These verses can easily be read simply as devotional praise. They are certainly beautiful expressions of confidence and gratitude, but to stop at devotion would miss their deeper significance.

Upāli does not principally praise the Buddha’s appearance, lineage, possessions, institution or social authority.

Again and again, he describes the condition of the Buddha’s mind.

Moha has disappeared. Saṁsaya and kaṅkhā have ended. Rāga has faded. Lobha has disappeared. Taṇhā has been cut. Māna has been cut. Saṁyojana have been exhausted. Saṅga has been crossed. Papañca has ended.

Even more strikingly, the mind is described as no longer bending toward what is pleasant or recoiling from what is unpleasant.

These verses therefore amount to something close to an anatomy of liberation.

From believing in a teacher to seeing the Dhamma

The context of Upāli makes these verses particularly powerful. Upāli did not approach the Buddha as an admirer. He belonged to another religious tradition and initially approached with the intention of challenging him.

His confidence therefore did not arise merely because somebody told him: “The Buddha is enlightened.”

The transformation came through engagement with Dhamma.

There is an important difference between: “I believe this teacher is awakened because my tradition tells me so,” and: “I have seen enough of the Dhamma to understand why such a person is worthy of being followed.”

The first can remain identity. The second begins with seeing.

This explains why Upāli repeatedly uses qualities connected with knowing: sādhupañña — excellent wisdom; veda — knowing; vipassī — one who sees deeply; bhūripañña — vast wisdom; mahāpañña — great wisdom; and ultimately buddha — awakened.

The poem begins with moha and ends with taṇhā

The first stanza begins:

vigatamohassa

“of one from whom delusion has disappeared.”

The final stanza begins:

Taṇhacchidassa buddhassa

“of the Awakened One who has cut craving.”

Thus the poem is framed by two central conditions sustaining saṁsāra: moha — not seeing correctly, and taṇhā — thirsting after experience.

When there is moha, contact with the world is misunderstood. Pleasant experience becomes: “This is good. I want this. This should continue.”

Unpleasant experience becomes: “I do not want this. This should disappear. This should not be happening to me.”

From this movement comes taṇhā, appropriation, becoming, conflict and dukkha.

Upāli describes a Buddha in whom this machinery has stopped.

Susamacitta — a mind no longer thrown around by the world

One of the most practical expressions appears immediately:

susamacittassa

a thoroughly balanced citta.

This does not mean emotional numbness. It means the mind is no longer governed by changing conditions.

Someone praises us and the mind rises. Someone criticises us and the mind falls. A person behaves as expected and affection increases. The same person behaves differently and anger appears.

Money increases and confidence rises. Money decreases and anxiety appears. The body feels pleasant and happiness appears. The body becomes painful and mental disturbance begins.

External conditions continually change. The undeveloped citta changes with them.

Susamacitta points toward freedom from this dependence.

Vantalokāmisa — vomiting out the bait of the world

One of the strongest expressions in the passage is:

vantalokāmisassa

The Buddha has “vomited out the bait of the world.”

The choice of vanta is deliberately forceful. Something vomited out is not carefully stored to be enjoyed again tomorrow. It has been expelled.

What can become lokāmisa? Money can become bait. Sexual attraction can become bait. Status can become bait. Recognition can become bait. Followers can become bait. Religious position can become bait.

Even the thought, “I am spiritually advanced,” can become bait.

The problem is not simply the external object. The question is what happens in the citta in relation to it.

One may abandon a house and remain obsessed with reputation. One may dress simply and remain hungry for recognition. One may stop sexual activity while continuing to manufacture sensuality mentally. One may leave business life but become attached to being regarded as a teacher.

Vantalokāmisa is therefore much more radical: the hook has nothing left to catch.

Antimasārīra — the final body

antimasārīrassa means one bearing the final body.

This does not merely mean that the Buddha will eventually die. Every embodied being will die.

The significance lies in the ending of those conditions that would generate renewed bhava.

The existing body continues because previously established conditions have not yet reached their end, but the mental processes that construct renewed becoming have ceased.

The arahant can therefore still experience heat, cold, illness, aging, bodily pain, hunger and fatigue.

What no longer needs to arise is the appropriation: “This is happening to me.” “Why me?” “I must continue.” “I must become.” “I must not become.”

The body remains. The machinery producing renewed existence does not.

Mānacchida — cutting the measuring process

mānacchidassa means one who has cut māna.

Māna goes considerably deeper than ordinary pride. It includes the measuring: “I am better.” “I am worse.” “I am equal.”

All three depend upon an underlying reference point: asmi — “I am.”

Even apparent humility can conceal māna: “I am less attained than that person.” “I am more advanced than these practitioners.” “My jhāna is deeper.” “My interpretation is purer.” “My lineage is authentic.”

Whether the conclusion is higher, lower or equal, the measuring process continues around a constructed centre.

The Buddha is not described simply as a person with a humble self-image. He is mānacchida — the measuring process itself has been cut.

Pannadhaja — the banner has come down

pannadhajassa evokes the image of a banner that has been lowered.

A banner announces: “This is us.” “This is our territory.” “This is what I represent.”

Human beings carry invisible banners everywhere: profession, nationality, religion, caste, education, family status, wealth, political identity, spiritual lineage, meditation method and attainment.

Even renunciation itself can become a banner.

This does not mean conventional descriptions can no longer be used. The Buddha still used ordinary expressions such as “I,” “you,” “bhikkhu,” “householder,” “king” and “brahmin.”

What has disappeared is appropriation:

Etaṁ mama — This is mine.
Esohamasmi — This I am.
Eso me attā — This is my self.

Convention remains usable. The banner is no longer internally raised.

Nippapañca — when the mind stops manufacturing worlds

nippapañcassa is one of the most important descriptions in the entire passage.

Papañca is often translated as “conceptual proliferation,” but its practical significance becomes clearer in everyday experience.

Someone says: “You did not handle this properly.”

The sound may last three seconds. The mind can continue the incident for three days: “He always speaks like this.” “He does not respect me.” “I should have said this.” “Next time I will show him.” “Everyone probably thinks I am incompetent.”

A sensory event lasting seconds has become an internally manufactured world. That is papañca.

Or someone sees an attractive person. Visual contact occurs. Then: “She is attractive.” “Did she notice me?” “What would it be like to be with her?”

Images arise. Memories arise. Possibilities arise. Identity arises. Wanting arises.

The original visual contact has already disappeared, but the constructed world continues.

Again: papañca.

Upāli describes the Buddha as nippapañca. Experience occurs, but the mind does not build an entire world of “I,” “me” and “mine” around it.

Anabhinata and no apanata — neither leaning toward nor recoiling

One of the finest descriptions of liberation occurs in:

anabhinatassa no apanatassa

not bending toward and not pulling away.

Something pleasant is experienced. The ordinary movement becomes: “More.” “Again.” “Let it remain.”

Something unpleasant is experienced. The opposite movement becomes: “Stop.” “Remove it.” “I cannot tolerate this.”

The Buddha is described as governed by neither movement.

This is not indifference. It is freedom from enslavement to vedanā.

Pleasant vedanā can be known as pleasant without rāga. Unpleasant vedanā can be known as unpleasant without dosa. Neither-painful-nor-pleasant vedanā can be known without moha.

Liberation is therefore observable directly at the six sense doors.

After contact: Does the mind bend toward? Does it push away? Or does it simply know?

Aneja — when craving no longer makes the mind tremble

anejassa means unmoved, unshaken.

Ejā is movement, agitation or trembling, particularly the trembling produced by craving.

Consider waiting for an important message. The telephone has not changed. The room has not changed. Yet the mind repeatedly checks: “Has the message arrived?”

The body becomes restless. Thought anticipates. Possibilities are rehearsed. That illustrates ejā.

Or consider financial loss. Numbers change on a screen and suddenly the citta contracts. Future scenarios multiply. Sleep changes. Thought repeatedly returns to the same object.

Again: ejā.

The liberated person can still walk, speak, travel and act quickly. The deeper movement has ceased. Taṇhā no longer makes the citta tremble.

anejassa vasippattassa — unshaken, having attained mastery.

Jhāyī and vipassī belong in the same portrait

Upāli describes the Buddha as jhāyī — one who practises or abides in jhāna — and also as vipassī — one who sees deeply.

The text does not turn these into opposing meditation systems. The same awakened person is both.

Jhāna develops profound composure, stability and pliancy of the citta. Vipassanā sees conditioned phenomena correctly.

When phenomena are seen correctly, appropriation weakens. When appropriation ceases completely, liberation follows.

Therefore the opposition: “I practise samatha but not vipassanā,” or: “I practise vipassanā and therefore jhāna is unnecessary,” risks turning complementary dimensions of bhāvanā into competing identities.

Upāli’s Buddha is both: jhāyī and vipassī.

Bhāvitattassa — liberation requires development

bhāvitattassa belongs to the domain of bhāvanā: development, cultivation and repeatedly bringing wholesome qualities into being.

The Buddha is not described merely as someone who intellectually discovered a philosophical proposition. His mind has been developed.

A person may intellectually understand: “All conditioned things are impermanent.” Yet when an important relationship changes, great suffering may arise.

One may understand: “The body is not-self.” Yet illness appears and fear takes over.

One may understand: “Praise and blame are worldly conditions.” Yet a single criticism burns in the mind for two days.

Information has been acquired. The citta has not yet been sufficiently bhāvita.

The practical question therefore becomes: What has repeated development actually done to the mind?

Vasippatta — mastery rather than accidental calm

vasippattassa means one who has attained mastery.

A practitioner may occasionally experience unusual stillness. A retreat environment may temporarily reduce ordinary stimulation. A peaceful location may quiet the mind. A meditation session may unexpectedly become profound.

But temporary occurrence is different from mastery.

Mastery means the mind has been repeatedly developed. It is familiar with the path into composure and does not depend completely upon ideal external circumstances.

This is why the Nikāyas repeatedly emphasise:

bhāveti — develops
bahulīkaroti — makes much of, develops repeatedly

What is repeatedly developed becomes available. What is merely experienced once remains an event.

Tiṇṇassa tārayantassa — crossed and helping others cross

One of the most moving descriptions occurs in:

Tiṇṇassa tārayantassa

Having crossed, he helps others cross.

The sequence matters. First: tiṇṇa — crossed. Then: tārayanta — causing others to cross.

One cannot guide another across a river merely by studying maps while remaining on the first bank.

The Buddha’s authority to teach arises from having completed the crossing himself.

Yet after crossing he did not merely remain within private peace. He taught.

He explained dukkha, its arising, its cessation and the path leading to cessation.

Compassion therefore goes beyond emotional sympathy. The deepest assistance is helping another person understand the machinery producing suffering.

That is tārayanta.

Khemaṅkara — one who brings safety

khemaṅkarassa means one who brings safety, security and peace.

Ordinarily we think danger lies outside: illness, financial loss, violence, rejection, aging and death.

These matter, but the Buddha directs attention deeper.

As long as the citta responds to experience with rāga, dosa and moha, the machinery of suffering travels wherever we travel.

One may leave a difficult workplace. The reactive mind enters the next workplace.

One may leave one relationship. The same attachment structures can enter the next.

One may leave a city. Craving travels in the airplane.

One may enter a monastery. The untrained citta enters the monastery too.

Real khema therefore arises when the source of danger within the process itself is understood and ended.

Vītarāga, vītalobha and taṇhacchida

The progression becomes increasingly uncompromising:

vītarāga — passion faded away
vītalobha — greed gone
taṇhacchida — craving cut

These expressions do not describe suppression.

Suppression still contains struggle: “I must not want this.” “I should not feel attraction.” “This thought must disappear.”

The Buddha’s condition is more radical. The basis of craving has been understood.

When something is completely understood, fascination can end naturally.

A child may intensely desire a particular toy. Twenty years later the same object may lie on a table without producing the slightest struggle. No heroic suppression is required. The perception of value has changed.

Liberating paññā functions at a much deeper level. The promise hidden in conditioned experience — “This can finally satisfy me,” “This can become mine,” “This can secure me,” “This can make me complete” — is seen through.

Rāga fades because its foundation has disappeared.

Vītadhūma — the smoke has disappeared

vītadhūmassa evokes a striking image.

Smoke tells us that something is burning.

In the ordinary citta, fires continue: wanting, resentment, jealousy, anxiety, becoming and defence of identity.

A person can remain outwardly silent while inwardly burning. One can smile while resentment burns. A practitioner can sit motionless while sensual fantasy burns. A religious person can speak gently while conceit burns.

Liberation is not the art of hiding the smoke. The fire itself has gone out.

Thus the Buddha is also: anupalitta — unstained.

Objects continue to contact the six sense doors, but they no longer smear the citta with appropriation.

The Buddha is not merely peaceful — he understands and teaches

Upāli repeatedly balances inward liberation with the ability to guide others.

Liberation is therefore not merely passive withdrawal. True seclusion is freedom from entanglement.

From that freedom, engagement can occur without appropriation.

The Buddha could speak with kings without wanting political power. He could teach wealthy householders without wanting their wealth. He could receive honour without depending upon honour. He could encounter criticism without constructing a wounded identity.

He could teach large numbers of people without needing followers in order to feel complete.

This is a radically different relationship with the world.

A liberated person still encounters the world

Upāli does not describe liberation as escaping sensory existence while still alive.

The Buddha continues to see forms, hear sounds, experience bodily feelings, speak with people, receive food, walk, rest, become ill, receive praise and encounter opposition.

The difference lies in what no longer follows contact: “I want.” “I hate.” “I am threatened.” “I am superior.” “This belongs to me.” “This must continue.”

The world continues appearing. Appropriation ceases.

This is why anabhinata — not leaning toward — and no apanata — not recoiling — are among the most practically important expressions in the poem.

Why Upāli repeatedly says “I am his disciple”

Bhagavato tassa sāvakohamasmi.

A sāvaka is fundamentally one who hears — a disciple who receives and practises the teaching.

Upāli is therefore not simply announcing: “I have changed religious teams.”

His declaration is more significant: “This is the teacher whose qualities I have recognised, and this is the teaching under which I undertake training.”

Replacing: “My old group is superior” with: “My new group is superior” would merely repaint the banner.

The deeper work is: pannadhaja — letting the banner come down.

Upāli begins by describing one from whom moha has disappeared.

He ends by describing one who has cut taṇhā.

Between these two points unfolds a remarkably complete picture of awakening: sīla matured; wisdom developed; doubt removed; worldly bait abandoned; conceit cut; attachment crossed; fetters exhausted; papañca ended; jhāna cultivated; vipassanā present; the mind unmoved by attraction and aversion; mastery attained; the crossing completed; and compassion expressed by helping others cross.

Awakening is therefore not represented as one unusual meditative experience.

It is a complete transformation of the relationship between citta and experience.

This gives the repeated refrain its real weight:

Bhagavato tassa sāvakohamasmi.

I am a disciple of that Blessed One.

Upāli is not merely announcing allegiance to a teacher. He is declaring that he has recognised the direction in which the Dhamma points: