Vajirā was sitting alone beneath a tree when Māra, the master of illusion, appeared before her.
He asked, “Can you tell me who you are? Your name is Vajirā. You have a face that you feel is yours, and remember being a child that was you. You have thoughts that you call your own. But who is it that has been living your life? Where is the “I” behind your eyes all these years? Who made this being, where was it born, where does it live, and where does it cease?
Vajirā thought for a moment, then pointed to a nearby cart on the road.
“That cart has wheels, an axle, a wooden frame, and rope. Because of these things, we call it a cart. If we remove one or more of the parts—is it still a cart? If the cart is taken away and disappears from sight, was it ever a cart?
My body, sensations, thoughts, and memories. Together we call this heap, Vajirā. There is no “I” apart from them.”
The sky has fallen.
No being is found.
What vanishes?