Dharma Torch

The original translator is unknown and is now cataloged in the Later Han records.

(Fifteen)

In the past, within the country of Jibin there was a bhikṣu, and the disciples he instructed numbered in the several hundreds. Among them were those who attained the four dhyānas, those who attained the five supernormal powers, those who attained the fruit of Srotaāpanna, and those who attained the fruit of Arhatship. At that time there was a man from the country of Arsacid who came to the country of Jibin. When he saw how the bhikṣu taught and transformed, he gave rise to faith and to a heart of delight, and became his disciple. Not long afterward, he learned and attained the five supernormal powers. Before the assembly he displayed the supernormal power of divine feet. His master said to him: “Although you have cultivated and attained the five supernormal powers, yet the knot of thought has not been untied. Do not grow arrogant and display the power of divine feet.” The disciple then bore anger and resentment toward his master, thinking that the master was jealous of him. He thought: “I ought to return to my homeland and display my Dharma powers.” At once he flew back to his own country, arriving before the palace of the king of Arsacid, and showed himself flying by the power of divine feet. After the king had bowed in reverence, he asked him: “Ascetic, of what country are you a man?” The bhikṣu said: “I am a man of this country. I went to the country of Jibin to cultivate. Now the reason I have returned is that I wish to bestow blessings upon my homeland, to repay the kindness of its nurture.” The king rejoiced greatly, and immediately knelt and said: “May the ascetic from this day forth constantly dwell within my palace and receive my offerings.” The bhikṣu consented at once. The king personally supplied offerings for him, and at times let the queen and the palace women serve him as well. Then the bhikṣu gave rise to lustful desire and took a liking to one of the palace women. When the ministers perceived this, they reported it to the king. But the king instead rebuked the ministers. The reason the king did not believe them was because he himself had seen with his own eyes the monk arriving by flying in the sky. Not long after, the belly of the palace woman grew large. The ministers once again reported to the king. The king caused the queen to examine and discovered the truth. Immediately the king stripped the bhikṣu of the Dharma robes and ordered him driven out of the palace. Because he was a monk, he did not impose harsher punishment. After the bhikṣu was expelled from the palace, he took to acts of robbery, and no one could overcome him. The king did not know that this bandit was the same bhikṣu, so he gathered warriors and sent them to capture him. Only then did he recognize that it was the former bhikṣu. The king asked: “Before you broke the precepts and indulged in lust, and you said it was a moment of delusion. Why then have you now become a robber?” The bhikṣu knocked his head to the ground and said: “I was destitute and had no other means of livelihood.” The king said: “At first I saw you had the ability of flying by divine feet, so I could not bear to inflict heavy punishment upon you. Now once again I pardon you. Do not commit evil crimes in my land any more.” He ordered that he be released. The bhikṣu thought: “Better that I work as a hired laborer to support myself.” So he proclaimed himself to seek employment. There was a certain butcher who hired him to slaughter oxen and sheep, and to do whatever tasks there were. Later he was made to smash bones, and a bone fragment struck his face, destroying his eyes so that he could no longer see anything. Since he was no longer of use, the lord dismissed him. Thus he carried a broken begging bowl and went through the streets and lanes begging for alms, fallen into the state of a wretched man.

After the bhikṣu underwent this misfortune, a few years passed. His master, with the eye of the Dharma, observed and wished to know where the bhikṣu was. He saw that the bhikṣu was in the country of Arsacid begging for alms. At that time, among his disciples there were more than five hundred who only cultivated the five supernormal powers but did not seek the holy wisdom to cut off suffering. The master told them: “Quickly prepare your robes and bowls. Now together we shall go to see that disciple in the country of Arsacid.” The disciples were all glad to go, and said: “Surely his powers are supreme, that is why our master humbles himself to go personally to see him.” By relying on the supernormal power of divine feet, in but a moment they arrived and stopped before the bhikṣu. The master called his name. The bhikṣu answered, saying: “Has the master come?” The master said: “I have come especially to see you. Why have you become like this?” The disciple truthfully revealed the reality, speaking of the thoughts in his mind when he did evil. The master said to the other disciples: “To learn the five supernormal powers is not a reliable Dharma. You must not rely upon them.” When the master spoke thus, the five hundred disciples all attained the six supernormal powers and accomplished the fruit of Arhatship. That disciple was so ashamed that he had nothing to say. Then the master and disciples together returned to their former dwelling place.

(Sixteen)

Once in the past there was a country, wealthy and prosperous. A neighboring country wished to invade, so it dispatched troops. When the people of this country knew of it, they conscripted soldiers on a large scale, all those above fifteen years and below sixty years being required to go to war. At that time there was a man who wove fine cotton cloth, and he was nearly sixty. His wife was beautiful, and she often slighted and scorned her husband. The husband was always respectful and fearful toward her, regarding his wife as the master of the household and serving her. The husband said to his wife: “Now I must go to the war. I was ordered to prepare weapons, provisions, and utensils, and to depart at the appointed time.” The wife gave her husband a container of five liter in capacity, to store provisions, and also gave him a shuttle for weaving cloth, ten feet in length. The wife said: “Take this implement to fight the battle. I have nothing else to give you. If you break the container or lose the shuttle, I will not live with you any longer.” The husband took leave of his wife and went to war. He did not worry about being harmed by the enemy, but only thought that if anything went wrong with these two things, he would be cast away by his wife. On the road he encountered enemy soldiers, and in fighting against them their military strength was inferior, so they had to retreat. This old cloth weaver worried that if something happened to the two things he carried he would lose his wife. While the others were retreating, he alone lifted the shuttle above his head and stood unmoving facing the enemy. The enemy troops, seeing him, exclaimed in astonishment at his bravery and dared not advance further, but retreated. Thus the army of this country was able again to gather its formation, unite as one, advance forward, and win a great victory. The enemy could not withstand them and nearly the entire army was destroyed. The king was greatly pleased and rewarded the meritorious. The multitude reported to the king: “The old man who wove cotton cloth should be recorded as having the foremost merit.” The king summoned him and asked what he was thinking at the time: “Why were you alone able to cause the retreat of the enemy’s great army?” The old cloth weaver said: “I am not a warrior. My wife at home gave me two things to carry in the army. If these two things were lost or destroyed, my wife would abandon me, and I would be without a home. Therefore I vowed to protect these two things even at the cost of my life. In this way the enemy was driven back. Truly it was not due to my bravery or skill in battle.” The king said to the ministers: “This man was originally only fearful of his wife, yet after all he delivered the country from peril. He should be recorded with the highest merit.” Thus he appointed him as a minister, granted him treasures, a mansion, and maidens, and his rank was second only to the king. His sons and grandsons enjoyed blessings, inheriting them generation after generation. This is the retribution of conditions arising in the human world, which the Buddha used as a parable. The wife giving her husband a container of five liter and a shuttle of ten feet in length is like the Buddha conferring upon disciples the five precepts and the ten wholesome deeds. The wife’s instruction to the husband, “Protect these two things, neither destroy nor lose them, then you may live with me,” is like upholding the precepts without transgressing them until death, whereby one may enter together with the Buddha into the hall of Dharma. When the enemy army was defeated and he was granted rank and reward, this is like one who keeps the precepts—after enemies of this present life and unexpected misfortunes are eliminated, in future lives he will naturally enjoy blessings in the heavens.

(Seventeen)

In Śrāvastī there was a wealthy brāhmaṇa, whose riches were countless, and he was intelligent and wise. Yet he fell into wrong views, did not believe in wholesome Dharma, and declared that the practice of good deeds brought no benefit. At that time Śāriputra, using the eye of Dharma, saw him and thought in his heart: “He is an elder, and in past lives he had great merit and was a rich man. But now he only clings to food and clothing and does not create new meritorious deeds. Surely he will revolve into the three evil destinies. I should go and save him.” Thereupon he displayed the supernormal power of divine feet, and in an instant arrived before his seat, holding a begging bowl and standing there. At that time the brāhmaṇa had just sat down to eat. When he saw Śāriputra, he was very angry. He struck and pushed his gatekeepers, and after he raised his hands against them, he sat again to eat. He neither invited Śāriputra to sit nor drove him away. After finishing his meal, he washed his hands and rinsed his mouth, and with a mouthful of water he spat into Śāriputra’s bowl, saying: “Take this, this is my alms to you!” Then Śāriputra said: “I will cause you in the long night to receive endless blessings.” Having said this, he departed. The elder was seized with fear, and quickly told others, sending people to seek him. But Śāriputra returned directly to the monastery, and with that mouthful of water he mixed mud, and spread the mud upon the place where the Buddha walked in meditation. He reported to the Buddha: “He was miserly and greedy, and only gave me one mouthful of water. Now I have mixed it with mud and spread it upon the place of your walking meditation. May you tread upon it, so that he will receive inexhaustible blessings through the long night.” At once the Buddha walked there in meditation samādhi. Those sent by the elder to find Śāriputra saw this and reported truthfully to the elder, saying: “The Buddha abandoned the position of a wheel-turning king and left the household to become a śramaṇa. He holds a bowl and begs for food, not out of greed or grasping, but wishing to deliver beings.” They explained to the master all the matter from beginning to end in detail. The elder was deeply regretful that he had not given rise to a heart of reverence and service. He gathered his entire household, young and old, and came before the Buddha, repented, and confessed: “I was foolish and ignorant, my conduct improper. I beg forgiveness. Do not let me incur misfortune.” The Buddha conferred upon him the Three Refuges and expounded the Dharma for him. His mental knots were untied, and he attained the stage of non-retrogression.

(Eighteen)

Once in the past, the country of Pāṭaliputra, compared with other lands, was the richest and most powerful. From the virtuous men and divine beings above down to the lowest of the nine ranks of unworthy men, all possessed fine qualities. The scriptures of the immortals and the books of the world were complete in that country, and gold, silver, jewels, provisions, and cloth—there was nothing that it lacked. The Buddha often called it “the Country of Hearing and Having.” At that time the ninety-six kinds of heretics together conferred, saying: “The Buddha says that the Country of Hearing and Having is without anything that it does not have. Let us all go to find what they do not have. By this we may confound him, make them show themselves dishonest, and then we shall be honored and revered.” The brāhmaṇas discussed among themselves: “It is never heard that this country has ghosts. Let us deliberately seek ghosts. Surely they cannot provide them. Then it will be shown that what the Buddha attested as Dharma is not correct.” They went about the markets seeking to buy demons, and all said that there were none. The heretical brāhmaṇas were greatly pleased, thinking their scheme had succeeded. The Lord of Heaven, having learned of the secret scheme of the heretical brāhmaṇas, descended to the human world, transformed into a merchant, and sat in a shop as though selling goods. The heretical brāhmaṇas passed by to inspect the shops, and before the shop of the Lord of Heaven they asked: “Do you sell demons?” The Lord of Heaven said: “Yes, I have them! How many do you wish to buy?” The brāhmaṇas said among themselves: “He is deceiving. From where could demons be obtained, and yet he asks how many we want?” Then they said: “We wish to buy some.” The Lord of Heaven opened the shop door, and at once more than ten fierce demons appeared before their eyes. The heretical brāhmaṇas, seeing them, were greatly frightened and in that instant knew that the Buddha was utterly true. All went to the Buddha and took refuge, saying: “In the land of Pāṭaliputra there is nothing not possessed. But those who come empty-handed cannot obtain a single thing; while if one uses wealth to buy, there is nothing that cannot be obtained.” This was used as a parable. It is like the things that can be seen in the human world: the City of Sarvajña has nothing lacking. There are the four immeasurables, the six perfections, the thirty-seven factors of enlightenment, the śrāvakas, the Pratyekabuddhas, and up to the Tathāgata himself. In the City of Sarvajña, if there is one who does not cultivate virtue yet hopes to obtain something, that is impossible. If one honors and practices the sacred Dharma, restrains body and mind, and is cautious in speech and deed, it is like having money—certainly one can obtain what one seeks.

(Nineteen)

Once in the past, in the country of India there was a monastery of pine trees. In the monastery there were four ascetics, all of whom possessed the six supernormal powers. In that country there were four laymen, each of whom invited and supported one ascetic with long-term offerings. The four ascetics each went to practice teaching: one went to the Lord Śakra of Heaven, one went to the Nāga King of the Ocean, one went to the King of the Golden-Winged Bird, and one went to the Human King. Thus it was that the four ascetics, bringing back what remained of the alms placed into their bowls, divided it among the four laymen to eat. All manner of exquisite flavors were there, such as had never before been seen. Each of the laymen asked the ascetic from whence he had obtained them, and the ascetics each told the matter truthfully. Then the four laymen each made a vow. One said: “I vow to be reborn in the palace of Lord Śakra.” One wished to be reborn in the sea as a dragon. One wished to be reborn among the golden-winged birds. One wished to be reborn as a prince in the palace of the human king. When their lives ended, all as they wished, they were reborn as four divine kings. At the same time they gave rise to a thought: they wished to cultivate the eight precepts of fasting. They sought everywhere for a quiet place, but only the royal garden behind the palace of the king of Magadha was quiet. They then came to this garden and each sat beneath a tree, with a heart of compassion cultivated the precepts of fasting, practicing for one day and one night the method of recollecting the six thoughts. At dawn the next day, when the fast was ended, they went to speak with the king of Magadha. The king of Magadha asked: “What kind of men are you?” One said: “I am a heavenly king.” One said: “I am a dragon king.” One said: “I am the king of the golden-winged birds.” One said: “I am a human king.” The four each told the origin of the matter, and all were filled with joy. The Heavenly King then asked: “We have all cultivated the fasting precepts. Who has obtained the greatest merit?” The Human King said: “What I sought was close by, just outside the garden. The sound of music could be clearly heard here. Yet I was able to be single-minded here. Therefore my merit is the greatest.” The Heavenly King said: “In my heavenly palace of the seven jewels, maidens and singers, food and clothing are naturally fulfilled. There is no longer any unsatisfied desire. Yet I came from afar to this place to cultivate the eight fasting precepts. My merit should be the greatest.” The King of the Golden-Winged Birds said: “I delight only in eating dragons, and to eat dragons I regard as supreme joy, surpassing the pleasures of the five desires. Now together with the dragon, I did not give rise to even the smallest thought of evil, as slight as a hair. My merit is the greatest.” The Dragon King said: “My kind are food for the golden-winged birds. When we see the golden-winged bird searching for food, we are fearful and anxious, fleeing and hiding. Now I, together with the golden-winged bird, when I thought I would surely die, yet now together cultivated the eight fasting precepts. My merit is the greatest.” The King of Magadha said: “I have a minister of wisdom, named Bhadra. I will invite him and let him decide.” He summoned him and told in detail the reason for calling him. Bhadra then took silks of blue, yellow, white, and black, and suspended them in the air, and asked the four great kings: “Are not these four colors different from one another?” The four great kings said: “The colors are different, that is obvious.” The minister said: “And are the shadows of the silks upon the ground different?” They replied: “There is no difference.” The minister said: “Now the forms of the four divine kings are each different, as the colors and textures of the silks are different. But now that you have cultivated the precepts of fasting in accordance with the Dharma, your aims and aspirations are the same. This is like the shadows upon the ground—there is no difference. When the four honored great kings give rise to the great bodhi-mind, diligently cultivate goodness, uphold precepts, and create merit, when you attain the Way and become Buddhas, your forms will also be alike, and then there will be no difference.” The four great kings rejoiced, and immediately attained the eye of the Dharma.

(Twenty)

Once in the past there was a wealthy kulapati, who had two sons. The father fell ill, and at the end of his life he entrusted his elder son, saying: “Your younger brother is still small and does not yet understand things. Now I must lay a burden upon you. Take good care of him. Do not let him suffer hunger and cold.” With grief the father and sons took their final leave, and the father passed away. Later, the elder brother’s wife said to her husband: “Your younger brother is small. When he grows up, he will surely bring you trouble. The wealth and possessions of the household must all be divided, and he will take a share. Why not remove him while he is still young?” At first the elder brother refused, but unable to resist his wife’s repeated urging, he yielded. He took his younger brother out of the city to a remote graveyard, bound him beneath a cypress tree, but could not bear to kill him with his own hands, wishing instead that tigers, wolves, or demons would devour him. He said to his brother: “You have offended me many times. I have brought you here so that you may spend the night reflecting upon yourself. Tomorrow I will come back to take you home.” Having said this, he abandoned him and left.

Before long, night fell. Eagles and foxes cried and howled around him. The younger brother was terrified, not knowing to whom he could appeal. He lifted his gaze to the sky and sighed: “Within the three realms, is there truly no compassionate one who will receive my refuge? In today’s plight I am filled with boundless fear!” At that moment the Tathāgata saw his cry for rescue. He sat upright, entered samādhi, and emitted a great radiance called “Dispelling Darkness.” The light shone upon the graveyard, and at once it was filled with brightness. Again he emitted a light called “Unbinding.” When that light shone upon the younger brother, the bonds were loosened, and his body no longer suffered pain. Then once more he emitted a light called “Fulfilling All.” When the younger brother saw this light, he no longer felt hunger. Thereafter the Tathāgata followed the radiance and came to that place, personally untying the cords, and said to him: “What aspiration do you hold?” The younger brother said: “I wish to become a Buddha, to liberate all from every affliction, as you have done today.” At once he gave rise to the unsurpassed true and perfect bodhi-mind. The Buddha expounded the Dharma for him, explaining several essential points, and he quickly awakened to the tolerance of the unproduced Dharma. The younger brother said to the Buddha: “Although my elder brother held evil thoughts and, in violation of filial piety toward our father, harmed me, yet because of this very cause and condition I was able to meet the Buddha and sever the suffering of birth and death. I wish to go and repay him.” The Buddha said: “Excellent! Now is precisely the time.” The younger brother then displayed the supernormal power of divine feet and flew to his elder brother’s home.

The elder brother’s wife, seeing him, was seized with fear and shame, and could find no place to hide herself. The younger brother said to his elder brother: “Although you believed your wife’s evil words and bound me in the graveyard, yet because of this very cause and condition I have today attained the Way. This is your kindness, elder brother.” He then expounded the Dharma for his brother and sister-in-law, and they both awakened to the path of Srotaāpanna.”

(Twenty-one)

Once when the Buddha was in the world, Lord Śakra several times descended to make offerings to the Three Venerables, but only Mahākāśyapa would not accept them. What was the reason? It was because the great vow of Mahākāśyapa was only to deliver the poor. Lord Śakra, adapting to circumstances, together with his queen descended to the world, disguising themselves as an aged poor couple and dwelling in a dilapidated hut of thatch. At that time the Mahākāśyapa entered the city to beg for food. Lord Śakra and his wife, as the old couple, came forth to greet him, bowed respectfully, and told of their own poverty, saying they wished to offer some coarse tea and plain fare. Mahākāśyapa consented. The old couple returned his begging bowl, and within it was filled with ambrosia, though they made it appear rough in form and color, while in truth it surpassed the finest delicacies. Mahākāśyapa lifted the bowl to his lips, and the fragrance was overwhelming. Entering meditation samādhi, he contemplated and perceived that the old couple were Lord Śakra and his queen. Mahākāśyapa said: “Your blessings are lofty as a mountain. Why are you still not content?” Lord Śakra replied: “The blessings and retributions of the Three Venerables are so abundant as to be beyond reckoning. Therefore the wise are never content.”

(Twenty-two)

Once in the past, in a foreign land there was a monastery of pine trees. Within the monastery there were often more than one hundred monks who dwelt together and studied in the monastery. There was an upāsikā who diligently studied and was well versed in the Buddhist scriptures. Her home was not far from the monastery, and each day she gave food to one śramaṇa. The monks, in order, from the first to the last, went to her house in succession, and then the cycle began again. Whoever went to her house, the upāsikā would always ask about the meanings of the Buddhist teachings. Not wishing to reveal their shallow understanding, the monks were unwilling to go. There was a śramaṇa named Mahāro, who had not long since become a monk, and still knew nothing at all. By the turn of the order it came to him to go for alms. He walked slowly and leisurely, and did not arrive on time. The upāsikā came out to meet him. When she saw him she said: “This elder great monk walks with such steady dignity.” She thought he possessed great wisdom, and all the more delighted in him, preparing good food for him. After the meal she prepared a high seat, wishing him to expound the Dharma. The monk sat down, but truly did not know from where to begin. He spoke instead of his own affliction: “For one to be foolish and ignorant, indeed that is suffering.” When the upāsikā heard this, she reflected to herself: “Foolishness and ignorance—that indeed is the root of the twelve links of dependent origination. It is precisely saṃsāra, bringing forth all manner of afflictions, and therefore he says ‘it is suffering.’” Thinking it over again and again, she awakened and attained Srotaāpanna. She then rose and opened the storehouse, wishing to take fine cotton cloth to give in offering to the ascetic. But the ascetic had already descended from the seat and departed, returning to the monastery. When the upāsikā came out of the storehouse, she did not see the ascetic, and looked for him at the gate but saw no trace. She truly believed he had attained the Way and by the power of divine feet flown away. She then took the white cotton garment and went to the monastery to seek this monk. The ascetic feared that she was pursuing and calling out to him, so he shut the door tightly and hid inside his room. His master, who had attained the six supernormal powers, saw someone coming after him and thought that this disciple had violated the precepts. He entered meditation and observed, and knew that the upāsikā had already attained Srotaāpanna. He therefore called Mahāro to come out and receive the offering of the cloth. The master explained to him the origin of the matter, and Mahāro rejoiced and also awakened to the path of Srotaāpanna.

(Twenty-three)

Once in the past there was an old mother who had only one son. He fell ill and died. The old mother dragged his corpse to the graveyard and left it there. Overcome with grief, she could not restrain herself and thought: “I had only one son, who could have cared for me in old age, but he has forsaken me and died. What need have I to live any longer?” So she did not wish to return, but resolved to die together with her son. She refused food for four or five days.

The Buddha, with his wisdom, saw this situation and led five hundred bhikṣus to the graveyard. From afar the old mother saw the Buddha coming, his divine majesty radiant and shining. She seemed as one awakened from a drunken dream, quickly ran to the Buddha, stood before him, and paid reverence. The Buddha asked the old mother: “Why do you remain in the graveyard?” The old mother told the Buddha: “I had only one son. He abandoned me by dying. My love and grief are deep, and I wish to die here with him.”

The Buddha said to the old mother: “Do you wish your son to live again?” The old mother rejoiced and said: “Of course I wish it, World-Honored One.” The Buddha said: “Bring fine incense and fire, and I shall recite a incantation to restore your son to life.” Then he further instructed her: “It must be incense and fire from a household where no one has ever died.” The old mother then went to seek such incense and fire. She first asked each family: “Has anyone in your household, past or present, ever died?” The reply was: “Our forefathers and ancestors have all died.” Every house she asked gave the same reply. Having asked several dozens of households, she still dared not use their incense and fire. She then returned to the Buddha and said: “World-Honored One, I sought everywhere for incense and fire, but there is no household without death, so I have come back empty-handed.”

The Buddha told the old mother: “Since the beginning of heaven and earth, there has never been one who lives forever without dying. The living struggle to go on living, and that is indeed worthy of cherishing. Why then should the old mother be deluded and die with her son?” The old mother’s mental knot was untied, and she understood the truth of impermanence. The Buddha, seizing the occasion, expounded to her in detail the essential meaning of the Dharma. At once the old mother awakened and attained Srotaāpanna. Among those who witnessed this at the graveyard, not fewer than several thousands, all gave rise to the unsurpassed true and perfect bodhi-mind.”

(Twenty-four)

Once in the past, in the city of Rājagṛha, the people were all wealthy. Those of different ranks dwelt apart and did not intermingle. There was a special quarter called the “Hundred-Million District,” where only those who possessed a hundred million in wealth could reside.

At that time there was a layman who wished to live there. He diligently managed his household, lived frugally, ate little, and saved in every possible way. Over several decades he accumulated ninety lakṣa, but did not yet reach a hundred million. He fell gravely ill, and knowing that his life would not last long, he spoke to his wife: “My son is still young. When he grows up, entrust the wealth to him. Let him manage the household well, and when he accumulates enough to reach a hundred million, he must dwell in the Hundred-Million District, in order to fulfill the wish of my whole life.” Having spoken thus, he passed away.

After the funeral, the wife took the son to see the family treasures and said: “Your father left this instruction—that when you grow up, you must earn another ten million, save until you have a hundred million, and live in the district.” The child, then only seven or eight, said to his mother: “Why wait until I grow up? Give it to me now, and I can move in earlier.” The mother entrusted the wealth to him. The boy then used the wealth and jewels to make offerings to the Three Venerables, and gave alms to the poor and needy. Within half a year the wealth was all spent. His mother, both anxious and angry, reproached him for what he had done. Not long after, the boy fell ill, and he died.

The mother had lost both her wealth and her child, and her grief was boundless. She constantly thought of her son. In the Hundred-Million District there was a certain elder, the wealthiest of all, already eighty years of age, but without a son. The boy was reborn into that household, becoming the son of his chief wife. After ten months of pregnancy, she gave birth to a son, beautiful, intelligent, and mindful of his former lives.

When the mother held him to give milk, he would not drink. When the maidservants offered, he also refused. His mother of the former life, hearing of this matter, happened by chance to visit. When she saw him she loved him at once. She took him in her arms and kissed him, and immediately he opened his mouth and nursed. The elder rejoiced greatly, and for a high price hired her to nurse and care for the child. Then the elder discussed with his wife, saying: “This young son is my only heir. When others try to nurse him, he will not drink. When this woman holds him, he delights in her. Now I wish to take her into the house as a concubine, so that she may feed and raise my son. What do you think?” The wife agreed. So they sent the betrothal gifts and brought her in, built her a separate residence, divided property for her, and did not allow her to lack anything in her living.

The child then said to his mother: “Do you recognize me?” The mother was astonished and said: “I do not.” The son said: “I am your son from before. I took the ninety lakṣa from you and used it for almsgiving. Now together we have become masters of eight billion in wealth. Without toil we have food and clothing. What do you think of such blessings?” When the mother heard these words, she was both sorrowful and joyful.

When the son grew up, he taught and transformed in the Hundred-Million District, practicing the path of Mahāyāna. Thus it is said, because he gave alms with ninety lakṣa, falling short by ten million of a hundred million, an entire district became his dwelling. Generosity according to the Dharma, the bodhisattva’s realization is just such as this.

(Twenty-five)

Once in the past, in a foreign land there were people who planted much cotton. If it was not picked in time, it would lose its luster, and the quality would decline. At harvest time many laborers were hired, working from morning until night without rest. Because the master knew the laborers were weary, he prepared many fragrant and savory meat soups. When the food was being cooked and the meat soup was nearly done, its aroma spread in all directions.

Just then an eagle happened to fly above the pot, its claws clutching filth, and that filth dropped directly into the meat soup. The cook saw this and wanted to remove the filth, but it quickly dissolved into the pot. The cook thought: “To prepare another soup, the time is too late. To give this to the laborers—though I know it has filth and is unclean—surely such a small amount will not spoil the taste. It can be given for them to eat, only I myself will not eat it.” When the laborers returned, they sat to eat and the soup was ladled out for them. After they had eaten, the cook was still hungry. The laborers wanted the cook also to eat the soup. They called to him, and some even brought fine meat for him. The cook knew it was unclean, yet could not decline their good intention. Reluctantly he swallowed it, but did not taste its flavor.

The Buddha used this matter as a parable: The beings of the three realms, if they take delight in sensual desire and do not see what is unclean, are in delusion and confusion, ceaselessly running about, just like the hungry laborers eating the soup. The great bodhisattva, in transforming birth and death, in accordance with conditions manifests bodily form and experiences feeling of the forms, yet clearly knows they are unclean, unsavory, and not joyful, just like the cook who forced himself to eat the polluted meat soup—though he swallowed it down, he did not taste what flavor it was.

(Twenty-six)

Once in the past, Ānanda entered the city to beg for alms. At that time, the daughter of a household of sorcerers came out to draw water. When she saw Ānanda’s dignified countenance, she gave rise to a heart of love and desire. She returned home and said to her mother: “Outside there is a disciple of Śākyamuni. Please bring him here for me.” Her mother then summoned the spirits she worshiped and commanded them to bewilder Ānanda. Ānanda, unknowing, was drawn into their house.

The sorceress said to Ānanda: “Now I give my daughter to you. Do not go away.” Ānanda said: “I cannot act according to your words.” The sorceress cast a incantation and made appear a pit of fire, and said to Ānanda: “Will you enter the fire pit, or will you take my daughter?” Ānanda was fearful, yet kept his mind focused. At that time the Buddha extended his hand from afar and stroked Ānanda’s head. The spirits of the sorceress, seeing the Buddha’s hand stretching forth in the air, limitless in its majestic power, all fled away in every direction. They pushed the sorceress herself into the fire pit, and her body was heavily burned. Ānanda was saved, and at once returned to the Buddha.

Later, the sorceress returned and gathered the spirits, reproaching them: “You could not bewilder a disciple of the Buddha. Why did you push me into the fire pit?” The spirits answered: “In the past we once joined with the Māra Papīyān and assembled eight billion hosts to the foot of the pattra tree, intending to disturb the Bodhisattva. The Bodhisattva pointed to the ground with his hand—his hand was slender and long, between his fingers a fine net-like radiance, able to gather inward and outward, and in his palm there was the mark of the thousand-spoked wheel, his majestic power boundless. The eighty koṭi hosts of demons all tumbled down and fell, unable to restore their forms. Now once again he stretched out his hand to seize us, and we were truly afraid, so we fled everywhere and dared not remain. The spirits have their own rule: if we cast incantations and cannot strike the human, then we harm ourselves. Surely you already knew this. Why then do you still blame us?”

The sorceress then knew that the Buddha was the most honored. Immediately she took refuge in the Three Jewels, and awakened to the path of Srotaāpanna.

(Twenty-seven)

Once in the past, by the seashore there stretched trees for dozens of miles, and among them lived more than five hundred monkeys. At that time the sea gathered foam piled high to several hundreds of feet, like a snow mountain, and with the great tide it came drifting until it stopped at the shore. The monkeys saw it and said to one another: “Let us climb up to the summit of this mountain and play about everywhere. How delightful it will be!” At once one monkey climbed up onto the mass of foam, and in an instant it sank to the bottom of the sea. The other monkeys, seeing that he did not return for a long time, thought it strange and supposed that within the foam mountain there must be supreme joy, so that he would not come back. All of them rushed forward, scrambling to leap into the foam, and at once they were all drowned.

The Buddha used this as a parable: The great sea is the bitter sea of saṃsāra; the mountain of foam is the body formed of the five aggregates; the monkeys are the consciousness of men. Not knowing that the union of the five aggregates is in truth empty of self, they cling to worldly desires, and so they sink into the bitter sea of birth and death, never to emerge again. Therefore Vimalakīrti said: “The body of man is like a mass of foam, floating and sinking within the foam, enduring its torments.”

(Twenty-eight)

Once in the past, the elder Sudatta passed through seven periods of poverty, and in the last of these he was most destitute, down to having not a single coin. Later he picked up from the refuse a wooden measuring bowl, which was of sandalwood, and he brought it to market and sold it, buying back four measures of rice. He said to his wife: “First cook one measure for food, and I will go to seek some vegetables.” At that time the Buddha thought: “I should deliver Sudatta, that he may give rise to greater blessings.” When the rice was just cooked, Śāriputra came. The wife, rejoicing greatly, poured all of the rice from the first measure into his bowl. Again she cooked another measure, and when it was ready, Maudgalyāyana came. She, just as joyful, gave the rice to Maudgalyāyana. Then she cooked a third measure, and when it was done, Kāśyapa came, and she gave that to Kāśyapa. Only the fourth measure remained, and when it was just cooked, the Tathāgata himself came.

The wife thought: “These days we lack grain, and there is no surplus food. Today we have this rice, and the Tathāgata himself has come. Surely this means our sins are exhausted and our blessings about to arrive.” So she gave all the rice of the fourth measure to the Tathāgata. The Buddha then spoke a blessing: “From this day forth, your sins shall be extinguished and blessings shall arise.”

Sudatta returned from seeking vegetables. Fearing he would be angry, his wife asked him: “If now the Buddha were to come, and Śāriputra, Maudgalyāyana, and Kāśyapa also came to ask for food, should we not give them all the rice in our house?” Sudatta replied: “Yes indeed. A field of merit is very difficult to encounter. If they come to ask, then that is our opportunity.” His wife said: “The four measures of rice I have already given as alms.” Sudatta rejoiced greatly, and together with his wife drank the leftover rice soup.

After a short while, as they went about the rooms of the house, they discovered jewels, grain, and cloth, just as they had possessed in the past when wealthy. Sudatta leapt and danced with joy, knowing that this was the Buddha’s compassion and remembrance for him. Again he invited the Buddha and the monks, and with all his wealth he offered to them. The Buddha expounded the Dharma for them, and both husband and wife awakened to the Way.

(Twenty-nine)

Once in the past, there was a son of an elder who had newly taken a wife, and the two loved and respected each other. The husband said to the wife: “Go to the kitchen and fetch some wine, that we may drink together.” The wife went to the kitchen and opened the jar of wine. Within the jar she saw her own reflection, and thought it was another woman hidden there in the house. Greatly angered, she returned and said to her husband: “You already have another woman hidden in the jar. Why then did you marry me?” The husband himself went to the kitchen to look, and when he opened the jar, he saw his own reflection, and instead blamed his wife, thinking she had hidden a lover. The two resented each other all the more, each claiming what they saw with their own eyes.

A brāhmaṇa, who had long been a friend of the elder’s son, came to visit. Seeing the couple quarreling, he asked the reason, and went to the kitchen to look. He too saw his own reflection and reproached the elder’s son: “Why have you hidden your friend in the jar and pretend to quarrel?” Then he departed in anger. Again, a bhikṣuṇī who was supported by the elder’s family, hearing of their strife, came also to look at the jar. She saw within it the form of a bhikṣuṇī, and she too was offended and went away.

After a time, an ascetic also came to look. He understood it was only a reflection. He sighed deeply and said: “The people of the world are ignorant and deluded, taking the empty for the real.” He summoned the couple to come and look together. The ascetic said: “Let me draw forth the person from the jar.” He took a large stone and broke the jar. The wine poured out, and nothing remained within. The two were awakened and knew that it had been their own reflections. Each felt ashamed. The monk then expounded to them the essential points of the Dharma, and the husband and wife together awakened to the stage of Avaivartika.

The Buddha used this as a parable: “To see one’s reflection and contend with each other is like the people who dwell in the three realms, not understanding the five aggregates, the four great elements, suffering, emptiness, the three poisons within the body, and the ceaseless round of birth and death from which there is no release.” When the Buddha spoke these words, tens of thousands of people awakened to the essential meaning of no-self.

(Thirty)

When the Buddha was in the world, there was a very wealthy household with six members. Male and female servants, gold, silver, and precious jewels were beyond counting. The Buddha together with Ānanda went into the city to beg for alms, and passed by this household with which he had karmic ties from a former life. The Buddha came to their gate, and the father, mother, son, daughter-in-law, and grandson all rejoiced and were delighted. They invited the Buddha into the house, seated him upon a felt mat, and offered food in vessels made of gold, silver, or crystal.

Ānanda knelt and asked the Buddha: “What past merits did this man cultivate, that he has now obtained such great wealth?” The Buddha said to Ānanda: “In a former life, when there was famine in the world, his household was poor, the trees and grasses withered from drought, and only by gathering wild fruits by the water’s edge could they barely survive. Just when the vegetable broth they had boiled was ready, outside there came an ascetic begging for food. Opening the door they saw a śramaṇa. The father and mother then said: ‘Give our share to him.’ The son and grandson each gave their share to the parents, so that the parents might eat. The six of them together made a vow to eat only once a day. They regretted only that their household was poor and they had nothing fine with which to make offerings to the ascetic. For this reason they obtained blessings, and were reborn again and again among men and gods, dwelling in peace and abundance, with wealth and possessions in plenty. Because the resolve of their minds was the same, life after life they met together with karmic affinity. In this present life they have met again. Father, mother, son, and the young and old together received the five precepts, and after death they will reborn in the heavens to enjoy boundless bliss.”

(Thirty-one)

Once in the past there were three men, all of them poor, and they made their living only by selling firewood. It happened to be the eighth day of the fourth month, when the monks at a monastery were conducting the rite of bathing the Buddha image. At that time Śākyamuni, in a former life, served in the monastery as karmadāna. The three men passed by the monastery and, hearing that today there was a bathing of the Buddha image, they entered to see. Each man offered one coin before the image of the Buddha, and each made a vow, hoping it would be fulfilled.

One of them said: “May I in a future life have great wealth, never again to encounter such poverty. When I die, may I be reborn as the only son of a great and rich family, and when I grow up may I become a disciple of the Buddha, and thereafter be reborn again and again among men and gods.” The second man said: “May I be wise, and become a physician, treating all the illnesses of men, so that I may gain great wealth. May I die and be reborn in the household of the great physician Jīvaka, well versed in the art of medicine, curing diseases as soon as I lay my hand upon them. May I be reborn among men and gods, forever enjoying wealth and happiness.” The third man said: “May I have long life in future, and not die young. May I die and be reborn in the Heaven of the Twenty-Four, with a lifespan of sixty kalpas.”

The Buddha said: “These three each made a single vow, wishing life after life to obtain limitless blessings. Now they have all become my disciples, and have attained Arhatship.”

(Thirty-two)

Men of the world, when they go to sea in search of treasures, face seven perils. First, winds blow from the four sides at once and capsize the ship. Second, the body of the ship is damaged and leaks water. Third, if one falls into the sea, death is at hand, and he must struggle to reach land. Fourth, two dragons come ashore and devour men. Fifth, on the flat ground three poisonous snakes pursue, seeking to devour men. Sixth, the hot sand of the ground burns the feet, scorching them raw as one walks upon it. Seventh, when looking up, one sees neither sun nor moon, but only darkness, and one cannot discern east, west, south, or north. These are the great perils.

The Buddha warned his disciples: “You too face seven such dangers. First, when the winds from the four sides rise—that is the parable for birth, old age, sickness, and death. Second, the six faculties, endlessly stirred by sense-consciousness, are like the leaking ship. Third, falling into the sea with peril at hand is the parable for the moment when Māra seizes the opportunity to invade. Fourth, the two dragons devouring men are the parable for the sun and moon, weaving back and forth, consuming the span of life. Fifth, the three poisonous snakes on level ground are the parable for the three poisons within man himself. Sixth, the hot sand that burns the feet is the parable for the fire of hell. Seventh, raising the head and seeing neither sun nor moon is the parable for the places of punishment, dark and deep, with no day of release.

The Buddha said to his disciples: “Remember these words, and do not encounter these seven perils. Diligently cultivate the six perfections, and you may attain liberation.”