Who Deceived You the Most? | "The Composed Mind" (Samahita Sitha) – First Dhamma Sermon | Thiththagalle Anandasiri Thero
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මුල් සිංහල වීඩියෝව සඳහා Play කරන්න
Who Deceived You the Most? | "The Composed Mind" (Samahita Sitha) – First Dhamma Sermon | Thiththagalle Anandasiri Thero
Another day has passed in our lives. As these days slip away, where are we ultimately heading? We are heading toward that final resting place where one sleeps in peace. However, today is different from any other day; today holds a special significance. Now, where did you say you traveled from? Alawathuta, wasn't it? Why did you come here? What was the reason for wanting to investigate the mind (citta)? What is it that you hope to realize? It is quite alright; we describe this pursuit as "seeking the truth" (sathya). What exactly are we searching for? People should not come here merely to worship Bodhi trees, to venerate stupas, or to bow before Buddha statues. While there is no harm in those acts, why did people seek out the Buddha in ancient India? They came in search of the truth. As human beings, we possess an innate nature to seek such understanding. Even through modern science, what do we hope to achieve with all this progress? We are looking for the truth. We seek to understand the reality behind the things we believe to be true. I do not know if this quality exists within other animals.
It does not appear that animals possess this drive; they simply seem to exist. Just now, a herd of pigs passed by. We cannot tell if they are searching for truth or merely searching for food; their range of perception is beyond our understanding. However, as humans, we understand that we are searching. We have a desire to know whether the things we have come to understand are correct or not. It was in the East, centered around ancient India (Bharatha), that such seekers of truth emerged. One such individual was Gautama Buddha. He discovered a message for the world. Since we are speaking about the Buddha here, what exactly did he discover? That is precisely what we, too, are attempting to realize (saccikiriya).
Today, I asked for a specific text to be printed and brought here for us to discuss. It is the Magandiya Sutta. This is a discourse delivered to a wanderer (parivrajaka) named Magandiya. The background of this sermon takes place in the Kuru country, specifically in a market town called Kammasadhamma. I have visited this region in India; it is believed that during the Buddha’s time, the people living there were exceptionally intelligent. Even today in Sri Lanka, we have similar reputations for certain areas—for instance, some might say that in Balapitiya, the people are particularly sharp or spirited. The Kuru kingdom was known as a place where wise and intellectual people resided. Even in modern India, that region remains. A certain Brahmin of the Bharadvaja clan lived in that village.
He was a "Fire Brahmin"—one who maintained a sacrificial fire. He had a fire-hall (aggisala), which was like a temple or a shrine where fire was worshipped. The Buddha was staying in that Brahmin's fire-hall at that time, likely at his invitation. On that day, the Blessed One (Bhagava), having dressed in the early morning and taken his robes and bowl, entered the town of Kammasadhamma for alms (pindapatha). After returning from his alms round, he went to a certain forest grove to spend the day in quiet meditation.
This means the Buddha went to a place similar to a park. Even in developed countries today, you find these green spaces within cities—areas with trees and flowers and a beautiful environment. In this village of Kammasadhamma, there was such a forested area. He went there to spend the afternoon in seclusion. Having entered that grove, he sat down at the foot of a large tree to spend the day.
That region is still lush with trees today and is quite populated. History records that the Buddha resided there. At that time, the wanderer (parivrajaka) Magandiya was walking about for exercise. It seems that even in those ancient times, people practiced walking for health; it is a habit that has endured through the ages.
While walking for his exercise, Magandiya arrived at the fire-hall (aggisala) of the Brahmin of the Bharadvaja clan. Now, who was Magandiya, and who was this Brahmin? In India, the term "Brahmin" does not carry a lowly meaning; they represented the highest caste, a group that studied the Vedic scriptures. Even today, they are held in the highest regard within the Indian social hierarchy.
Magandiya entered the hall and noticed a special grass mat (tina-santhara) prepared for sitting. It was laid out beautifully, much like how we might carefully arrange cushions and chairs today. Upon seeing this, he questioned the Brahmin Bharadvaja: "For whom has this grass mat been prepared in your fire-hall? It looks like a seat fit for an ascetic (samana)." He recognized that such a specially prepared seat must be intended for a distinguished spiritual seeker.
The Brahmin replied, "There is an ascetic named Gautama, a son of the Shakyas, who has gone forth from the Shakya clan. A glorious reputation has spread regarding this Master Gautama." He then referred to the qualities we often recite in the Itipiso verse—that he is a worthy one (arahant), a fully enlightened one (samma-sambuddha), and the Blessed One (bhagava). Even those who did not follow him closely at the time recognized him by these nine supreme virtues.
Was this fire-worshipping Brahmin a Buddhist? No, he was not. However, out of the immense respect he had for the Buddha—who had renounced his royal Shakya lineage to seek the truth—he had invited him to stay in his fire-hall, his place of worship, for a few days. He had personally prepared that grass mat for the Buddha.
When Magandiya heard the description and realized the seat was for the one called the Buddha, he did not use that title. Like many who had not yet heard or understood the Dhamma, he referred to him simply as "Gautama," using his clan name. Then, Magandiya voiced a harsh criticism. He said, "It is an ill-omened sight to see the bed of that 'destroyer of growth' (bhunahu), Gautama." He spoke with great disdain, as if he had encountered something repulsive.
To help you understand his reaction, it is like the feeling some people might have today when seeing the home or belongings of a person they strongly dislike or someone who has caused great harm. They might feel that even looking at such a thing is a misfortune. Magandiya felt that the Buddha’s teachings, which emphasized renunciation and the ending of worldly craving, were a "destruction" of human progress and sensory enjoyment. He told the Brahmin, "O Bharadvaja, I have seen something I should never have seen."
However, the Brahmin Bharadvaja immediately cautioned him, saying, "Be careful with your words, Magandiya. Do not speak like that. Many wise men, scholars, and nobles are deeply devoted to Master Gautama, recognizing his supreme wisdom (panna) and virtue (sila)."
"Do not speak so disparagingly. Many wise scholars (pandits), learned individuals, and noble householders are deeply devoted to Master Gautama." The Brahmin was explaining that people from the highest strata of society and the most educated circles held the Buddha in high esteem. He told Magandiya that even if he were to meet the Buddha in person, he would see why so many respected him.
However, Magandiya remained steadfast in his views. He replied, "Bharadvaja, even if I were to meet Master Gautama face-to-face, I would say the exact same thing. I would tell him to his face: 'You are a destroyer of growth (bhunahu).'" He was a man of strong convictions, however misplaced they were. He insisted, "I would tell him he is someone who leads people toward ruin."
Why did he say this? It was because he had studied his own religious traditions, and the Buddha’s teachings directly contradicted them. At that time, almost every religious tradition in India taught the existence of a permanent soul (atman). They believed in a "self"—a concept of "I" and "mine"—just as most people do today. These ancient seekers did not arrive at these views casually; they were the result of intense meditation, yoga, and deep philosophical research. They were far more philosophically grounded than many people are today.
Magandiya then said, "Bharadvaja, if it does not burden you, please convey my charges to the ascetic Gautama. Do not try to protect me or soften my words. Tell him exactly what I said, without leaving out a single word." He wanted it known that he considered the Buddha a "destroyer of growth" and someone whose very presence—even the place where he stayed—was something that should not be seen.
I chose this Sutta specifically to show you the reality of the Buddha's time. Today, we offer flowers and worship him with great devotion, but in ancient India, there were those who felt such intense animosity that they couldn't even stand to look at the place where he resided.
The Magandiya Sutta records the discussion that follows when the Buddha eventually meets this man. But before we get into the heart of the sermon, I wanted you to understand this history. It highlights Magandiya’s deep-seated resistance. He didn't even address the Buddha by his title, but only by his clan name, Gautama, showing a total lack of respect. He had likely heard distorted versions of the Dhamma and developed a hatred based on misunderstanding.
We see this even today; some people harbor anger toward teachers they have never met and teachings they have never truly heard. The discourse that follows this encounter deals with the nature of the eye (cakkhu) and visual forms (rupa). The Buddha’s teaching is always centered on how we experience the world through our senses. Later, I will explain the meditation practice to you, but understand that this investigation is what we call insight (vipassana)—the path to discovering the ultimate truth.
The Buddha provides a unique perspective—a specific teaching. If I were to ask you to show me your eye, where would you point? Go ahead, point to it. You point to the physical organ, right? The same with your ear. In the realm of physical science, that is what we call the eye or the ear. But I want you to listen closely and answer this: Can we truly speak of an "eye" (cakkhu) without a visual form (rupa) and the act of seeing?
If there were no visual forms to encounter—if there were nothing in your surroundings to perceive—would there be such a thing as "seeing"? And if there is no seeing, can we really discuss the eye? This means that we only truly encounter the "eye" through its active, living function. Listen carefully: in physical science, we identify the eye, ear, and nose as parts of the body. But if the eye never encountered anything to see, could we claim to "have" an eye? It is only when something is seen that the eye becomes a living reality for us through the experience of sight.
It is the same with the ear. If nothing is ever heard, can we speak of an ear? It would serve no purpose. We only feel that we have an ear (sota) when we are hearing, don't we? We realize we have an eye when we see, and an ear when we hear. Now, consider the nose. You have a nose, but what use is it if there is no scent—not even a flower or a piece of tissue—to smell? It is through the act of smelling (ghana) that the nose becomes a living part of our experience. You have a tongue—a piece of flesh in your mouth—but it is only when you taste something that it truly functions as a "tongue" (jivha). These things exist through this process of "activation."
If visual forms did not exist—if we could never encounter anything to see—could we speak of the eye's sight? No. If there were no sounds (sadda), could we speak of an ear? If there were no fragrances or odors (gandha), could we speak of a nose? If there were no tastes (rasa), could we speak of a tongue? If there were no touch (photthabba)—no heat, cold, or hardness—could we speak of a body (kaya)? And if there were no mental objects or thoughts (dhamma), could we speak of a mind (mano)? What we call "living" is simply the functioning of these six. Life is the interaction where the eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind encounter forms, sounds, smells, tastes, touch, and thoughts.
Is there anything more to life than this? Can anyone on this earth do anything beyond these six? Whether you are wealthy or poor, learned or unlettered, you cannot experience anything outside of this: the eye and form, the ear and sound, the nose and smell, the tongue and taste, the body and touch, and the mind and its thoughts. That is all there is. Though we may imagine there is more, there truly isn't.
Let’s look at this from the other side. We find an "eye" because there is a "form." But if there were no eye, would a form be encountered? Looking at it this way: the form exists for us because the eye exists; the sound exists because the ear exists. I want you to be very mindful (sati) and listen to what I am saying. Throughout our lives, we talk and think about the things we see with our eyes. However, until now, we have not directed our minds to investigate the eye itself or the process of seeing. We think about sounds, but we haven't focused our minds on the relationship between the ear and the sound. Because of this, it is not an easy concept to grasp.
As I said, the experience of an "eye" arises only with the seeing of a form. The physical organ itself is not the point. When we are in a deep, dreamless sleep, even though we have physical eyes, they do not "exist" for us because there is no seeing of forms or hearing of sounds. Therefore, for an eye to be realized, a form must be seen. But does this mean there is a solid foundation to either of them? We often think of things as having a heavy, solid foundation—like a concrete pillar. But is there a fixed foundation for the eye? If you look from the perspective of the eye, you find no permanent foundation. If you look from the perspective of the sound, there is no foundation there either. There is nothing "there." Neither the sense organ nor the object has any inherent, lasting stability. Both sides are devoid of a permanent core.
It is the same when we study modern science; we solve equations by assuming that time equals zero (t=0t=0t=0 ). This means that at the very beginning, we accept a convention—an assumption—as our starting point. If the foundation itself is a convention and not an absolute truth, then nothing that follows from it can be considered absolute truth, no matter how much you study it. It remains based on an initial assumption that isn't fundamentally "real." I do not know if you have reflected deeply enough to grasp this, but I want you to think about what I am saying.
Let me repeat: When do we actually encounter the eye? An object or an image must fall upon it; only then is there seeing. For an ear to be realized, a sound must be heard. For a nose to be realized, a scent must be perceived. For a tongue, a taste; for the body, a sensation of touch. And for the mind (mano) to be realized, a mental object or thought (dhamma) must arise. Without these, would anyone ever encounter the mind? They would not. This is the process that takes place.
What we call "living" is simply the functioning of one of these six sense bases. If you were to remove these six, would there be anything left that you could call "life"? Yet, neither side of this experience has a solid foundation. The eye cannot "stand up" or exist on its own; it requires a visual form. Likewise, a form cannot present itself to our experience without the eye.
It is like those people who have no inner strength or "backbone." When you ask them a question, they just look at someone else for the answer, or they stare at the ground, unable to speak. They have no presence, no solid foundation. The eye and the visual form are just like that. The eye cannot assert itself without a form, and the ear cannot assert itself without a sound. Without the ear, sound is meaningless. Without the nose, fragrance is meaningless.
Suppose there was something beyond these six—something that was not a sight, a sound, a smell, a taste, a touch, or a thought. Would such a thing have any relevance to us? Would we even know what it was? Consider this tissue: we can see it, we can smell it, we can hear the sound it makes when torn, we can taste it, or we can think about it. Is there anything else to this object that we can find beyond those experiences? There is not.
Think deeply: Does life have a solid foundation? To a person who does not reflect, this is never an issue. But to a person who thinks deeply, it becomes clear that there is a significant problem here. This realization is the reason I chose to wear these robes at the age of twenty. I do not know why others ordain, but for me, it was because I saw that there was no permanent foundation to be found. On my very first day of A-Level classes, they told us that in physics, we solve problems by assuming time equals zero. I thought to myself, "Is time actually zero? Do we just have to pretend it is to make the calculations work?" I realized then that the entire system was built on such assumptions, and that led me to look further.
On that day, my interest in formal education ended. Now, if you were offered a house to live in that had no foundation, would you be able to stay there? A fool might stay, simply because he does not know any better and does not think to look. The house might have a roof, well-built walls, and beautiful lighting, but if there is no foundation, would we ever feel comfortable sleeping there, no matter how beautiful the bed was?
When even things with foundations can fail, how much more precarious is something that has none? A mere gust of wind could bring it down. Think of those building collapses we hear about in places like Bangladesh; the upper floors are built up high, but the base is weak, and suddenly—crash—it all comes down, and thousands of people lose their lives. What do we usually call people who work inside a ten-story concrete building that has no solid foundation? We would call them foolish, wouldn't we?
Are we not in the same position? We should feel that same sense of folly. Without a foundation, we continue to live by constantly searching for more forms to see and more sounds to hear. This is why the Buddha said that people "dwell in the eye and forms" (cakkhu-rūpa-ārāma). To "dwell" (ārāma) means to make it your home or your place of delight. The eye cannot function without forms; the ear cannot be "alive" without sounds. You cannot even claim to have an ear if there is no sound to be heard.
The nose needs scent, the tongue needs taste, the body needs touch, and the mind needs thoughts. Without these objects, you cannot even say these senses exist. For the mind to conclude that something "is" or "is not," a mental object must first arise.
Now, let us move a bit deeper into the teaching. What is actually happening is that the eye (cakkhu), a visual form (rūpa), and consciousness (viññāṇa) come together to create the experience of "seeing." The ear (sota), a sound (sadda), and consciousness (viññāṇa) come together to create "hearing." However, we add a distortion (vipallāsa) to this process. What do I mean by distortion? If I were to take this lamp and call it a "cannon," would that be the truth? No, it would be a lie—a distortion. Calling it a lamp is correct, but anything beyond that becomes a distorted idea.
Similarly, when the eye, form, and consciousness unite to produce the act of seeing, we immediately think, "I see." Do we ever stop to realize that it is merely the meeting of the eye, the form, and consciousness? No, we take the whole experience and say, "I see you." When you look at me, do you see the meeting of the eye, form, and consciousness, or do you just see "a person"? When the mind, a thought, and consciousness meet, do you see it as a process, or do you simply think, "I am thinking"?
How do you perceive me right now? You see a yellow robe, and you perceive a form. But do you recognize this as the interplay of eye, form, and consciousness? Or do you just think, "I see the monk"? When you hear this sermon, do you think, "hearing is occurring because of the ear, sound, and consciousness," or do you think, "I am hearing"?
If a deaf person were here, they would not hear these sounds, and thus the feeling of "I am hearing" would not arise for them. If a blind person were here, the feeling of "I am seeing" would not arise. Yet for you, the acts of seeing, hearing, and thinking are taken "whole"—and to whom do you attribute them? You attribute them to "me." You think, "It is I who sees, hears, and thinks."
This is exactly why Magandiya brought those charges against the Buddha. The Buddha’s teaching is about this very "I"—it is a discourse on this distortion. Magandiya realized that the Buddha’s words were intended to dismantle this "I," and that is why he called him a "destroyer." However, the Buddha does not simply say "there is no self" or "there is a self"; he explains the causal process of how these things arise.
We superimpose something onto this natural process; we say, "I see" or "I hear." In reality, hearing occurs simply because of the meeting of the ear (sota), sound (sadda), and consciousness (viññāṇa). Even though none of these factors have a solid, independent foundation, when they converge, the phenomenon of hearing arises. Similarly, though they lack a permanent core, when the eye (cakkhu), form (rūpa), and consciousness (viññāṇa) meet, seeing occurs. When the mind (mano), a mental object (dhamma), and consciousness (viññāṇa) meet, thinking occurs.
From the perspective of ultimate truth (paramattha sacca), this is all that is happening. However, an "owner" suddenly enters the scene. We think, "I am thinking," "I am seeing," or "I am hearing." Is this idea of "I" a truth, or is it a distortion (vipallāsa)? To most of you, it still feels like the truth because that is how you perceive the world. But through the enlightened vision of the Buddha, this is recognized as a distortion.
Consider this mobile phone. Suppose it is broken and you cannot make calls or use any of its functions. If we still call it a "phone," is that correct or incorrect? It cannot perform its function. So, is it truly a phone? There is a subtle point here: it is only a "phone" because of its functionality. Without that activity, it is merely a box made of plastic, wood, or metal. It is the process, the activity, that earns it the name "phone."
Now, look at the camera on this phone. We can use it like a telescope to zoom in and see someone far away more clearly than someone standing right next to us. If I were to say, "I have the power to see that far," would I be right? No. It is the capability of the lens and the technology that allows for that vision. If it were truly my inherent ability, I should be able to see that far with my bare eyes. Do you see the point? We often think "I see," but we are misattributing a functional process to a permanent self. We use the name "phone" as a conventional designation (vohāra) for a specific process.
The same applies to the eye. We call it an "eye" because it sees forms. In the conventional world, we identify the eye or the ear as physical organs, but the deeper truth is that an "eye" is only realized through the act of seeing, and an "ear" through the act of hearing. Without that functional process, the physical organ is just matter. A phone must be able to make a call to be a phone. We take these functional processes and superimpose a concept—a distortion—upon them. We take the meeting of mind, object, and consciousness and label it "me." We say, "I see."
Think about how you have spent your entire life. You have worked tirelessly to see more beautiful forms and hear more pleasant sounds. But for whom were you doing this? Was it for the eye, or was it for "me"? When you plan for the future, you are planning to provide more sights and sounds for this "me." Even when people reach the end of their lives, this craving (tanha) is rarely settled. They die without ever realizing the truth. They spent their whole lives believing "I see," never understanding that it was merely the interplay of the eye, forms, and consciousness. Just as one might mistakenly believe they are the ones making a call when it is actually the phone’s technology doing the work, we live under the illusion that these sensory experiences are "ours."
We think we are the ones making the call, but without the phone, there is no call. We are under the illusion that we are the ones acting. We even apply this distortion (vipallāsa) to the photos we take. We ask others, "See how beautiful this photo is that I have taken?" Do you see how we superimpose this distortion even onto these simple actions?
Consider when people gather to give alms or donations. The one giving thinks, "I am the one who is giving." But if there were nothing to give, how could you give? This distortion permeates everything. The root of this misconception is the thought: "I see," "I hear," or "I think." This is a fundamentally wrong view. If you start from the premise of "I see" and try to find the truth, will you ever find it? You have started with a false foundation.
As I mentioned before, it is like assuming time equals zero (t=0t=0t=0) to solve a physics problem. Even if you get an answer that fits the system, you are working from a convention, not the ultimate reality. If you base your search on a distortion, everything you find thereafter will also be a distortion. You will never encounter the natural state (prakruthi) of things as they are. This is why humans, through mere thinking, often fail to find the truth.
In the West, the focus is often on finding more ways to provide gratification for the "self." In the East, there is a traditional understanding that chasing gratification for this "self" is exhausting, so the goal is to move away from it. This is why you see a greater tendency in the East to visit temples, churches, and shrines. While one side tries to multiply sensory pleasures—forms, sounds, smells, tastes, and touches—to satisfy the "I," the other side views this as a burdensome and endless cycle.
So, one group takes the distorted idea of "I" and tries to satisfy it, while another group tries to destroy that "I." This is why Magandiya accused the Buddha of being a "destroyer"—he believed the Buddha was teaching the destruction of the self. But listen carefully: to destroy something, it must first exist. You can break this glass because it is actually here. But can you destroy something that isn't there, simply because you imagine it exists?
Suppose there is no glass on this table, yet I imagine there is one. If I then try to "destroy" that non-existent glass, is that a reflection of reality? No, it is a profound distortion. People imagine a "self" where there is none, and then they develop various practices, philosophies, and religions to destroy it. No matter how much they meditate or what vows they take, they can never "destroy" the self because that self was never a reality to begin with. Trying to satisfy a non-existent self is foolish, and trying to destroy a non-existent self is equally foolish. These are two sides of the same distortion. Whether in the East or the West, many live within these two misconceptions.
Have we ever truly directed our awareness to see that "seeing" is merely the result of the eye (cakkhu), forms (rūpa), and consciousness (viññāṇa)? Instead, we superimpose (āropaṇa) an "I" onto that process. We attribute the activity to a "me." If the eye, forms, and consciousness were not present, could you still attribute "seeing" to yourself? We take a functional process and "superimpose" (āropaṇa) or "substitute" (ādeśa) the concept of "I" where it does not exist. It is like me asking you to imagine a twenty-kilogram pumpkin floating right here in the empty sky.
Can you do it? Can you imagine it? I am only asking if it is possible. Yes, it is. Imagine a large pumpkin right here. Now, there is a massive pumpkin in the sky. How much does it weigh? Twenty kilograms. Can you cut it in half? Here, I will give you a knife. Since it is so large, climb on top of it and cut it. Is it possible or not? In your mind, it is possible. Now, imagine taking a seed from it and eating it.
What are we doing here? We are superimposing (āropaṇa) something where nothing exists. In our language, we call these "mental fabrications" (hithaḷu); in English, we call it "imagination." You create a fabrication and then continue to think within that framework. You could even imagine taking a seed from that pumpkin and using it to travel to the celestial realms (deva loka)—perhaps to the Heaven of the Thirty-Three (Tāvatiṃsa) or the Heaven of those who Delight in Creating (Nimmānarati). This is exactly how we superimpose the concept of "I" (atta). Where do we superimpose it? We superimpose it onto the ear and sound when hearing occurs. We superimpose it when the mind, an object, and consciousness meet and thinking occurs.
We say, "I am thinking." From that point of "I," we build an entire narrative: "He said this to me. How can he say such a thing to someone like me? I won't stand for it unless he bows his head and apologizes." Are we not creating a whole story? All of this is built upon a superimposition, just like the imaginary pumpkin in the sky. The Buddha points out that this is a distortion (vipallāsa). No matter how much you think within this framework, you will never find the truth. If you spend eons thinking about that imaginary pumpkin, its seeds, and traveling to heaven with them, will you ever encounter a real pumpkin? No, because the foundation is false; it is merely a superimposition.
Later, someone might find this imaginary pumpkin to be a burden. They think, "This is too much trouble; thinking about this pumpkin makes it split and multiply until they are piled high. I can't even sell them. I must get rid of these pumpkins!" Even then, are they dealing with a real pumpkin? No. To say that something "is not," you must first assume that it "is." Do you see the point? This Dhamma is for those who can reflect deeply. Those who cannot think critically will find it difficult to realize (avabodha) this teaching.
To say something exists or does not exist, there must be a prior concept of its presence. Think about your own mind and answer: you might say, "I had a friend, but now I don't." Even to say that the friend is "no more," don't you first have to bring that friend to mind? Similarly, saying "I do not exist" is only relative to the idea that "I exist." The Buddha explains that thinking in either direction is a distortion. Trying to "destroy the self" is also a distortion. The Dhamma is not about destroying something that actually exists. If a permanent "self" were real and the Buddha taught its destruction, then he would indeed be a "destroyer of beings," just as his critics claimed. If I were to teach you to destroy this physical glass, and you did so, then something real would have been destroyed.
But was there ever a permanent "self" here to begin with? No. Therefore, the Buddha’s teaching is about removing the lack of understanding (anavabodhaya). It is not about asserting that something is there or isn't there, because a permanent entity never existed in the first place. A person who spends their life trying to satisfy and bring pleasure to this superimposed "self" is profoundly foolish, for they are chasing an impossibility. And the person who listens to the Dhamma and tries to "destroy" that self is simply repeating the same mistake from the opposite side.
Seeing, hearing, and thinking occur due to the meeting of three specific causes. It is the convergence of the eye (cakkhu), a visual form (rūpa), and consciousness (viññāṇa) that results in seeing. It is not "I" who sees. If it were truly "I" who sees, then one should still be able to see even after the eye is removed. If it were "I" who hears, one should still hear even after the eardrum is shattered by an explosion. But as we see, once the physical capacity is gone, the "I" cannot hear. If the nose is destroyed, the sense of smell vanishes. Some people lose their sense of taste even while the tongue remains; if "I" were the one tasting, the sensation should persist regardless of the organ's condition. But it does not. Seeing, hearing, and thinking happen only when the necessary conditions are met.
This "I" that we superimpose is merely a concept, a mental fabrication. Furthermore, simply deciding that "this 'I' is wrong" or "I do not exist" is just another form of distortion (vipallāsa). This brings us to the heart of the Dhamma: Right View (sammā-diṭṭhi). Right View is not a mysterious or mystical state; it is the clear realization of one's own wrong views. When you investigate with wisdom (paññā), you see that what you took to be "I" is actually just the interplay of the mind (mano), an object (dhamma), and consciousness (viññāṇa).
If you then think, "Therefore, I do not exist," you have simply moved to the opposite extreme. When both of these patterns of thought—"I exist" and "I do not exist"—are understood to be errors and are let go, one attains Right View. This is the true entry into the Buddha's Dispensation (Sāsana). This is where one truly encounters the Buddha. Until then, the Buddha is just a statue to you. To find the true word of the Buddha, you must see this distortion within yourself. You must see exactly how we mistake the functional process for a "self."
Just as we mistake the phone's ability to make a call for our own power, or the telescope's ability to see far for our own sight, we misinterpret these sensory processes. This is the essence of the Māgandiya Sutta. If I were to explain it exactly as it is written, it might be difficult to follow, which is why I am describing it in this way. In the discourse, the Buddha arrives at the fire-hall where the grass mat was prepared. He meets the Brahmin Bharadvāja. Having known the previous conversation through his divine power, the Buddha asks about it, which may seem like a miracle to some. He then addresses Māgandiya, the one who had made the accusations.
The Buddha says: "Cakkhuṃ kho Māgandhiya rūpārāmaṃ rūparataṃ rūpasammuditaṃ." This means, "Māgandiya, the eye delights in forms, is attached to forms, and rejoices in forms." As I explained, the eye (as a functional experience) cannot exist without forms, and the forms cannot be experienced without the eye. They are bound together in this state of delight and attachment.
The eye and forms go together; they rejoice in one another. We often think, "I am happy," but how does happiness actually arise? When the eye (cakkhu), a visual form (rūpa), and consciousness (viññāṇa) converge, contact (phassa) occurs, which gives rise to feeling (vedanā). Based on that feeling, one perceives either pleasure or pain. It is not that "I" am happy; rather, a specific process produces a result. Pleasure (sukha) and pain (dukkha) are simply the outcomes of that process.
The same happens with the ear and sound: consciousness and contact lead to the arising of pleasure or pain. The idea that "I am receiving pleasure" or "I am experiencing pain" is a concept we superimpose onto the event. Do you see? We accept these experiences through a lens of distortion (vipallāsa), attaching a false concept to them. Thus, the eye "dwells" in forms; it is attached to forms and rejoices in them.
To gain more enjoyment, the eye seeks more forms; the ear seeks more sounds; the nose seeks more scents; the tongue seeks more tastes; the body seeks more touch; and the mind seeks more thoughts to ponder. This is the "honeymoon" of the senses and their objects—they are constantly delighting in one another. This is what is meant by "rejoicing" (sammudita). The Blessed One (Tathāgata), however, tamed the eye. He addressed that internal drive—that craving (taṇhā)—which constantly pushes us to seek more sensory input.
It is because of this craving that we work so hard to provide the eye with more forms. The Buddha tamed this by abandoning the desire, guarding the sense doors, and practicing restraint (saṃvara). He then taught the Dhamma so that we might understand the true nature of the eye. Therefore, the Buddha does not teach to destroy a "self." Instead, he points out the distortion and teaches us to abandon the craving that arises from the interplay of the senses and their objects.
We have so many plans to provide the eye with more forms and the ear with more sounds, and this cycle never ends, even at the moment of death. People die still craving more sounds, more sights, and more tastes. We think, "It would be wonderful to have a delicious meal tomorrow morning"—that is our craving. The Buddha’s teaching is aimed at abandoning that lack of understanding and that craving; it is not a teaching about destroying a "me."
The Buddha then asked, "Māgandiya, was it because of this teaching that you called the ascetic Gautama a 'destroyer of growth'?" Māgandiya admitted it, saying, "Master Gautama, it was precisely because of this that I called you a destroyer." He explained that according to his own scriptures and the teachings of his priests, any doctrine that advocated for the ending of these sensory delights was considered a path to ruin.
He wasn't speaking from his own realization; he was simply repeating what he had been told. We see this often today—someone hears a criticism, perhaps that a certain teacher is insulting the Buddha, and they repeat it without investigating for themselves. This happened in ancient India just as it happens in Sri Lanka today; human nature hasn't changed much. After addressing the eye, the Buddha proceeded to explain the same reality regarding the ear, the body, and the mind.
Original Source (Video):
Title: ඔබ කාටද වැඩියෙන්ම රුවටුනේ ? | "සමාහිත සිත" පළමු ධර්ම දේශනාව
https://youtu.be/GUHHZndvGqI?si=UC6tkjPYHmvlCD3N
Disclaimer
The translations shared on this blog are based on Dhamma sermons originally delivered in Sinhalese. They have been translated into English with the help of AI (ChatGPT & Gemini AI), with the intention of making these teachings more accessible to a broader audience.
Please note that while care has been taken to preserve the meaning and spirit of the original sermons, there may be errors or inaccuracies in translation. These translations are offered in good faith, but they may not fully capture the depth or nuance of the original teachings.
This blog does not seek to promote or endorse any specific personal views that may be expressed by the original speaker. The content is shared solely for the purpose of encouraging reflection and deeper understanding of the Dhamma.
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