The lead up to the 3rd Council

The Mahāvaṃsa or The Great Chronicle of Ceylon. Translated by Wilhelm Geiger. London: Published for the Pali Text Society by Henry Frowde, Oxford University Press, 1912, Chapter V, “The Third Council,” pp. 40–50.
One day the prince (Tissa), when sporting joyously in the wild hunting, saw gazelles, and at this sight he thought: “Even the gazelles sport thus joyously, who feed on grass in the wild. Wherefore are not the bhikkhus joyous and gay, who have their food and dwelling in comfort?”

Returned home he told the king his thought. To teach him the king handed over to him the government of the kingdom for one week, saying: “Enjoy, prince, for one week my royal state; then will I put thee to death.” Thus said the ruler.

And when the week was gone by he asked: “Wherefore art thou thus wasted away?” And when (Tissa) answered: “By reason of the fear of death,” the king spoke again to him and said: “Thinking that thou must die when the week was gone by, thou wast no longer joyous and gay; how then can ascetics be joyous and gay, my dear, who think ever upon death?”

And (Tissa), when his brother spoke thus, was turned toward faith in the doctrine (of the Buddha). And afterwards when he once went forth hunting, he saw the thera Mahādhammarakkhita, the self-controlled, sitting at the foot of a tree, and fanned by a cobra with a branch of a sāla-tree. And that wise (prince) thought: “When shall I, like this thera, be ordained in the religion of the Conqueror, and live in the forest-wilderness?”

When the thera, to convert him, had come thither flying through the air, standing on the water of the pond in the Asokārāma, he, leaving his goodly garments behind him in the air, plunged into the water and bathed his limbs. And when the prince saw this marvel he was filled with joyful faith, and the wise man made this wise resolve: “This very day will I receive the pabbajjā-ordination.”

He went to the king and respectfully besought him to let him receive the pabbajjā. Since the king could not turn him from (his resolve) he took him with him and went with a great retinue to the vihāra. There (the prince) received the pabbajjā from the thera Mahādhammarakkhita, and with him four hundred thousand persons, but the number of those who afterwards were ordained is not known.

A nephew of the monarch known by the name Aggibrahmā was the consort of the king’s daughter Saṅghamittā, and the son of these two (was) named Sumana. He (Aggibrahmā) also craved the king’s leave and was ordained together with the prince.

The prince’s ordination, whence flowed blessing to many folk, was in the fourth year of (the reign of) king Asoka. In the same year he received the upasampadā-ordination, and since his destiny was holiness the prince, zealously striving, became an arahant, gifted with the six supernormal powers.

All those beautiful vihāras (then) begun they duly finished in all the cities within three years; but, by the miraculous power of the thera Indagutta, who watched over the work, the ārāma named after Asoka was likewise quickly brought to completion. On those spots which the Conqueror himself had visited the monarch built beautiful cetiyas here and there.

On every side from the eighty-four thousand cities came letters on one day with the news: “The vihāras are completed.” When the great king, great in majesty, in wondrous power and valour, received the letters, he, desiring to hold high festival in all the ārāmas at once, proclaimed in the town with beat of drum: “On the seventh day from this day shall a festival of all the ārāmas be kept, in every way, in all the provinces. Yojana by yojana on the earth shall great largess be given; the ārāmas in the villages and the streets shall be adorned. In all the vihāras let lavish gifts of every kind be bestowed upon the brotherhood, according to the time and the means (of givers), and adornments, such as garlands of lamps and garlands of flowers, here and there, and all that is meet for festivals, with music of every kind, in manifold ways.

“And all are to take upon themselves the duties of the uposatha-day and hear religious discourse, and offerings of many kinds must they make on the same day.”

And all the people everywhere held religious festivals of every kind, glorious as the world of gods, even as had been commanded, and (did) yet more. On that day the great king, wearing all his adornments and with the women of his household, with his ministers and surrounded by the multitude of his troops, went to his own ārāma, as if cleaving the earth. In the midst of the brotherhood he stood, bowing down to the venerable brotherhood.

In the assembly were eighty kotis of bhikkhus, and among these were a hundred thousand ascetics who had overcome the āsavas. Moreover there were ninety times one hundred thousand bhikkhunīs, and among these a thousand had overcome the āsavas. These (monks and nuns) wrought the miracle called the “unveiling of the world” to the end that the king Dhammāsoka might be converted.

Caṇḍāsoka (the wicked Asoka) was he called in earlier times, by reason of his evil deeds; he was known as Dhammāsoka (the pious Asoka) afterwards because of his pious deeds. He looked around over the (whole) Jambudīpa bounded by the ocean and over all the vihāras adorned with the manifold (beauties of) the festival, and with exceeding joy, as he saw them, he asked the brethren, while taking his seat: “Whose generosity toward the doctrine of the Blessed One was ever (so) great (as mine), venerable sirs?”

The thera Moggaliputta answered the king’s question: “Even in the lifetime of the Blessed One there was no generous giver like to thee.”

When the king heard this he rejoiced yet more and asked: “Nay then, is there a kinsman of Buddha’s religion like unto me?”

But the thera perceived the destiny of the king’s son Mahinda and of his daughter Saṅghamittā, and foresaw the progress of the doctrine that was to arise from (them), and he, on whom lay the charge of the doctrine, replied thus to the king: “Even a lavish giver of gifts like to thee is not a kinsman of the religion; giver of wealth is he called, O ruler of men. But he who lets son or daughter enter the religious order is a kinsman of the religion and withal a giver of gifts.”

Since the monarch would fain become a kinsman of the religion he asked Mahinda and Saṅghamittā, who stood near: “Do you wish to receive the pabbajjā, dear ones? The pabbajjā is held to be a great (good).”

Then, when they heard their father’s words, they said to him: “This very day we would fain enter the order, if thou, O king, dost wish it; for us, even as for thee, will blessing come of our pabbajjā.”

For already since the time of the prince’s (Tissa’s) pabbajjā had he resolved to enter the order, and she since (the ordination) of Aggibrahmā. Although the monarch wished to confer on Mahinda the dignity of prince-regent, yet did he consent to his ordination with the thought: “This (last) is the greater dignity.”

So he permitted his dear son Mahinda, distinguished (above all others) by intelligence, beauty and strength, and his daughter Saṅghamittā, to be ordained with all solemnity.

At that time Mahinda, the king’s son, was twenty years old, and the king’s daughter Saṅghamittā was then eighteen years old. On the very same day did he receive the pabbajjā- and also the upasampadā-ordination, and for her the pabbajjā-ordination and the placing under a teacher took place on the same day.

The prince’s master was the thera named after Moggali; the pabbajjā-ordination was conferred on him by the thera Mahādeva, but Majjhantika pronounced the ceremonial words, and even in the very place where he (received) the upasampadā-ordination this great man reached the state of an arahant together with the special kinds of knowledge.

The directress of Saṅghamittā was the renowned Dhammapālā, and her teacher was Āyupālā; in time she became free from the āsavas. Those two lights of the doctrine, who brought great blessing to the island of Laṅkā, received the pabbajjā in the sixth year of king Dhammāsoka.

The great Mahinda, the converter of the island (of Laṅkā), learned the three piṭakas with his master in three years. This bhikkhunī, even like the new moon, and the bhikkhu Mahinda, like the sun, illumined always the sky, the doctrine of the Sambuddha.

Once in time past, a dweller in the forest, who went forth into the forest from Pāṭaliputta, loved a wood-nymph named Kuntī. Owing to the union with him she bore two sons, the elder was Tissa and the younger was named Sumitta. Afterwards both received the pabbajjā-ordination from the thera Mahāvaruṇa and attained to arahantship and the possession of the six supernormal powers.

(Once) the elder suffered pains in the foot from the poison of a venomous insect, and when his younger brother asked (what he needed) he told him that a handful of ghee was the remedy. But the thera set himself against pointing out to the king what things were needful in sickness, and against going in search of the ghee after the midday meal. “If on thy begging-round thou receivest ghee, bring it to me,” said the thera Tissa to the excellent thera Sumitta.

When he went forth on his begging-round he received not one handful of ghee, and (in the meanwhile) the pain had come to such a pass that even a hundred vessels of ghee could not have cured it. And because of that malady the thera was near to death, and when he had exhorted (the other) to strive unceasingly he formed the resolve to pass into nibbāna. Lifted up in the air as he sat, and winning mastery of his own body by the fire-meditation, according to his own free resolve, he passed into nibbāna. The flames that broke forth from his body consumed the flesh and skin of the thera’s whole body; the bones they did not consume.

When the monarch heard that the thera had died in this wise he went to his own ārāma surrounded by the multitude of his troops. Mounted on an elephant the king brought down the bones, and when he had caused due honour to be paid to the relics, he questioned the brotherhood as to (the thera’s) illness. Hearing about it he was greatly moved, and had tanks made at the city gates and filled them with remedies for the sick, and day by day he had remedies bestowed on the congregation of the bhikkhus, thinking: “Might the bhikkhus never find remedies hard to obtain.”

The thera Sumitta passed into nibbāna even when he was walking (in meditation) in the caṅkama-hall, and by this also was a great multitude of people converted to the doctrine (of the Buddha). Both these theras, the sons of Kuntī, who had wrought a great good in the world, passed into nibbāna in the eighth year of Asoka.

From that time onwards the revenues of the brotherhood were exceeding great, and since those who were converted later caused the revenues to increase, heretics who had (thereby) lost revenue and honour took likewise the yellow robe, for the sake of revenue, and dwelt together with the bhikkhus. They proclaimed their own doctrines as the doctrine of the Buddha and carried out their own practices even as they wished.

And when the thera Moggaliputta, great in firmness of soul, saw the coming-out of this exceedingly evil plague-boil on the doctrine, he, far-seeing, deliberated upon the right time to do away with it. And when he had committed his great company of bhikkhus to (the direction of) the thera Mahinda, he took up his abode, all alone, further up the Ganges on the Ahogaṅga-mountain, to solitary retreat.

By reason of the great number of the heretics and their unruliness, the bhikkhus could not restrain them by the law; and therefore the bhikkhus in Jambudīpa for seven years held no uposatha-ceremony nor the ceremony of pavāraṇā in all the ārāmas.

When the great king, the famed Dhammāsoka, was aware of this, he sent a minister to the splendid Asokārāma, laying on him this command: “Go, settle this matter and let the uposatha-festival be carried out by the community of bhikkhus in my ārāma.”

This fool went thither, and when he had called the community of bhikkhus together he announced the king’s command: “Carry out the uposatha-festival.”

“We hold not the uposatha-festival with heretics,” the community of bhikkhus replied to that misguided minister.

The minister struck off the head of several theras, one by one, with his sword, saying, “I will force you to hold the uposatha-festival.” When the king’s brother, Tissa, saw that crime he came speedily and sat on the seat nearest to the minister. When the minister saw the thera he went to the king and told him (the whole matter).

When the monarch heard it he was troubled and went with all speed and asked the community of bhikkhus, greatly disturbed in mind: “Who, in truth, is guilty of this deed that has been done?”

And certain of them answered in their ignorance: “The guilt is thine,” and others said: “Both of you are guilty”; but those who were wise answered: “Thou art not guilty.”

When the king heard this he said: “Is there a bhikkhu who is able to set my doubts to rest and to befriend religion?”

“There is the thera Tissa, the son of Moggali, O king,” answered the brethren to the king. Then was the king filled with zeal.

He sent four theras, each attended by a thousand bhikkhus, and four ministers, each with a thousand followers, that same day, with the charge laid on them by (the king) himself to bring the thera thither; but though they prayed him he came not.

When the king heard this he sent again eight theras and eight ministers, each with a thousand followers, but even as before he came not.

The king asked: “Nay then, how shall the thera come?”

The bhikkhus told him how the thera could be moved to come: “O great king, if they shall say to him, ‘Be our helper, venerable sir, to befriend religion,’ then will the thera come.”

Again the king sent (messengers) sixteen theras and sixteen ministers, each with a thousand followers, laying that (same) charge upon them, and he said to them: “Aged as he is, the thera will not enter any wheeled vehicle; bring the thera by ship on the Ganges.”

So they went to him and told him, and hardly had he heard (their message) but he rose up. And they brought the thera in a ship, and the king went to meet him. Going down even knee-deep into the water the king respectfully gave his right hand to the thera, as he came down from the ship. The venerable thera took the king’s right hand from compassion toward him, and came down from the ship.

The king led the thera to the pleasure-garden called Rativaddhana, and when he had washed and anointed his feet and had seated himself the monarch spoke thus, to test the thera’s faculty: “Sir, I would fain see a miracle.”

And to the question which (miracle he desired) he answered: “An earthquake.” And again the other said to him: “Which wouldst thou see, of the whole (earth shaken) or only of a single region?” Then when he had asked: “Which is the more difficult?” and heard (the reply): “The shaking of a single region is the more difficult,” he declared that he desired to see this last.

Then within the boundary of a yojana (in extent) did the thera place a waggon, a horse and a man, and a vessel full of water at the four cardinal points, and over this yojana by his miraculous power he caused the earth to tremble, together with the half of (each of) these (things), and let the king seated there behold this.

Then the monarch asked the thera whether or not he himself shared the guilt of the murder of the bhikkhus by the minister.

The thera taught the king: “There is no resulting guilt without evil intent,” and he recited the Tittira-jātaka.

Abiding a week there in the pleasant royal park he instructed the ruler in the lovely religion of the Sambuddha. In this same week the monarch sent out two yakkhas and assembled together all the bhikkhus on the earth. On the seventh day he went to his own splendid ārāma and arranged an assembly of the community of bhikkhus in its full numbers.

Then seated with the thera on one side behind a curtain the ruler called to him in turn the bhikkhus of the several confessions and asked them: “Sir, what did the Blessed One teach?” And they each expounded their wrong doctrine, the Sassata-doctrine and so forth. And all these adherents of false doctrine did the king cause to be expelled from the order; those who were expelled were in all sixty thousand.

And now he asked the rightly-believing bhikkhus: “What does the Blessed One teach?” And they answered: “He teaches the Vibhajja-doctrine.”

And the monarch asked the thera: “Sir, does the Sambuddha (really) teach the Vibhajja-doctrine?” The thera answered: “Yes.” And when the king knew this he was glad at heart and said: “Since the community is (henceforth) purified, sir, therefore should the brotherhood hold the uposatha-festival,” and he made the thera guardian of the order and returned to his fair capital; the brotherhood held thenceforth the uposatha-festival in concord.

Out of the great number of the brotherhood of bhikkhus the thera chose a thousand learned bhikkhus, endowed with the six supernormal powers, knowing the three piṭakas and versed in the special sciences, to make a compilation of the true doctrine. Together with them did he, in the Asokārāma, make a compilation of the true dhamma. Even as the thera Mahākassapa and the thera Yasa had held a council so did the thera Tissa.

In the midst of this council the thera Tissa set forth the Kathāvatthuppakaraṇa, refuting the other doctrines. Thus was this council under the protection of king Asoka ended by the thousand bhikkhus in nine months.

In the seventeenth year of the king’s reign the wise (thera), who was seventy-two years old, closed the council with a great pavāraṇā-ceremony. And, as if to shout applause to the re-establishment of doctrine, the great earth shook at the close of the council.

Nay, abandoning the high, the glorious Brahma-heaven and coming down for the sake of the doctrine to the loathsome world of men, he, who had fulfilled his own duty, fulfilled the duties toward the doctrine. Who else verily may neglect duties toward the doctrine?

Here ends the fifth chapter, called “The Third Council,” in the Mahāvamsa, compiled for the serene joy and emotion of the pious

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Thank you for sharing this. :folded_hands:

I really like this part:

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The great bhikkhus would rather die than go against the Vinaya.

extract from a historical novel I might or might not complete one day:

ii.

Giridasa was the youngest of the amaccas in the court, and one of the most efficient, the one who had prevented the famine when the canal project collapsed, the one the palace trusted to finish things. He had no particular feeling for the Sangha, or for any religious institution. This was, for the purpose of this errand, a qualification. Asoka had appointed him personally, had read his reports with the satisfaction of an emperor who recognises his own thoroughness in a subordinate.

He gave him the order directly, written in his own hand on a palm leaf: Go to the Asokarama. The bhikkhus are to carry out the uposatha. See that it is done.

He did not specify how. He did not think about this, because in twenty years of governing an empire he had learned that the details of execution were best left to the men who executed, and Giridasa was competent, and competent men did not need to be told how to do their jobs.

The great King slept well that night, satisfied with the merit of what he had ordered. Outside, the river ran past the palace walls in the dark, the same sound it had made the night before and would make the night after.

Chapter Eight: The Minister’s Errand

The palm leaf was in his hand before the second hour. The emperor had written it himself, the broad strokes that Giridasa had learned to recognise in fifteen years of service. Asoka did not write elegantly. He wrote the way he spoke: plainly, with force, without ornament.

Go to the Asokarama. The bhikkhus are to carry out the uposatha. See that it is done.

Giridasa folded the leaf and placed it in the inner pocket of his tunic, against his chest, where he kept all active orders until they were executed. That was what he did. He received orders, he executed them, and the gap between the two was filled with the competence that had made him, at forty-three, the youngest amacca in the court and the one the palace trusted to finish things.

He did not know why the bhikkhus had stopped holding the uposatha. He knew what it was, roughly: a roll call with prayers. He did not know how long it had been suspended. He did not know what the disagreement was about. The order did not say, and the order was all he had.

He strapped on his khadga and walked to the Asokarama with four palace guards and a scribe. The guards were commanded by a sergeant named Bhanu, a heavy-set man with a bad knee who had served in the Deccan campaigns and who had spent the last three years standing watch in the palace corridors. Neither of the two previous errands Bhanu had escorted for Giridasa had required the drawing of a sword. He expected nothing from this one either. The scribe, Kosa, carried a wax tablet and a stylus in a cloth bag across his shoulder.

The monastery was half a yojana from the palace compound, across the wide avenue that separated the administrative quarter from the religious establishments that lined the river road. Giridasa had passed it a thousand times and had never entered it. He was not a Buddhist, nor, if pressed, anything at all. His father had been an Ajivika, a believer in niyati, cosmic determinism, the doctrine that held that all events were fixed from the beginning of time and that human choice was an illusion. Giridasa found this doctrine neither comforting nor disturbing. He found it irrelevant. The world he inhabited was a world of orders and execution, of problems identified and solutions applied, and whether the problems were predetermined or freely chosen made no practical difference to the man whose job it was to solve them.

The Asokarama was the largest monastery in Pataliputta. The plaster was cracking.

The main gate was carved teak, flanked by stone columns inscribed with the Dhamma-wheel, the emperor’s emblem, placed at the entrance of every royal monastery. Above the gate, a carved lintel depicted the Sambuddha seated under the Bodhi tree.

Giridasa noted the cracking plaster. He noted that the drainage channel running along the base of the outer wall was clogged with leaves and that the brick paving of the entrance courtyard had subsided in two places, creating puddles that bred mosquitoes. These were the things Giridasa saw when he looked at a building. He filed the observation. It confirmed what the order in his pocket implied: something here was broken.

He entered through the main gate. The outer courtyard was large, fifty paces across, paved with brick, shaded by ashoka trees whose red blossoms had fallen into the pabbajja pond and floated on the surface like small flames. Lay devotees sat on the warm brick in clusters, women in white cotton, old men with walking sticks, a mother nursing an infant in the shade of the wall. They were listening to a monk.

The monk sat on a raised platform at the far end of the courtyard, cross-legged, his saffron robe arranged with the precision that Giridasa had noticed in military officers who took pride in their uniform. His shaven head was smooth, oiled, and his face was plump and well fed, with the look of a man for whom nothing had ever gone wrong. He was speaking. Giridasa could not hear the words from across the courtyard, but he could hear the rhythm, smooth, unhurried, with the cadences of a practised speaker who knew how to hold an audience.

Giridasa watched the audience. The lay devotees were attentive, some of them nodding as the monk spoke. An old woman had her eyes closed and her lips were moving, repeating the monk’s words, perhaps, or praying. The mother with the infant rocked the child in rhythm with the monk’s voice.

Nothing looked wrong. That was the problem. Giridasa had been sent to settle a matter, and the matter, from the outside, looked settled. Monks in saffron robes. Laypeople listening. The rituals of religious life proceeding as they had proceeded for decades. Whatever was broken was broken on the inside, in a place that Giridasa’s administrative eye could not reach.

He crossed the courtyard and entered the main complex. The buildings opened onto a series of smaller courts, each with its own purpose, the geography of a community that lived by routines Giridasa did not understand. He passed the cankama, the long levelled walking path under a wooden roof, where two old monks were pacing slowly back and forth, their bare feet placing themselves with the unhurried care of men whose minds were entirely on the placing. They did not look at him.

He passed the cells, small brick rooms with teakwood doors, each containing a wooden bed and nothing else. Some doors were open. Inside one, a bhikkhu sat cross-legged on the bare flagstone, his eyes lowered, his hands resting in his lap, the saffron of his robe darkened where it had absorbed the sweat of long sitting. He did not look up. Inside another, a novice was folding a freshly washed robe with the same slow attention, the same absence of haste.

The smell was incense and mildew and the sourness of cloth washed too often in tamarind water. Beneath those, the smell of bodies in cotton, sweat, mustard oil on shaven scalps.

Giridasa stood in the corridor and watched, and tried to see what the emperor’s order was asking him to fix. The men in the cells looked the same as the men on the cankama and the men who had been listening to the speaker in the outer courtyard: saffron robes, shaven heads, polished bowls beside them on the floor. Some moved. Some did not. The ones who moved were the ones he understood. The ones who did not move were something else, something outside the categories of his experience. The empire ran on movement, and stillness was the absence of work, and stillness was the problem.

He passed the bathing tank where novices washed their robes in water that smelled of tamarind, and the kitchen where clay pots of rice steamed on iron grates over a fire of dried dung. Near the entrance of the uposathagara, a lay servant was sweeping the flagstones with a palm-fibre broom. He swept with the slow rhythm of a task done daily for no visible purpose. He did not look up as Giridasa passed.

He arrived at the uposathagara.

The hall was square, the floor polished sandstone, bronze lamps in iron brackets along the walls. His sandals on the stone sent a flat echo across the empty space and back. Sandalwood incense burned in clay holders near the door, and the smoke moved through the air in slow, thin streams that caught the lamplight and turned gold. At the centre of the hall was the raised seat, a wooden platform, carved, the surface worn smooth by the bodies of the senior theras who had sat on it over the years. The seat was empty.

Giridasa looked at the empty seat. It had been empty for seven years: seven years of the Patimokkha unrecited, the transgressions unconfessed, the community ungathered. Seven years of an institution failing to perform its most basic function.

He knew how to fix a failing institution: you identified the obstruction and you removed it. This was not theology, it was administration.

He sent word through the monastery: all bhikkhus to assemble in the uposatha hall. The emperor’s command.

He posted Bhanu and two of the guards at the main door of the hall and sent the third to the eastern entrance, with instructions to let the monks in and no one out. the scribe Kosa he placed at the side wall with his wax tablet ready. Kosa wrote the date and the location at the top of the tablet, the administrative preamble, the first strokes of a record, and waited with his stylus poised. The sergeant took his position without comment, his spear butt on the flagstone, his eyes forward.

They came.

They came slowly, in ones and twos, from the cells along the eastern corridor and from the cankama and from the shaded corner of the outer court where the old thera who did not leave his spot had been sitting since before sunrise. They came the way the old monks always came to the uposathagara on the full moon and the new moon, with the measured pace of men who had trained themselves to place each foot with deliberation, as though the ground beneath them contained something precious that could be crushed. They entered the hall and sat in their customary places, the seniors nearest the raised seat, the juniors behind, the arrangement governed by the length of ordination, which was the only hierarchy the Vinaya recognised. Their robes were clean but worn, the saffron faded to the colour of old brick, the cloth thin at the elbows and the knees where it folded during sitting. Their begging bowls, some black lacquer, some clay, sat beside them on the flagstones, the rims worn smooth where decades of thumbs had rested. The youngest of them, a thin-faced monk of perhaps thirty, had placed his bowl with both hands, settling it on the stone the way a man settles a child, a small clay bowl, not lacquer, older than the man who carried it. Near the back of the hall, one of the last to enter, a monk who looked younger than most of the others sat with his gaze lowered and his hands in his lap. Giridasa noted him and did not note him, one more saffron robe among sixty-three.

Giridasa watched them sit. The movement was the same for each man: a lowering of the body in a single smooth motion, the legs folding, the robe arranging itself, the hands coming to rest in the lap with the fingers touching lightly. No adjustment afterward, no shifting. They settled and they were still.

He waited for more to come.

He had expected more. The Asokarama was the great monastery of Pataliputta. The royal chronicles, the ones Giridasa had read the night before, pulled from the secretariat on his way home, scanned by lamplight at his desk, had set its strength at four hundred bhikkhus on the rolls of the last census, and the four requisites had flowed from the treasury on that basis for seven years. The hall had been built to hold three hundred men. The floor of polished sandstone was laid out for three hundred men. And the men who had entered the hall, and who were now sitting on the flagstone with their bowls beside them, numbered perhaps sixty.

Perhaps seventy. He counted, because counting was what he did when a set of facts did not match the document in his pocket. He counted twice. The count came out the same. Sixty-three bhikkhus. Sixty-three men, in a hall built for three hundred, in a monastery whose rolls listed four hundred, in a city whose emperor had poured seven years of requisites into an institution that when summoned under imperial order produced sixty-three bodies.

The empty floor around them was very large.

Giridasa turned to the lay steward who had come forward at the summons and was standing to one side of the raised seat with the mixed attention of a householder who served the monastery for his livelihood and had no interest in being noticed by either the bhikkhus or the ministers on a morning when a sword was visible on the minister’s hip.

“The rest.”

“Ayya?”

“Four hundred on the rolls. Sixty here. The rest.”

The steward’s eyes went briefly to the floor and then back up. “These are the ones who come to the hall, ayya. The others do not.”

“Do not.”

“Have not, ayya. For some years.”

“Where are they.”

“The cells along the north corridor. The refectory. The storerooms behind the kitchen. Some in the grove by the pabbajja pond. They keep to themselves, ayya. They do not come when the hall is summoned. They take the rice. The rice is brought to them where they sit.”

Giridasa filed the observation. He did not fully understand what he had just been told, but he understood enough for the purposes of the morning: there were two kinds of men in saffron in this monastery, and the kind that had come when the hall was summoned was not the whole of the community. The kind that had not come was somewhere else in the compound, eating rice that the palace had paid for, wearing robes that the palace had provided, occupying cells that the palace had built. And the kind that had come, the sixty-three now seated on the flagstone in front of him, did not appear to consider the absent ones part of the assembly in any sense that would have made their absence a problem.

This was an administrative untidiness. Giridasa had seen many administrative untidinesses in twenty years. He had always resolved them the same way: by addressing the business in front of him with the people in front of him and letting the documentation catch up afterward.

Sixty-three bhikkhus. An empty floor. A raised seat. An order.

That was enough.

He stood at the front of the hall, beside the empty raised seat, and he looked at the sixty-three, and he saw what the emperor’s order required him to see: an institution that had failed to function for seven years, and the men, these men, who had failed to make it function. He did not ask himself whether the failure was theirs. The order in his pocket did not distinguish between kinds of bhikkhu. The order said: cause the uposatha to be held by the community of bhikkhus in my monastery. The community of bhikkhus was the community that had presented itself when summoned. These sixty-three were the community. The uposatha would be held.

He unrolled the palm-leaf order. He read it aloud. His voice was clear, the voice of a man who had read orders in revenue courts and garrison compounds and council chambers. He did not shout. He did not need to, because the hall was quiet and the monks were listening.

“The emperor Dhammasoka orders the community of bhikkhus to carry out the uposatha in this arama.”

He rolled the palm leaf and placed it back in his pocket. He waited.

The senior thera did not rise. He sat where he had been sitting since the hall had filled, cross-legged on the flagstone at the front of the assembled community, and from that position he lifted his eyes to Giridasa’s face. He was a man of over eighty, his face thin, the skin brown and smooth for a man of his years, the jaw firm, the mouth closed. His eyes were dark, steady, and they held something Giridasa did not have a name for: the man, the hall, the sword he had not yet drawn.

“We hold not the uposatha with heretics,” the old thera said.

The words were quiet, spoken with the gentle intonation of a bhikkhu, unhurried, almost tender, carrying no anger and no defiance, only the flat factual weight of a man stating something he had stated before, many times, to many people, and that he would go on stating until the stating was no longer required or until he was no longer alive to state it.

Giridasa looked around the hall.

The gesture was small, a brief sweep of the eyes over the sixty-three seated bodies, a glance at the empty floor beyond them, a return to the senior thera’s face, but it was the gesture of a man who had been told a fact that did not match the evidence of his senses, and who was checking his senses against the fact one more time before deciding which of them to trust.

“There are no heretics here,” Giridasa said.

“The uposatha is not held in a hall. It is held in a community. A community is not the men who have entered a room.”

The old thera stopped. He did not add anything. He had said the thing he had come to say and he was now waiting to see what would be done with it.

Giridasa felt something move in his chest, the irritation of a competent man confronted with an obstacle that should not exist. The order was clear, the emperor had spoken, the community had been assembled, and all that remained was compliance.

“The emperor’s command is not a request,” Giridasa said.

“We hold not the uposatha with heretics.”

Giridasa looked at the old monk. The thera had not raised his voice, and he had not moved his hands. He sat in his place with his robe adjusted over one shoulder and his polished bowl on the flagstone beside him and his eyes on Giridasa’s face, and the sitting was as still as the waiting had been.

The irritation shifted. It moved from the surface of Giridasa’s mind to a deeper place, the place where the Arthashastra lived, the lessons he had absorbed in a different schoolroom from a different tutor, the teachings that said: when an institution fails to comply, you do not negotiate with the institution, you remove the obstruction. He had been trained for this. Not for this specific situation, not for a hall of monks and a disputed ceremony, but for the general case, the universal principle. An order given. An order refused. The gap between the two was the space in which the authority of the state either survived or did not.

“You are the obstruction,” Giridasa said. He did not mean it as a threat but as a diagnosis. This man, seated in front of him on the flagstone, was the voice of the refusal. Remove the voice, and the refusal would, in the arithmetic Giridasa had been trained to perform, become silence, and the silence would become compliance, and the compliance would become the observance, and the observance would become the emperor’s command fulfilled.

“The emperor is generous to the Sangha. He has given us land and food and cloth. These are acts of great merit. The uposatha is a different matter. It is held when it can be held.”

Giridasa’s hand moved to his hip. The motion was not deliberate, it was the motion of a man who has carried a sword for twenty years and whose hand, in moments of frustration, goes to the one tool it knows best. The leather of the grip was warm from his body. The weight of the blade was familiar, three pounds of Magadhan iron, balanced at the hilt, the edge kept sharp by the armourer’s whetstone each week.

He did not draw. Not yet. His hand rested on the hilt and his eyes were on the old thera’s face and the thera’s eyes were on his, steady, dark, unhurried, and in those eyes Giridasa saw something he could not name, a calm so complete it did not seem to belong to a man sitting in front of a drawn sword.

“This is your last opportunity,” Giridasa said. “Carry out the uposatha. The emperor commands it.”

“We hold not the uposatha with heretics.”

The same words, the same quiet voice, the same steady mouth forming the syllables with a gentleness that was more absolute than any shout.

Giridasa drew his sword.

The blade came out of the scabbard with the sound of iron on leather, a hiss, then silence. The hall did not gasp. The hall did not scream. Sixty-three monks sat on the flagstone floor and watched a man draw a sword in a room where swords did not belong, and they did not move.

Giridasa had expected a reaction. He had expected, what? Monks scrambling for the doors, raising their hands, shouting, arguing, bargaining, offering to comply. That was what people did when a sword was drawn. That was the entire purpose of drawing a sword: to produce a reaction that made the use of the sword unnecessary. The sword was not a weapon but a statement. I have authority. You do not. Comply.

No one complied. No one moved.

Giridasa turned his head toward the door where Bhanu stood with his two spearmen. The turn was not fully deliberate. It was the instinct of a minister who had spent twenty years delegating, the body’s old memory that somewhere in the room there were men whose job was to carry out the hard end of an order when words had finished their work. Bhanu was looking at him. The sergeant’s face was the face of a soldier who had understood, somewhere between the drawing of the sword and this moment, that the errand in the minister’s pocket was not the errand he had been told it was. His spear was still on the flagstone. As Giridasa watched, Bhanu shifted his weight off the bad knee to the good leg, a small adjustment, the body settling into a position it could hold for a long time.

Giridasa held his eye for perhaps two seconds. Long enough to give the order without speaking it, the way a minister gave most of his orders, by looking. Bhanu looked back. The look said what looks between soldiers and their officers sometimes said when a line had been reached that the soldier did not believe the officer had the authority to cross: I will stand at this door. I will let no man out. Bhanu had decided. The scribe Kosa, at the side wall, had not moved either, though the scribe had no decision to make; he was simply watching, his stylus still in his hand.

Giridasa understood. A part of him had expected it, perhaps, though he had not admitted the expectation to himself. Palace guards did not kill bhikkhus. The thing would have to be done by the man who had been given the order, and the man who had been given the order was standing over the seated senior thera with the sword already in his hand.

Giridasa stood over the seated senior thera with a drawn sword and a room of monks who were looking at him the way they might look at a rainstorm. The incense smoke curled around the blade, the oil lamps reflected in the polished iron, and his own breathing was loud in the silence.

“I will force you to hold the uposatha,” he said.

The old thera looked at the sword, then at Giridasa’s face, then closed his eyes and settled inward, turning his attention from the room and the sword and the man holding it. His breathing slowed. His hands, resting in his lap with the fingers lightly touching, did not move.

Giridasa swung.

The blade was heavy. The Magadhan broadsword was designed for the field, for the downward cut that splits a man from collarbone to sternum through leather armour and the ribs beneath. In this room, against an unarmoured man sitting on the floor with his eyes closed, it was grotesque.

The old thera’s head left his body. The head fell, and the body remained upright for a full second, the cross-legged posture holding, the hands still in the lap, the robe still arranged over the shoulder, before it toppled sideways and the blood began.

The blood was bright. In the lamplight, on the polished sandstone, it was the colour of lac dye, and it spread in a pool that moved outward from the body the way water moves outward from a dropped stone, finding the joints between the flagstones, running along the channels cut for drainage, advancing toward the nearest monks.

The nearest monks did not move.

A voice began.

It came from somewhere in the middle of the hall, an old voice, low, the voice of a man who had recited these words ten thousand times in his life and who needed no breath to begin them, only the absence of any reason not to.

Namo tassa bhagavato arahato sammāsambuddhassa.

The Magadhi fell into the silence the way the blood was falling into the channels between the flagstones, finding its old paths. Honour to the Blessed One, the Worthy One, the Fully Self-Enlightened One. The first words of every recitation. The words a bhikkhu speaks when he wakes and when he eats and when he lies down to die. One voice, then two, then four, the bhikkhus taking up the chant one by one.

Namo tassa bhagavato arahato sammāsambuddhassa.

Giridasa looked at them. Two bhikkhus sat within arm’s reach of the spreading blood. Their robes would be stained within seconds. They sat in the lotus posture with their hands in their laps and their eyes open. The blood reached the hem of the nearer monk’s robe. The saffron darkened. He did not move. His mouth was open and the words were coming out of it.

His hand was wet on the sword grip. The chant was no longer a few voices. It was ten, fifteen, twenty, the bhikkhus across the hall taking up the words and finding the rhythm, low, unhurried, the syllables older than the men who spoke them.
Namo tassa bhagavato arahato sammāsambuddhassa.
Sixty-two monks. A dead man on the floor. And the voices, rising.

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That was amazing! This one is truly turning out to be a page-turner!

I love the level of very descriptive detail you consistently use (for example, water that smelled of tamarind, etc.) It makes the story a complete joy to read. I also love how you somehow manage to not interrupt the smooth flow of the story with that level of descriptiveness, which isn’t easy to accomplish. You seem to have a gift for introducing us to the characters’ personalities and making us feel that we intamatley understand them, seemingly without much effort at all. I already feel like I know Giridasa, and even the old monk. I found that very impressive.

Lastly, there is an impressive level of concision in your writing, which is something many writers lack. That would make an editor’s job easy. Overall, it’s very easy to read. I would say that “page-turner” is definitely an accurate way to describe it.

It’s also a great opportunity to use historical truths to spin an interesting tale. This can help people learn in a fun way. The Last Kingdom, which is a BBC and Netflix series based on Bernard Cornwell’s books, is an excellent example of this kind of historically-based fiction. It’s the best television series I’ve ever watched, bar none (and the first episode has a scene that bears some similarity to your sample from Chapter VIII here). Historically-based fiction is a real joy.

And if people are impressed by one of your books, they will also be more inclined to read your others as well. So there is also that benefit.

Thank you for sharing this.

R

From here;

"In an interview with Emerson College, Cornwell said:

Years ago, when I was at university, I discovered Anglo-Saxon poetry and became hooked on that strange and often melancholy world. For some reason the history of the Anglo-Saxons isn’t much taught in Britain (where I grew up) and it struck me as weird that the English really had no idea where their country came from. Americans know, they even have a starting date, but the English just seemed to assume that England had always been there, so the idea of writing a series about the creation of England was in my head for a long time.[2]

R

It’s amazing that these bhikkhus had the accumulations to do that.

R

This is very encouraging, thanks Renaldo!
I have read all of Cornwell’s Last Kingdom series and have actually partly modeled my style on his, along with Conn Iggulden (the Genghis Khan Series). The real prod to start trying to write this (over 10 years ago now ) was The Founts of Sinhala by Colin de Silva.

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Well, it’s certainly going well. And it also sounds like historical fiction is right up your alley. Not only can it be very entertaining, but it’s a great way for people to actually learn history too.

Just think of the combined impact that Cornwell’s books and the tv show have had. In April of 2022, The Last Kingdom amassed 1.423 billion total minutes viewed across 46 total episodes, and people are still watching it and reading his series today. As Cornwell points out in the interview, one of his main inspirations was that people didn’t know English history. There are certainly a lot of people that do now!

It would be great if more people would be interested in Buddhist history. Books like this could do that. Even just a few people learning history could have a big impact. People probably don’t have the kamma collectively for it to enter into pop-culture, like The Last Kingdom, but maybe you could change that. :rofl:

Anyway, if you are ever able to complete it, please put me down for a few copies!

I have friends that will certainly read it too.

R

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I would assume the Mahāvaṃsa is in the public domain now, although I’m not positive. If it is, it would be kind of neat if you included that chapter from The Great Chronicle of Ceylon in an appendix to the book, as well as a sample—maybe from the introduction—of your 2025 book, A Path Without Ownership in an appendix. It would be a great opportunity to share those.

You might enjoy this lovely discussion between one of the world’s fastest great writers and one of the world’s slowest great writers.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v_PBqSPNTfg (warning: Stephen King uses the ‘f word’ in the interview.)

R