Translator’s Note:
In the title of this sūtra, the character 奈 is sometimes written as 柰 in other versions. According to Chinese dictionaries, this character can mean the apple (Malus domestica) or the Chinese crabapple (Malus asiatica). In some regions, it is also used to refer to the sweetsop or custard apple (Annona squamosa).
However, the “奈女” mentioned in this sūtra is Jīvaka’s mother, and Jīvaka’s mother is definitively Āmrapālī, which means “the maiden born from a mango tree” (Mangifera indica). Similarly, the character 奈/柰 is used to denote “mango” in many other places within Chinese Buddhist scriptures.
The Sounds and Meanings of All the Scriptures (T2128 一切經音義) says:
“Āmra is the name of a fruit. This tree produces many blossoms but very few fruits. Its leaves resemble willow leaves, more than one foot in length and about three fingers in width. Its fruit is shaped like a pear, but curved at the bottom. In that country it is called the supreme tree, because it was planted in the royal city. The fruit, difficult to distinguish when ripe or unripe, mentioned in the scriptures, is this one. The old translations rendered it as ‘柰’ , but this is likely mistaken. The proper name is ‘āmra.’ The Āmra Maiden donated her garden to the Buddha, and so the garden bears this name. In the past, a troop of monkeys dug a pond for the Buddha, and the Maiden Deer met her thousand sons, happened beside this garden.”
Although from the standpoint of botany “柰” is not mango, from the standpoint of the history of Buddhist translation, “mango/āmra” has consistently been translated as “奈/柰”.
Translated by An Shigao of the Later Han Dynasty
When the Buddha was dwelling in the world, in the royal park of King of Vaiśālī, there naturally grew a mango tree. This tree had lush branches and leaves, and its fruits were particularly large—not only did they appear glossy and beautiful, but they also exuded a fragrance of exceptional sweetness. The king was especially fond of this mango tree. If not for the noble and esteemed women of the palace, no one else was permitted to eat its fruit.
At that time, there was a brāhmaṇa in the country who possessed immeasurable wealth—none in the entire nation could compare. Moreover, he was intelligent, extensively learned, and remarkably gifted. The king greatly favored him and appointed him as a minister.
One day, the king, after the brāhmaṇa had finished his meal, gifted him a fruit from the mango tree. The brāhmaṇa, upon seeing how wonderfully fragrant and fine the mango was, asked the king, “Beneath this mango tree, are there perhaps any saplings? Might I request one from Your Majesty?” The king replied, “There were many saplings under the mango tree, but I feared they would hinder the growth of the main tree, so I had them removed. But if you desire one, I’ll give you one right now.” The king then immediately gave the brāhmaṇa a potted mango sapling.
After receiving the mango sapling, the brāhmaṇa went home and planted it. He watered it morning and evening, and it grew day by day. The branches flourished and developed beautifully. In just three years, it bore fruit. The luster, color, and size of the fruit were identical to those of the king’s mango tree. The brāhmaṇa was overjoyed and thought to himself: “My household wealth is already countless, not less than the king’s. What I lacked was only this mango tree. I had thought I was inferior to the king, but now that I have this mango tree, I lack nothing.” Thinking thus, the brāhmaṇa picked a fruit from the tree to taste it—but to his surprise, it was extremely bitter and completely inedible.
The brāhmaṇa was deeply troubled and distressed. He then reconsidered: “Could it be that the soil is not fertile or moist enough?” So he captured one hundred cows and collected their milk. He then used this milk to feed a single cow. From this specially nourished cow, he collected more milk and boiled it into ghee. He used this ghee to irrigate the roots of the mango tree. The brāhmaṇa continued watering the tree daily until the second year, when the fruit finally became sweet and delicious—identical to the fruit of the king’s tree.
However, on the side of the tree suddenly grew a lump, the size of a clenched fist, which enlarged by the day. The brāhmaṇa thought: “This sudden swelling on the mango tree may hinder the growth of its fruit. I should chop it off with an axe or blade—but might that harm the tree?” The brāhmaṇa pondered this day after day, hesitating and unsure. Then, from within the tree lump, a branch suddenly sprouted upward. This branch grew straight, thick, and well-proportioned, rising higher than the tree itself—seventy feet off the ground. From the tip of this branch, many secondary branches split off in all directions, forming an inverted crown-like shape. The leaves and fruits that grew on this branch were lush, beautiful, and far superior to those on the original mango tree.
The brāhmaṇa was amazed: “I wonder what could be growing on that branch?” So he constructed a platform using bamboo and wood, climbed up, and looked. He saw that within the inverted crown of that branch, there was a pool of water—clear and fragrant—surrounded by vivid, colorful flowers. When the brāhmaṇa parted the foliage and looked more closely beneath the flowers, he discovered a baby Maiden lying in the pool. He took the Maiden home and raised her, giving her the name Maiden Mango (Amrapali). By the time the Maiden reached the age of fifteen, she had grown into a young woman of impeccable appearance and figure, unmatched under heaven. Her beauty and name spread widely, reaching distant lands.
At that time, there were seven kings who all came simultaneously to the brāhmaṇa, requesting him to allow Maiden Mango to marry them as their wife. The brāhmaṇa was greatly afraid and did not know to whom he should give her. So he went into the garden, built a tall tower, and placed Maiden Mango atop it. The brāhmaṇa came out and said to the kings, “This Maiden was not born from me—she came forth from a mango tree. I do not know whether she is the daughter of a deva, nāga, yakṣa, or some kind of spirit. Now, all seven great kings have come at once to seek her hand. If I give her to one of you, the other six will be enraged. I do not dare to keep and treasure her for myself. She is now on the tower in the garden. May the great kings discuss among yourselves. Whoever is destined to have her, let him take her. It is not for me to impose limitations or make the decision.”
Then the seven kings argued with one another. Amid their clamor and disorder, no decision was reached. By evening, King Bimbisāra secretly entered the garden through a hidden ditch, ascended the tower, and spent the night with Maiden Mango. The next morning, when King Bimbisāra was preparing to leave, Maiden Mango said, “I am honored that you, a great king, have set aside your noble dignity to approach me—how is it that you now wish to abandon me? If I become pregnant and carry your child, what am I to do?”
King Bimbisāra replied, “If it is a son, return him to me. If it is a daughter, she may stay with you.” The king then took out a gold signet ring and gave it to Maiden Mango as a token. Afterward, he left the garden and said to his ministers, “I have already gone to Maiden Mango and spent a night with her. There was nothing unusual—she is like any ordinary woman, so I shall not contend for her.”
In Bimbisāra’s army, everyone declared, “Long live our great king! Our king has already won Maiden Mango!” The other six kings, upon hearing this, each returned to their own lands.
Later, Maiden Mango gave birth to a son. When the baby was born, he emerged from his mother’s body holding a pouch of needles and medicine. The brāhmaṇa said, “This is the son of a king, and he holds medical tools in his hand—he must surely be a king of physicians.” The child was named Jīvaka.
By the age of eight, the boy had already grown to be wise and intelligent, outstanding in knowledge, and unmatched by others. When Jīvaka played with the neighborhood children, he often looked down on his companions in his heart, thinking they were not his equals. The other children, in turn, mocked him together, saying, “You’re a fatherless child! The son of a courtesan! How dare you look down on us?”
When Jīvaka heard this, he was shocked and said nothing. He returned home and asked his mother, “I see that the other children are not as good as I am, yet they mock me, calling me fatherless. Where is my father?” His mother replied, “Your father is none other than the present King Bimbisāra.”
Jīvaka said, “King Bimbisāra lives in Rājagṛha, two hundred miles from here. How could he have fathered me? If what you say is true, what proof do you have?” The mother then brought out the signet ring and showed it to him, saying, “This is your father’s ring.”
Jīvaka carefully examined and verified the ring, and upon seeing that it indeed bore King Bimbisāra’s seal, he put the ring on and set out for Rājagṛha. He went directly through the palace gates, yet not a single gatekeeper rebuked or stopped him. He came before the king, paid homage, and knelt down for a long time. Then he said to the king: “I am your son, born of Maiden Mango . I am now eight years old. Only recently did I learn that I am of your lineage. So I have come a long way, bringing with me this ring as a token, to return home.”
The king looked at the seal on the ring and remembered the vow he had made in the past. Knowing this was indeed his own child, he became sorrowful and compassionate, and he appointed Jīvaka as crown prince. After Jīvaka had served as crown prince for two years, Ajātaśatru was born. Jīvaka then said to the king: “When I was born, I came forth holding a pouch of needles and medicines. I must have been destined to practice medicine. Though the king appointed me crown prince, that was not my true wish. Now that the king has a legitimate son, he should inherit the noble royal succession. I wish to study the art of healing.” The king accepted Jīvaka’s request.
The king said: “If you do not wish to be crown prince, then you cannot enjoy the royal privileges in vain. You must diligently study the way of medicine.” So the king commanded all the skilled physicians in the realm to teach Jīvaka to the best of their abilities. But Jīvaka only played and never took lessons seriously or received any instruction. The physicians scolded him: “Medicine is a lowly trade—not something suitable for a royal crown prince. But since it was the king’s order, we could not disobey. It’s been some time since we received this royal command, yet the prince has not taken in a single word of medical teaching. If the king asks us about his progress, what can we say?”
Jīvaka replied:“When I was born, I came with the tools of a physician in my hands. That is why I told the king I would forsake wealth and honor to pursue medicine. How could I then be negligent, needing you to supervise me? It is only because your teachings are too shallow that I have not taken them up.” Jīvaka then brought forth many medical texts—materia medica, acupuncture, pulse diagnosis, and others—and posed difficult questions drawn from each book to test the physicians. The physicians exerted all their knowledge, but none could answer. They then bowed to him, knelt with palms joined, and said: “Only now do we realize that the divine nature of the crown prince is beyond what people like us can reach. The questions you asked just now are precisely the difficulties that have perplexed generations of physicians, which we have never been able to solve. We earnestly beg you to explain them in detail, and unlock the knots we could never untie in our lifetime.” Then Jīvaka explained the principles to the physicians. After hearing his explanations, the physicians were overjoyed. They all stood up again, paid full homage to Jīvaka by bowing their heads and faces to the ground, and gratefully received the essential teachings he had conveyed.
From that time onward, Jīvaka began practicing medicine and treating the ill. Whoever received his treatment was immediately cured. Jīvaka’s reputation quickly spread throughout the kingdom. One day, as Jīvaka was preparing to enter the palace, he encountered a boy at the palace gate carrying bundles of firewood. As Jīvaka looked at the boy, he could clearly see the child’s internal organs—his five viscera, intestines, stomach, and even the fine internal channels of the body were all visible to him. Jīvaka thought to himself:“In the Materia Medica, it is written that there exists a King of Herbs tree. It can illuminate inwardly from the outside, allowing one to see the abdominal organs of a person. Could it be that among this firewood there is a piece from the King of Herbs?”Jīvaka immediately went over and asked the boy, “How much are you selling this firewood for?” The boy answered, “Ten coins.” Jīvaka paid the boy the ten coins.
When the boy set the firewood down, the previously visible internal organs instantly disappeared from view—he could no longer see into the abdomen. Jīvaka thought again:“I don’t know which piece of wood in these bundles is the King of Herbs.”So he untied the two bundles of firewood and began testing each stick by placing it near the boy’s abdomen. If it did not allow him to see anything, he moved on to the next. He went through the entire two bundles, until only a final short twig—just over one foot—remained. Jīvaka took that last piece and held it near the boy’s abdomen again, and once more, he could clearly see all the boy’s internal organs. Overjoyed, Jīvaka knew this must be the King of Herbs. He gave the entire bundle of firewood back to the boy. Since the boy had already received payment and now had his firewood again, he left happily.”
At that time, in the kingdom, there was a kulapati whose daughter, aged fifteen and soon to be wed, suddenly died from a headache. Upon hearing of it, Jīvaka went to their home and asked the Maiden’s father, “Did your daughter have any recurring illness that led to her death?” The father replied, “When she was a child, she used to have headaches, and over time, they grew worse. This morning, the pain was worse than ever, and she died from it.”
Jīvaka entered the room and held the King of Herbs branch over the Maiden’s head. He saw that inside her head were countless thorn-like worms—large and small, growing together—numbering in the hundreds. These worms had burrowed into her brain and were consuming it. The Maiden had died because her brain had been entirely devoured. Jīvaka took a golden scalpel and opened her skull, removing all the worms and storing them in a sealed container. He then applied three divine ointments to the wound: One to restore the tissue eaten away between the bones, one to regenerate the brain, and one to heal the scalpel incision. Jīvaka said to the Maiden’s father: “Let your daughter rest quietly and avoid anything that might startle her. In seven days, she will certainly recover fully and be as she was before. I will return then.”
Just after Jīvaka departed, the Maiden’s mother began to weep and said, “My child has died a second time. How could someone cut open another’s head to treat the brain and expect them to live again? How could the father of this child bear to call someone to do such things to her?” The Maiden’s father stopped her and said, “Jīvaka was born holding medical instruments. He gave up his noble royal position to become a physician. He does all this purely to save lives. He is a King of Medicine sent from the heavens—how could there be anything false about what he does? He told you to be careful not to startle the Maiden, and now you weep and disturb her—do you want her to lose the chance to live again?” Upon hearing this, the Maiden’s mother ceased her crying. The Maiden remained calm and undisturbed, carefully attended and protected for seven days.
On the morning of the seventh day, at dawn, the Maiden exhaled and awoke. It was as if she had risen from sleep. She said, “My head no longer hurts, and my body is completely well. Who was it that protected me and allowed me to recover like this?” Her father said, “You had already died. It was the King of Medicine, Jīvaka, who personally came to care for you. He opened your head and removed the worms so that you could be reborn.” The father then opened the container and showed her the worms. The Maiden was astonished and terrified when she saw them, and deeply felt how fortunate she was to have survived. She said, “Jīvaka is truly miraculous—how can I ever repay him?” Her father said, “Jīvaka told me he would come today.” Soon after, Jīvaka arrived. The Maiden was overjoyed and went out to greet him, offering him food and respect. She bowed her head and face to his feet, knelt deeply with hands folded, and said, “I am willing to become your maid and serve you for life, to repay the grace of being given new life.”
Jīvaka replied, “I am a physician, traveling to treat patients, without a fixed residence—what use would I have for a maid? If you wish to repay me, then give me five hundred taels of gold. In truth, I have no need for the gold. I ask for it because anyone who studies the path must show gratitude to their teacher. Though my teacher didn’t teach me much, I was once his disciple. I will take the gold you offer and give it to my teacher as your offering.” So the Maiden gave Jīvaka five hundred taels of gold. Jīvaka accepted it and then gave it to his teacher. He then told the king, “I will return briefly to visit my mother,” and thus he traveled to the country of Vaiśālī.
In the country, there was another kulapati, whose son had a fondness for martial training. He crafted a wooden horse over seven feet tall and practiced riding it every day. He lifted his leg to begin learning how to mount. As soon as he could get on the horse, he intensified his training over long hours. One day, the boy suddenly fell from the horse and crashed to the ground, dying on the spot.
Upon hearing this, Jīvaka came to see him. Using the King of Herbs, he examined the boy’s abdomen and saw that the boy’s liver had been struck and pushed to the back, causing the air energies to become blocked and stagnant—leading to his death. Jīvaka once again used a golden scalpel to open the boy’s abdomen. He reached in with his hand, gently located the liver, and restored it to its original position. Then he applied three divine ointments to the boy: one to repair the bruised and injured tissue, one to regulate and restore the flow of air, and one to heal the incision made by the golden scalpel. After the treatment, Jīvaka told the boy’s father, “Be careful not to startle him. He will recover fully in three days.”
The boy’s father followed Jīvaka’s instructions, quietly attending and guarding his son. On the third day, the boy exhaled and awakened, as if rising from a deep sleep. He sat upright. Soon after, Jīvaka arrived again. The boy joyfully went out to greet him, bowed his head and face in reverence, knelt deeply and said, “I am willing to become your servant, Jīvaka, and serve you for life, to repay the grace of rebirth.”
Jīvaka replied, “I am a physician who travels to heal. In the homes of the ill, people compete to have me come treat them—what use would I have for a servant? My mother raised me through hardship and toil, and I have yet to repay her kindness. If you wish to show your gratitude to me, give me five hundred taels of gold, and I will offer it in return for the virtue of my mother’s care.” So the gold was collected and given to Maiden Mango. After that, Jīvaka returned again to the country of Rājagṛha. Because he had revived these two people, Jīvaka’s fame spread across the world—there was no one who did not know his name, and no place where his deeds were not heard of.
In the south, there was a great kingdom located three thousand miles away from the country of Rājagṛha. King Bimbisāra, along with many small neighboring states, paid tribute and pledged allegiance to that southern kingdom. The king of that land had fallen ill with a disease that had persisted for many years without cure. Due to the constant suffering, he became irritable and wrathful, and would order executions for the slightest offense. If someone simply looked up at him, they would be put to death; if someone lowered their head and avoided his gaze, they too would be put to death. If someone he dispatched moved too slowly, they would be killed; and if they walked too fast, they would also be killed. Those who served him closely were so fearful that they did not know how to position their hands and feet. If a physician prepared medicine for him, and the king—for no reason—suspected it was poisonous, he would have the physician executed. The number of palace maids, attendants, and physicians who had been killed by the king was beyond counting. The king’s illness grew worse day by day. The poisonous heat surged through his heart, causing constant distress and shortness of breath, as if fire were consuming his body. When this king heard of Jīvaka’s great reputation, he immediately issued a decree ordering King Bimbisāra to summon Jīvaka.
Jīvaka, upon hearing that the king had killed many physicians, was deeply terrified. King Bimbisāra, out of pity for Jīvaka’s youth and fearing he would be killed by that king, was unwilling to send him, dreading the possibility of witnessing his execution. The two, like father and son, remained together in worry day and night, uncertain of what to do. At that time, King Bimbisāra thought to bring Jīvaka with him to seek the Buddha’s counsel.
The Buddha said to Jīvaka: “In a past life, you and I made a vow together to cure the illnesses of all beings. I vowed to treat the internal illness of people, and you vowed to heal the external ones. Now I have achieved Buddhahood, and you, in accordance with your original vow, have been born into this world to meet me. That king is severely ill and has come from afar to seek your help—why do you not go? You should go swiftly to rescue him, using skillful means so that he will accept the treatment. His illness will certainly be cured. That king will not kill you.”
Empowered by the Buddha’s spiritual strength, Jīvaka went to the king, examined his pulse, and used the King of Herbs to observe him. He saw that within the king’s five viscera and hundred vessels, the blood and breath were in chaos, filled with the toxins of snakes and scorpions, spreading throughout the body.
Jīvaka said to the king, “Your Majesty’s illness can be treated, and you will certainly recover. However, it would be best if I could enter the palace to consult with the queen mother. Only after discussing with her can I properly prepare the medicine. If I am not allowed to see the queen mother, I fear that the medicine may not be successfully compounded.”
The king did not grasp Jīvaka’s meaning and was inclined toward anger. But due to his suffering and his prior knowledge of Jīvaka’s reputation—along with the fact that he had gone to great lengths to summon him—and seeing that Jīvaka was still just a child and clearly incapable of deceit, he restrained his temper and agreed. He sent palace maids and eunuchs to escort Jīvaka into the palace to see the queen mother.
Jīvaka said to the queen mother: “The king’s illness can be treated, and now is the time to prepare the medicine. But this must be done discreetly. I request that Your Majesty dismiss all attendants so we can proceed in secrecy.” The queen mother immediately ordered the maids and eunuchs to withdraw. Jīvaka then asked the queen mother, “In examining the king’s illness just now, I saw that his internal blood and energy are filled with the toxins of snakes and scorpions. This seems not to be of human origin. Whose child is the king, truly? If Your Majesty tells me the truth, I will be able to treat him today. But if it is concealed, then I cannot cure him, and the illness will not be resolved.”
The queen mother said, “Once, long ago, I was lying in the Golden Pillar Hall at night. Suddenly, I felt something pressing down upon me. My mind at the time was hazy, as if I were dreaming, yet also half-awake—it was like being caught in a nightmare. Then I felt that I had engaged in intercourse with that thing. In a flash, I awoke fully and saw a large worm—over three feet in length—crawling off my body. I immediately felt I had conceived. The king is indeed the son of that large worm. Because of shame, I have never spoken of it until now. Child, only today have you perceived this truth—it is like something truly divine. If this illness can be cured, I entrust the king’s life to you. What medicine should be used for today’s treatment?”
Jīvaka said, “Only ghee can cure it.” The queen mother exclaimed, “Ehou! Child! Be cautious—do not mention ghee. The king loathes even the smell of it, and he abhors hearing its name. In the past, those who merely spoke the word ghee before him died by the hundreds and thousands. If you bring it up today, he will surely kill you. And if you try to make him drink it, he will never swallow it. Please, choose another medicine.”
Jīvaka said, “Ghee dispels poison, and that’s why poisons detest even its scent. If the king’s illness were mild—caused by other types of toxins—then other medicines might work. But the venom of snakes and scorpions is so potent, and it has already spread throughout his entire body; nothing but tīhū can possibly purge it. Today, we must boil the ghee and distill it into liquid, so that it loses its smell. Then the king will unknowingly drink it without resistance. Once he takes it in, the illness will certainly be cured. There is nothing to worry about.”
Jīvaka then left the palace and met with the king, saying, “Just now I met with the queen mother and have finalized the prescription. The medicine will be prepared today, and it will take fifteen days to complete. But now, O King, I have five wishes. If Your Majesty agrees to them, the illness can be cured. If not, the illness will remain uncured.””
The king asked Jīvaka, “What exactly are these five wishes?”
Jīvaka replied, “First, I wish to wear one of Your Majesty’s unworn garments from the royal treasury. Second, I wish to be able to enter and exit the palace gates freely, without any guards questioning or stopping me. Third, I wish to enter the palace each day to meet privately with the queen mother and the queen, without being blocked or reprimanded. Fourth, I wish that when Your Majesty takes the medicine, you drink it all in one go, without pausing midway. Fifth, I wish to ride the white elephant that can run three thousand miles in a day.”
Upon hearing this, the king flew into a rage and shouted, “Son of a wretched rat! How dare you demand these five things? Quickly explain each one—if you cannot justify them, I will have you executed immediately! Why do you want my royal clothing? Are you planning to impersonate me in order to carry out treason?”
Jīvaka replied, “When preparing medicine, one must be exceptionally clean and observe the precepts with purity. But I have been here for some time, and my garments are soiled with dust and grime. That is why I request Your Majesty’s clean, unworn clothing—so that I may wear them while preparing the medicine.”
The king’s anger softened. “In that case, this request is reasonable. But why do you want to move in and out of the palace freely, with no one allowed to stop you? Are you trying to bring in troops to attack me?”
Jīvaka said, “All the physicians Your Majesty has summoned in the past have fallen under suspicion. None of them were trusted or relied upon. Many were even executed. Because of this, Your Majesty has refused to take the medicines they prepared. Now, all your ministers—high and low—believe that I too will be killed. Your Majesty suffers from illness and fears rebellion from outsiders. But if you permit me to pass freely without being stopped, then everyone will see that I am trusted, and they will know that the king intends to take the medicine. Seeing that Your Majesty is on the path to recovery, no one will dare to stir up rebellion.”
The king said, “Very well. But why do you insist on entering the inner palace every day to see my mother and the queen? Do you intend to engage in illicit conduct with them?”
Jīvaka replied, “Your Majesty has killed so many people that all your ministers now live in fear. No one dares to wish for your peace or recovery, and there is no one trustworthy left. Yet I must prepare medicine in collaboration with others. If I am not careful and someone takes the opportunity to slip poison into the mixture, the consequences would be dire. Among all people, only the queen mother and the queen have both absolute loyalty and deep affection toward Your Majesty. Therefore, I ask to see them daily and work with them personally to prepare and decoct the medicine. It will take fifteen days to complete. I must enter the palace each day to control the fire and ensure the medicine is cooked properly.”
The king said, “Very well. Then why do you demand that I drink the medicine all at once, without stopping? Are you afraid I might detect poison if I pause?”
Jīvaka replied, “Each dose of medicine is carefully measured. The energy and flavor must remain continuous and matched. If you pause while drinking, the therapeutic effect will be interrupted.”
The king said, “Very well. But why do you want to ride my white elephant? That elephant is the national treasure—it can travel three thousand miles in a day. My ability to subdue vassal states depends on it. Do you plan to steal it and bring it back to your father, so the two of you can invade my country?”
Jīvaka answered, “The divine herb required for Your Majesty’s cure grows only in the southern mountain range, which lies one thousand miles from here. After taking the medicine, Your Majesty will need it repeatedly, and its flavor must be consistent. I must ride the elephant to the mountain in the morning and return by evening, so the herb’s effect remains continuous.”
The king’s heart was completely soothed. He agreed to all of Jīvaka’s requests.
Thus, Jīvaka began decocting and refining the ghee. After fifteen days, it was fully prepared. The ghee had been transformed into a liquid as clear as pure water, yielding a total of five liters. Jīvaka, along with the queen mother and the queen, carried the medicine out of the palace and said to the king, “It is ready to be taken. May Your Majesty also prepare the white elephant with its saddle and have it waiting at the front hall.” The king agreed to the request.
Seeing that the medicine looked like clear water, and that it emitted no smell at first, the king did not realize it was ghee. Moreover, since the queen mother and queen had personally assisted in its preparation, he believed there was no poison and, following his agreement with Jīvaka, drank the entire dose in one go.
Jīvaka, meanwhile, mounted the white elephant and headed straight back toward his homeland. When he had traveled about one thousand miles, being still a youth and lacking strength, he could no longer endure the intense speed and pressure of the journey. His head became dizzy, and he was extremely exhausted, so he stopped in the mountains and lay down to rest.
Around midday, the king began to hiccup. He caught the scent of ghee in his breath and flew into a rage, shouting, “That little rat dared to trick me with tīhū! No wonder he asked for the white elephant—his real intent was to betray me and escape!”
The king had a valiant minister named Raven. Only Raven, with his supernatural fleetness of foot, could keep pace with the white elephant. The king called out to Raven: “Hurry and capture that little rat alive! I want to witness his execution myself. Your nature is ever greedy, and because you crave food and drink, you are called Raven. These physician types are always fond of poisoning others. If that rat tries to serve you food, be careful—don’t eat it!”
Raven received the command and set off in pursuit, reaching the mountain where Jīvaka had stopped. He said, “Why did you deceive the king with ghee, pretending it was medicine? His Majesty has ordered me to summon you back. Go with me at once and surrender—there may still be a chance to live. But if you try to flee, I will kill you here and now. You will not escape.”
Jīvaka thought to himself: “Though I used clever means to obtain the elephant, still I could not escape. What clever method can I use now to get away?” Then Jīvaka said to Raven: “I haven’t eaten since morning. If I return now, I’ll surely die on the way. Could you grant me a little time to go into the mountains and eat some fruits and drink from the springs? Then I will return with you and face my death.”
Raven, seeing Jīvaka—a mere child—speak with sorrow and fear of death, felt a surge of pity and agreed. He said, “Go quickly and eat, but do not linger long.”
Jīvaka picked a pear and ate half of it himself. Then he secretly applied poison, hidden beneath his fingernails, onto the remaining half as he divided it. He placed the uneaten half on the ground and also fetched a cup of water. He drank half of the water, then flicked the poison from his fingernails into the remaining portion, and set the cup down. After that, he sighed and said, “This water and pear are medicines granted by heaven—both fragrant and sweet. To consume them brings health to the body, cures all illnesses, and doubles one’s strength. What a pity that they don’t grow in the capital city. If they did, all the people would enjoy them. But they grow only in this deep mountain, unknown to the world. Even when people enter the forest, they seek only fruit from other trees.”
Raven, being naturally greedy and unable to endure hunger and thirst, heard Jīvaka praising these as divine medicines, and seeing that Jīvaka had already eaten and drunk them, assumed there could be no poison. So he took the remaining half of the pear and ate it, then drank the rest of the water. Immediately, Raven developed violent dysentery, his bowels releasing like flowing water. He collapsed to the ground, and though he tried to rise, he fainted again and could not stand up.
Jīvaka approached and said to him, “The king will surely be cured from taking the medicine I prepared. However, the effect of the medicine has not fully manifested yet, and some of the poison remains unexpelled. If I return now, the king will certainly have me killed—and you do not understand any of this. You tried to rise and steal my antidote to cure yourself of the toxin, and that is what triggered your condition. This illness does not cause true suffering if left alone. But you must not move—if you remain still, you will recover within three days. If you try to chase me, you will certainly die.”
Then Jīvaka mounted the white elephant and rode off. Just past a nearby village, he met a local squad leader of five and said, “There is an envoy from a great kingdom who has suddenly fallen ill. You must quickly carry him to your home and take good care of him. Prepare proper bedding and give him porridge to eat—under no circumstance must you allow him to die. If he dies, his king will surely destroy your country.” Having said this, Jīvaka departed and returned to his own homeland.
The squad leader followed Jīvaka’s instructions and brought Raven home to nurse him. After three days, the poison in Raven’s body had fully cleared, and he returned to report to the king. He prostrated and said, “I was truly foolish. I disobeyed Your Majesty’s command and believed the words of Jīvaka. I ate the leftover fruit and water he offered, and I was poisoned, suffering from dysentery for three days. I only recovered this morning. I know I deserve death.”
During the three days that Raven was returning to the kingdom, the king’s illness had already been completely cured. The king deeply regretted having sent Raven after Jīvaka. When he saw Raven return, he was both sorrowful and joyful, saying, “It’s a blessing that you did not bring that child back. At the time, I was in a fit of anger—had he returned, I surely would have beaten him to death. He saved my life, preserved my very being, and yet I intended to kill him. Such rebellious and twisted wrongdoing is beyond description.” The king then began to reflect with remorse on all those he had unjustly put to death in the past. He ordered that all of them be given proper burials, and he bestowed wealth upon the families of those who had been wronged. As the king longed to repay Jīvaka for the life-saving grace he had received, he sent an envoy to summon Jīvaka and invite him back. Though Jīvaka already knew that the king had recovered, he still harbored fear in his heart and was unwilling to return. He went to the Buddha, respectfully held the Buddha’s feet with both hands, and bowed in full prostration, saying, “World-Honored One, envoys from that country have come to summon me—may I go or not?”
The Buddha replied, “In a past life, you made a great vow to bring about merit and virtue. Why do you now wish to abandon it halfway? You should go once again. You have already cured his external illness; I shall now cure his internal illness.”
Thus, Jīvaka went with the envoy. When the king saw Jīvaka, he was overwhelmed with joy. He sat together with Jīvaka, held his arm supportively, and said, “Thanks to your grace, I live again today. How could I possibly repay you? I shall give you half of my kingdom. All the palace women and the treasures of the royal vault—I will share half of them with you. May I be fortunate enough that you will accept them.”
Jīvaka said, “I was originally a crown prince. Though it was a small country, it had sufficient people and treasures. I abandoned rulership not from lack of resources, but because I had no desire for governing. That is why I sought the path of medicine. My duty is to treat the sick. The lands, palace women, and treasures granted by Your Majesty are of no use to me. Your Majesty once accepted five of my wishes, and thus your outer illness was cured. Now, if you can accept one more wish, your inner illness can also be healed.”
The king said, “I respectfully await your instruction—please tell me your wish.”
Jīvaka said, “May Your Majesty invite the Buddha and receive from him the Dharma of radiant illumination.” Then Jīvaka spoke to the king of the Buddha’s boundless virtues and majestic excellence.
Upon hearing this, the king was filled with joy and said, “I wish to immediately send Minister Raven riding the white elephant to welcome the Buddha—may I do so?” Jīvaka replied, “Your Majesty need not send the white elephant. The Buddha knows all things. Even from afar, he understands the thoughts in people’s hearts. All you must do is uphold the precepts tonight in purity, prepare offerings and incense, and bow from afar with deep sincerity. Kneel long in supplication, and the Buddha will surely come on his own.”The king followed Jīvaka’s instructions.
The next day, the Buddha arrived with one thousand two hundred and fifty bhikṣus. After receiving offerings and eating, he preached the Dharma to the king. The king’s heart was fully opened, and he gave rise to the vow of pursuing the unsurpassed true path. Throughout the kingdom, high and low alike took refuge and upheld the Five Precepts. The people, each filled with reverence, paid homage to the Buddha before peacefully departing.
Now, as for Maiden Mango—not only was her birth extraordinary, but she also possessed great intelligence. She studied under her father, and became well-versed in scriptures, cosmology, astrology, and many esoteric arts, surpassing even her father in knowledge. The music she played on the gāthā instruments had tones as sublime as those from the Brahmā Heaven. Among the daughters of the kulapatis and brāhmaṇas, a total of five hundred came to study under her, recognizing her as their master.
Maiden Mango frequently led these five hundred disciples, teaching and explaining sacred texts, playing games together in gardens and pools, or performing music in harmony. The people of the kingdom, unable to understand the true nature of her conduct, began to slander and gossip, calling her a courtesan. Her five hundred disciples were likewise called a band of licentious followers.
At the time of Maiden Mango’s birth, there were also two other Maidens born in the country: Maiden Sumanā and Maiden Padma.
Maiden Sumanā was born from a sumanā flower. In the country, there was a kulapati who often pressed sumanā flowers to make fragrant balm. Near the edge of the stone used for pressing, a swelling appeared—initially the size of a small pellet—which grew day by day until it reached the size of a clenched fist and then ruptured. From the stone’s core emerged a glow like fireflies, which illuminated the ground. After three days, a bud grew—this was Sumanā. Three days later, the flower bloomed, and within it was a baby Maiden. Kālaya took her in and named her Maiden Sumanā. As she grew, Maiden Sumanā became not only beautiful but also intelligent and skilled in the arts, second only to Maiden Mango.
There was also a brāhmaṇa household in which a large blue lotus naturally grew in the bath pool. The lotus grew daily, its form as large as a fifty-liter jar. When it bloomed, inside was found a baby Maiden. The brāhmaṇa took her in and named her Maiden Padma. As she matured, Maiden Padma too became beautiful and radiant, with intelligence and insight equal to Maiden Sumanā.
Upon hearing of the unmatched beauty of these two Maidens, many kings sent envoys repeatedly to seek their hand in marriage. But the two Maidens replied, “We were not born from a womb but emerged from flowers and plants—we are not like ordinary mortals. How could we follow the customs of the world and enter marriage like common folk?”
When the two Maidens heard of Maiden Mango’s unmatched wisdom and that her miraculous birth bore signs similar to their own, they left their adoptive parents and went to serve Maiden Mango, requesting to become her disciples. These two, Maiden Sumanā and Maiden Padma, were not only wise and intelligent but also broadly learned, and in all aspects they surpassed the five hundred disciples already under Maiden Mango’s guidance.”
At that time, the Buddha was traveling through the kingdom of Vaiśālī. Maiden Mango led her five hundred disciples out of the city to greet the Buddha. They bowed with their heads and faces to the ground, knelt respectfully, and said, “May the Blessed One come to our garden tomorrow to receive our offering of food.” The Buddha silently accepted. After Maiden Mango returned, she began to prepare the offerings.
When the Buddha entered the city, the king also came out from the palace to greet him. After performing his formal courtesies, the king knelt and said, “May the Blessed One come to the palace tomorrow.” The Buddha replied, “Maiden Mango has already invited me first. Great King, your invitation is late.”
The king objected, saying, “I am the ruler of this land and sincerely invite the Buddha. Surely that should be honored. But Maiden Mango is merely a courtesan who leads five hundred similarly immoral followers, indulging in improper behavior. Why would the Blessed One reject me to accept her invitation?”
The Buddha replied, “This woman is not a courtesan. In her past lives, she accumulated vast merit and offered support to three hundred million Buddhas. In past lives, Maiden Mango, Sumanā, and Padma were often born as sisters. Maiden Mango was the eldest, Sumanā the second, and Padma the youngest. They were born into noble and wealthy families, possessing abundant treasures. Together they devoted themselves to supporting five hundred bhikṣuṇīs—providing them daily meals, making robes suited to their needs, and ensuring that nothing was lacking. They continued this practice until the end of their lives. The three sisters would often make this vow together: ‘May we, in future lives, be reborn in an age where we can meet the Buddha, and may we be born miraculously—not through the womb—pure and unstained.’ Now, in accordance with their vow, they have been reborn during the time of my appearance in the world.
“However, although they generously supported the sangha in past lives, they were children of great wealth and thus spoke with arrogance. They would sometimes mock the bhikṣuṇīs, saying: ‘You renunciants have stayed here so long, you must be longing for husbands by now. You only restrain yourselves because of our support and supervision.’ Because of these careless words, they now suffer slander and misunderstanding in this life despite their pure conduct and study of the Dharma. As for the five hundred disciples around her, they too once shared in supporting the bhikṣuṇīs with joy and devotion. That is why, through karmic connection, they have reunited once again in this life. The causes and results of past actions inevitably follow, again and again.
“At that time, Jīvaka was born into a poor household. He saw Maiden Mango supporting the bhikṣuṇīs and felt deep admiration and joy in his heart. Though he had no wealth to offer, he would often sweep and clean for the bhikṣuṇīs. After tidying up, he would silently make this vow: ‘May I one day be able to sweep away the illnesses and impurities from the bodies of all beings. That would fulfill my heart’s wish.’ Maiden Mango took pity on on Jīvaka for his poverty and also recognized his diligence, often called him ‘my son.’ Whenever one of the bhikṣuṇīs became ill, Maiden Mango would instruct Jīvaka to fetch physicians and prepare medicine, saying, ‘This will help you share in the blessings with me in future lives.’ The physicians that Jīvaka brought would always heal the sick effectively. So Jīvaka made a vow: ‘May I become a great healing king in a future life, able to treat all the diseases of the four elements in people’s bodies—and may everyone I treat be healed.’ Due to this karmic cause, Jīvaka was later born as Maiden Mango’s son in this life. Everything happened according to their past vows.”
When the king heard the Buddha’s words, he knelt and repented for what he had previously said. He postponed his own invitation for the Buddha until the following day.
On the second day, the Buddha arrived with his monks at Maiden Mango’s garden. He recounted in detail the past-life vows and merits of the three women. Upon hearing the Dharma, they gained insight and clarity. The five hundred disciples all rejoiced together and attained the Arhat path.
The Buddha said to Ānanda: “You must preserve and teach this Dharma to the fourfold assembly, so that it is never lost. All beings must be cautious of their bodily actions, speech, and thoughts. Do not grow arrogant or indulge in heedlessness. Maiden Mango was slandered as a courtesan in this life because she once mocked the bhikṣuṇīs in a previous life. Therefore, you should cultivate the three pure actions of body, speech, and mind, and make noble vows, so that those who hear the Dharma may rejoice, believe, and willingly uphold it. Do not speak slanderously. Once beings fall into the hells, even when they escape, the residual karma often causes them to be reborn as animals. After hundreds of thousands of kalpas, only then might they be reborn as humans—and even then, they are likely to be poor, lowly, cut off from the true Dharma, raised in households of wrong views, constantly encountering evil kings, and born with defective bodies. Therefore, you must diligently practice, uphold, and recite this teaching, even to the ends of time.”
Dharma Torch 