensitively handled it would be difficult to imagine a better way of introducing a newcomer to the Dharma. Such meetings are worthy of wide local publicity. A really strong local base exists where there is a resident Buddhist community of some kind, with premises convenient for meetings and several highly committed workers. Unfortunately, such communities will, understandably, represent a particular Buddhist tradition or tendency, and this exclusiveness may be less helpful to the newcomer than a local group in which he or she may have the opportunity to become acquainted with the different Buddhist traditions represented in the membership and in the program of activity. In many countries the schools provide brief introductions to the world’s great religions. Many teachers do not feel sufficiently knowledgeable about introducing Buddhism to their pupils and may be unaware of suitable materials even where these do exist. There may be opportunities here for local groups, and certainly the Information Service suggested above would have work to do here.

Finally, the method of introductory teaching employed in some Buddhist centers leaves much to be desired both on educational grounds and as Buddhist teaching. The Buddha always adapted his teaching to the particular circumstances of the individual learner; he sometimes opened with a question about the enquirer’s occupation in life, and built his teaching upon the answer to this and similar questions. True learning and teaching has as its starting point a problem or experience posed by the learner, even if this be no more than a certain ill-defined curiosity. It is there that teacher and learner must begin. The teacher starts with the learner’s thoughts and feelings and helps him or her to develop understanding and awareness. This is, of course, more difficult than a standard lecture which begins and ends with the teacher’s thoughts and feelings, and which may in more sense than one leave little space for the learner. It will exclude the teacher from any learning.

It follows that unless the teacher is truly inspiring, the “Dharma talk” is best used selectively: to introduce and stimulate discussion or to summarize and consolidate what has been learned. Dharma teachers must master the arts of conducting open discussion groups, in which learners can gain much from one another and can work through an emotional learning situation beyond the acquisition of facts about Buddhism. Discussion groups have become an important feature of many lay Buddhist and social action organizations in different parts of the world. They are the heart, for example, of the Japanese mass organization Rissho Kosei Kai, which explores problems of work, the family and social and economic problems.

Political action: the conversion of energy

Political power may manifest and sustain social and economic structures which breed both material deprivation and spiritual degradation for millions of men and women. In many parts of the world it oppresses a wide range of social groupings — national and racial minorities, women, the poor, homosexuals, liberal dissidents, and religious groups. Ultimately, political power finds its most terrible expression in war, which reaches now to the possibility of global annihilation.

For both the oppressors and the oppressed, whether in social strife or embattled nations, karmic delusion is deepened. Each group or nation emphasizes its differences, distinguishing them from its opponents; each projects its own short-comings upon them, makes them the repository of all evil, and rallies round its own vivid illusions and blood-warming hates. Collective hating, whether it be the raised fist, or prejudice concealed in a quiet community, is a heady liquor. Allied with an ideology, hate in any form will not depart tomorrow or next year. Crowned with delusive idealism, it is an awesome and murderous folly. And even when victory is achieved, the victors are still more deeply poisoned by the hate that carried them to victory. Both the revolution and the counter-revolution consume their own children. Buddhism’s “Three Fires” of delusion (moha), hatred and ill-will (dosa), and greed and grasping, (lobha), surely burn nowhere more fiercely.

Contrariwise, political power may be used to fashion and sustain a society whose citizens are free to live in dignity and harmony and mutual respect, free of the degradation of poverty and war. In such a society of good heart all men and women find encouragement and support in making, if they will, the best use of their human condition in the practice of wisdom and compassion. This is the land of good karma — not the end of human suffering, but the beginning of the end, the bodhisattva-land, the social embodiment of sila.

This is not to be confused with the belief common among the socially and politically oppressed that if power could be seized (commonly by an elite claiming to represent them), then personal, individual, “ideological” change will inevitably follow. This absolutely deterministic view of conditioning (which Marx called “vulgar Marxism”), is as one-sided as the idea of a society of “individuals” each struggling with only his own personal karma in a private bubble hermetically sealed off from history and from other people.

Political action thus involves the Buddhist ideal of approaching each situation without prejudice but with deserved circumspection in questions of power and conflict, social oppression and social justice. These social and political conflicts are the great public samsaric driving energies of our life to which an individual responds with both aggression and self-repression. The Buddha Dharma offers the possibility of transmuting the energies of the individual into Wisdom and Compassion. At the very least, in faith and with good heart, a start can be made.

Buddhists are thus concerned with political action, first, in the direct relief of non-volitionally caused suffering now and in the future, and, secondly, with the creation of social karmic conditions favourable to the following of the Way that leads to the cessation also of volitionally-caused suffering, the creation of a society of a kind which tends to the ripening of wisdom and compassion rather than the withering of them. In the third place, political action, turbulent and ambiguous, is perhaps the most potent of the “action meditations.”

It is perhaps because of this potency that some Buddhist organizations ban political discussion of any kind, even at a scholarly level, and especially any discussion of social action. There are circumstances in which this may be a sound policy. Some organizations and some individuals may not wish to handle such an emotionally powerful experience which may prove to be divisive and stir up bad feeling which cannot be worked upon in any positive way. This division would particularly tend to apply to “party politics.” On the other hand, such a discussion may give an incomparable opportunity to work through conflict to a shared wisdom. Different circumstances suggest different “skillful means,” but a dogmatic policy of total exclusion is likely to be ultimately unhelpful.

In this connection it is worth noting that any kind of social activity which leads to the exercise of power or conflict may stir up “the fires” in the same way as overtly political activity. Conflict within a Buddhist organization is cut from the same cloth as conflict in a political assembly and may be just as heady, but the Buddhist context could make such an activity a much more difficult and delusive meditation subject. The danger of dishonest collusion may be greater than that of honest collusion (to borrow one of the Ven. Sangharakshita’s aphorisms). The dogmatism and vehemence with which some Buddhists denounce and proscribe all political involvement is the same sad attitude as the dogmatism and vehemence of the politicians which they so rightly denounce.

To be lost in revolution or reform or conservatism is to be lost in samsara and the realm of the angry warrior, deluded by his power and his self-righteousness. To turn one’s back upon all this is to be lost in an equally false idea of nirvana — the realm of the gods no less deluded by spiritual power and righteousness, “You do not truly speak of fire if your mouth does not get burnt.”

Effective social action on any but the smallest scale will soon involve the Buddhist in situations of power and conflict, of “political” power. It may be the power of office in a Buddhist organization. It may be the unsought for leadership of an action group protesting against the closing of an old people’s day care center. It may be the organizing of a fund-raising movement to build a Buddhist hospice for care of the dying. It may be membership of a local government council with substantial welfare funds. It may be joining an illegal dissident group. In all these cases the Buddhist takes the tiger — his own tiger — by the tail. Some of the above tigers are bigger than others, but all are just as fierce. Hence a Buddhist must be mindful of the strong animal smell of political power and be able to contain and convert the valuable energy which power calls up. A sharp cutting edge is given into his hands. Its use we must explore in the sections which follow.

Buddhist political theory and policy

Buddhism and politics meet at two levels — theory and practice. Buddhism has no explicit body of social and political theory comparable to its psychology or metaphysics. Nevertheless, a Buddhist political theory can be deduced primarily from basic Buddhism, from Dharma. Secondly, it can be deduced from the general orientation of scriptures which refer explicitly to a bygone time. We have already argued, however, that this can be done only in a limited and qualified way. Whatever form it may take, Buddhist political theory like other Buddhist “theory” is just another theory. As it stands in print, it stands in the world of the conditioned; it is of samsara. It is its potential, its spiritual implications, which make it different from “secular” theory. When skillfully practiced, it becomes a spiritual practice. As always, Buddhist “theory” is like a label on a bottle describing the contents which sometimes is mistaken for the contents by zealous label-readers. In that way we can end up with a lot of politics and very little Buddhism.

This is not to decry the value of a Buddhist social and political theory — only its misuse. We have only begun to apply Buddhism as a catalyst to the general body of Western social science and most of the work so far has been in psychology. Such work in allied fields could be extremely helpful to Buddhists and non-Buddhists alike. The writings of some Buddhists from Sri Lanka, Burma and elsewhere offer interesting examples of attempts to relate Buddhism to nationalism and Marxism (not to be confused with communism). Earlier in the century Anagarika Dharmapala stressed the social teaching of the Buddha and its value in liberating people from materialistic preoccupations. U Nu, the eminent Burmese Buddhist statesman, argued that socialism follows naturally from the ethical and social teachings of the Buddha, and another Burmese leader, U Ba Swe, held that Marxism is relative truth, Buddhism absolute truth. This theme has been explored more recently in Trevor Ling’s book “Buddha, Marx and God,” (2nd ed., Macmillan, London 1979) and Michal Edwarde’s “In the Blowing out of a Flame” (Allen & Unwin 1976). Both are stimulating and controversial books. E.F. Schumacher’s celebrated book “Small is Beautiful” (Blond & Briggs, London 1973) has introduced what he terms “Buddhist economics” and its urgent relevance to the modern world to many thousand of non-Buddhists. Of this we shall say more in a later section on the Buddhist “good society.”

Buddhist social and political theory and policy can only be mentioned in passing in this pamphlet, although we have earlier introduced the idea of “social karma” as of central importance. We are, instead, concerned here with problems and questions arising in the practice of social and political work by Buddhists and the nature of that work.

Conflict and partisanship

The Buddhist faced with political thought, let alone political action, is straightaway plunged in the turbulent stream of conflict and partisanship and right and wrong.

Let the reader, perhaps prompted by the morning newspaper, select and hold in his mind some particular controversial public issue or public figure. Now, how does your Buddhism feel, please? (No, not what does your Buddhism think!) How does it feel when, again, some deeply held conviction is roughly handled at a Buddhist meeting or in a Buddhist journal? “The tears and anguish that follow arguments and quarrels,” said the Buddha, “the arrogance and pride and the grudges and insults that go with them are all the result of one thing. They come from having preferences, from holding things precious and dear. Insults are born out of arguments and grudges are inseparable with quarrels.” (Kalahavivada-sutta, trans. H. Saddhatissa, 1978, para. 2) Similarly, in the words of one of the Zen patriarchs: “The conflict between longing and loathing is the mind’s worse disease” (Seng Ts’an, 1954).

In all our relationships as Buddhists we seek to cultivate a spirit of openness, cooperation, goodwill and equality. Nonetheless, we may not agree with another’s opinions, and, in the final analysis, this divergence could have to do even with matters of life and death. But hopefully we shall be mindful and honest about how we think and, with what we feel, and how our opponent thinks and feels. In such controversies, are we each to confirm our own ego? Or each to benefit from the other in the search for wise judgment? Moreover, in the words of the Dalai Lama, “when a person criticizes you and exposes your faults, only then are you able to discover your faults and make amends. 

So your enemy is your greatest friend because he is the person who gives you the test you need for your inner strength, your tolerance, your respect for others... Instead of feeling angry with or hatred towards such a person, one should respect him and be grateful to him” (Dalai Lama, 1976, p. 9). We are one with our adversary in our common humanity; we are two in our divisive conflict. We should be deluded if we were to deny either — if we were to rush either to compromise or to uncompromising struggle. Our conflict and our humanity may be confirmed or denied at any point along that line of possibilities which links the extremes, but ultimately it will be resolved in some other, less explicit sense. Sangharakshita expresses this paradox in his observation that “it is not enough to sympathize with something to such an extent that one agrees with it. If necessary, one must sympathize to such an extent that one disagrees” (Sangharakshita, 1979, p. 60).

Zen Master Dogen advised that “when you say something to someone he may not accept it, but do not try to make him understand it rationally. Don’t argue with him; just listen to his objections, until he himself finds something wrong with them.” Certainly we shall need much time and space for such wisdom and compassion as may inform us in such situations. If we do fight, may our wisdom and compassion honor both our adversary and ourselves, whether in compromise, victory or defeat.

And so,

“On how to sing

The frog school and the skylark school

Are arguing.” — (Shiki, 1958, p. 169)

Ambiguity, complexity, uncertainty

Our “Small Mind” clings to delusions of security and permanence. It finds neither of these in the world where, on the contrary, it experiences a sense of ambiguity, complexity and uncertainty which it finds intolerable, and which make it very angry when it is obliged to confront them. Small Mind prefers to see social, economic and political phenomena in terms of black and white, or “Left and Right.” It likes to take sides, and it clings to social dogmas both sophisticated and simple. (“The rich/poor are always selfish/idle.”)

To the extent that we have achieved “Big Mind” we perceive with equanimity what Small Mind recoils from as intolerable. We are freer to see the world as it is in all the many colors of the rainbow, each merging imperceptibly into the next. In place of clinging to a few black, white and gray compartments, scrutiny is freed, encouraged by the Buddha’s discriminating and differentiating attitude. (Vibhajjavada; see Wheel: No. 238/240, Anguttara Anthology, Part II, pp. 59 ff.)

We shall not be surprised then that the personal map which guides the Wise through social and political realities may turn out to be disturbingly unconventional. Their reluctance readily to “take sides” arises not from quietism or an attachment to a compromise or a belief in the “unreality” of conflict, as is variously the case with those guided by mere rules. On the contrary, they may not even sit quietly, throwing soothing generalizations into the ring, as is expected of the religious. This seemingly uncomfortable, seemingly marginal stance simply reflects a reality which is experienced with equanimity.

However, it does not require much equanimity to discover the deeper truths which underlie many current conventional truths. Conventional politics, for example, run from “left,” to “right,” from radicals through liberals and conservatives to fascists. Some radicals are, for example, as dogmatic and authoritarian in practice as fascists, and to their ultimate detriment they hate no less mightily. And, again, some conservatives are equally dogmatic because of an awareness of the subtle, organic nature of society and hence the danger of attempts at “instant” restructuring.

Similarly an ideology such as Marxism may be highly complex but has been conveniently oversimplified even by quite well educated partisans, both those “for” and those “against” the theory. The present Dalai Lama is one of those who have attempted to disentangle “an authentic Marxism” which he believes is not without relevance to the problems of a feudal theocracy of the kind that existed in Tibet, from “the sort one sees in countless countries claiming to be Marxist,” but which are “mixing up Marxism and their national political interests and also their thirst for world hegemony” (Dalai Lama, 1979).

The Wise person sees clearly because he does not obscure his own light; he does not cast the shadow of himself over the situation. However, even an honest perception of complexity commonly paralyzes action with, “Yes, that’s all very well, but...,” “On the other hand it is also true that....” Contemplative wisdom is a precious thing, but true Wisdom reveals itself in positive action — or “in-action.” Though a person may, through Clear Comprehension of Purpose (satthaka-sampajanna), keep loyal to the social ideal, his Clear Comprehension of (presently absent) Suitability may counsel in-action, or just “waiting.”

In a social action situation the complexity and ambiguity to which we refer is strongly felt as ethical quandary, uncertainty as to what might be the best course of action. Even in small organizations all power is potentially corrupting; the power wielded is soon lost in a thicket of relative ethics, of means and ends confused, of greater and lesser evils, of long term and short term goals. This is not a “game.” It is the terrible reality of power, wealth and suffering in the world, and the confusing of good 

and delusion. It cannot be escaped; it can only be suffered 

through. We cannot refuse life’s most difficult problems because we have not yet attained to Wisdom. We simply have to do our mindful and vigilant best, without guilt or blame. That is all we have to do.

Violence and non-violence

The First Precept of Buddhism is to abstain from taking life. But it must be made clear that the Buddhist “Precepts” are not commandments; they are “good resolutions,” sincere aspirations voluntarily undertaken. They are signposts. They suggest to us how the truly Wise behave, beyond any sense of self and other.

Evil springs from delusion about our true nature as human beings, and it takes the characteristic forms of hatred, aggression and driving acquisitiveness. These behaviors feed upon themselves and become strongly rooted, not only in individuals but in whole cultures. Total war is no more than their most spectacular and bloody expression. In Buddhism the cultivation of sila (habitual morality) by attempting to follow the Precepts is an aspiration toward breaking this karmic cycle. It is a first step towards dissolving the egocentricity of headstrong willfulness, and cultivating heartfelt awareness of others. The Precepts invite us to loosen the grip, unclench the fist, and to aspire to open-handedness and open-heartedness. Whether, and to what extent, he keeps the Precepts is the responsibility of each individual. But he needs to be fully aware of what he is doing.

The karmic force of violent behaviour will be affected by the circumstances in which it occurs. For example, a “diminished responsibility” may be argued in the case of conscripts forced to kill by an aggressive government. And there is surely a difference between wars of conquest and wars of defense. Ven. Walpola Rahula described a war of national independence in Sri Lanka in the 2nd century BC conducted under the slogan “Not for kingdom but for Buddhism,” and concludes that “to fight against a foreign invader for national independence became an established Buddhist tradition, since freedom was essential to the spiritual as well as the material progress of the community” (Rahula, 1978, p. 117). We may deplore the historic destruction of the great Indian Buddhist heritage in the middle-ages, undefended against the Mongol and Muslim invaders. It is important to note, however, that “according to Buddhism there is nothing that can be called a ‘just war’ — which is only a false term coined and put into circulation to justify and excuse hatred, cruelty, violence and massacre” (Rahula, 1967, 84).

It is an unfortunate fact, well documented by eminent scholars such as Edward Conze and Trevor Ling, that not only have avowedly Buddhist rulers undertaken violence and killing, but also monks of all traditions in Buddhism. Nonetheless, Buddhism has no history of specifically religious wars, that is, wars fought to impose Buddhism upon reluctant believers.

Violence and killing are deeply corrupting in their effect upon all involved, and Buddhists will therefore try to avoid direct involvement in violent action or in earning their living in a way that, directly or indirectly, does violence. The Buddha specifically mentioned the trade in arms, in living beings and flesh.

The problem is whether, in today’s “global village” we are not all in some degree responsible for war and violence to the extent that we refrain from any effort to diminish them. Can we refrain from killing a garden slug and yet refrain, for fear of “political involvement,” from raising a voice against the nuclear arms race or the systematic torture of prisoners of conscience in many parts of the world?

These are questions which are disturbing to some of those Buddhists who have a sensitive social and moral conscience. This is understandable. Yet, a well-informed Buddhist must not forget that moral responsibility, or karmic guilt, originate from a volitional and voluntary act affirming the harmful character of the act. If that affirmation is absent, neither the responsibility for the act, not karmic guilt, rest with those who, through some form of pressure, participate in it. 

A slight guilt, however, might be involved if such participants yield too easily even to moderate pressure or do not make use of “escape routes” existing in these situations. But failure to protest publicly against injustice or wrong-doings does not necessarily constitute a participation in evil. Voices of protest should be raised when there is a chance that they are heard. 

But “voices in the wilderness” are futile, and silence, instead, is the better choice. It is futile, indeed, if a few well-meaning heads try to run against walls of rock stone that may yield only to bulldozers. It is a sad fact that there are untold millions of our fellow-humans who do affirm violence and use it for a great variety of reasons (though not “reasonable reasons”!). They are unlikely to be moved by our protests or preachings, being entirely obsessed by divers fanaticisms or power urges. This has to be accepted as an aspect of existential suffering. Yet there are still today some opportunities and nations where a Buddhist can and should work for the cause of peace and reducing violence in human life. No efforts should be spared to convince people that violence does not solve problems or conflicts.

The great evil of violence is its separation unto death of us and them, of “my” righteousness and “your” evil. If you counter violence with violence you will deepen that separation through thoughts of bitterness and revenge. The Dhammapada says: “Never by hatred is hatred appeased, but it is appeased by kindness. This is an eternal truth” (I, 5) Buddhist non-violent social action (avihimsa, ahimsa) seeks to communicate, persuade and startle by moral example. “One should conquer anger through kindness, wickedness through goodness, selfishness through charity, and falsehood through truthfulness” (Dhammapada, XVII, 3).

The Buddha intervened personally on the field of battle, as in the dispute between the Sakyas and Koliyas over the waters of the Rohini. Since that time, history has provided us with a host of examples of religiously inspired non-violent social action, skillfully adapted to particular situations. These are worthy of deep contemplation.

Well known is Mahatma Gandhi’s non-violent struggle against religious intolerance and British rule in India, and also the Rev. Martin Luther King’s black people’s civil rights movement in the United States. A familiar situation for many people today is the mass demonstration against authority, which may be conducted either peacefully or violently. As Robert Aitken Roshi has observed, “the point of disagreement, even the most fundamental disagreement, is still more superficial than the place of our common life.” He recalls the case of a friend who organized an anti-nuclear demonstration at a naval base passing through a small town in which virtually every household had at least one person who gained his livelihood by working at the base. Consequently, when the friend visited every single house before the demonstration he hardly expected to win the people over to his cause. But he did convince them that he was a human being who was willing to listen to them and who had faith in them as human beings. “We finally had our demonstration, with four thousand people walking through this tiny community, nobody resisted us, nobody threw rocks. They just stood and watched” (The Ten Directions, Los Angeles Zen Center, 1 (3) September 1980, p. 6).

And yet again, situations may arise in which folly is mutually conditioned, but where we must in some sense take sides in establishing the ultimate responsibility. If we do not speak out then, we bow only to the conditioned and accept the endlessness of suffering and the perpetuation of evil karma. The following lines were written a few days after Archbishop Oscar Romero, of the Central American republic of El Salvador, had been shot dead on the steps of his chapel. Romero had roundly condemned the armed leftist rebel factions for their daily killings and extortions. However, he also pointed out that these were the reactions of the common people being used as “a production force under the management of a privileged society... The gap between poverty and wealth is the main cause of our trouble... And sometimes it goes further: It is the hatred in the heart of the worker for his employer... If I did not denounce the killings and the way the army removes people and ransacks peasants’ homes I should be acquiescing in the violence” (Observer newspaper (London), March 30, 1980). Finally there is the type of situation in which the truly massive folly of the conflict and of the contrasting evils may leave nothing to work with and there is space left only for personal sacrifice to bear witness to that folly. Such was the choice of the Buddhist monks who burnt themselves to death in the Vietnam war — surely one of the most savage and despairing conflicts of modern times, in which a heroic group of Buddhists had for some time struggled in vain to establish an alternative “third force.”

The Good Society

The social order to which Buddhist social action is ultimately directed must be one that minimizes non-volitionally caused suffering, whether in mind or body, and which also offers encouraging conditions for its citizens to see more clearly into their true nature and overcome their karmic inheritance. The Buddhist way is, with its compassion, its equanimity, its tolerance, its concern for self-reliance and individual responsibility, the most promising of all the models for the New Society which are an on offer.

What is needed are political and economic relations and a technology which will:

• Help people to overcome ego-centeredness, through co-operation with others, in place of either subordination and exploitation or the consequent sense of “righteous” struggle against all things.
• Offer to each a freedom which is conditional only upon the freedom and dignity of others, so that individuals may develop a self-reliant responsibility rather than being the conditioned animals of institutions and ideologies. (See “Buddhism and Democracy,” Bodhi Leaves No. B. 17) The emphasis should be on the undogmatic acceptance of a diversity of tolerably compatible material and mental “ways,” whether of individuals or of whole communities. There are no short cuts to utopia, whether by “social engineering” or theocracy. The good society towards which we should aim should simply provide a means, an environment, in which different “ways,” appropriate to different kinds of people, may be cultivated in mutual tolerance and understanding. A prescriptive commonwealth of saints is totally alien to Buddhism.
• The good society will concern itself primarily with the material and social conditions for personal growth, and only secondarily and dependently with material production. It is noteworthy that the 14th Dalai Lama, on his visit to the West in 1973, saw “nothing wrong with material progress provided man takes precedence over progress. In fact it has been my firm belief that in order to solve human problems in all their dimensions we must be able to combine and harmonize external material progress with inner mental development.” The Dalai Lama contrasted the “many problems like poverty and disease, lack of education” in the East with the West, in which “the living standard is remarkably high, which is very important, very good.” Yet he notes that despite these achievements there is “mental unrest,” pollution, overcrowding, and other problems. “Our very life itself is a paradox, contradictory in many senses; whenever you have too much of one thing you have problems created by that. You always have extremes and therefore it is important to try and find the middle way, to balance the two” (Dalai Lama, 1976, pp. 10, 14, 29).
• E.F. Schumacher has concisely expressed the essence of Buddhist economics as follows:

“While the materialist is mainly interested in goods, the Buddhist is mainly interested in liberation. But Buddhism is ‘The Middle Way’ and therefore in no way antagonistic to physical well-being... 

The keynote of Buddhist economics is simplicity and non-violence. From an economist’s point of view, the marvel of the Buddhist way of life is the utter rationality of its pattern — amazingly small means leading to extraordinarily satisfying results” (Schumacher, 1973, p. 52). 

Schumacher then outlines a “Buddhist economics” in which production would be based on a middle range technology yielding on the one hand an adequate range of material goods (and no more), and on the other a harmony with the natural environment and its resources. (See also Dr. Padmasiri de Silva’s pamphlet The Search for a Buddhist Economics, in the series, Bodhi Leaves, No. B. 69)

The above principles suggest some kind of diverse and politically decentralized society, with co-operative management and ownership of productive wealth. 

It would be conceived on a human scale, whether in terms of size and complexity of organization or of environmental planning, and would use modern technology selectively rather than being used by it in the service of selfish interests. 

In Schumacher’s words, “It is a question of finding the right path of development, the Middle Way, between materialist heedlessness and traditionalist immobility, in short, of finding ‘Right Livelihood.’”

Clearly, all the above must ultimately be conceived on a world scale. “Today we have become so interdependent and so closely connected with each other that without a sense of universal responsibility, irrespective of different ideologies and faiths, our very existence or survival would be difficult” (Dalai Lama, 1976, pp. 5, 28). This statement underlines the importance of Buddhist internationalism and of social policy and social action conceived on a world scale.

The above is not offered as some kind of blueprint for utopia. Progress would be as conflict-ridden as the spiritual path of the ordinary Buddhist — and the world may never get there anyway. However, Buddhism is a very practical and pragmatic kind of idealism, and there is, as always, really no alternative but to try.

Organizing social action

A systematic review of the different kinds of Buddhist organization for social action which have appeared in different parts of the world is beyond the scope of this pamphlet. Some considerable research would be required, and the results would merit at least a separate pamphlet.

Later we shall introduce three contrasting movements which are in some sense or others examples of Buddhist social action. Each is related more or less strongly to the particular social culture in which it originated, and all should therefore be studied as illustrative examples-in-context and not necessarily as export models for other countries. They are, however, very suggestive, and two of the three have spread beyond their country of origin.

Maintaining balance

Social action needs to be organized and practiced in such a way as to build upon its potential for spiritual practice and to guard against its seductions. Collective labor with fellow-Buddhists raises creative energy, encourages positive attitudes and engenders a strong spirit of fellowship. The conflicts, disagreements, obstacles, and discouragements which will certainly be met along the way offer rich meditation experiences and opportunity for personal growth, so long as scrupulous mindfulness is sustained. The meditator will learn as much about himself in a contentious meeting as he will in the meditation hall. Both kinds of experience are needed, and they complement one another. Social action is a great ripener of compassion (for self as well as for others), out of the bitterness of the experiences which it commonly offers. Yet, like nothing else, it can stir up the partisan emotions and powerfully exult the opinionated ego. The busy, patronizing evangelist not only gives an undercover boost to his own ego; he also steals another person’s responsibility for himself. However, these dangers are, comparatively speaking, gross and tangible when set against the no less ego-enhancing seduction of Other-Worldliness and dharma-ridden pietism. Such “spiritual materialism,” as Chogyam Trungpa calls it, has long been recognized as the ultimate and most elusive kind of self-deception which threatens the follower of the spiritual path.

The seduction lies in being carried away by our good works, in becoming subtly attached to the new goals and enterprises we have set ourselves, so that no space is left in our busily structured hours in which some saving strength of the spirit can abide. Here is opportunity to learn how to dance with time — “the river in which we go fishing,” as Thoreau called it, instead of neatly packaging away our lives in it, or letting it dictate us. And in committee lies the opportunity of slowly turning the hot, lusty partisanship of self-opinionated confirmation into the kind of space and dialogue in which we can communicate, and can even learn to love our most implacable opponents.

It is therefore important that both the individual and the group set aside regular periods for meditation, with periods of retreat at longer intervals. It is important also that experience and the feel of the social action project should as far as possible be shared openly within the Buddhist group.

In our view, the first social action of the isolated Buddhist is not to withhold the Dharma from the community in which he or she lives. However modest one’s own understanding of the Dharma, there is always some first step that can be taken and something to be learned from taking that step. Even two or three can be a greater light to one another, and many forms of help are often available from outside such as working together through a correspondence course, for example, or listening to borrowed audiocassettes. For the reasons given earlier it is important that social action projects should, where possible, be undertaken by a Buddhist group rather than each individual “doing his own thing.” And since the Buddhist group will, in most Western countries, be small and isolated, it is important that the work be undertaken in co-operation with like-minded non-Buddhists. This will both use energies to better effect since social action can be very time- and energy-consuming, and create an even better learning situation for all involved. Forms of social action which are high on explicit giving of service and low on conflict and power situations will obviously be easier to handle and to “give” oneself to, though still difficult in other respects. For example, organizing and participating in a rota of visits to lonely, long-stay hospital patients would contrast, in this respect, with involvement in any kind of local community development project.

Spiritual centers: example and outreach

In this section we are concerned with the significance of Buddhist residential communities both as manifestations and examples of the “good society” and as centers of social outreach (mainly, though not solely, in the form of teaching the Dharma). We may distinguish four possible kinds of activity here.

In the first place, any healthy spiritual community does, by its very existence, offer to the world a living example not only of the Good Life but also of the Good Society. Certain spiritual values are made manifest in its organization and practice in a way not possible in print or in talk. On the other hand, the purely contemplative and highly exclusive community can do this only in some limited, special and arguable sense.

In the second place, where the members of such a community undertake work as a community economically (“Right Livelihood”), then to that extent the community becomes a more realistic microcosm of what has to be done in the wider world and a more realistic model and example of how it might best be done.

Thirdly, such communities are commonly teaching and training communities. This may be so in formal terms, in that they offer classes and short courses and also longer periods of training in residence, in which the trainees become veritable community members. And it may be true in terms of the “openness” of the community to outsiders who wish for the present to open up their communication with the community through some participation in work, ritual, teaching, meditation.

Fourthly, the community might involve itself in various kinds of outside community service, development or action beyond that of teaching, and beyond the necessarily commercial services which may sustain the community’s “Right Livelihood.” Examples might be running a hospice for the terminally ill, providing an information and advice center on a wide range of personal and social problems for the people of the local community, and assisting — and maybe leading — in various aspects of a socially deprived local community. The spiritual community thus becomes more strongly a community within a community. In this kind of situation would the spiritual community draw strength from its service to the social, the “lay” community, creating an upward spiral of energy? Or would the whole scheme founder through the progressive impoverishment and corruption of the spiritual community in a vicious downward spiral?

In the Eastern Buddhist monastic tradition the first and third aspects (above) are present. In contrast to Christian monasticism, monks are not necessarily expected to be monks for life, and the monasteries may have an important function as seminaries and as long and short stay teaching and training centers. On the other hand, economically such communities are commonly strongly sustained by what is predominantly Buddhist society. In the West there are now similar communities in all the main Buddhist traditions. Although these are to some extent sustained also by lay Buddhist contributions, their income from training and teaching fees may be important. And whether it is or not, it is clear that their actual and potential training and teaching role is likely to be very important in non-Buddhist societies in which there is a growing interest in Buddhism. A good example is the Manjusri Institute in the United Kingdom, which is now seeking official recognition for the qualifications which it awards, and which could eventually become as much part of the national education system as, say, a Christian theological college. Such an integration of Buddhist activity into the pattern of national life in the West is, of course, most welcome, and opens up many new opportunities for making the Dharma more widely understood.

The above developments may be compared with the communities which form the basis of the Friends of the Western Buddhist Order (FWBO). In these, our second aspect (above), that of Right Livelihood, is found, in addition to the first and third.

The FWBO was founded in 1967 in the United Kingdom by the Ven. Maha Sthavira Sangharakshita, a Londoner who spent twenty years in India as a Buddhist monk and returned with the conviction that the perennial Buddhism always expresses itself anew in each new age and culture. The FWBO is concerned with building what it calls the “New Society” in the minds and practice of its members. Opening the FWBO’s London Buddhist Center, Ven. Sangharakshita was reported as saying that the New Society was a spiritual community composed of individuals who are “truly human beings: self-aware, emotionally positive people whose energies flow freely and spontaneously, who accept responsibility for their own growth and development, in particular by providing three things: firstly, a residential spiritual community; secondly, a co-operative Right Livelihood situation; and thirdly a public center, offering classes, especially in meditation” (Marichi, 1979).

The FWBO does in fact follow a traditional Mahayana spiritual practice, but within this framework it does have, as the quotation above suggests, a strong Western flavor. This owes much to the eleven co-operatives by which many of the eighteen autonomous urban communities support themselves. These businesses are run by teams of community members as a means of personal and group development. They include a printing press, graphic design business, photographic and film studio, metalwork forge, and shops and cafes.

Membership of the communities (which are usually single sex), varies between four and thirty people, and often the community members pool their earnings in a “common purse.” The FWBO comprises Order members, Mitras (who have made some initial commitment) and Friends (supporters in regular contact). Each community is autonomous and has its own distinctive character. Attached to communities are seven Centers, through which the public are offered talks, courses and instruction in meditation. Regular meetings of Chairmen of Centers and other senior Order members, supported by three central secretariats, are planned for the future, but it is not intended to abridge the autonomy of the constituent communities, each of which is a separately registered legal body.

The FWBO is growing very rapidly, not only in the United Kingdom but also overseas, with branches in Finland, the Netherlands, New Zealand, Australia, the USA, and, interestingly, in India, where a sustained effort is being made to establish centers.

Community services and development

We refer in this section to the fourth aspect distinguished early, namely, various possible kinds of service and support which may be given by organized Buddhists to the local community in which they live. The FWBO does not undertake this kind of activity (see previous section for examples), and in fact there do not appear to be any major examples of it in the West.

Arguably if this kind of work is undertaken at all, it might more likely be initiated by a non-residential “lay” Buddhist group, whose members as householders and local workers may have strong roots in their town or neighborhood. As an example of what can be achieved by a relatively small group of this kind, we quote the following (from The Middle Way, 54 (3) Autumn 1979, p. 193): “The Harlow Buddhist Society have recently opened Dana House, a practical attempt to become involved with the ordinary people of the town and their problems. The new center... has four regular groups using it. The first is an after-care service for those who have been mentally or emotionally ill. The center is there for those in need of friendship and understanding. The second group is a psychotherapy one, for those with more evident emotional problems. It is run by an experienced group leader and a psychologist who can be consulted privately. The third group is a beginners’ meditation class based on the concept of ‘Right Understanding.’ The fourth group is the Buddhist group, which is not attached to any particular school of Buddhism. 

“Peter Donahoe writes: ‘We have endeavored to provide a center which can function in relation to a whole range of different needs, a place of charity and compassion, where all are welcomed regardless of race, color, sex or creed, welcomed to come to terms with their suffering in a way which is relative to each individual.’”

However, on the whole, it is only in the East, in societies in which Buddhist culture is predominant or important, that there are sufficiently committed Buddhists to play a part in extensive community service and development projects. For example, in Japan there are several such movements and we shall refer in the next section to one example — Soka Gakkai, a movement which also plays a number of other roles. We must first, however, turn our attention to a pre-eminent example of a Buddhist-inspired movement for community development, the Sarvodaya Shramadana Movement of Sri Lanka.

“Sarvodaya” means “awakening of all” and “Shramadana” means “sharing of labor,” making a gift of time, thought and energy. This well describes what is basically a village self-help movement, inspired by Buddhist principles and founded in 1958 as part of a general national awakening. It is now by far the largest non-governmental, voluntary organization in Sri Lanka.

The Movement learned in its earlier days how very important non-economic factors are in community development, and its projects combine spiritual-cultural with socioeconomic development. “One important element that cannot be improved upon in Buddhist villages in particular is the unique place of the temple and the Buddhist monk, the one as the meeting place, the other as the chief exponent of this entire process.” (All quotations are from the pamphlet Ethos and Work Plan, published by the Movement.) Founded on traditional culture, Sarvodaya Shramadana is ultimately “a nonviolent revolutionary movement for changing man and society.” At the same time it aims to retain the best in the traditional social and cultural fabric of the community.

Village development projects are undertaken on the initiative of the villagers themselves. To begin with the community is made aware of the historic causes that led to the impoverishment and disintegration of the community and of its cultural and traditional values. Economic regeneration is only possible if there is a restoration of social values within the village. It is emphasized that the community itself must take the initiative in removing obstacles to development and in learning the new skills needed to carry through a change of program. The volunteers brought in to help serve only as a catalyst. Action is focused initially on Shramadana Camps in which villagers and outside volunteers work together upon some community project such as a road or irrigation channel. The experience of such Camps helps to develop a sense of community. Local leaders, working through village groups of farmers, of youth, of mothers and others, emerge to take increasing responsibility for a more or less comprehensive development program. This may include pre-school care for the under-fives, informal education for adults, health care programs, and community kitchens, with co-operation with State agencies as appropriate. By 1980, Sarvodaya was reaching 3,500 villages and was running 1,185 pre-schools.

Essential to these community development programs in Sarvodaya Shramadana’s system of Development Education programs, operating through six Institutes and through the Gramodaya centers each of which co-ordinates development work in some twenty to thirty villages. The movement also provides training in self-employment for the youth who compose the largest sector of the unemployed. Although the main thrust of activity has been in rural areas, the Movement is also interested in urban community development where conditions are favourable and there is local interest. The main material support for the movement comes from the villagers themselves, although financial and material assistance has also been received from overseas.

It is argued that the basic principles of Sarvodaya Shramadana can be adapted to developed as well as developing countries, and Sarvodaya groups are already active in West Germany, the Netherlands, Japan and Thailand. “The rich countries also have to helped to change their purely materialistic outlook and strike a balance, with spiritual values added to the materialistic values of their own communities so that together all can build a new One World social order.”

Political action and mass movements

Although there may be exceptional circumstances in certain countries, as a general rule there are strong arguments against Buddhist groups explicitly aligning themselves with any political party. It is not just that to do so would be irrelevantly divisive. As we have noted in section 2.6 (above), there are deeper, underlying social and political realities which cross-cut the conventional political spectrum of left, right and center.

Nevertheless, Buddhism, like other great religious systems, inevitably has political implications. To some extent these seem to be relatively clear, and in other senses they are arguable and controversial. Religion has its own contribution to make to politics and, ultimately, it is the only contribution to politics that really matters. It has failed both politically and as religion it falls either into the extreme of being debased by politics or of rejecting any kind of political involvement as a kind of fearful taboo. The fear of creating dissension among fellow Buddhists is understandable, but if Buddhists cannot handle conflict in a positive and creative way, then who can?

On closer examination we shall find that it is not “politics” that requires our vigilance so much as the problems of power and conflict inherent in politics. Indeed, a better use of the term “political” would be to describe any kind of power and conflict situation. In this sense a Buddhist organization may be more intensely and unhappily “political” in managing its spiritual and practical affairs than if and when its members are discussing such an “outside” matter as conventional politics. Indeed, any such discussion of social and political questions may be banned by a Buddhist society which may be in fact intensely political in terms of underlying power and conflict with which its members have not really come to terms. All kinds of organizations have problems of power and conflict and derive their positive dynamism from the good management of these, but the dangers of self-delusion seem to be greater in religious bodies.

When we meet Buddhists and get to know them, we find that even when they do not express explicit opinions on political and social matters, it is clear from other things they say that some are inclined to a conservative “establishment” stance, some are of a radical inclination, and others more dissident still. Since the diversities of THIS and THAT exist everywhere else in the conditioned world, even Buddhists cannot pretend to exclude themselves from such disturbing distinctions. This is not really in question. What is in question is their ability to handle their differences openly and with Buddhist maturity. And, as we have tried to show earlier, this maturity implies a progressive diminution of emotional attachment to views of THIS and THAT, so that we no longer need either in order to sustain our identity in the world and have in some sense transcended our clinging by a higher understanding. We still carry THIS or THAT, but lightly and transparently and manageably — without ego-weight. If we did not still carry them, how could we feel the Compassion for samsara, for ourselves as well as others?

Alan Watts wrote a suitably controversial little pamphlet on this subject, entitled Beat Zen, Square Zen and Zen (City Lights Books, San Francisco, 1959). The following passage may be found helpful to our present discussion; what the author has to say about Zen is surely no less applicable to Buddhism as a whole. Watts argues that the Westerner who wishes to understand Zen deeply “must understand his own culture so thoroughly that he is no longer swayed by its premises unconsciously. He must really have come to terms with the Lord God Jehovah and with his Hebrew-Christian conscience so he can take it or leave it without fear or rebellion. He must be free of the itch to justify himself. Lacking this, his Zen will be either ‘beat’ or ‘square,’ either a revolt from the culture and social order or a new form of stuffiness and respectability. For Zen is above all the liberation of the mind from conventional thought and this is something utterly different from rebellion against convention, on the one hand, or adapting foreign conventions, on the other.”

In the West, individual Buddhists have been particularly attracted to pacifist, disarmament, and environmentalist movements and parties. These movements have profound concerns, which, arguably, undercut the expediencies of conventional party politics. On the other hand, are they not made the more attractive by a certain political innocence, as yet uncorrupted and unblessed by the realities of power? And do they not also underestimate the karma of power and property? However, in Western and other non-Buddhist countries Buddhist political action of any kind is little more than speculative. Buddhists are few in number, and their energies are necessarily fully occupied with learning and teaching. Teaching is the major form of social action and we have already discussed certain social action implications of the spiritual community. Social action at most verges upon certain possible kinds of service to the wider community or even participation in community development. We have already suggested the merit of such enterprises. But as to politics, using the word conventionally, in the West and at the present time, that can be no more than a matter for discussion in Buddhist groups. As always, individual Buddhists and perhaps informal groups will decide for themselves about political action or inaction.

However, in countries where there are strong Buddhist movements, well rooted in society, some kind of political stance and action seems unavoidable and, indeed, logical and natural, though conventional party political alignments may generally be avoided.

For example, Sarvodaya Shramadana’s success at the higher levels of village self-development depends on “the extent that unjust economic arrangements such as ownership of means of production, e.g., land in the hands of a few, administrative system and political power structures, are changed in such a way that the village masses become the true masters of their own selves and their environment. That the present government has gone very far in this direction is amply demonstrated when one examines the radical measures that have already been taken” (Sarvodaya Shramadana pamphlet Ethos and Work Plan, p. 31).

For large and explicitly Buddhist movements filing a variety of different roles, from the devotional to the so-called “New Religions” which have become particularly important in Japan in the post-war period. (Some mention has already been made of the small discussion groups which are a notable feature of Rissho-Kosei-Kai — The “Society for Establishing Righteousness and Family Relations”.) With their strong emphasis on pacifism, brotherly love, and mutual aid, these organizations have done much to assist the recovery of the Japanese people from the trauma of military aggression and the nuclear explosions which terminated it.

Soka Gakkai (literally, “Value Creation Society”) is perhaps the most striking of these Japanese Buddhist socio-political movements. It is a lay Buddhist organization with over fifteen million adherents, associated with the Nichiren-Sho-Shu sect.

Soka Gakkai has an ambitious education and cultural program, and has founded its own university, high school and hospital. It also has a political party, Komeito — the “Clean Government Party,” which as early as 1967 returned twenty-five parliamentary candidates to the Japanese lower house, elected with five percent of the national vote. The party has continued to play an important part in Japanese political life, basing itself on “the principles of Buddhist democracy” and opposition to rearmament. Soka Gakkai is a populist movement, militant, evangelical and well organized, pledged to “stand forever on the side of the people” and to “devote itself to carrying out the movement for the human revolution” (President Daisaku Ikeda). More specifically, its political achievements have included a successful confrontation with the mineowners of Hokkaido.

Attitudes to Soka Gakkai understandably differ widely. It has been criticized by some for its radicalism and by others for its conservatism; certainly it has been criticized on the grounds of dogmatism and aggressiveness. Certainly it is imbued with the nationalist fervor of Nichiren, the 13th century Buddhist monk who inspired it. Although it has some claims to missionary work in other countries, Soka Gakkai appears to have a more distinctive national flavor than the other social action groups we have looked at and to be less suitable for export.

Universal Responsibility and the Good Heart

Elsewhere we have already quoted the words of the Dalai Lama emphasizing the active global responsibility of Buddhists, and the importance above all of what he calls “Universal Responsibility and the Good Heart.” In all countries will be found non-Buddhists, whether religionists or humanists, who share with us a non-violent, non-dogmatic and non-sectarian approach to community and world problems, and with whom Buddhists can work in close cooperation and with mutual respect. 

This is part of the “Good Heart” to which the Dalai Lama refers. “I believe that the embracing of a particular religion like Buddhism does not mean the rejection of another religion or one’s own community. In fact it is important that those of you who have embraced Buddhism should not cut yourself off from your own society; you should continue to live within your own community and with its members. This is not only for your sake but for others’ also, because by rejecting your community you obviously cannot benefit others, which actually is the basic aim of religion” (Dalai Lama, 1976).

Mr. Emilios Bouratinos and his colleagues of the Buddhist Society of Greece have framed certain farsighted proposals for the “rehumanization of society” which have Buddhist inspiration but which seek to involve non-Buddhist ideological groups with the aim of reaching some common ground with them on the organization of society. Mr. Bouratinos argues that Buddhists should address themselves “to all people somehow inspired from within — whether they be religionists or not. This is indispensable, for we Buddhists are a tiny minority in the West and yet we must touch the hearts of many if this world is to survive in some meaningful fashion” (Letter to the author, 15 May 1980).

Conclusion 

Certainly in the West many Buddhists will maintain that it is necessary to take one step at a time, and that for the present our individual and collective action must go into the inner strengthening of our faith and practice. 

They would doubtless agree on the importance of teaching the Dharma, which we have characterized as one of the important forms of social action, but they would argue that the seduction of other kinds of social action, and the drain of energy, are greater than the opportunities which it can afford for “wearing out the shoe of samsara.” They would argue that the best way to help other people is by personal example.

This pamphlet concedes some possible truth to the above position but also offers a wide range of evidence to the contrary, to which in retrospect the reader may now wish to return.  Whatever we may feel about it, certainly the debate is a worthwhile one since, as we have seen, it points to the very heart of Buddhism— the harmony, or creative equilibrium, of Wisdom and Compassion. And as in all worthwhile debates, the disagreement, and, still more, the possible sense of disagreeableness which it engenders, offers each of us a valuable meditation.

The needs and aptitudes of individual differ, and our debate will also appear differently to readers in different countries with different cultural backgrounds. Though we are brothers and sisters to one another, as Buddhists each must light his or her own way. To the enquiring reader who has little knowledge of Buddhism and yet who has managed to stay with me to the end, I offer my apologies if I have sometimes seemed to forget him and if my explanations have proved inadequate. For:

“This is where words fail: for what can words tell

Of things that have no yesterday, tomorrow or today?” — Tseng Ts’an

To a world knotted in hatreds and aggression and a host of follies, grand and mean, heroic and base, Buddhism offers a unique combination of unshakable equanimity and a deeply compassionate practical concern. And so may we tread lightly through restless experience, riding out defeats and discouragements, aware always of the peace at the heart of things, of the freedom that is free of nothing.

8

Continuity and Change in the Economic Ethics of Buddhism

Introduction

Buddhist economic ethics—that is Buddhist values with regard to wealth and economic activity, either within society or within the sangha—are often slighted in Western scholarly studies of Buddhism even though they play a significant role as a part of overall Buddhist philosophy regarding social life and even enlightenment itself. This is due perhaps partly to an implicit interpretation of Buddhism among some scholars as being a religion focused primarily upon an individualistic pursuit of enlightenment rather than also a set of practiced social, political, and economic ethics. To an extent of course this characterization holds true, for at least a part of both the Theravaada and Mahaayaana traditions. Yet it also ignores clearly developed Buddhist attitudes and values toward economic activities, some explicitly expressed in the various Vinaya codes for monks, others less explicitly, but still clearly enough, in various stories and suutras which lay out general principles of behaviour for lay believers. 

This paper offers an outline of the development of Buddhist economic ethics using examples from early Theravaada Buddhism in India and the Mahaayaana tradition as it evolved in India, medieval China, and medieval and early modern Japan, in order to illustrate the pattern of continuities and transformations these ethics have undergone. By “economic ethics” the paper refers to four broad areas: 

• attitudes toward wealth, i.e., its accumulation, use, and distribution, including the issues of economic justice and equality/ inequality; 
• attitudes toward charity, i.e., how and to whom wealth should be given; 
• attitudes toward human labor and secular occupations in society; and 
• actual economic activities of temples and monasteries which reflect the lived-practice of Buddhist communities’ economic ethics. 

By “Buddhist,” the paper refers to mainline Buddhist thinking in history, as represented by the various Vinaya codes, suutras and stories, and economic activities of major sects, monasteries, and temples. 

Since I will be dealing with a range of “Buddhisms” as they developed in various times and places, I have relied upon previous scholarly work to help define what the general trends of the economic ethics of these various “Buddhisms” were. This approach assumes that there was no one Buddhist economic ethic for all of these different times and places, just as there is no one “Buddhism.” Yet through an examination of the economic ethics of these different “Buddhisms,” certain continuities and differences between them become clear. Moreover, the presence of these continuities would seem to allow us to make a number of tentative conclusions about what the development and nature of these various Buddhist economic ethics as a whole might share. These can be summarized as follows: 

1. Buddhist soteriologies affect Buddhist economic ethics in fundamental ways. By defining how enlightenment is achieved, what enlightenment is and what has ultimate value, Buddhist soteriologies set the parameters for what Buddhist economic ethics will be in any particular tradition or school of Buddhism. 
2. Within these soteriologies, the major Buddhist concepts of karma, anaatman, “suunyataa and pratiitya­samutpaada (dependent coorigination) each help determine the shape of the Buddhist economic ethics of any particular school. However, the impact of these conceptions ultimately is ambiguous and depends to a large extent upon the interpretation of them within the particular sociocultural and historical situation. 
3. Contrary to the common image of monk and laity ethics being two completely separate realms with little commonality, the ideal economic ethics of monks and laity share a common overall principle (that of nonattachment to wealth). Yet, they still differ in both specifics (rules regarding wealth, labor, and the like) and specificity (how explicitly they define the proper attitudes and morals regarding wealth, labor, and so on). 
4. The development and evolution of Buddhist economic ethics within Theravaada and Mahaayaana reveal both lines of continuity between these traditions (e.g., lay ethics emphasizing sharing of wealth with others) as well as clear transformations in ideas (e.g., Zen attitudes toward monk labor). Transformations usually are traceable to the influence of indigenous thought or of other historical peculiarities in the way Buddhism was accepted in the new country where it entered (e.g., China and Japan). 
5. Buddhist economic ethics tend not to be just the reflection of religious attitudes toward the economy but also religious attitudes toward the state (polity). This latter relationship (Buddhism and the polity) usually was characterized by interdependence and reciprocity, that is, state support for the sangha in return for the sangha’s spiritual protection and legitimization of the state. The implication of this relationship for Buddhist economic ethics was that they usually (a) did not challenge or question the existing economic distribution of wealth but emphasized instead religious giving to the sangha (daana) as the ideal social action; and (b) relied upon secular authorities (the king or state) to help define the specifics of lay Buddhist economic ethics, along with guidelines given in various suutra. 
6. Buddhist economics ethics for the laity were not inherently antagonistic to the development of capitalism, but in fact supported a primitive capitalism among the merchant classes in early Buddhist India, and medieval China and Japan. This could be seen in both merchant-type lay ethics, which encouraged the accumulation of wealth along with certain restraints on consumption of this wealth, and direct economic activities by Buddhist monasteries themselves, which led to innovations in business practices and implicit support for commercial tendencies in society as a whole. 
7. Issues of economic equality and distributive justice were dealt with in Buddhist economic ethics primarily through the ideas of karma, religious giving (daana), and compassion (karu.naa) and focused less on changing the overall existing distribution of wealth than on cultivating the proper ethical attitudes toward wealth and giving. At the same time, in the occasional use of Maitreya by revolutionary and other protest movements, there were the beginnings of the development of a more socially activist and transformative economic ethic focusing on ideas about economic and political justice. 
8. In the remainder of this paper, I will examine the above themes in more depth, beginning with evidence from early Theravaada and then moving on to Mahaayaana in its main forms in India, China, and Japan. Given the space limitations, only the major trends of both teachings and actual economic practices will be discussed. Together however, these offer sufficient evidence to form an overall picture of Buddhist ethics as they evolved over time, as well as some tentative conclusions about the relationship between Buddhist economic ethics and such issues as the development of capitalism and concepts of economic justice. 

Theravaada Buddhist Economic Ethics

The economic ethics of Theravaada Buddhism, especially attitudes toward wealth, poverty, charity, and labor cannot be understood without understanding something about Buddhist soteriologies (i.e., theories of how a person achieves enlightenment). The earliest Buddhist soteriology was summarized in the Four Noble Truths: 

• suffering exists; 
• the cause of suffering is craving (attachment); 
• there is a way out of this suffering; and 
• this way is the Eightfold Path. 

This Eightfold Path consisted of three types of activity: 

• moral conduct; 
• mental discipline; and 
• wisdom. 

Moral conduct in turn included three of the eight components of the Path: 

• right conduct; 
• right speech; and 
• right livelihood, each of which involved various prescriptions for behaviour, attitudes, and mental dispositions. 

Early Buddhist soteriologies must also be understood by examining the major concepts of karma, anaatman, nirvana/sa.msaara and pratiitya­samutpaada (dependent coorigination) to see how they helped define such soteriologies. Karma, for example was understood to apply to all actions including moral ones and implied that a person’s present situation was the result of past acts, thoughts, and feelings in this life and previous ones. It also taught that the effects of a person’s actions carry on beyond the present life into future lives. Therefore, meritorious acts in the present life will result in rewards in future lives. Karma thus can be conceived of as a Buddhist basis for justice in the sense that through it each individual received what he or she deserved in life based upon past actions. This of course included the economic realm with the implication that one’s economic position (i.e., wealth) was the result of one’s actions in this or previous lives-with good ethical actions leading to a better position in terms of wealth and bad ethical actions leading to a worse position. In this way, karma offered a rational explanation for social, economic, and political inequalities while also implying that economic justice already was achieved, i.e., persons economically have what they deserve, at least to start off. Karma thus contributed to a strong sense of morality as conditioning one’s existence and to a stress on individual responsibility rather than social forces as the cause of one’s present situation. 

In addition to karma, the Buddhist concepts of nirvana and sa.msaara were also central to understanding Buddhist soteriologies and had important implications for views toward poverty and wealth. In early Theravaada Buddhism, for example, nirvana and sa.msaara were viewed as far apart-nirvana being the “unborn” and “unbecome”-and defined in terms of what sa.msaara was not. The soteriological goal was to escape sa.msaara through escaping craving, and to do this through practicing the Eightfold Path. Only when a person had escaped sa.msaara could they attain nirvana, whether nirvana was conceived of as an ethical state or also as a metaphysical one. The implication for early Theravaada Buddhist believers was that to attain nirvana right ethical behaviour was a key. Another implication was that since sa.msaara had little value, economic activities (which generally were associated with the realm of sa.msaara) could never have genuine religious significance. 

The concept of pratiitya­samutpaada was a third major concept that helped determine Buddhist soteriology. It did so by pointing to the interdependence of all things and actions. In ethical terms, this implied that although the individual was ultimately responsible for his own karma, since all sentient beings are connected and since compassion is a virtue, helping one’s fellow sentient beings also had value, including help of a material nature. Thus there was a strong moral basis for giving and not withholding material or spiritual assistance to others. 

Finally, the concept of anaatman implied that since no eternal unchanging aatman (self) existed, there was no reason to withhold giving to others, or to hoard wealth, since there was no “I” that needed to be protected or defended more than others. Yet, the idea of anaatman also held a potential paradox. That is, if there was no self, then what individual or personal moral obligation could exist? Could ethics even be possible if there was no self? The most common early Theravaada Buddhist answer to this was that whether there was a self or not, karma continued to exist and wrongful moral actions led to negative karma while right actions led to positive karma. Thus the nonexistence of self did not imply that actions and their results, or ethical responsibility, could not exist. 

The above discussion highlights the correspondence between the key concepts of Theravaada Buddhism and attitudes toward wealth, poverty, and ethical action. Based upon this, in the earliest Buddhism most kinds of economic behaviour of monks (e.g., labor, agricultural production, and possession or accumulation of wealth outside of one’s robe and begging bowl) were proscribed, and monk economic ethics were mainly negative. With the passage of time, however, some Vinayas were relaxed. Individual monks were allowed to keep money, and monasteries were allowed to sell or use for profit goods donated to them, as well as lend out money and collect interest-as long as the profits went to the benefit of the Three Treasures, i.e., the sangha, the Buddha, and the Dharma. Economic activities undertaken by individual monks for personal profit, however, as well as monk labor (whether it involved agriculture or commercial activities), continued to be proscribed. 

In contrast to these early monk economic ethics, early economic ethics for the laity appeared clearly different since they allowed the laity to hold wealth and even praised the creation of wealth through diligent work following one’s chosen or given occupation. However, lay economic ethics also stressed the avoidance of craving or attachment to such wealth and that it must be shared with the sangha and with family and friends. In addition, early lay economic ethics praised the value of labor and devotion to most secular occupations (with some exceptions). 

Such a more lenient attitude toward lay accumulation of wealth and labor was not simply the result of monks trying to ensure their own material support from the laity. It was also the result of a clear and consistent logic in the early Buddhist view of reality that what had ultimate value for both monk and laity was the individual attainment of enlightenment. Although best pursued as a monk, such attainment of enlightenment was also possible for lay people. As a result, economic ethics, whether for monk or for laity, ultimately were directed toward furthering this goal of enlightenment. For both, the key to achieving this goal was overcoming craving. As the laity needed to earn their living, accumulating wealth was allowed and even encouraged as long as too much craving was avoided. Since the monks were on a different point in the path toward nirvana and required stricter discipline, it was considered better for them not to accumulate or hold wealth at all. This system required that the laity support the sangha in order to allow individual monks to devote themselves to their own enlightenment, but also so that they could teach the Dharma to the laity and give knowledge and understanding which furthered the process of laity enlightenment. Through giving to the sangha (daana), the laity earned merit which would help them receive better karma; by avoiding economic activities in favor of meditation and teaching, monks spread the Dharma and contributed to the overall supreme goal of maximum progress toward enlightenment for all. 

Lay economic ethics taught in early Buddhism thus focused upon three areas: 

• accumulating wealth through hard work, diligence and setting certain restrains on one’s own consumption; 
• choosing and pursuing the right occupation (i.e., avoiding occupations such as killing animals, trade in weapons, and the like); and 
• sharing wealth honestly acquired with family, friends and the sangha. Such merchant-type values in early Buddhist lay ethics contrasted sharply with the economic ethics of Brahminism, which reflected the patriarchal clan­based ethics of an agricultural society. 

Support for this influence of merchant-class values upon early Buddhist lay ethics can be found in early Buddhist suutras and stories which refer to lay wealth in a way which tends to assume a certain amount of wealth already being held, and in the strong emphasis upon giving and receiving rather than the high value put in Brahmin ethics upon sacrifices. The influence of merchant-class ethics is also apparent in the three main themes of such suutras and stories: 

• diligence and honesty in acquisition of wealth; 
• restrain of one’s own consumption in order to accumulate wealth; and 
• reinvestment of this wealth to produce more wealth, merit and happiness for self and others. 

The best-known early suutra which exhibits these themes was the Singaalovaada Sutta or Admonition to Singaala, sometimes referred to as the Buddhist laymen’s Vinaya. In it an ethic of diligent accumulation of wealth through hard work, restrained consumption, and reinvestment of profits into one’s business is stressed, as in the following passage: 

The wise and moral man 

Shines like a fire on a hilltop 

Who does not hurt the flower. 

Such a man makes his pile 

As an anthill, gradually. 

Grown wealthy, he thus 

Can help his family 

And firmly bind his friends 

To himself. He should divide 

His money in four parts; 

On one he should live, 

With two expand his trade, 

And the fourth he should save 

Against a rainy day. 

What is particularly interesting about this passage is that it urges that only a fourth of all one’s wealth should be consumed for daily living while the other three-fourths should be saved, most of it to be reinvested in one’s trade. This reflects a merchant­based mentality which while perhaps not ascetic in the same sense as the so­called Protestant ethic, does put a strong emphasis on saving and reinvestment. The suutra goes on to give specific advice on how to avoid squandering this accumulated wealth by avoiding such things as idleness, bad friends, addiction to intoxicants, roaming the streets at odd hours, frequenting shows, and indulging in gambling. 

Other early suutras emphasize strongly the virtue of nonattachment to wealth as the foundation of all morals in society. This can be seen in both the Cakkavatti­Siihanaada and Kuu.tadanta Suttas, in which the generosity of a righteous king for the destitute becomes the basis for the establishment of virtue and prosperity in lay society. At the same time, a lack of such generosity was presented as the beginning of a steady expansion of vice and evil and a steady decay of society. Suutras such as the Mahaa­Sudassana Sutta, moreover, by stressing the impermanence of all wealth and worldly possessions, no matter how great their extent, reinforced the value of nonattachment to wealth. 

With the passage of time, the lay virtue of generosity and giving only became more and more predominant. This was reflected in the many stories in the suutras of unbridled generosity leading to good karma and spiritual advancement. At the same time, while suutras pointed out the dangers of wealth in terms of creating craving, poverty was never advocated for the laity, but was viewed as a “suffering in the world for a layman.” 

Yet even though giving became the supreme lay virtue, there was a subtle difference between the earlier suutras, in which giving to both the poor and the sangha was urged, and later suutras, in which giving to the sangha was the main theme. In this way daana (giving to the sangha) became the central concept of lay economic ethics. By giving to the sangha, the individual not only furthered his own soteriological quest and karma, but benefited society and contributed to the betterment of others’ karma through supporting the educational act of spreading the Dharma. 

The concept of daana along with the concept of karma also contribute to a certain set of ideas about economic justice in Theravaada Buddhist economic ethics. On the one hand, the notion of karma has been used to argue in favor of an idea of justice existing in Theravaada Buddhist economic ethics, as follows: 

Such equality before the law of kamma resembles the West’s notion of procedural justice . . . there is equality of opportunity in the sense that the law of kamma treats all evenhandedly in rewarding virtue and punishing vice, and the determining essence of virtue (the attitude of nonattachment) is presumably an equal possibility for all. 

Economic inequalities existing in society thus can be viewed as the result of past karmic acts and do not violate a sense of justice but in fact confirm it. 

On the other hand, the concept of karma can also be used to argue against an idea of justice in Theravaada Buddhism. This is possible through emphasizing an interpretation of karma which implies that the way to nirvana is through a slow accumulation of individual merit effected by religious giving and individual acts of compassion rather than an interest in effecting social justice in the Western sense of an equitable distribution of wealth: 

. . . The law of kamma, with its all encompassing explanation of existing inequalities, tends to do away with Buddhist perplexity over the plight of the poor. Buddhist emphasis on the virtue of charity tends to outweigh interest in justice and so ethical reflection is shifted away from evaluation of the existing distribution of wealth. 

What both of the above arguments share is a tendency to regard the issue of economic justice as one involving the need for greater economic equality and redistribution of wealth from the rich to the poor. This of course is only one interpretation of justice. If accepted, however, there is little clear evidence in Theravaada Buddhism supporting redistribution of wealth, except for the idea of daana, which implied redistribution of wealth to the sangha and not necessarily to the poor, and the idea of karu.naa, which implied more individually-based acts of compassion toward one’s fellow sentient beings rather than an overall program for social change. 

Support for an idea of economic or social equality in the form of an economically or socially classless society also never seems to have been envisioned in early Theravaada Buddhism, at least for the laity. Instead, clear differences in social, economic, and political levels seem to be assumed, a fact reflected in the lack of a clear prohibition against ownership or use of slaves either by layman or temple (though slave trading was proscribed). In addition while within the early sangha a large degree of economic and to some degree political equality existed, this equality was never extended beyond the sangha to a prescription for society as a whole. Moreover even within the sangha, there was a class structure in the sense of different levels of spiritual development and seniority which were acknowledged and affected how different monks were treated. Thus equality in early Theravaada Buddhism seems to have been primarily a spiritual ideal viewed in terms of equal potential for all to achieve spiritual enlightenment. This conclusion is supported by the fact that in contrast to Brahminism, almost all classes of people could and did enter the early Buddhist order of monks. 

Early Theravaada Buddhist economic ethics and ideas regarding social and economic inequality were also strongly affected by various viewpoints of the proper relationship between the sangha and the state or king. Although the earliest Buddhism tended to view contact with the king as something to be avoided like a poisonous snake, and kings were labeled among other disasters that might occur to a person, by the time of King A”soka and afterward, Buddhism began to develop a close relationship with the state in most places where it existed, including India and Ceylon, and later Southeast Asia, China, Japan, and Tibet. This relationship was based upon the idea of the Cakravartin king, or the ideal enlightened king who carried out the Dharma in society and supported the sangha, in return for which he received the sangha’s spiritual protection and legitimization. The story of King A”soka of course seems to provide a major historical context for this ideal, and the stone edicts left by his rule point to the close and mutually beneficial relationship between him and the Buddhist sangha. These edicts refer to social policies which have been referred to by some scholars as a type of ancient “welfare state” in that various facilities for the poor, sick, and indigent were constructed by the state, in addition to state support for the sangha. Yet a closer reading of these edicts themselves makes clear that A”soka never intended to change the fundamental economic and social structure of his society. Instead, he focused his social activism more upon spreading the Dharma through charitable works for the poor, sick, and imprisoned, religious giving to the sangha, and encouraging meditation and proper treatment of one’s father and mother, teacher, relatives, slaves and servants, priests and ascetics, and animals. 

From the historical example of A”soka and other instances of sangha/state cooperation, early Theravaada Buddhism developed and evolved its own concept of the ideal relationship between sangha and state which, as two recent scholars have termed it, was a “purposeful political strategy of adjustment and accommodation” toward the state reflecting a “distinctly Buddhist understanding of the possibilities for social change” through “gradual reform with emphasis on religious education.” In other words, here was established the typically Buddhist amelioratory approach to social change that would continue to affect both Theravaada and Mahaayaana traditions later on. In this approach, the role of the enlightened king or state was to formulate specific laws for society based upon general ideas and principles given by the Buddha. At the same time, the political role of the sangha was to teach the Dharma to the king and support the state by obeying the laws of the land (and not challenge the given economic distribution and social structure). In this way, while ideas about social and economic justice did seem to exist in early Theravaada Buddhism, they existed in the form of particular ideas about karma, daana and the state/sangha relationship which were clearly different than most current Western ideas about justice. Yet, this should not be surprising since current Western ideas are themselves a product of a long evolution of concepts, and although related to their predecessors in Judeo­Christian ethics and Roman law, are still clearly different from them. 

In conclusion, wealth and labor had value in early Theravaada Buddhist ethics, but a value ultimately smaller than that given to the pursuit of enlightenment for the monk and gaining merit through daana for the laity. Wealth was never an evil in itself, either for laity or monk, but was to be welcomed as the result of past merits, as long as one never became attached to it. Giving was the way to avoid such attachment and for the laity such giving increasingly became giving to the sangha (daana), rather than directly to the poor or reinvesting into one’s secular business. Moreover, in contrast to the Calvinist with his God of predestination, the Theravaadist layman never was assured of his salvation, and constantly had to work to earn it through the creation of additional merit through additional daana. This led to an emphasis on investment in daana over investment in one’s secular business, with the ultimate consequence for the Theravaada Buddhist that his “proof of salvation” was found “not in accumulating and creating new wealth, but in giving it away in the form of daana.” As a result, a type of Protestant asceticism emphasizing the accumulation of wealth which was then invested into one’s secular business and (according to Weber) contributed to the development of modern capitalism in the West, never was encouraged in the Theravaada tradition once the idea of daana became dominant. Some scholars go even further and argue that this very tradition of daana is an important reason for the slower development of modern capitalism in countries with a strong Theravaada tradition.

Early Indian and Medieval Chinese Mahaayaana Economic Ethics

Economic ethics in Mahaayaana Buddhism show both continuities and differences with those in Theravaada Buddhism. Many of the changes are related to transformations in Mahaayaana understandings of nirvana/sa.msaara, enlightenment and the bodhisattva ideal. For example, within Mahaayaana the absolute difference or separation between nirvana and sa.msaara disappears. As a result, charitable activities within sa.msaara grow to have more value in themselves and the bodhisattva idea becomes the ideal. At the same time, a more positive view of sa.msaara tends to lead to an acceptance of status quo conditions “in the world,” while the primary focus of efforts toward enlightenment are put upon epistemic change in one’s perception of things. This focus on enlightenment as primarily a change in one’s way of perceiving things implied that the main soteriological effort must be made towards effecting such epistemic change (through meditation, and the like), rather than Theravaada Buddhism’s focus on change in individual ethical/moral behaviour leading to a gradual betterment of karma. 

Another implication of these shifts in Mahaayaana versus Theravaada ontology, epistemology and soteriology was a greater acceptance of economic activity by the sangha. The most obvious instances of this were the increased economic activities of the Buddhist monasteries in China and Japan and the acceptance of monk labor in the Ch’an/ Zen school. At the same time, in terms of lay economic ethics, values toward wealth continued to remain focused upon religious giving (daana), and accumulation and possession of wealth was “good” as long as one remained nonattached to it. In terms of the Buddhist sangha’s relationship with the state, the previous pattern of cooperation and an amelioratory approach to social change, along with support for the status quo distribution of wealth, remained the governing paradigms. 

An excellent example of both these continuities as well as differences with Theravaada ethics can be found in the Indian Mahaayaana work by Naagaarjuna called the Jewel Garland of Royal Counsels. In this work Naagaarjuna presents counsel to his friend and disciple, King Udayi, about the ideal Buddhist state. In such a state the enlightened king begins with his understanding of the truth of anaatman and based upon this understanding acts benevolently and without “self” to carry out compassionate measures for the sick, elderly, farmers, children, mendicants and beggars, based upon the karmic premise that such giving of wealth will produce more prosperity and wealth for the kingdom in the future. He also cooperates with the sangha to spread the Dharma. In this way Naagaarjuna takes up the themes of karma, anaatman, compassionate giving and sangha/state cooperation and puts them into an overall viewpoint of how Mahaayaana economic and social ethics should be carried out by the benevolent king. In the process, he also presents both the continuities and differences between Mahaayaana economic ethics and those of Theravaada: the continuities consisting of a common stress on sangha/state cooperation and similar ideas about karma, anaatman, and the importance of giving; the differences being a much greater stress on the importance of the initial epistemic change in an individual’s thinking as the key to all later benevolent actions. 

In China, Mahaayaana economic ethics continued along similar lines of sangha/ state cooperation. However, the development of Mahaayaana Buddhist economic ethics in China must also must be understood in terms of Buddhism’s entry into China as a foreign religion and its efforts to accommodate itself to an already existing Confucian heritage. This accommodation began with Buddhism’s introduction in the first centuries of the Common Era and ultimately resulted in a Chinese transformation of Buddhism which left Chinese Mahaayaana Buddhist ethics much more Confucian and less Indian than they had been previously, although still clearly recognizable as Mahaayaana Buddhist. Specifically, what this meant was a greater emphasis on filial piety-the cornerstone of Confucian ethics-as well as on the values of social harmony and hierarchical social relationships between ruler and subject, husband and wife, teacher and student, and so on. This Confucian influence was seen most strongly during the beginning of the introduction of Buddhism into China, in the translations of Indian suutras during the Later Han (25-220 C.E.) and Eastern Chin (317-420 C.E.) periods, but continued even after Buddhism was established and accepted in the more cosmopolitan atmosphere of the Sui (581-618) and T’ang (618-907) periods. As a result, filial piety, although not unknown in earlier Buddhism and already praised as a virtue there, came to be much more emphasized in the Chinese environment. For the Chinese Buddhist laity, this fit in well with social expectations for behaviour. For the monk, it presented a huge challenge in terms of justifying such seemingly unfilial behaviour as following the traditional Buddhist ideal of leaving home and joining the sangha, in the process cutting ties and obligations to parents. Buddhism’s position in China and the need for accommodation also led to a greater emphasis upon those strands of earlier Buddhist ethics (for monk and laity) referring to gratitude and loyalty, especially to family and sovereign. The ideal of harmony, so strong in Confucianism, was adopted by Chinese Buddhists and applied to all social relationships, as well as becoming the cornerstone of some Chinese Buddhist metaphysical systems, such as the Hua­Yen school established in the seventh century. In this way, both Chinese Buddhist ethics and metaphysics were subtly transformed in the process of assimilation and accommodation to indigenous Confucian ideas, and as a result diverged somewhat from their Indian Mahaayaana predecessors. 

Along with such divergencies, however, there were also large areas of continuity between Chinese Mahaayaana and earlier Indian Mahaayaana (and Theravaada) lay and monastic social ethics. For example, giving to the sangha (daana) remained the most virtuous and merit­making activity for the laity. Also economic ethics for the monk in the form of Vinaya rules governing economic matters generally were the same as in Indian Mahaayaana. Moreover, for both monk and laity karu.naa (compassion) as an individual virtue continued to be an extremely important. 

Yet in each of these areas and in the area of practiced economic ethics in particular, Chinese Buddhist economic ethics took on new forms. These new forms could be seen most clearly in various commercial activities of Chinese temples which had not existed in Indian Mahaayaana, such as grain milling, oil seed pressing, money lending, pawnshops, loans of grain to peasants (with interest), mutual financing associations, hotels and hostelries, and rental of temple lands to farmers in exchange for some percentage of the crop. In other areas, Chinese temples carried over previously existing Indian Mahaayaana commercial practices such as loans (with interest) against pledges, auction sales of clothing and fabrics, use of lay servants within the monastery to carry out commercial transactions on behalf of the sangha, and allowing goods donated to the sangha which were not used by the monks to be sold or loaned out to earn profits for the sangha. Even in these practices which were carryovers from India, however, new forms developed in China as monks came to be allowed to handle gold and silver and carry out commercial transactions including usury on an individual basis. In most cases such transformations were less a result of changes in the Indian Vinaya than a disregarding of it in practice in China. 

Of all the commercial activities of the Chinese monasteries usury in one form or another was clearly one of the most profitable. Part of such usury was from loans to peasants in the form of grain at the beginning of the farming season, with repayment of principal along with a 50 percent interest due at the harvest. Other loans with interest went out in the form of cash to members of the upper classes, soldiers and others, except in the case of those with whom the monastery had a close relationship (based upon lay giving), to whom loans could be interest­free. Loans were also made to temple serfs attached to the monastery, to whom interest was not charged due to the risk­free nature of such transactions since serfs were bound to the temple lands anyway. Due to misuses of usury (not only by monasteries but by other lenders) leading to hardships for peasants, the government during the T’ang period (618-907 C.E.) put limits on interest rates at 4 to 5 percent per month. Both private moneylenders and the temples however often went beyond these limits. 

As time passed such usury was not only undertaken by the monastery itself but by individual monks and became a major activity of many of them. Monasteries apparently condoned such individual usury because even though it led to the development of wealthy individual monks, these monks tended to practice religious giving to the monastery, and after their death their assets usually were inherited by the monastery. In this way individual monk usury was justified in terms of its ultimate benefit to the sangha. 

As a result of such usury activities, as well as generous donations from wealthy clans and the Imperial family from the fifth to the seventh centuries in particular, Buddhist monasteries in medieval China became extremely wealthy and the number of monasteries and monks increased considerably. Such wealth resulted in turn in monasteries coming to wield a significant amount of political power as well. From the state’s point of view, however, all of this brought about a considerable loss of tax revenue due to the tax­free status of monastic lands, and a considerable loss of corvee labor brought about by the huge increase in monks (exempted from such labor), many of whom were former peasants. In addition, there was an increasingly lavish consumption of wealth occurring in Buddhist festivals and feasts and construction of temples, stupas, family mortuaries, and statues. 

Urged on by Confucians and Taoists who decried these trends as leading to the impoverishment of the empire, the state engaged in periodic persecutions of Buddhism by forced laicization of monks, seizure of monastery wealth (especially gold, silver, and copper) and placing limits on the number of monasteries and temples. Major persecutions of this type occurred in the years 446, 574, and 845. In each case the main goal was to shore up the finances of the empire by forcibly returning monks to peasant life (some of whom had taken up the tonsure to avoid taxes and corvee labor), converting some temple lands to taxable status, and melting down some of the enormous numbers of gold, silver and copper Buddhist statues, the making of which had led to extreme shortages of these materials available for coinage of money by the empire. 

Another reason behind some of the persecutions was the occasional political involvement of monasteries in rebellions or intrigues against the state. This occurred even though “official” Buddhism in the form of state­sponsored temples and monasteries tended to support the state unequivocally. Smaller regional temples and those tied to local great families, however, occasionally got involved in political movements against the state and thus provided a very different example of Buddhist/state relations than the traditional cooperative sangha/state ideal. Also, the occurrence of rebellions during the Sui, T’ang and later periods tied to worshipers of Maitreya, the future Buddha, illustrated how particular Buddhist sects or movements using Buddhist symbols for their own purposes could adopt adversarial relationships with the state and use advocacy of greater economic equality (or at least relief from onerous taxed) as part of their appeal for rebellion against state authority. 

The establishment of so­called inexhaustible treasuries and merit-cloisters in Buddhist monasteries were perhaps the best examples of “capitalist” innovations in China originating from Buddhist practices. The practice of inexhaustible treasuries was introduced from Indian Mahaayaana Buddhism and began in China during the Liang Dynasty (502-557 C.E.). They consisted of permanent assets of monasteries in the form of land, money or goods (such as an oil press or flour mill) which were loaned out in exchange for a steady (and inexhaustible) supply of income. These permanent assets usually entered the monastery in the form of donations, either small or large, which were then pooled and put into the inexhaustible treasury. Although never used on more than a small scale in India, in China such inexhaustible treasuries became major commercial operations for monasteries with the income from them used for the support of the monasteries and monks, temple festivals, construction of new temples and various charitable purposes. Some of the income also was used to acquire additional capital in the form of land or more flour mills or oil presses. In this way, an initial amount of capital in the form of permanent assets of the monastery was used to produce profits which were then partly consumed and partly reinvested into new assets in order to produce additional profits and a larger business. It was this type of productive use of capital to produce more capital on the part of Chinese Buddhist monasteries that led French scholar Jacques Gernet to conclude that the Chinese Buddhist sangha was responsible for the introduction of capitalist practices in China. 

It is not entirely clear however whether it was the sangha who took the lead here or whether they were only acting “no differently from the nobility and the rich and powerful families of the empire.” It also can be argued that these practices were not pure capitalism in the modern sense in that the gifts to the monasteries which provided the initial capital were given not with the idea of producing wealth in a capitalist sense but with the intention that such gifts would produce good karma for the donor. Garnet himself, for example, points to the religious nature of the inexhaustible treasuries and the fact that inexhaustible referred not only to an endless stream of income but to an endless cycle of giving and receiving in a Buddhist sense of daana and return of compassion to others. On the other hand, it can also be argued that whatever the original intention of the donations were, their actual use by the monasteries as common assets communally managed to produce income to be reinvested in the “corporation” of the sangha, supports the contention that such practices did indeed introduce a type of “communal capitalism” into China that had not existed previously. 

The practice of the merit-cloister in the T’ang (618-907) and Sung (960-1126) periods was another example of a Buddhist practice which had commercial overtones. It offers evidence that donations to the monasteries were not only made for religious reasons, but sometimes were used by the wealthy as a form of “tax shelter.” This was because the merit cloister offered the rich and powerful a means to donate land to a monastery and thus avoid taxes on it, while still keeping effective control over it by maintaining the right to appoint and dismiss the monks who acted as supervisors over the land. 

The buying and selling of monk ordination certificates was also a commercial practice which had a broad influence upon the Buddhist sangha in China. Begun originally in the fifth century by the government as a means to raise money for the state, it was later adopted by Buddhist monasteries themselves as a way to raise money. Over time such certificates came to be traded in the marketplace, with their value tied to the perceived economic gain accruing to the holder in terms of tax and corvee labor exemptions and opportunities to engage in usury. 

In addition to the above monastic practices which all involved the accumulation and use of wealth, there also occurred innovations in Chinese Buddhist monastic attitudes and practices toward the value of monk labor, specifically in the Ch’an school, that had not existed in India. This is because until Chinese Ch’an, there was a clear prohibition against monk manual or productive labor-not only in commercial activities but in agriculture or even gardening or watering of plants. 

The person who initiated these innovations was the eighth-century Ch’an monk Pai­chang Huai­hai. Huai­hai justified monk manual labor over against the clear prohibitions against it in the Vinayas by arguing in a Buddhist way that if the intention behind the deed and not the deed itself was most important, then monk labor was justified as long as it was for the benefit of the Three Treasures. This justification and the practice of monk labor in many Zen monasteries led to the famous saying in the Ch’an (and later Zen) schools, “one day no work, one day no food.” Huai­hai used the term p’u­ch’ing meaning collective participation to refer to monk labor, with the idea that this implied “all monks in the sangha would work together on a basis of equality to achieve a common goal.” 

However, there is circumstantial evidence that this Ch’an innovation toward monk labor also was driven at least partly by increasing criticism of the “parasitic” lives of Buddhist monks and the increasing wealth of the monasteries which occurred prior to this Ch’an innovation in the eighth century. Such criticism began as early as the fifth century and by the ninth century was an important factor in the massive Buddhist persecution of 845 under Emperor Wu. Due in part to the relative economic self­sufficiency of Ch’an monasteries, supported by monk labor, Ch’an was much better able to survive these persecutions than the older more established schools which were heavily dependent upon wealthy outside patrons. 

The lasting significance of Ch’an attitudes toward monk labor lay in the religious meaning Ch’an found in such labor. This meaning sprang from the selfless character of such work and the experience of nonduality which combining such physical labor and meditation in the meditation hall represented. As one Ch’an text explains: 

. . . In these instances of collective participation (p’u­ch’ing), all should exert equal effort regardless of whether the task is important or unimportant. No one should sit quietly and so contrary to the wishes of the multitude. . . Rather, one should concentrate his mind on the Tao, and perform whatever is required by the multitude. After the task is completed, then one should return to the meditation hall and remain silent as before. One should transcend the two aspects of activity and nonactivity. Thus though one has worked all day, he has not worked at all. 

Performing manual labor in the right manner in this way became a religious act in itself in its expression of the nonduality of worldly labor and Buddhist meditation and thus ultimately sa.msaara and nirvana. 

Ch’an emphasis on monk labor also could be viewed as a reflection of Chinese indigenous ways of thinking about labor and the work ethic. That is, in China the idea that all able bodied adults should perform productive work was a strong part of general social ethics, while in India there was a greater acceptance of nonproductive activities focused on “world renunciation” as being of the higher value than ordinary human labor. Such a difference in the value put on human worldly labor also ultimately reflected the corresponding difference between Indian and Chinese Mahaayaana views of the value of this world itself (sa.msaara), with Chinese Mahaayaana tending to attribute more inherent value to worldly activities than Indian Mahaayaana. In this way Ch’an views toward monk labor were on the one hand the result of a combination of Buddhist and indigenous Chinese ways of thinking about labor, and on the other hand, an adaptation to the particular historical circumstances Chinese Buddhism found itself in during the eighth to ninth centuries, which included increasing public criticism of nonproductive monks. 

In summary then, medieval Chinese Mahaayaana Buddhism exhibited both clear continuities and discontinuities with earlier Theravaada and Indian Mahaayaana economic ethics in terms of attitudes and practices toward wealth and monk labor. Yet, it was the differences perhaps which constituted the more historically important trends. The reasons for such differences undoubtedly sprang from a multitude of factors, but three in particular can be pointed out here as especially significant: 

• A competition in giving to the monasteries on the part of the Imperial family and aristocracy, especially between the fifth and seventh centuries, led to massive transfers of wealth to the monasteries and in turn to a broad introduction of lay commercial ethics and practices into the sangha. 
• The favored economic status of monasteries and monks in medieval China (in terms of taxes, corvee labor, and opportunities to produce wealth), along with the fact that as time passed the Chinese monkhood increasingly was drawn from the peasantry, combined to produce a monastic order which included many former peasants who viewed the monkhood in terms of its economic advantages as much as a place to pursue spiritual aims. Given the tremendous economic advantages becoming a monk brought with it and given the life of a peasant at this time, burdened as it was by heavy taxes and corvee labor, this situation was understandable. The sale of ordination certificates of course only encouraged this view of the monkhood as a place to reap wealth. 
• The general character of Chinese ethical life that Buddhism encountered, dominated as it was by a this-worldly Confucian philosophy that placed great stress on happiness and prosperity in “this world,” also contributed to the development of more commercially­minded monks and monasteries. These three factors then seem to offer a coherent explanation why medieval Chinese Buddhism developed more commercially oriented and this-worldly economic ethics, ethics clearly reflected in the commercial activities of its monasteries and monks during the fifth to twelfth centuries. 

Major Trends in Japanese Buddhist Economic Ethics

The development of economic ethics in Japanese Buddhism can be seen as a continuation of tendencies begun in Chinese Buddhism in many ways. In Japan, however, rather than Confucianism as the main indigenous influence on Buddhist ethical thought, there were both Confucian and Shinto influences on Buddhist ethical thought in Japan. The Confucian influence derived partly from the historical fact that Buddhism was introduced to Japan from Korea and China (rather than directly from India) and as a result the first Buddhist texts in Japan were all early Chinese texts which reflected Confucianism in their translation from Sanskrit. The Shinto influence on the other hand derived mainly from Japanese Buddhism’s need to accommodate itself to indigenous religious thinking, and was reflected in such doctrines as the equating of Buddhist bodhisattva with Shinto kami (honji suijaku), and the practice of the placement of Buddhist temples and shrines in close proximity and an accompanying philosophy of Shin­Butsu Shugo or “Shinto­Buddhism Synthesis.” Shinto thinking was also incorporated by the inclusion of Shinto world­affirming tendencies, evidenced in the predominance given the idea of hongaku shiso or original enlightenment in Japanese Buddhism. In this way, Japanese Buddhist ethics from the beginning were a particular mixture of Mahaayaana Buddhist metaphysics, Confucian social and political ethics and indigenous Shinto world­affirming tendencies. 

What this meant for Japanese Buddhist ethics was that they have tended to focus on social harmony (kokyo wago) and the concept of hoon, or the need for an endless return of benefits from the individual to parents, ruler, sentient beings and the Three Treasures. Social harmony of course was the central concept of Confucian social ethics. Hoon, or the idea of return of benefits from individual to parents and ruler, moreover, corresponds to the Confucian virtues of filial piety and loyalty to the sovereign. Thus it was only with the last two relationships, those between individual and all sentient beings and individual and the Three Treasures that more specifically Buddhist values became apparent. 

Such a mixture of Buddhist and Confucian ideas in Japanese Buddhist social ethics was clear in the Seventeen Article Constitution (604 C.E.) of Prince Shotoku Taishi, the devout Buddhist nephew of Empress Suiko and a member of the Soga clan. The Soga clan, of course, was mainly responsible for introducing Buddhism into Japan over the objections of other rival clans who argued that Buddhism would offend the local kami. Apart from any pietistic reasons, the Soga clan introduced Buddhism because of its identification with higher Chinese culture and in order to bolster their claims to Imperial power. The Seventeen Article Constitution itself skillfully blended Confucian ethical ideas with state support for Buddhism. Thus in this early state patronage for Buddhism and its mixture with Confucian social ethics, the pattern was set for much of the later institutional and ethical development of Buddhism in Japan. 

The pattern of state patronage of Buddhism can be seen especially in the history of Zen, one of the two largest schools of Buddhism in Japan over the past seven hundred years (along with Pure Land). The founders of the two main Zen schools in the twelfth century, Eisai (Rinzai School) and Dogen (Soto School), both viewed the laws of the state as corresponding to the rules of the monastery, and identified the proper relationship between state and sangha as one in which “Zen tradition and its magical formulae provide security for the state while the state protects and patronizes Zen.” Both also made use of this idea that Buddhism can protect the state in their efforts to secure state patronage and support for their schools. Such efforts were successful, especially in the case of Eisai’s Rinzai school, which came to be heavily patronized by Japan’s military rulers from the thirteenth through the sixteenth centuries. Rinzai Zen masters following Eisai such as Muso Soseki (1275-1351) and others continued his tradition of close cooperation with the ruling authorities by playing the roles of teachers and advisors to the Shoguns and major feudal lords, acting as diplomats in international relations and even helping to quell unruly elements among the populace from time to time. 

Zen’s close relationship with Confucian ethics, on the other hand, can be seen in the way Zen monks were responsible for introducing Sung neo­Confucianism into Japan in the thirteenth century and establishing the first schools to teach it to the warrior class. As a result, Zen temples until the seventeenth century dominated the teaching of Confucianism in Japan until independent neo­Confucian schools finally were set up during the Tokugawa period (1600-1868). Zen support for Confucian social ethics seems to have been based upon the usefulness of Confucian ethics as an ethical teaching for Zen’s primary sponsors, the samurai. Moreover, even after the new Confucian schools in the Tokugawa period became increasingly critical of Zen and other Buddhist schools and wrested control over Confucian studies away from the Zen temples, Zen temples continued to teach Confucian ethics to the common people in the so­called terakoya (temple schools), while Zen masters continued to advocate Confucian social ethics in their writings. In this way, Zen has often tied its own social ethics to those of Confucianism throughout its history. Of course in these patterns of both close cooperation with the state and adoption of Confucian social ethics, Zen Buddhism was only following an earlier pattern established in Chinese Buddhism. Thus it should not be surprising that in terms of its economic ethics, Japanese Buddhism as a whole generally followed the Chinese pattern and allowed monasteries to engage in such economic activities as land ownership and rental of land for interest income, money lending, pawnshops, sponsorship of guilds and local markets, and even leadership of trade missions to China, all of which were allowed on the doctrinal basis that income from them was to be used for the Three Treasures. Individual monks were also eventually allowed to acquire personal wealth, as fourteenth to fifteenth century Zen temple records show. One type of wealthy monk in particular, the shosu or estate overseers, were able to receive as personal income anywhere from 1 to 10 percent of the total income from the lands they oversaw. 

The Chinese pattern was also followed in the trend toward the accumulation of wealth and power by Japanese Buddhist temples leading to various criticisms of such wealth and power and periodic government efforts to control their growth, beginning as early as the seventh century. In Japan, however, government repression resulted in a fewer number of major persecutions than in China. The major ones were generally restricted to the years 1570-1590 under the warlords Oda Nobunaga and Hideyoshi Toyotomi (their purpose being to break the military and economic power of the temples), and those of the 1860s to1870s as a part of Meiji government policy to forcibly separate Shinto and Buddhism and establish the superiority of the Shinto. In Japan also, up until the late sixteenth century the state periodically shifted its support from one Buddhist school to another as earlier schools were judged to have become too powerful, too corrupt, or too connected to previous regimes. The ability of Buddhist temples to prosper in spite of this and gain increasing wealth is shown by the fact that by the mid­sixteenth century prior to Oda Nobunaga’s major persecutions, all Buddhist temples as a whole controlled as much as 25 percent of the cultivated land in the country, as well as holding extensive political control in many local areas. 

In terms of lay economic ethics in pre­modern Japanese Buddhist history, the formal teachings of the major schools generally stressed the importance of observing the laws of the land, and equated (as with Eisai and Dogen), the observance of secular law with the observance of Buddhist religious laws or precepts. This was especially true of Zen, but also of the Pure Land schools and the older Shingon, Tendai (T’ien T’ai) and Kegon (Hua­Yen) sects. At the same time, beginning in the Tokugawa period, Zen and Pure Land schools increasingly emphasized ascetic merchant-type lay economic ethics centered on the values of frugality, diligence and the religious significance of productive labor. For example, in Banmin Tokuyo or The Significance of Everyman’s Activities, Suzuki Shosan (1579-1655), a Zen monk during the early Tokugawa period, expressed the religious value behind ordinary labor as follows: 

Every profession is a Buddhist exercise. You should attain Buddha through your work. . . . Farming is nothing but a Buddhist exercise. If our intention is bad, farming is a lowly work; but if you are deeply religious, it is the saintly work of a Bodhisattva. . . Do hard work in the heat and in the cold; regard as an enemy your own flesh overgrown with evil passions; turn up the soil and reap in the harvest. . . Those engaged in trade should first of all learn how to make as much profit as possible. . . Regard your trade as a gift of Heaven. Leave yourself at the mercy of Heaven, cease to worry about gain, and be honest in business. 

In a similar way, Pure Land Buddhist lay ethics, specifically in the Jodo Shin sect in the Tokugawa period, moved away from their earlier reliance on pure faith alone and toward ethical action linked to faith. This ethical action consisted mainly of diligent work in one’s occupation, along with an ascetic attitude toward consumption. Jodo schools also justified merchant profit­making through the doctrine of jiri­rita or “profiting both self and other.” For the Jodo Shin believer, devotion to one’s work or occupation thus became an important means to aid his salvation. 

The Confucian strain in Japanese Buddhist social ethics, however, could make for an antimerchant tendency in some teachings, as in Tokugawa Zen master Takuan Soho’s criticism of merchants for their greed and lack of kindness. This was not surprising since in traditional Confucian social ethics, the merchant was not highly evaluated and the economy itself was seen as a zero­sum game where profits for the merchant implied a loss for others. Takuan’s criticism, however, can also be viewed more as a criticism of the misuse of profits or an improper way to accumulate them (through greed rather than honest hard work) rather than as a criticism of profit­making itself. 

The Buddhist concepts of anaatman and original enlightenment (hongaku shiso) also contributed important doctrinal aspects to Japanese Buddhist social teachings and lay ethics in both the late medieval (1185-1600) and early modern (1600-1868) periods. anaatman or muga in Japanese tended to be equated by Zen Buddhists with absolute loyalty to one’s lord, offering another example of the amalgamation of Confucian ethics into Japanese Buddhism. 

Such a tendency was widespread in Japanese Buddhism throughout late medieval and early modern periods, but especially so in Zen, due to its close connections to the warrior class and the state. Zen advocacy of “loyalty to one’s lord” has also continued to exist even into the modern period as many Zen temples were able to identify anaatman (or muga) with loyalty to the Emperor before and during World War II, and to identify it implicitly if not directly with diligence and loyalty to the company in the post­war period in Zen meditation sessions held for Japanese company employee training programs. 

The concept of original enlightenment (hongaku shiso), on the other hand, was used in Japanese Buddhism to refer to the idea that all sentient beings already are originally enlightened and only need to get rid of their delusion or ignorance in order to return to their original state. Although this would seem to imply the basis for the equality of all humans, in Japan it came to be used to affirm the world as it is and was used by at least some Japanese Buddhists to explain and justify the status quo order of society, including existing social and economic inequalities. Thus the idea of “discrimination is equality” (shabetsu soku byodo) or the “nonduality of all things” was employed in the Meiji period by many Buddhists to justify the growing social and economic inequalities brought about by the rise of capitalism. 

Japanese Buddhist attitudes toward lay economic labor have traditionally relied upon the concept of hoon or return of benefits and viewed labor as an expression of one’s gratitude for benefits received from one’s master or employer. This was especially true in the pre­modern period (before 1868) when emphasis was clearly placed on the individual’s strong obligations to their social nexus, including their employer or master. With the development of Japanese capitalism in the modern period (1868-present), however, the majority of Japanese Buddhist temples continued to lean on this view of labor as return of benefits as the basis for their view of labor­management relations. As a result most temples were not that sympathetic to the labor movement when it began to develop in the early twentieth century, and were not at all sympathetic to Japanese socialism, which they labeled “bad equality.” Teachings for the Buddhist laity also generally continued to urge support for state economic and political policies, which focused on the national goal of achieving a “rich country, strong army.” 

Japanese Buddhist temples during the Meiji period (1868-1912) in particular were supportive of government modernization policies because they wished to find favor with the government following the government­backed persecutions of Buddhism in the 1860s and 1870s. These persecutions had been aimed at abolishing Buddhist­Shinto syncretism and establishing Shinto, along with the Emperor system, as the center of Japanese ethical and religious values. As a result, most Buddhist temples hoped to protect themselves and their own positions from further criticism by working hard to curry favor with the state. 

The enthusiastic response of Buddhist temples to the Imperial Rescript on Education (1890) and the Boshin Rescript (1908) reflected this strategy of accommodation to government led “economic modernization.” These rescripts were used by the government as a part of its program of moral education to foster public support for state policies and goals. By enthusiastically supporting these rescripts then Buddhist temples were in effect supporting government­led economic modernization efforts. The same strategy of accommodation could be seen in many Buddhist writings on socialism and the labor movement at this time, problems to which the solution was seen as pursuing a policy of “mutual assistance between the rich and poor,” based upon the ideal that “managers should be paternal; [and] workers should ‘return the benefits’ received from their bosses and work out of ‘gratitude’.” Poverty thus was viewed as a moral problem and a result of bad karma rather than the result of economic factors or institutional problems. It is perhaps not surprising then that Buddhist temple charity at this time was often done in the name of benefiting the state. 

In conclusion, Buddhism’s role in Japan’s modern economic development and the rise of modern capitalism in prewar Japan was a mixture of both positive and passive support. Such support was positive in the sense that Buddhist temples generally supported the values of diligence and hard work, honest profit­making, a view of labor as “returning benefits” and obedience to state policies of economic modernization. At the same time, Buddhism’s role was only passively supportive in the sense that Buddhist believers and temples themselves did not lead Japan’s modern economic transformation or even encourage its beginning. Instead they initially were noncommittal to government modernization policies and only later became more ardent supporters after the persecution of Buddhism in the 1860s and 1870s. Thus, while there was a clear Buddhist role in the development of such ascetic-merchant values as diligence, hard work, and honest profit­making during the period preceding Japan’s modernization and these values were certainly supportive of Japan’s modernization once it got started, it was neither Buddhist merchants nor Buddhist values which directly led Japan’s modernization. Instead it was young patriotic samurai and their ethical values based upon an intense nationalism or patriotism expressed toward the person of the Emperor and the nation itself. Moreover, even ascetic-merchant values themselves, as helpful as they were, were less the result of Buddhist lay economic ethics alone than a combination of Buddhist ideas with Confucian thought and values. In this way, it was more the values of “Japanese religion” rather than “Japanese Buddhism” alone which provided the ethic of hard work, loyalty to the state and subservient labor which helped enable the successful implementation of modernization policies initiated by a central government dominated by samurai values of loyalty to Emperor and state. 

9

Buddhist Ethics and Social Criticism 

Buddhism arose in India during a period of intense intellectual and social ferment. It was a period during which the authority of the Vedas had been placed in doubt, the concept of god as a supreme being and creator was in question, the hereditary restrictions on caste mobility were under attack, and the efficacy of Brahminical rituals was being challenged. The authors of the Upanishads had opened the door for various heterodox currents to emerge in society, and amongst the most significant of these were the Lokayatas who polemicized against religious charlatans, and the Nyayavadis whose rational epistemology created the foundation for intense philosophical debate and encouraged the investigation of the real world based on reason and logic, freed from the burden of superstition and irrational adherence to burdensome rituals. Various ideological sects competed for the attention and acceptance of the ruling elites and the public. The most important amongst these were the Jains and the Buddhists. Although each of the various sects made original and interesting contributions to philosophy, it was the early Buddhists who attempted to provide a unified philosophical system where ethical conduct and social criticism lay at the very core of their ideological system.

Although today, Buddhism is viewed as a religion by many of its followers, the early Buddhists sects were either strongly atheistic or agnostic. The atheists believed that rather than “God having created man in his own image” it was man who had created “God” in his image. In their view, the liberation of humanity was contingent upon humanity shedding the delusion that “God” existed.

Other parables from surviving Buddhist texts indicate agnosticism. For instance, there is a suggestion that Buddhist followers ought not to waste their time on unsolvable metaphysical questions such as “does god exist”. The search to identify the “one true god” or to speculate on the nature of god was seen as an exercise in futility. 

But the most frequently cited argument against god by the Buddhists was that if an omnipotent and omniscient being such as “God” truly existed, and who was also all good , there could not be the kind of dukkha (suffering) that was so widespread in the real world. 

These shlokas (verses) from the Bhuridatta Jataka illustrates this point:

If the creator of the entire world they call “God” be the lord of every being, why does he order such misfortune, and not create concord? 

If the creator of the entire world they call “God” be the lord of every being, why let prevail deceit, lies and ignorance, why create such inequity and injustice? 

If the creator of the entire world they call “God” be the lord of every being, then an evil master is he, knowing what’s right did let wrong prevail!

Unlike religions that ascribed earthly miseries to human sinfulness that brought upon the wrath of a vengeful god who needed to be feared, Buddhism saw the root of human suffering in ignorance that could only be ended through the acquisition of wisdom. Rather than expect some supernatural entity to end human suffering, the Buddhists argued that it was in human hands to end their sorrows through conduct and action driven by knowledge and correct understanding of human nature and the physical world. Hence, the aspiration for knowledge (jigyasa) was seen as the answer to blind faith. Although the Buddhists were not alone in developing this view, the elaboration of this point of view became pivotal to early Buddhist philosophy.

Central to Buddhist philosophy was an understanding of human nature and what caused dukkha - i.e. human suffering. They saw human personality as constituting five attributes, i.e. body, feeling, perception, disposition and consciousness, and used this framework to develop their understanding of human suffering. Citing examples of conditions that led to human suffering, such as aging, sickness and death, or association with the unpleasant, (or separation from the pleasant), or the inability to get what one wished - they concluded that suffering was a condition of stress and conflict inherent within human existence and interaction with the world. They also connected suffering to the very impermanence of things. They observed how people lamented over the loss of a loved one, or experienced sorrow when something or someone that had once given them happiness became separated from them. They noted that even human pleasures were not immune from suffering because they didn’t last forever, and the loss of pleasure inevitably left people feeling deprived. 

Seeing as how clinging to things (that were necessarily impermanent) was one of the primary causes of dukkha, they cautioned against excessive attachment. At the same time, they recognized a recurring and more general type of existential unease and anxiety (aniccha) that arises from the very transience of life, and our inability to control or comprehend all worldly phenomenon, which they characterized as viparinama-dukkha. 

But the Buddhists did not see dukkha only emanating from the difficulties of an individual. They also saw suffering emerge on a much larger scale from hostile social conditions such as poverty, war, and social oppression which they described as dukkha-dukkha. 

As a formula (char-mulya) for addressing these different types of suffering, the Buddhists advocated a four-fold scheme of 

a) recognizing the problem i.e. suffering (dukkha); b) identifying the cause of the suffering - such as craving stemming from ignorance (samudaya) ; c) establishing the goal of ending the problem (nirodha) - i.e. the cessation of suffering (nirvana); 

d) conducting life in a manner that was consistent with the cessation of suffering - following the right path or engaging in the right practice (marga). 

Followers were thus goaded into developing both a sense of personal ethics and a social conscience: 

“He who has understanding and great wisdom does not think of harming himself or another, nor of harming both alike. He rather thinks of his own welfare, of that of others, of that of both, and of the welfare of the whole world. In that way one shows understanding and great wisdom.” Anguttara Nikaya - (Gradual Sayings) 

“By protecting oneself (e.g., morally), one protects others; by protecting others, one protects oneself.” Samyukta Nikaya (Kindred Sayings) 

Human actions (kamma, kaama, or karma) in the Buddhist framework were to be judged based on both the intention or motive (chetanaa) and the consequences (vipaaka) of the action. Altruistic actions which helped in the establishment and promotion of a just society were encouraged in the dharmaniyama (moral duty code). 

{The discourses, or suttas in the Digha Nikaya, illustrate how there was deep concern with the creation of social conditions favourable to the cultivation of Buddhist values and the expansion of social equity and justice. These views undoubtedly influenced the creation of a “welfare state” during the reign of emperor, Ashoka (B.C. 274-236)} 

In their theories of causality Buddhists challenged the view that human destiny was unaffected by the ethics or morality of human actions. They countered the doctrine of amoral causation (akriyavaada) whose adherents argued that there was no merit in doing good and no demerit for doing evil. (An extreme expression of such thinking was seen in philosophers who denied all morality and saw no crime in the killing of any person.)

Realizing that such a world-view could lead to the rejection of moral distinctions and personal responsibility for ones actions, they argued strenuously against such beliefs. They also argued against the theory of Makkali Ghosha (or Ghoshala) who believed that human fate was predetermined, and therefore denied that human actions had any bearing on the results of things (ahetuvaada) and maintained that human intention and effort were essentially powerless in changing human destiny, and therefore advocated fatalism (niyati). 

They also countered philosophers from the school of “absolute skepticism” who doubted everything and never committed themselves to any specific position in doctrinal debates. Philosophers from this school such as Sanjaya Belarthaputra (who was known as a theorist of endless equivocation or an equivocationist (amraavikkhepavaadin)) were criticized in the Brahmajaala Sutta (or Sutra) as “eel-wrigglers” who were incapable of taking a definitive stance on the vital philosophical questions of the day. Such skepticism was seen as emanating from both the fear of being in error and the lack of knowledge (or inability) to provide reasonable answers to question put forward for discussion. Such all-pervading doubt coupled with a cynical skepticism (vichikicchaa) was viewed as a serious mental hindrance, a fetter in the path to wisdom. 

Other theories that contradicted the notion that human actions mattered were theories of accidentalism (ahetu-apachayavaada), theistic determinism (ishvaranimmaanavaada) and past-action determinism (purvaketavaada or purvekatahetu). All of these were were opposed by the Buddhists. Accidentalism was an indeterminist theory which held that whatever was experienced was uncaused and unconditioned by human intervention. Theistic determinism was a determinist theory, which held that whatever was experienced was due to God’s will or by plan of a “Supreme-Being”. Past-action determinism was also a determinist theory, but it held the belief that whatever was experienced, whether pleasurable or painful or indifferent was entirely due to ones past actions (from a previous life), and ones present actions had no relevance. 

The danger in each of these theories was highlighted in these words: “Thus for those who fall back on these three erroneous views as essential dogma, there is neither the will to do what is ought to be done, or not to do what is ought not to be done, nor necessity to do this deed or abstain from that deed. No moral improvement or intellectual culture can be expected from them.” 

Some of the theories in circulation at that time built on a germ of truth but generalized to the point of absurdity. For instance the accidentalists were correct only to the extent that certain things did indeed appear to happen by random chance or accident. But they failed to recognize that sometimes what may have seemed to be accidental was more due to inadequate understanding or improper or incomplete perception, and that other activities had a clearly discernible cause. To deal with the extreme generalizations of such theorists, they introduced a middle standpoint for their epistemology and ethics. 

They thus rejected the theory admitting that everything exists (sabba atthii ti) and in permanence - i.e. the extreme of eternalism (sassatavaada), and its opposite which advocated that nothing actually exists (sabba natthii ti ) i.e. nihilism (the denial of all reality in real-world phenomenon) or the extreme of annihilationalism (ucchedavaada). Related to their critique of the eternalist and nihilist philosophies was their rejection of both hedonism and self-mortification (attakilamathaanuyoga) which they viewed as painful, fruitless, unprofitable and ignoble.

Buddhist texts also expressed suspicion about claims by heretical teachers of being constantly “all-knowing” and “all-seeing” and in possession of “all-embracing knowledge-and-vision.” Such claims were countered with arguments relating to the actual behaviour of such charlatans in different situations. For instance, they wondered why such “all-knowing” and “all-seeing” spiritual teachers lost their way in an unfamiliar place or why they were unable to escape from trouble while countering a fierce animal such as dog, elephant, horse or bull. Moreover, if they were really omniscient, they wouldn’t need to ask for people’s names, clans, or the name of a village or market town or make enquiries about anything. That they did such things indicated that their knowledge was evidently limited just like that of any average worldly person (puthujjana).

Unlike religions that were based on revealed truth or the sanctity of every word in a holy textbook, the Buddhist belief system prescribed reasoning based on investigation as the means of determining ones dhamma, (or dharma as in Hindu practise). In a parable in the Kaalaama Sutta, followers of Budhism are advised not to accept any moral codes on the following ten grounds: 

(1) Vedic authority (anussava), 

(2) tradition (paramparaa), 

(3) hearsay or report (itikiraa), 

(4) textual authority (pittakasampadaa), 

(5) apparent agreebility of the view (sama o no garu), 

(6) authority of the holder of the view (takkahetu), 

(7) apparent logicality of the view (nayahetu), 

(8) the fact that the view is an accepted standpoint (aakaaraparivitakka), 

(9) inadequate reflection on reasons (bhabbaruupataa), or 

(10) the fact that the view agrees with one’s own (ditthinijjhaanakkhanti).

In this manner, the Buddhism developed a very sophisticated philosophical system in which social ethics were integrated with rational investigation of human nature, social organization and the physical world. Buddhist ideas and concepts left a powerful impression on other Indian philosophical and religious belief systems, and over time, many commonalities developed amongst the competing ideologies.

However, there were also certain problems with the Buddhist world view which prevented its complete acceptance by intellectuals committed to the scientific method. For instance, although the Buddhists rejected the theory of past action determinism, they did posit the existence of a soul which survived a person’s death and carried with it the merits and demerits of a person’s past lives. Presumably this concept was essential to the Buddhist goal of encouraging right conduct but it was rejected by those who considered the soul as inseparable from the body and did not believe that the soul survived death. Those who rejected the concept of transmigration of the soul naturally couldn’t accept the idea that human destiny had anything to do with merits and demerits accumulated in previous incarnations of the “soul”. In their view, morality and ethics were entirely social constructs and had to be dealt with accordingly. The realists (such as the Nyayavadis) who shared the Buddhist concern for morals and ethics in society argued that while morals and ethics ought to be encouraged, they could only be enforced through societal laws and judicial codes. 

Another problem facing the Buddhists was that in many ways, their views were too advanced for their times. Society had not yet developed to the point where education was universal, and knowledge of the real world sufficient to prevent superstitions and irrational beliefs from being completely abandoned by the masses. In an era where society had only limited control over nature, it was inevitable that sections of society would continue with beliefs in deities and supernatural phenomenon in the hope that they may be spared from natural disasters or that their crops might withstand attacks from pests and disease. Thus although the Buddhists had a very important and salutatory effect on Indian society, the most advanced Buddhist concepts could be understood and practised by only a minority in society. 

Over time, the spirit of inquiry and rational investigation that had spurred the early Buddhist scholars towards dialectical thinking and critical social analysis became more and more replaced by narrow and literalist interpretations of the earlier texts. For instance, advice against accepting something that appeared “logical” without personal verification was taken to mean that logic could be rejected. Advice against wasting ones time on unsolvable metaphysical questions was also taken too literally and many Buddhist scholars remained aloof from the metaphysical debates pursued by other philosophical schools such as those of the Jains and the Nyaya Vaisheshikas. What they didn’t anticipate was that some of these debates might lead to useful advances in mathematics or deeper understanding of human thought processes and new insights on human memory and psychology. These led to valuable advances in the interpretation of moods and emotions - thus benefiting Indian art, literature and music.

In addition, later Buddhist monks lapsed into some of the very things that had been attacked by the early Buddhists such as indulgence in unnecessary and elaborate rituals, belief in supra-natural phenomenon, and alienation of the priests from the masses. Activities such as meditation which were encouraged as a means to gaining wisdom became ends in themselves, and were turned into idealistic fetishes. Although Buddhist monks dutifully delivered sermons on right conduct and right action, they often failed to engage in relevant and timely social criticism - and did not always connect the textual suggestions to concrete practice. Intra-Buddhist disputes developed around less significant details, even as some of the most important ideas that had initially shaped the philosophy were pushed into the background. As a result Buddhism as it was practised came to be associated with idealism and inaction. Whereas the early Buddhists saw no merit in worshipping god or its images, later Buddhism developed a pantheon of deities not very different from other Indian religions. 

Thus even as Buddhism had spread almost throughout Asia by the 5th-6th C AD, it gradually began to lose its distinct edge and liberating influence on much of Indian society. Within the Indian subcontinent, strains of Buddhism survived in Sri Lanka, Bengal, Bhutan, Sikkim, parts of Bihar and Nepal, and parts of Sindh, Punjab, Kashmir and Afghanistan. In parts of Orissa and adjoining regions (such as Chhattisgarh and Telengana), Tantric (and other) influences reshaped the practice of Buddhism. Yet, Buddhism continued to have an impact outside India and developed pockets of influence as far West as Syria, as well as in much of Central Asia (including what is now Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzia, Kazakhstan) and Tibet. In the East, its influence was felt on virtually every nation including Burma, Thailand, Malaya and Indonesia, Laos, Cambodia, Vietnam, China, Korea and Japan. 

As noted earlier, the vast literature of Buddhism (like much of Hindu or Jain literature) was not a literature of revelation and authority. Its essays on social ethics and moral responsibilities, its treatises on philosophy and science, its art and poetry were but pointers to a path to wisdom. This gave Buddhism both flexibility and adaptability. Owing to its non-hegemonic character and humanist appeal, Buddhism was adopted without coercion or force. It was also successfully fused with Hinduism in many parts of South East Asia just as elements of it had been integrated into Hindu practices in India. 

In China, it was integrated with Taoism and Confucian principles; in Japan with Shinto beliefs. For several centuries, within India and outside, several people followed multiple faiths and identified as both Buddhists and Hindus, or as both Buddhists and Tantrics, (or Buddhists and Taoists) and so on. During the Gupta period (and in other reigns), philosophers from various schools of thought received royal patronage and temple grants were conferred for the construction of Buddhist and Hindu monuments alike. 

It is also important to recognize that the form of Buddhism that was embraced in each nation was often quite different. For instance, in Western and Central Asia, it was not the philosophical or intellectual aspects of Buddhism that were popularized, but rather, its personal moral codes. Buddhist prosletysers imbued their stories of the Buddha with examples of miraculous healing and super-natural compassion so as to win more followers. 

While such tendencies were also to be seen as Buddhism travelled within India or outwards, in Burma, Sri Lanka and Thailand, Buddhism developed organizational structures that appear to have been much more resilient. It was perhaps realized that the development of Buddhist virtue would require leadership and constant interaction with the community. In these nations, Buddhism did not degenerate into the extremes of mysticism or retreatism that became commonplace in certain parts of India (such as in the foothills of the Western Himalayas). Burmese and Thai monks maintained a practical and benevolent connection with the community, and thus retained a measure of respect within the community. This also appears to be the case in Japan. In Korea, the emphasis on gaining wisdom was taken very seriously, and Buddhist monks took the lead in promoting mass literacy. This propelled the growth of technologies associated with the production of paper, writing instruments, inks, and furniture. And unlike in India, (where due to Upanishadic influences, “inner” wisdom came to be favored over outer wisdom), Buddhist concern for disseminating the writings of the Buddha had significant positive secular impact. In Korean (and other Eastern) Buddhism, there was the correct realization that a Buddhist mindset, or that a Buddhist society could not be constructed overnight. There was thus the emphasis on the (helical) upgradation of individuals and society towards greater “Buddhahood”. This philosophical element was perhaps signficant in that it prevented the sort of philosophical stagnation that occurred in India, where followers too often sought immediate succuor, and thus not only became divorced from reality, but also lost sight of the strategic potential of the philosophy.

In addition, it ought to be noted that Buddhism in India also had to contend with strongly anarchic and ultra-democratic tendencies. Precisely because its philosophical structure emphasized the relative and changing nature of truth, different tendencies under the Buddhist mantle competed for leadership through argument and debate. Initially, this led to important advances in democratic practices within the Sanghas. But over time, it also led to clashes of egoes, hair-splitting and deadlock. While some Buddhist sects compromised and fused with other tendencies (even alien tendencies), others remained fiercely autonomous. To survive, Buddhism had to confront both the tendency to be co-opted, as well as the tendency to atomize. 

However, the catastrophic demise of Buddhism in India was triggered by the onslaught of Islam which first obliterated the remnants of Buddhism in Central Asia, and then later in Afghanistan and India. By and large, Buddhism survived only in those countries that escaped invasions by Islamic conquerors. As a gentle faith that encouraged its followers to abjure violence, it was perhaps unable to protect itself from iconoclasts and proselytizers who intended to enforce a new religio-political order. Accustomed to centuries of peaceful co-existence, India’s Buddhists had not anticipated the need to develop viable strategies for self-defence that could have combated the violence of India’s Islamic conquerors who virtually obliterated Buddhism from the land of its birth.

Yet, it also appears that (in large part) later Buddhism had deviated considerably from the rational principles outlined in the early texts. Monasteries often became isolated from mainstream society, and monks who focused exclusively on meditative practices and idealistic or esoteric philosophical speculation contributed little to social progress. Some have even argued that the monastic orders had degenerated into sheer parasitism and were becoming a heavy social drain. Consequently, value judgements on the demise of Buddhism and the rise of Islam in India need to be made with a measure of caution. 

Nevertheless, it must be acknowledged that the ascent of Islam was concomitant with the eclipse of Buddhism, and since the influence of Buddhism was greatly dependant on the existence of the monastic orders, the destruction of monasteries and their conversion to mosques and institutions of Quranic learning simply lead to mass conversions to Islam. In the long term, this could have had the effect of stunting India’s future intellectual development, since the destruction of important institutions of Buddhist learning also led to a notable decline in the opportunity (and social sanction) to study secular subjects such as logic and epistemology (which were also taught at Buddhist universities - such as Bhagalpur). 

It might also be observed that the destruction of Buddhist centers of learning coincided with the destruction of extremely valuable textual materials - which could have been potentially rediscovered, and revived or reinterpreted by future generations of Indians so as to achieve a society that was more thoughtful and learned.  Islamic texts did not offer anything comparable in terms of causality or epistemology. Nor did they offer the psychological, sociological, or moral insights that had been developed under the ambit of Buddhism. Nor was there any comparable stress on seeking knowledge or constantly updating ones understanding of nature and human society. 

One can, therefore, only speculate as to the full consequences of this profound sociolgical and cultural loss (and discontinuity).

But East of India, Buddhism did survive, and in countries such Korea, Thailand and Burma, it continued to enjoy a loyal popular following. Philosophical innovations also took place, and as noted earlier, Buddhist scholars in China, Korea and Japan offered their own commentaries and somewhat individual interpretations of Buddhist concepts and formulations outlined in later (5-7th C.) Indian texts. And although the sacking of monasteries and centers of learning (such as Nalanda and Vikramshila in Bihar) led to records of the original Buddhist texts being permanently destroyed, it has been possible to reconstruct some of them from translations that survived outside India such as in Thailand and Tibet. Notwithstanding the virtual erasure of Buddhism in India, it is possible to infer from these reconstructed texts and other archaeological records (and surviving monuments and artifacts) that Buddhism had a very powerful impact in shaping the destiny of India, and in triggering a social and cultural renaissance that would take Indian and other Asian civilizations to a higher level of social, cultural and material development.