Nanda and Ānanda. The attractive, fatuous brother. The obliging and tenacious cousin. Sometimes their stories get mixed up, overlap. They were counterweights to the Buddha: the terrestial twin, the Residue, Śeṣa. The Buddha could never exist alone. Even when he sits to meditate, his lotus seat is a coiled snake. The Buddha never sets foot on the bare earth. His foundation (pratiṣṭhā) is a flower and a snake. They have taken the place of the black antelope skin. But how could the Buddha sit on himself? And the antelope presupposes sacrifice. The Buddha wishes to presuppose the world and no more: flower and snake. Then, when he preaches, he is supported by his friend and faithful servant, his cousin Ānanda. Thus the two birds of the great aśvattha live on, “inseparable companions,” through transformation after transformation.
In the woods of Kuśinagara the Buddha stopped by twin śāla trees, each growing as a mirror image of the other. He told Ānanda that he wanted his bed made here. And he added: with the head toward the north. Ānanda prepared the Buddha’s bed just as he had been doing for twenty-five years. But he knew that toward the second watch of this particular night, the Buddha would enter the nirvāṇa without residue. He was gripped by terror. The Buddha lay on his right side, his legs slightly bent, feet together, like a lion. He looked ahead, with the same expression he always wore. Before lying down, the only thing he said was that he was very tired. Meanwhile the branches of the two śāla trees had bent toward each other a little, and though it was not the season, soft flowers began to fall on the Buddha’s body and the ground around him.
An old monk, Upavāna, came by. Sitting next to the Buddha, he fanned him. Ānanda, who had gone off somewhere for a moment, recognized him immediately: he had been the Buddha’s servant before him. Now he had turned up again without even asking to be introduced to the Buddha. What cheek! He was waving a large fan in a dense, heavily charged silence. Then Ānanda was amazed to see the Buddha send Upavāṇa packing with just a few curt words. The Buddha had never treated anyone like that, Ānanda thought. And a torrent of questions flooded his mind: “How can the Buddha, on the very night he is about to enter into extinction, mistreat a monk who is trying to do him a kindness? How can the Buddha, at this of all moments, do something that I might do? What inaccessible stores of anger lurk within the Buddha? Or is it just me again not understanding what’s going on?” “For twelve yojanas around. this place is thick with gods, their heads knocking against each other: they have all come here to watch, and they are complaining because Upavāṇa’s fan is preventing them from seeing what is happening.” said the Buddha, answering the thoughts of his bewildered servant. Then Ānanda suddenly felt he was onstage in an immense theater, with thousands of eyes staring at him from the darkness. Numbed, he thought: “The Buddha hasn’t told me everything.” And so it was. A little later the Buddha went on in a lower voice: “Of course Upavāṇa isn’t only that foolish monk whose place you so proudly took. It’s a long story. All stories are long stories. One day, thousands of years ago, in the times of the Buddha Kāśyapa, Upavāna was left alone in the monastery to sweep the floor and prepare the fire for the other monks. That blaze was so intense that it still illuminates him today. The gods are disturbed, dazzled by the light that shines from Upavāṇa’s face. And they are afraid they won’t ever see the Buddha again, because Buddhas are unpredictable, no one knows when they will appear, the way no one knows when the udumbara will flower. But that’s still not the end of the story: because Upavāṇa is just one of many gods, who chose to come along ahead of the others by assuming the form of the monk who lit the fire. But as far as I’m concerned, all the gods have to be kept at the same distance. That’s why I sent him packing,” said the Buddha, and he went back to gazing into the still air where the śāla petals were silently falling.
During the Buddha’s last night, Ānanda went about his duties as always, the most important being to decide who could be introduced to the Buddha and when. Lying between the twin śāla trees, the Buddha was gradually being covered by the petals of the two trees that had blossomed out of season, and by other petals falling slowly from the sky. Nearby, among the hovels of Kuśinagara, Ānanda had had to announce that in the third watch of the night the Buddha would be extinguished without residue. Already a large number of Mallas were crowding into this little village hidden away in the forest — and many others were arriving from the five nearby towns. They brought with them their children, their womenfolk, their servants. They wanted them all to be able to say one day: “I saw the Buddha.” They kept together in groups, as though afraid of losing each other in the confusion of a caravansary. Ānanda thought: “If I admit them to the Buddha’s presence one by one, I’ll never get them all to see him.” With all the experience he had accumulated in twenty-five years with the Buddha, he gave simple, straightforward instructions. They would be brought to the Buddha family by family. Ānanda led each family. The children stared wide-eyed, understanding nothing. Dozens and dozens of Malla folk filed by the two śāla, trees, Ānanda introducing every one of them. The Buddha looked at them and was silent. They too were silent, huddled together in one dark clump, like a heap of rags. Behind every family, the huddle of another could be seen, waiting motionless in the darkness. The only sound was the shuffling of new arrivals. As so often in the past, Ānanda directed everybody’s movements. He went from one group to the next. He was always present.
The last Malla family was leaving. The only sounds now were those of the animals in the forest. Ānanda felt tense and exhausted. A slim shadow materialized from the trees. A solitary figure, a wanderer with no faith, Subhadrā. He had passed by the village and heard the news. He said to Ānanda: “They told me that the Tathāgata will be extinguished in the last watch of the night. I feel uncertain about something. Perhaps the śramaṇa Gautama can free me from this uncertainty. I would like to be allowed to see him, Ānanda, like the others.” Imagining the Buddha wouldn’t hear him, Ānanda whispered: “It’s late, Subhadrā, my friend. Don’t disturb the Tathāgata. The Blessed One is tired.” But Subhadrā insisted. Then, soft and clear, came the Buddha’s voice: “Enough, Ānanda. Don’t keep Subhadrā away. Whatever he wants to ask me, it will be for knowledge. And he will understand what I tell him.” Then Ānanda said: “Come this way, Subhadrā. The Tathāgata will receive you.” After greeting him in accordance with the rules, Subhadrā sat down next to the Buddha. He spoke as though taking up an old, unfinished conversation, starting in the middle: “Did the old masters,” said Subhadrā—and he listed some illustrious names, including those of Ajita and Saṃjayin—“did the old masters understand or not? Or did some of them understand and others not?” “That’s enough, Subhadrā,” said the Buddha. “Let’s leave aside the question of whether they understood or not. Now listen to me. Whatever the discipline, if the noble eightfold path can be found within it, then likewise to be found there is the person who understands. Everything else is meaningless. For fifty years, ever since I left my father’s house, I have been a pilgrim in the vast realm of doctrine. There is no other knowledge. But within it the brotherhood can live the perfect life.” Subhadrā kept his eyes on the ground. He said: “The Tathāgata has shown me the truth in many ways. I too wish to find refuge in the doctrine. I too wish to enter the Order.” “Anyone,” said the Buddha, “who wishes to enter the Order after following another doctrine must submit to a trial period of four months.” Subhadrā went on staring at the ground. “I will submit to it. I hope that after four months they will accept me.” Then the Buddha called Ānanda and said: “Ānanda, welcome Subhadrā into the Order.” “It shall be done,” said Ānanda. Then Subhadrā rose to his feet and thanked Ānanda. He was the last disciple converted by the Buddha. He went on living a solitary life.