Once upon a time there was a royal fig tree called Steadfast, belonging to king
Koravya, whose five outstretched branches provided a cool and pleasing shade.
Its girth extended a hundred miles, and its roots spread out for forty miles.
And the fruits of that tree were indeed great: As large as harvest baskets—such
were its succulent fruits—and as clear as the honey of bees.
One portion was enjoyed by the king, along with his household of women; one
portion was enjoyed by the army; one portion was enjoyed by the people of the
town and village; one portion was enjoyed by brahmins and ascetics; and one
portion was enjoyed by the beasts and birds. Nobody guarded the fruits of that
royal tree, and neither did anyone harm one another for the sake of its fruits.
But then a certain man came along who fed upon as much of Steadfast’s
fruits as he wanted, broke off a branch, and wandered on his way. And the deva
who dwelled in Steadfast thought to herself: “It is astonishing, it is
truly amazing, that such an evil man would dare to feed upon as much of Steadfast’s
fruits as he wants, break off a branch, and then wander on his way! Now, what
if Steadfast were in the future to bear no more fruit?” And so the royal
fig tree Steadfast bore no more fruit.
So then king Koravya went up to where Sakka, chief among the gods, was dwelling,
and having approached said this: “Surely you must know, sire, that Steadfast,
the royal fig tree, no longer bears fruit?” And then Sakka created a magical
creation of such a form that a mighty wind and rain came down and toppled the
royal fig tree Steadfast, uprooting it entirely. And then the deva who dwelled
in Steadfast grieved, lamented, and stood weeping on one side with a face full
of tears.
And then Sakka, chief among the gods, went up to where the deva was standing,
and having approached said this: “Why is it, deva, that you grieve and
lament and stand on one side with a face full of tears?” “It is
because, sire, a mighty wind and rain has come and toppled my abode, uprooting
it entirely.”
“And were you, deva, upholding the dhamma of trees when this happened?”
“But how is it, sire, that a tree upholds the dhamma of trees?”
“Like this, deva: Root-cutters take the root of the tree; bark-strippers
take the bark; leaf-pickers take the leaves; flower-pickers take the flowers;
fruit-pickers take the fruits—and none of this is reason enough for a
deva to think only of herself or become morose. Thus it is, deva, that a tree
upholds the dhamma of trees.”
“Then indeed, sire, I was not upholding the dhamma of trees when the mighty
wind and rain came and toppled my abode, uprooting it entirely.” “If
it were the case, deva, that you were to uphold the dhamma of trees, it may
be that your abode might be as it was before.” “I will indeed, sire,
uphold the dhamma of trees! May my abode be as it was before!”
And then Sakka, chief among the gods, created a magical creation of such a form
that a mighty wind and rain came down and raised up the royal fig tree Steadfast,
and its roots were entirely healed.
Perhaps this is a true story—perhaps Steadfast is a name for the entire
planet, not just a mythological tree. How else might we explain the earth’s
great forebearance and continued beneficence in the face of the rapacity and
destruction we have wrought upon her? I think Gaia, the deity inhabiting the
abode of our lovely Earth, was taught this lesson by Sakka in ancient times,
and has with great patience and dignity put up with the worst we can render.
If this is true, then she will not give us a sign when we have gone too far—perceiving
this is our own responsibility.
Like every Buddhist story, this one works on many levels simultaneously. It
is no accident that the great tree has five branches, or that the word used
for each portion is khandha—the term designating the five aggregates of
form, feeling, perception, formations and consciousness. The man eating his
fill of fruit is manifesting greed, craving or desire, and his breaking of the
branch represents hatred, anger or aversion. These are two of the three poisonous
roots out of which all unwholesome action arises (the third—ignorance—is
always present when others occur). Thus the entire image is representative of
a person being wronged by another or facing the erruption of their own latent
tendencies for harmful action.
Notice that the story does not teach the “evil man” the folly of
his ways, since there is often nothing one can do to avoid such people or such
inclinations in oneself. The teaching is more about our response to transgression.
Sakka’s point is that it is self-centered to react petulantly to such
an affront, and that the only suitable response is with kindness and generosity—to
oneself as well as to others. As the Dhammapada so aptly says, “Never
at any time in this world are hostilities resolved by hostility; but by kindness
they are resolved—this is an eternal truth.” (Dhp 5)
This teaching is given to Dhammika, a monk who complains of his treatment by
certain laypeople. The Buddha reflects the situation back upon Dhammika, who
as it turns out does not treat his fellow monks very well. It is an occaision
to teach Dhammika, with the help of this story, the “dhamma of a recluse,”
which boils down to “not returning the insult of the insulter, the anger
of the angry or the abuse of the abuser.”