Buddha unboxes an iphone

 Thus have I heard.

At one time the Blessed One was dwelling on a journey-road between villages, with a small company of bhikkhus.  The day was clear, and the dust of the road rose lightly, and the people of the countryside came and went with their baskets and their burdens.

Then there came a man from no village that we knew, and he carried a parcel in his arms.  It was a box, hard and square, neither of wood nor of woven leaf, neither bound with cord nor sealed with wax.  It had no smell of resin, no roughness of bark, no softness of cloth.  It was like a thing made without hands, and yet it was plainly made.

And upon it were marks and letters, sharp and even, without the wandering of a pen.  It was addressed to the Blessed One.

When the bhikkhus saw it, some were curious and some were wary.  And one said, “Venerable sir, this has the appearance of a gift.”  Another said, “Or a snare.”  And another said, “Or a sign from the devas.”

The Blessed One did not praise it, and did not blame it.  He received it as one receives a bowl—without craving and without aversion—and he held it in his hands, turning it over with mindfulness, as though he were attending to a simple stone.

He found a place where the lid yielded, not with tearing but with a clean parting, as two fitted things separate.  And within was another box, and a folded note.

He opened the note and read it.  It was written in a tongue close to the speech of the land, so that it could be understood:

“Here is your new iPhone.  Since there is no network where you live I have done a basic setup for you.  Feel free to use as you like.  From a distant admirer.”

When he had read it, he was silent.

Then the venerable Ānanda said, “Bhante, what is a network?”

The Blessed One replied, “The word is like a net.  It catches many things together.  Yet here, it says, there is none.”

And another bhikkhu said, “A distant admirer has sent this.  Who admires the Tathāgata and does not come near?  If there is admiration, why concealment?”

The Blessed One said, “Not all who offer are free from intent.”

Then he opened the inner box.

Within it lay a thing smooth and dark, flat as a tablet, shining like a still pool before dawn.  It had edges like the edge of a well-made blade, yet it was not for cutting.  It was cool to the touch.  It reflected faces, but more clearly than water, and without trembling.

On one side there was a small circle, black and bright, like the eye of a fish.  The bhikkhus looked and murmured.

Ānanda said, “Bhante, is it a mirror?”

The Blessed One said, “It has the appearance of a mirror, yet it is not only that.”

He found a single small place that yielded to pressure.  He pressed it.  Nothing arose.  He pressed again and held it, patiently.

Then the face of it became light.

There was no oil, no flame, no smoke.  The light appeared without fuel, like a lamp that burns without wick.  Some bhikkhus drew back.

One said, “Surely this is a marvel.”

The Blessed One said, “Marvels also arise from causes.”

Upon the light appeared a greeting.  It changed into many scripts, many tongues, one after another, as though it greeted beings in every direction.  Then it settled into the speech it had been set to.

The Blessed One moved his thumb upon the surface, and the light obeyed.  He moved again, and it changed again.  The bhikkhus saw that it responded not to voice, not to chant, not to incense, but to the contact of skin.

Then the Blessed One said, “This thing is conditioned.  It responds when contacted.”

He explored without haste.  He opened a place where symbols were arranged in a grid, each a little picture, like seals stamped into wax, yet changing.  He touched one that resembled a leaf or a page.  A blank field appeared.

He touched again, and marks arose—letters without ink.

The bhikkhus murmured, and one said, “A writing-board that renews itself!”

But the Blessed One said, “It does not renew itself.  It is made to appear and vanish.  Like thoughts.”

He touched another sign, and images appeared—mountains, water, sky—so detailed that some bhikkhus felt the mind lean forward, hungry, as a tongue leans toward sweetness.

Ānanda watched the faces of the monks, and he saw desire arise in some, and fear arise in others, and speculation in others: “Is it divine?  Is it demonic?  Will it make the people revere us?”

Then the Blessed One, seeing their minds, closed the images with a single movement, and the shining face became quiet again.

He held the device in his hand and said, “Bhikkhus, there are these three fires: the fire of lust, the fire of hatred, the fire of delusion.  A thing like this is not fire.  Yet it can become a bellows.”

Then one bhikkhu said, “Bhante, should we cast it away?”

Another said, “Bhante, should we keep it as a treasure?”

And another said, “Bhante, should we show it to the laypeople, that they may have faith?”

The Blessed One said, “Faith based on astonishment is shaken by greater astonishment.”

Then Ānanda asked, “But what is it for, Bhante?”

The Blessed One replied, “It is for what the mind inclines toward.  In the hands of a fool it becomes a chain.  In the hands of one who is mindful it becomes like a knife: it can cut fruit, or it can cut flesh.  The knife is not the intention.”

Then the Blessed One turned the device over, and he regarded it as he would regard a corpse in the charnel ground—not with revulsion, and not with delight, but with clear seeing.

And he spoke thus:

“Here, bhikkhus, is a thing that shows form.  Form is impermanent.
It holds words.  Words are impermanent.
It measures time.  Time passes.
It offers delight.  Delight fades.
It offers displeasure.  Displeasure fades.
If a bhikkhu clings to it, he clings to suffering.”

Then he placed it down upon his robe, and the light remained, steady and indifferent.

He opened a place that showed time, and the numbers changed without end.  And he said, “See how it counts without knowing.  Beings count with anxiety.  This does not.”

Then he opened again the place of writing, and he wrote with his finger:

“Mindfulness.”

And beneath it he wrote:

“Do not cling.”

And then he turned the device off, and it became dark.

Ānanda said, “Bhante, will you keep it?”

The Blessed One said, “If it remains, let it remain.  If it fails, let it fail.  If it is taken, let it be taken.  In any case, one who is diligent is not shaken.”

Then they wrapped it in cloth and placed it among the bowls and robes, not as a relic and not as a curse, but as a conditioned thing that had come into being through causes unknown.

Later, in the evening, when the monks were settled and the insects sang, Ānanda went to the Blessed One and said, “Bhante, that note said, ‘Feel free to use as you like.’  Is this freedom?”

The Blessed One said, “Freedom is not the power to follow desire.  Freedom is the end of being driven.”

Then Ānanda understood: that the strangest thing about the strange object was not its light, nor its images, nor its writing without ink.

The strangest thing was how quickly the mind reached for it.

And the Blessed One, seeing that reaching, had treated it like everything else: with awareness, with restraint, and with compassion for those who would be ensnared by the brightness.

Thus have I heard.