Collected by Bhikṣu Dao Lüe
Parable of the Teacher of Cakir Monastery Walking Behind His Disciples
Parable of the Sacred King Who Bore Nine Hundred and Ninty-Nine Sons
Parable of Two Brothers Who Became Śramaṇas Together
Parable of the Performer Who Displayed Many Arts
Parable of the Monk Who Was Expelled
Parable of Maudgalyāyana and His Disciples Descending from Gṛdhrakūṭa Mountain
Parable of the Glad Senses
Parable of the Carpenter and the Painter
Parable of the Cause and Condition of Mahākāśyapa’s Wife
Parable of the Elder Brother Who Loved Meditation and the Younger Brother Who Loved Learning
Parable of the Rāhu Jewel
Parable of the Nāga Ascending to Heaven
Parable of Defecating on the Pure Ground of the Saṅgha
Parable of Wiping a Nobleman’s Spittle with a Shoe
Parable of the Buddha and His Disciples Entering Śrāvastī to Beg for Alms
Parable of the Physician Who Cured the King’s Illness
Parable of the Evil Rain
Parable of the Cause and Condition of the Asuras
Parable of the Prince Who Entered the Mountains
Parable of the Deer Forest
Parable of Śrigupta
Parable of Going to a Brahmin’s House for Alms
Parable of the Countryman
Parable of Subduing a Nāga with Mantras
Parable of the Stone by the Roadside
Parable of the Snake’s Head and Tail Quarreling
Parable of the Bird-Catcher
Parable of the Five Hundred Strong Men Who Became Śramaṇas
Parable of the Three Lower Paths
Parable of Making a Living by Selling Curds
Parable of the Five Hundred Merchants Who Went to Sea in Search of Treasure
Parable of the Ending of a Kalpa
Parable of the Cause and Condition of a Noblewoman Becoming a Bhikṣuṇī
Parable of All Grasses and Trees Can be Medicine
Parable of the Butcher
Parable of the King Who Loved Giving Alms
Parable of the Nāga Who Hid the Water
Parable of the Cause and Condition by Which a Sacred King Obtained the Wheel-Treasure
Parable of the Brahmā King’s Long Life
(One)
Once upon a time, in the Cakir Monastery, there was a venerable bhikṣu who had already attained the fruition of Arhatship. One day, he brought along a sāmaṇera and went on alms-round into the city. The robe and alms-bowl were heavy, so he let the sāmaṇera carry them and follow behind him. On the road the sāmaṇera gave rise to such a thought: “Life in the world, nowhere is it free from suffering. If one wishes to escape suffering, what kind of Dharma should one contemplate and awaken to?” Thus he thought, “The Buddha often praises the Bodhisattva as lofty and sublime; I should now establish the vow to seek the Bodhisattva path.” While he was thinking thus, his master, through the divine penetration of knowing others’ minds, discerned his thought, and said to the sāmaṇera: “Give me the robe and bowl.” The sāmaṇera brought the robe and bowl and handed them to his master. The master then said to the sāmaṇera: “You walk in front.” The sāmaṇera had just walked ahead when again a thought arose in him: “The practice of the Bodhisattva path is too arduous. When beings demand his head, he must give his head; when they demand his eyes, he must give his eyes. This is too difficult, not something I am able to accomplish. It is better to quickly attain the fruition of Arhatship, and more swiftly depart from suffering.” The master, discerning his thought, said to the sāmaṇera: “Take the robe and bowl, and return behind me.” In this way, back and forth three times, the sāmaṇera was perplexed and did not know what it meant. When they arrived at a resting place ahead, the sāmaṇera joined his palms and made obeisance, asking his master what it was all about. The master replied: “Three times you wished to practice the Bodhisattva path, so three times I let you walk in front; three times you retreated from it, so three times I let you walk behind me. The reason I acted thus is because establishing the vow to seek the Bodhisattva path, its merit surpasses all the merit of attaining the fruition of Arhatship throughout the three thousand great-thousandfold worlds.”
(Two)
Once there was a Wheel-Turning King who had already begotten nine hundred and ninety-nine sons. All of them had grown up into adulthood, their appearance upright and handsome, intelligent and quick-witted, endowed also with strength. Some possessed twenty-eight marks of a great man, some possessed thirty marks of a great man, and some possessed thirty-one marks of a great man. The last son, however, was still in the mother’s womb, dwelling in an unclean place. At that time, the powerful spirits among the devas, nāgas, and the eight divisions of gods and nāgas beat drums and sang songs, guarding and protecting the mother. The king also commanded his attendants to render thorough offerings, adornments of various kinds, three times more than usual. At that time someone said to the king: “Your earlier sons have all grown up into adulthood, possessing wisdom, supreme cleverness, and bodily appearance extraordinary and distinguished. Yet you look upon them with indifference, not showing particular delight. But now this son is still within the womb, what special quality does he have, that you provide supplies exceeding the ordinary?” The king replied: “Though my grown sons have talents and surpass others in appearance, they do not have the ability to inherit the throne. This youngest son, when he grows up, will surely be able to inherit the kingship.” At that time the holy king is like the Buddha; those grown sons are like the two lesser vehicles; the youngest son is like the Bodhisattva. This story shows that although a Bodhisattva’s body is still tainted with defilement, yet he can establish a vast vow, and he will certainly be remembered and protected by all Buddhas; the devas, nāgas, spirits, and gods all revere and cherish him.
(Three)
Once when Kāśyapa Buddha was in the world, there were two brothers who both left home to become śramaṇas. The elder delighted in keeping precepts and sitting in meditation, wholeheartedly seeking the path, but did not delight in giving. The younger delighted in giving and cultivating merit, but constantly violated the precepts. When Śākyamuni appeared in the world, the elder encountered the Buddha, left home, cultivated the path, and attained the fruition of Arhatship, but because his merit was meager, he often suffered shortage of food and clothing. When going on alms-round together with his companions, he alone would often return with an empty stomach. The younger was reborn as an elephant, powerful and able to defeat enemies, and beloved by the king. The king adorned its body with the finest gold, silver, precious gems, and strings of jewels, and many times conferred upon it fiefs of a hundred households, supplying it according to its needs. At that time, the elder who was a bhikṣu encountered famine, and going on alms-round for seven days obtained nothing. At last he received a little coarse and inferior food, and only thus preserved his life. The elder already knew that this elephant was his younger brother of former life, so he went before the elephant, grasped its ear, and said to it: “I and you both have offenses.” The elephant then pondered the bhikṣu’s words, and at once knew his past life, and beheld the old karmic causes and conditions of former existence. The elephant furrowed its brow and no longer ate or drank. The elephant’s keeper was alarmed, and went to report to the king, saying: “The elephant will not eat or drink, I do not know for what reason.” The king asked the keeper: “Before this, was there anyone who approached this elephant?” The keeper replied: “There was no unusual person, only that a śramaṇa came near the elephant, stayed for a short while, and then departed.” The king immediately sent men to search everywhere for this śramaṇa. Someone found him in the forest, seized him, and brought him before the king. The king asked the śramaṇa: “What did you say by the ear of my elephant?” The śramaṇa answered the king: “I did not say much, I only told the elephant: ‘I and you both have offenses.’” Then the śramaṇa explained in detail to the king the karmic causes and conditions of their former life. The king was awakened, released the śramaṇa, and let him go back.
(Four)
Once upon a time, there was an entertainer who could perform various kinds of music. He begged a wealthy elder to give him a cow. The elder had no intention of giving him one, but purposely said to him: “If you can toil and perform music, without stopping day and night for the full course of a year, then I shall give you the cow.” The entertainer replied: “I can.” Then he asked the elder: “But can you listen?” The elder also said: “I can.” When the entertainer heard these words, he was greatly joyful, and single-mindedly played music, three days and three nights without rest. The elder, growing weary of listening, ordered his attendants to lead the cow and give it to the entertainer. This story is a parable: for one who cultivates the path and performs merit, it does not depend on how many kalpas are endured as long, but lies in diligence and vigor. In such a case, the retribution of fruits will come quickly, and it is not necessarily that one must pass through so many kalpas.
(Five)
Once there was a bhikṣu who was expelled from the monastery. He grieved in distress and sorrow, lamenting with tears as he walked along the road. On the way he met a ghost. This ghost too had transgressed the law and was expelled by Vaiśravaṇa, the Heavenly King. At that time the ghost asked the bhikṣu: “For what reason do you weep as you go along the road?” The bhikṣu answered: “I violated the precepts and was expelled by the community of monks. All the offerings from benefactors are gone, and I have gained an evil reputation, infamous far and wide. For this reason I am troubled, I lament, I weep.” The ghost said to the bhikṣu: “I can cause you to lose your evil reputation and obtain many offerings. You may stand upon my left shoulder; I will carry you, walking in the air. People will see you, but they will not see me. If you receive abundant offerings, you must first give them to me.” Then the ghost bore the bhikṣu upon his shoulder and flew in the sky above the monastery from which he had been expelled. At that time the villagers saw this sight and were greatly astonished, thinking that this bhikṣu had attained the path, and spreading the word from one to another: “The community of monks has no propriety, they have wrongly cast out a man who has attained the path.” Then the villagers all came to that monastery, reproaching the monks. Immediately they welcomed the bhikṣu back into the monastery, and let him receive abundant offerings. This bhikṣu, according to his agreement, whenever he obtained food, clothing, and such things, always gave first to that ghost, not violating his promise. On another day the ghost again carried the bhikṣu, traveling in the air, when suddenly they encountered the officers of Vaiśravaṇa, the Heavenly King. The ghost, beholding the officers, was stricken with terror, threw down the bhikṣu, and fled with all his might. The bhikṣu fell to the ground and died, his body and his head crushed and shattered. This story is a parable: the one who cultivates should rely upon his own strength to uphold the Buddha Dharma, and should not rely upon power and influence. Otherwise, when those in power collapse, the outcome will be the same as that of the expelled bhikṣu.
(Six)
Once, Maudgalyāyana together with his disciples descended from Gṛdhrakūṭa Mountain and went into Rājagṛha city to beg for alms. On the way, Maudgalyāyana looked up at the sky and suddenly laughed. His disciples asked him: “Why do you laugh?” Maudgalyāyana answered: “If you wish to know, you can go to the Buddha and ask again.” After the alms-round was finished, they returned to the Buddha. The disciples again asked Maudgalyāyana why he had laughed before. Maudgalyāyana answered: “I saw in the sky a hungry ghost, its body extremely long, its appearance ugly and fierce. There were seven hot iron balls, swallowed into its mouth, piercing through its body. Piercing through the body, again swallowed into the mouth. Its whole body was burning with blazing fire, the suffering unbearable. It struggled without rest, falling down and rising up, rising up and falling down again. Seeing this, I laughed. Not only I saw it, the Buddha also saw it.” The disciples asked: “For what cause does he suffer such torment?” Maudgalyāyana answered: “You yourselves should ask the Buddha.” The disciples at once approached the Buddha and asked him the causes and conditions. The Buddha answered: “This hungry ghost was in a former life a sāmaṇera. At that time there was a famine, and they lived on beans. This sāmaṇera divided the food for the monks. When it came to his master, he was partial, and gave to his master seven beans more. Because of this offense he was reborn as a hungry ghost, and suffers such torment.” The Buddha said: “I also often see such scenes, yet I do not speak of them, for fear that people will not believe, and instead they will incur very great karmic guilt.” This story is a parable: if when the Buddha speaks of Prajñā people do not believe, and even slander it, such a sin is heavier than the five rebellious crimes, and one must suffer the greatest torment in hell.
(Seven)
In the past, countless dust numbered kalpas ago, there was a Bodhisattva named Glad Senses, who among the great assembly expounded the Mahāyāna. At that time Mañjuśrī was still an ordinary man. He left home to cultivate the path, devoted himself to austere practices, upheld the twelve dhūta rules, and with merit benefited living beings. At that time he encountered Glad Senses Bodhisattva expounding the Dharma, so he went there to listen. Glad Senses Bodhisattva was preaching the true suchness of all dharmas, declaring that lust, anger, and delusion are not different from the Buddha Dharma; lust, anger, and delusion are the path, they are nirvāṇa. At that time Mañjuśrī, hearing this, did not believe, and at once departed. He went to the house of a disciple of Glad Senses and there spoke of the impurity of the human body. The disciple of Glad Senses at that time reproached him, saying: “The truth of the Buddha Dharma is that in reality there is emptyness. The self-nature of all dharmas is empty. How then can there be purity or impurity?” The bhikṣu who practiced dhūta remained silent, yet inwardly harbored resentment, forming a knot of grievance. Then the disciple of Glad Senses recited seventy verses, praising the true suchness of all dharmas. Each time the ascetic bhikṣu heard a verse, his hatred grew once more; when he had heard all seventy verses, his hatred had grown seventyfold. When the verses were just finished, the ground split open, the Avīci hell fully appeared there, and the dhūta bhikṣu immediately fell into it. After innumerable kalpas, when his offense was exhausted, only then did he emerge, and thus he knew how grave is the guilt of disbelieving the wondrous Dharma. Later, he again became a bhikṣu, wholly intent on learning, and obtained great wisdom, becoming the foremost in understanding emptiness among the disciples. This parable means those who, when the Buddha expounds Prajñā, do not believe and moreover slander. At that time they incur harm, yet afterward it may bring great benefit.
(Eight)
Once in North Sindhu there was a carpenter, skillful with his hands, who made a wooden puppet woman, with appearance most upright and beautiful, unmatched in the world. Her clothing and ornaments were exactly like those of worldly women. She could also walk back and forth, and she could pour wine and serve guests, only she could not speak. At that time there was in South Sindhu a painter, who too was skilled in painting. The carpenter heard of him, so he prepared fine dishes and invited the painter as a guest. When the painter came, the carpenter let the puppet woman pour wine and serve food for him. From morning until evening, the painter did not know it was a puppet, but thought it was a real woman serving him. Lustful desire attacked his mind, thought after thought without ceasing. As night deepened, the carpenter returned to his room to sleep, but also urged the painter to remain for the night, letting the puppet woman stand by his side in attendance, and said to the guest: “I have purposely left this woman to lodge with you.” The host then retired to his room, while the puppet woman stood beside the lamp. The guest called to her, but she did not come. The guest thought that she was shy and therefore did not come, so he went to take her hand, and only then did he know it was a puppet. The painter was deeply ashamed. Reflecting, he said: “The host has deceived me, I must surely repay him.” Thus the painter devised a plan: on the wall he painted his own portrait. The figure in the painting wore garments exactly like his own, and around his neck was a rope, as if he were a hanged corpse. He painted also flies and birds pecking with their mouths. When the painting was finished, he closed the door and hid beneath the bed. At daybreak the host rose, and seeing that the door had not been opened, looked inside, and saw his guest hanging dead upon the wall. The host was seized with great terror, believing he had truly died, so he broke open the door, intending with a knife to cut the rope. At this time the painter came out from under the bed. The carpenter was deeply ashamed. The painter said: “You can deceive me, I too can deceive you. The bond of guest and host is settled, and now we are even.” Both then said: “People in the world deceive one another—how is this any different?” At that time, the two men became convinced that the world is filled with deception, so each abandoned his loved ones and went forth to cultivate the path.
The Former Life Causes and Conditions of Kāśyapa
(Nine)
The father of Kāśyapa was named Nyagrodha, a man of the land of Magādha, of the brāhmaṇa caste. Because of merits from past lives, in this world he was immensely rich and noble. His rare treasures and precious goods ranked among the very finest in his country, lacking only one part in a thousand compared with the wealth of the king. Husband and wife were lonely and without children. Near their home there was a great tree deity. At that time the couple, desiring to obtain a son, prayed to this tree deity, making sacrifices of three kinds of animals, year after year without ceasing. Because what they sought never came to pass, they gave rise to resentment and became furiously distressed, setting a limit for the tree deity, saying to him: “We will give our utmost devotion in offering for seven days. If even then it does not come to fruition, we will cut you down, cast you by the roadside, and burn you with fire.” The tree deity, hearing these words, was greatly terrified, not knowing by what means he could cause them to have a son, and so he reported it to the Heaven-King Calm Mind, explaining the entire matter. The Heaven-King Calm Mind then brought the tree deity to Śakra, Lord of the Devas, and related to him in detail the circumstances. Śakra, using the divine eye, examined within the desire-realm, but did not find anyone suitable to be their son. Śakra then told the matter fully to Brahmā the King of Brahmā Heaven. Brahmā, using the divine eye, surveyed the region under his governance, and saw a Brahmā-deva whose lifespan was coming to its end. He told him: “You may be reborn in Jambudvīpa, to become the son of the brāhmaṇa Nyagrodha of Magādha.” That Brahmā-deva answered: “The brāhmaṇas hold many wrong views. If I am reborn in the human world, I will not be his son.” Brahmā replied: “That brāhmaṇa in former lives had great merits, and among the beings of the desire-realm there is none who can be his son. If you go to be reborn, I will command Śakra, Lord of Devas, to protect you, so that you will not fall into wrong views along the way.” The Brahmā-deva said: “Very well, I will not disobey your sacred instruction.”
At that time Śakra returned to the desire-realm, and conveyed the matter to the tree deity. The tree deity rejoiced greatly, and returned to tell the elder: “Do not be anxious or fearful, do not be angry or resentful. In seven days you will have a son.” As his words said, after seven days the elder’s wife felt herself pregnant. After the full ten months of pregnancy, the son was born. His body was golden-colored, and moreover shone with radiance. An augur examined him and declared: “This child in past lives had merits. He has vast majestic power, virtue, and practice. His aspirations are lofty and pure. He will not cling to worldly affairs. If in the future he goes forth to become a renunciant, he will surely accomplish the holy path.”
When his parents heard this, they were greatly troubled and sorrowful: “We truly fear that when our son grows up, he will abandon us and go forth as a renunciant. What method can we use to prevent him from leaving home?” They reflected further: “What the desire-realm values is beauty. We should find for him a woman of dignified grace and beauty, to tie his heart.” When Kāśyapa reached the age of fifteen, they sought to arrange a marriage for him. Kāśyapa, hearing of this, was very distressed, and said to his parents: “My aspiration delights in purity. I have no need of women.” Though Kāśyapa declined again and again, his parents’ resolve did not change. Kāśyapa then said to his parents: “I will not take an ordinary woman as wife. If I can obtain a woman whose body is of purple-gold color, and whose appearance is supremely beautiful, only such a one will I marry.” He said this deliberately, intending that the marriage should not succeed.
Thus Kāśyapa’s parents gathered many brāhmaṇas, and had them travel through the whole land. Wherever they found a woman whose body was golden-colored and whose appearance was upright and beautiful, they were to bring her back as bride. The brāhmaṇas devised a stratagem: they cast a statue of a golden goddess, with features upright and beautiful, faintly emitting radiance. Carrying the statue, they went from one capital to another, loudly proclaiming: “All women who see this golden goddess and bow in reverence and make offerings, when they marry they shall obtain a good husband. He will be golden of body, handsome in form, and surpassingly intelligent.”
All the women of villages and cities, when they heard the cry, without exception gave their hearts to it, and came forth to welcome the golden goddess, bowing in reverence and making offerings. Only one woman, whose body was golden-colored and whose appearance was upright and beautiful, dwelt alone in her chamber and would not come forth. The other women urged her, saying: “All who see the golden goddess shall have their wish fulfilled. Why are you alone unwilling to come forth?” She replied: “My aspiration is at ease and pure. I have no other desire.” The women said again: “Though you have no desire, what harm is there in taking a look?”
Thus they persuaded her to come with them before the golden goddess. When this woman came near, her radiance became bright and pure, and shone upon the golden goddess statue. At once the statue lost its brilliance, and its golden color no longer appeared. The brāhmaṇas, seeing this, returned to report to the elder in detail. The elder then dispatched a matchmaker to the woman’s home, to convey his wish. The woman’s parents had already heard of Kāśyapa’s name, and respectfully accepted the proposal, at once giving their consent. The woman, hearing this, was greatly distressed. Pressed by her parents, the matter was not of her own choice, and she was married into the elder’s family.
When she entered the household and saw Kāśyapa, the two looked upon each other, their resolve both steadfast. Though they were husband and wife, there was no intimacy or affection. The woman then made a vow to Kāśyapa: “I and you shall sleep apart, and we pledge not to touch one another.” At that time husband and wife lived in separate houses. Kāśyapa’s father, when Kāśyapa went out, secretly had one house dismantled, and forced them to live in a single house. Though dwelling in one house, they still did not share one bed. Kāśyapa’s father then had one bed removed, forcing them to share a single bed. Thus though husband and wife shared one bed, the wife once again vowed to her husband: “When I sleep, you shall walk; when you sleep, I shall walk.”
One day, while the wife slept, her arm hung down to the ground, and a great poisonous snake was about to bite her. Kāśyapa, seeing this, gave rise to compassion, wrapped her hand in cloth, and placed it back upon the bed. At once the wife awoke startled, and angrily reproached Kāśyapa: “We had a vow beforehand. Why do you violate it?” Kāśyapa said: “Your arm fell to the ground, and a poisonous snake was about to bite you. Therefore I saved you, it was not deliberate.” The snake was still there, and Kāśyapa pointed it out. The wife then realized. Husband and wife then discussed: “Why should we not both go forth as renunciants and cultivate the path?” Having spoken thus, the two together bade farewell to their parents, and left home, cultivating in the wilderness and mountains.
At that time there was a brāhmaṇa with five hundred disciples, dwelling in that mountain. Seeing Kāśyapa and his wife, he gave rise to slander, saying: “According to the rules of renunciation, one must preserve chastity. How can husband and wife go forth together?” Then Kāśyapa departed from his wife, and with five hundred measures of gold purchased a robe of patches, and dwelt in another forest. His wife followed that brāhmaṇa and sought to become his disciple. The brāhmaṇa’s five hundred disciples, seeing the woman’s beauty, every day violated her. She had no freedom, and was unable to endure, so she reported it to her master. The master warned and restrained his disciples, commanding them to restrain their lust.
Later Kāśyapa encountered the arising of the Buddha in the world. Hearing the Buddha Dharma, he accepted the teaching and attained the fruition of Arhatship. He then heard that his wife was with a non-Buddhist brāhmaṇa, so he brought her to bow before the Buddha. The Buddha expounded the Dharma for her, and she too attained the fruition of Arhatship. Her hair fell away of itself, the monastic robe covered her body, and she became a bhikṣuṇī, traveling about to teach and transform. At that time King Prasenajit held a great assembly. The bhikṣuṇīs were permitted to enter the palace, and there instructed the queen and consorts, causing them to observe a day of fasting. That evening when the king returned to the palace, he summoned his consorts, but they replied that they were keeping the fast and would not come. The king was enraged, and asked the attendants: “Who has instructed the consorts to keep the fast?” The attendants answered: “Such-and-such bhikṣuṇī.” The king then summoned her, and compelled her, for ninety days, to take the place of the consorts and receive his favor. This was the repayment of past causes and vows. Even having attained the fruition of Arhatship, it still could not be escaped.
(Ten)
Once upon a time there were two brothers who renounced the household life to seek the Way. The elder brother constantly wished to cultivate meditation, single-mindedly practicing the Way, attaining the fruition of Arhatship, and mastering thoroughly the six kinds of supernormal powers. The younger brother constantly wished to be erudite and much learned, so that he could display his name and elevate his reputation. The elder brother constantly inspired and guided his younger brother, saying: “It is difficult to obtain a human body, and it is even more difficult to encounter the age when the Buddha is in the world. Since one has obtained a human body, one should cherish the time.” The younger brother said to the elder: “One must be erudite, fully grasp the three piṭakas, be worthy of being a teacher of men, and then cultivate meditation.” The elder once again thoroughly explained to his younger brother the great meaning of impermanence: “When one breath cannot come up, one has already turned to be reborn in the next life.” But the younger brother was obstinate in his own view, not listening to his instruction. Not long after, the younger brother contracted a grave illness, and although dozens of famous physicians were invited, none could save his life. The doctors, knowing he was certainly doomed to die, one by one departed. The younger brother, terrified, knowing he would die, said to his elder brother: “In the past I was ignorant and foolish, short-sighted and narrow, not listening to elder brother’s admonition. Now as I am about to die, I do not know where I will be reborn.” With tears flowing down his face, he confessed his repentance to his elder brother. Before long, he died. The elder brother entered meditation and observed the destination of his younger brother, seeing him reborn in the womb of a noble lady. That nobleman’s household was very close to the monastery, so the elder brother came several times to that house, requesting them to make offerings so as to form wholesome conditions, for the purpose of delivering his younger brother. At that time, the nobleman’s son was three years old, and he carried offerings, becoming his disciple. When he was four, the nurse carried him up the mountain to the monastery where his master dwelled. The monastery was on the mountain, with a road made of piled stones. The nurse did not hold the boy firmly, and he slipped from her arms, fell to the ground, and struck his head upon the stone; his brain burst open and he died. At the moment of death, the boy gave rise to an evil thought, hating the nurse for not holding him well, thereby bringing about this calamity. Because of this resentment, after death he directly fell into the great hell. The elder brother once again entered meditation and carefully observed, and saw his younger brother in hell. Then he sighed, saying: “Now it is finished. The suffering of hell is extreme, difficult to rescue. Even all Buddhas cannot save him, how much less could I!” This story is a parable that those who delight in fame but do not cultivate meditation, after death fall into the evil destinies, and even their fathers and elder brothers, such close kin, cannot deliver them.
(Eleven)
Rāhu Jewel was a disciple of Śāriputra. In a former life he once seized food from a Pratyekabuddha, and because of this offense he was reborn in the realm of hungry ghosts, suffering for innumerable kalpas. When the kalpas of hungry ghosts had been exhausted, he was reborn among humans, for five hundred lives suffering hunger and starvation. At last, in his final rebirth as a human, it was precisely when the Buddha was in the world, and so he renounced the household life to cultivate the path. Wearing the robe of a monk, he went on alms-rounds, yet no one gave him offerings; sometimes for five days, sometimes for seven days, he obtained no food. Maudgalyāyana pitied him and gave him the food he had begged; but as soon as the rice entered the bowl, a great bird snatched it away. Śāriputra shared his alms with him; but as soon as the food entered the bowl, it turned into mud. Mahākāśyapa shared his alms with him; but when the food was brought to his mouth, his mouth closed and the rice could not enter. When the Buddha gave him food, because of the Buddha’s dharmic power of great compassion, it could immediately enter his mouth, and its flavor was especially fine. The Buddha then, with various skillful means, expounded the Dharma to him. At that time, Rāhu Jewel, hearing the supreme and wondrous Dharma, was filled with both sorrow and joy, single-mindedly contemplated, and attained Arhatship.
(Twelve)
When a nāga ascended to the heavens and sent down heavy rain, when the rain fell into the heavenly palace, it became the seven treasures; when the rain fell upon the human world, it all became nectar that nourished all beings; when the rain fell upon hungry ghosts, it turned into great fire, causing their whole bodies to burn. It is the same one rain, yet when it falls upon different places it undergoes different transformations. This distinction shows that all things have no fixed inherent nature; their qualities are formed through the influence of sin or of merit.
(Thirteen)
In a foreign land there was a place of practice. There was an ascetic who, in front of the assembly of monks, defecated upon the ground. There was also another ascetic who constantly harbored resentment, and he licked with his tongue to show everyone. His original intention was to reveal the faults of others, yet he did not know that in doing so he would defile his own mouth. This story illustrates that people always like to speak of the faults of others. Just as in this story, one only knows how to expose the shortcomings of others, but does not know that by doing so one destroys and corrupts one’s own virtue.
(Fourteen)
In a foreign land the servants attended upon noblemen, wishing to express obedience in order to please them. When they saw the nobleman spit, they all vied to trample upon it with their feet so as to remove the trace of spittle. There was one man not strong nor quick, and although he wished to trample upon it, he could not gain the chance. Later, when he saw that the nobleman was about to spit, though it had not yet left the mouth, he lifted his leg to trample upon the spittle within the nobleman’s mouth. The nobleman questioned: “Do you wish to rebel? Why do you kick my mouth?” The servant replied: “I intended well, not rebellion.” The nobleman asked: “If you do not rebel, then why do you act in such a manner?” The servant replied: “When the nobleman spits, I always wish to trample it, but as soon as it has left your mouth, it is always seized by the others, and I never once gain an opportunity. Therefore I took this inferior plan, and while the spittle was still within your mouth, I lifted my leg to trample upon it.” This story is an analogy that when engaged in debate, one must wait until the other has fully expressed his meaning, and then question him. If, while the other has not yet spoken forth his meaning, while the principle has not yet been expressed, one interrupts and refutes, it is just like the servant who raised his leg to trample upon the nobleman’s spittle while it was still in his mouth.
(Fifteen)
Once, in former days, the Buddha together with his disciples entered Śrāvastī, intending to beg alms along the roadside. They saw by the roadside a pit of earth, in which the filth of the entire city was cast. They saw an old sow leading her piglets, all lying together in the pit of filth. At that time the Buddha smiled, manifesting the mark of forty teeth, revealing four teeth, and from the four teeth issued forth boundless and measureless light, universally illuminating the three thousand worlds, pervading up and down and in all directions. His light, after returning, circled the Buddha’s body three times, and then entered his body at the chest. According to the rule of all Buddhas: when intending to speak of the affairs of hells, the light enters the body from beneath the feet; when intending to speak of the affairs of animals, the light enters the body from the arm; when intending to speak of the affairs of hungry ghosts, the light enters the body from the thigh; when intending to speak of the affairs of humans, the light enters the body from the navel; when intending to speak of the affairs of gods, the light enters the body from the chest; when intending to speak of the affairs of śrāvakas, the light enters the body from the mouth; when intending to speak of the affairs of Pratyekabuddhas, the light enters the body from the mark between the brows; when intending to speak of the affairs of Buddhas and Bodhisattvas, the light enters the body from the crown of the head. Ānanda, seeing the light enter the body from the chest, knew that the Buddha intended to speak of the affairs of gods, and immediately knelt on both knees and asked the Buddha the meaning. The Buddha said to Ānanda: “Innumerable kalpas ago there was a certain elder who had no son, but only one daughter, of upright and beautiful appearance, wise and intelligent. The girl’s parents cherished her very deeply. When the girl grew up, she spoke a verse, and with this verse questioned her parents:
‘All things are like the flow of water,
The affairs of suffering and joy in the world,
From where do they originally arise?
And when shall they cease and rest?’
When her parents heard, they rejoiced that their daughter was extraordinary and lofty, yet they did not know how to answer this verse. The daughter had originally wished to resolve her doubts, but since she received no answer, her brows were clouded with sorrow, and she had no thought of food or drink. When the parents saw their daughter burdened and distressed, they too were very fearful, and immediately convened an assembly, inviting Brahmins and venerable elders of much wisdom. When the multitude had gathered and the offerings of food and drink were completed, in the assembly a small bed was prepared, and the daughter sat upon it, once again speaking the same verse and questioning the assembly. All the multitude were silent, no one could answer. The elder then took out a plate filled with the seven treasures and announced: ‘Whosoever can answer, to him shall I give these treasures.’ At that time there was a Brahmin, handsome in appearance but lacking in wisdom, greedy for the precious treasures, and so he said: ‘I can answer.’ The girl, hearing this, recited the verse and questioned the Brahmin. This Brahmin too did not understand the meaning of the verse, and simply said: ‘Such matters are all void and without reality.’ The girl entered meditation and at once attained the concentration of the Heaven of Nothing Whatsoever, and she declared: ‘This man is truly a great teacher, he has given me great benefit.’ After the girl’s death, she was reborn in the Sphere of Nothing Whatsoever. After forty kalpas, when the heavenly lifespan was exhausted, she was reborn among humans. That daughter of the elder at that time is now this old sow. The blessings of heaven having been exhausted, and the offenses of past lives causing her to take the form of a pig. This girl, when she first spoke her verse, had she encountered a true teacher, she could have attained the Way. This girl, although she cultivated meditation, lacked wisdom; when the retribution of meditation was ended, she still fell into the path of animals.”
(Sixteen)
Once upon a time there was a great king of a great country who was afflicted with a grave illness, and for twelve years it did not heal. None of the famous physicians could cure it. At that time there was a small country on the border, dependent upon this great king, and within it was a physician skilled in healing diseases. The king summoned him to come and treat his illness. Before long, the physician’s hand reached the illness and it was cured. The king then wished to repay the physician’s kindness, and repeatedly sent envoys to the small country to proclaim an edict: “This physician cured the king’s illness, establishing great merit, and he should be rewarded. Elephants, horses, chariots, oxen, sheep, fields and dwellings, maidservants and male attendants, ornaments and treasures, all shall be given to him.” The king of that small country respectfully obeyed the command, and for the physician he built a residence with lofty halls and layered pavilions, gave him a wife, fine clothing, food and drink, jewels and precious ornaments, elephants, horses, oxen, and sheep, everything complete in abundance. Yet as the physician remained at the side of the king, no one told him of the rewards he had received. The physician thought to himself: “I cured the king’s illness and exerted great effort. I wonder whether the king will repay me or not?” After a few more days, when the king had turned from danger to safety, the physician requested leave to return to his own country. The king consented and gave him a single lean horse, with a vehicle that was old and worn. The physician sighed in resentment: “I treated the king’s illness with great effort, yet the king does not consider repaying kindness, does not care for me, and lets me return empty-handed.” With a sigh of grief he worried, feeling he would bear regret all his life. As soon as he entered the borders of his own country, he saw a herd of elephants and asked the elephant-driver: “Whose elephants are these?” The driver replied: “These are the elephants of such-and-such a physician.” He then asked: “From where did such-and-such a physician obtain these elephants?” The driver answered: “Such-and-such a physician cured the king’s illness and, because of his merit, he received this reward.” Going a little farther, he saw a herd of horses and asked the horse-herder: “Whose horses are these?” The herder replied: “They are the horses of such-and-such a physician.” Going farther still, he saw a herd of oxen and sheep, and asked the shepherd: “Whose oxen and sheep are these?” The shepherd answered: “They are the oxen and sheep of such-and-such a physician.” Going farther still, he saw his own residence, with lofty halls and layered pavilions, entirely different from the house of old, and he asked the gatekeeper: “Whose house is this?” The gatekeeper replied: “This is the residence of such-and-such a physician.” Entering the pavilions, he saw a lady, plump in appearance, her countenance joyous, adorned with the brilliance of jewels, and he asked in astonishment: “Whose wife is this?” The servant replied: “This is the wife of such-and-such a physician.” From the sight of the herd of elephants and the herd of horses, until he entered the house, the physician knew that all this was the reward for curing the king’s illness. Thus he regretted that when curing the king’s illness, he had not been sufficiently diligent.
This story is a parable for merit. Merit when disturbed by evil demons is like the king’s illness; the physician represents the one who cultivates merit; curing the king’s illness is like a practitioner who is able to do good deeds; the king’s recovery is like merit having been cultivated and accomplished; the king’s proclamation of rewards with elephants, horses, and dwellings refers to the accumulation of merit here, whose fruition is brought forth there; to wish for quick reward and constantly fear that retribution comes too slowly is like one who lacks confidence—having done a single good deed, he hopes quickly to receive recompense. When old age, sickness, and death arrive, he thinks that there is originally no reward for goodness. Yet after death, when abiding in the intermediate state, all good reward descends upon him, just like the physician who saw the elephants and horses. When passing through the intermediate state, he has arrived in heaven, and upon rebirth beholds with his own eyes the many adornments and beauties of heaven, then he regrets that in former days his good deeds were too few, just like the physician who, upon seeing his rewards, lamented that he had not exerted even greater effort in curing the illness.
(Seventeen)
In a foreign land there often fell an evil rain. If it fell into rivers, lakes, streams, wells, or the pools within a city, and people drank of this water, it caused them to become drunk and insane, and not until seven days had passed could it be removed.
At that time there was a king, wise and resourceful, skilled in the art of divining signs. When the dark clouds of the evil rain gathered, the king foresaw it in advance, and he covered a well so that the evil rain would not flow into it. Then all the ministers and officials drank of the evil rain water, and the entire court went insane, casting off their garments, baring their bodies, smearing mud upon their heads, and sitting in the royal court.
Only the king alone was not insane. He wore his ordinary clothes, his crown upon his head, ornaments upon his body, and sat upon his original throne. All the ministers, not knowing themselves to be insane, instead thought that the king had gone insane, and they wondered why the king’s attire was so unlike theirs. They discussed among themselves, saying: “This is certainly no small matter,” and they wished together to correct the king’s unusual behavior. The king greatly feared that the ministers might conspire against him, so he said to them: “I have a good medicine that can cure this illness. Please wait a little while. When I have taken the medicine, I shall return.”
The king then entered the inner palace, took off his clothes, smeared mud upon his face, and shortly returned to court. The ministers, upon seeing this, rejoiced greatly, thinking that indeed it should be so, and they did not know that they themselves were insane. After seven days had passed, the ministers awakened to clarity, all deeply ashamed, each arranging his garments properly and coming to the court in order. The king, however, still as on the former day, sat naked. All the ministers were astonished and asked him: “The king is ordinarily wise and resourceful—why has he now become like this?” The king answered the ministers: “My mind has always been calm and still, without change. Because you were insane, you thought me insane. What I have done was not of my own intention.”
So it is also with the Tathāgata. Because sentient beings have drunk the water of ignorance, they are constantly insane. If they hear the Great Sage speak of the Dharma that all phenomena are neither arising nor ceasing, that the one form is formless, they will certainly think that the Great Sage is speaking words of madness. Therefore the Tathāgata, in accordance with sentient beings, expounds the Dharma, telling them that among the Dharmas some are good and some are evil, some are conditioned and some are unconditioned.
(Eighteen)
In former times Asura was once a poor man who lived by the river. He often carried firewood across the river. At that time the water of the river was deep and its current swift, and time after time he was swept away by the waters. Not only did he lose the firewood he carried, but his body was submerged in the water, whirled and drifted about with the current, and in moments of peril he only narrowly escaped. At that time there was a Pratyekabuddha who transformed into the form of a śramaṇa and came to his house begging for food. The poor man was very joyful and gave him food.
After eating and washing his hands, the Pratyekabuddha placed his bowl in the air, flew off, and departed. When the poor man saw this scene, he therefore made a vow, saying: “May I in future lives have a body vast and great, and may no deep water ever rise above my knees.” Because of this karmic condition, in a later life he indeed obtained an extremely tall and mighty body, so that even the waters of the four great oceans could not reach above his knees. When he stood in the great sea, his body towered higher than Mount Sumeru, and he could press the mountain’s peak with his hand, and bending over, gaze downward upon the Trāyastriṃśa heaven. If even a poor man could thus be so, how much more so the Buddha, who throughout innumerable kalpas accumulated vast and great vows—his Dharma body pervades all space, what wonder is there in that?
(Nineteen)
Once upon a time there was a certain kingdom where the prince, when he was just seven years old, went into the deep mountains to study the path of the immortals, and he did not know the duties of the officials of the court. Later, when the king died, there was no one able to succeed to the throne. The ministers conferred among themselves, saying: “The one who dwells in the mountains seeking the way of the immortals is in truth the prince, and he also cultivates virtue; let him become king, and then all the neighboring states will have reliance.” The entire body of subjects came forth together, went into the mountains, and respectfully invited this sage to become king, escorting him in the king’s chariot back to his own country. They issued command to the officer in charge of food to prepare fine and delicious dishes for the great king’s enjoyment. Because of the flavor and excellence of the dishes, the king, whenever he lacked other things, demanded them of the cook, and in every matter relied upon him. The ministers all laughed and said to the king: “The duties of the officials are each with their proper charge. The officer of food governs matters of food; the officer of garments governs matters of attire; the soldiers and the treasures likewise each have their proper officials. One cannot, because he is skilled in preparing fine dishes, assign to him the tasks of all affairs.”
This story is a parable. The many scriptures each explain their own principles, and one should not demand completeness from a single scripture. Some scriptures explain the true suchness of all dharmas, while the Abhidharma explains the various distinct characteristics and the forms of decay of the dharmas. Ultimately they are all spoken in the sense of formless.
(Twenty)
In Central Sindhu, in the country of Benares, there was a Deer Forest. In the past there were there five hundred herds of deer. Within this forest there were two deer kings, one of whom was the Bodhisattva, and one of whom was truly a deer king. At that time the king of the country went forth from the city to hunt, and when he saw a herd of deer, he led his troops to encircle them. Then the two deer kings conferred together upon a strategy, and they both went before the king, knelt, and bowed to the king, saying: “Now we deer are within the realm of the great king, and it is proper that we accept slaughter. But if the king should kill all the deer at once, you will not be able to eat them in time, and perhaps they will rot and stink. We intend every day to send two deer to the king’s use, for the king to eat. The remaining deer shall be lined up in order, and each day two shall be sent without omission. We beg the king to accept this plan, so that our deer may lengthen their lives. Is this not the king’s benevolence?” Thereupon the king accepted the words of the deer kings, removed the encirclement, and released them. From that time on, the two deer kings themselves chose the deer to be sent, selecting according to order, and each day two were sent to the king’s kitchen.
After some days, it came to the turn of a pregnant doe, who by the sequence was to die. This doe went before the deer king and requested to give birth before going to die. The deer king answered: “The other deer according to order have not yet reached their turn. Who will go in your place?” Then the doe went to the Bodhisattva Deer King and said to him: “My king is without benevolence, not yielding to reason to spare me. Now I take refuge in you, and I am willing to submit to your disposal.” The Bodhisattva Deer King pitied her plight, and himself went to the king’s kitchen. The cook reported to the king: “The deer king himself has come to the kitchen, requesting to die in place of the pregnant doe.” The king was astonished at such a rare event, and said to the cook: “Bring that deer king before me.” Then the deer king came before the king and explained in detail his intention. Thereupon the king gave rise to faith, saying: “If even beasts can accumulate virtue and practice goodness, how much more men?” He then decreed that within the entire land hunting was forever forbidden. He bestowed that mountain forest and wilderness upon the deer as their perpetual domain. From then on, that place was named “Deer Forest.”
(Twenty-one)
Once there was a householder, and his wife was pregnant. He invited the Buddha to his home, and after the offering of food was completed, he requested the Tathāgata to foretell what kind of child his wife would give birth to, wishing to know whether it would be a boy or a girl. The Buddha said: “In the future she will give birth to a boy, handsome in appearance, and when he grows up he will enjoy in the human world the pleasures of the heavens. In the future he will attain the path of Arhatship.” When the householder heard this, he doubted and did not believe, so he again invited the six heretical masters. After offering them food, he once more asked for divination. The householder said to the six masters: “Previously I invited the śramaṇa Gautama, and he said that it would be a boy. I do not know whether it is truly a boy?” The six masterssaid: “It will be a girl.” Those six heretical masters hated the Dharma of the Buddha, and only wished to oppose the Buddha. Afterward, they thought: “If indeed a boy is born, then the householder will abandon us and serve Gautama.” So they deceived the householder, saying: “Your wife was originally to give birth to a boy. After giving birth to the boy, great calamity will arise, and you yourself together with your relatives will perish for seven generations. Because this is inauspicious, I earlier falsely said it was a girl.”
When the householder heard this, he was terrified in his heart, not knowing what to do. Then those six heretical masters said to the householder: “If you wish to obtain auspiciousness, there is only one way, to get rid of this child.” The six masters then pressed upon the belly of the householder’s wife, seeking to cause miscarriage. They pressed unceasingly upon her belly, and in the end the householder’s wife perished, but the fetus did not die—this was due to the blessings and virtues from his past lives. The householder abandoned her, placing the corpse at the place of the dead, heaping up firewood to burn it. When the fire was blazing, the Buddha, together with his disciples, went to look. The body of the householder’s wife had broken open, and then it was seen that her son sat upon a lotus flower, handsome and beautiful, with a countenance like snow. The Buddha commanded Jīvaka to take the child in his arms. Jīvaka took him up and returned him to the householder. The householder then raised him until he became grown. When the child reached the age of sixteen, he was outstanding in talent and appearance.
Then the householder set out a great and abundant banquet, inviting the six masters. When the six masters sat down, before long they could not restrain themselves and laughed. The boy asked: “Why do you laugh?” The six masters replied: “We see twenty thousand miles away there is a mountain, and beneath the mountain there is water, and there is a monkey that has fallen into the water, therefore we laughed.” The boy knew it was baseless, so he placed various fine dishes into a bowl, then put rice on top, and had someone carry and offer it to the six masters. In the bowls of the others, the rice was below and the dishes were above. Everyone else ate, but only the six masters, angry, did not eat. The boy asked: “Why do you not eat?” The six masters replied: “There are no dishes, how can we eat?” The boy said: “Your eyes can see a monkey fall into water twenty thousand miles away, yet how can they not see the dishes beneath the rice?” Then the six masters grew furious, and in anger did not eat but left, going directly to Śrigupta and in detail told him this matter. One of their elder sister had been married as wife to Śrigupta. Śrigupta was also enraged, and he said to the six masters: “Gautama is their teacher. I, as the great master, shall invite him. I will bring him here and humiliate him.” So he prepared a pit of fire, and made poisoned food to harm the Buddha.
This parable has very profound meaning, which cannot all be fully spoken in detail, therefore only a concise outline is given here.
(Twenty-two)
Once there was an ascetic who went to the house of a brāhmaṇa to beg for food. The brāhmaṇa instructed his wife to bring food and present it to him. The wife then stood nearby. The wife was dignified in bearing, and when the ascetic beheld her, he gave rise to improper thoughts. He said to the brāhmaṇa: “Transgression fault arises from the flavor of desire.” The brāhmaṇa did not understand the meaning and asked: “What is meant by ‘transgression fault arises from the flavor of desire’?” The ascetic then embraced the neck of his wife and kissed her, and afterwards said to the brāhmaṇa: “This is the ‘flavor of desire.’” The brāhmaṇa grew furious and struck the ascetic with a staff. The ascetic again said: “This ‘transgression’ is ‘fault.’” When the brāhmaṇa was about to strike again, the ascetic ran to the doorway, and turning back, said to the brāhmaṇa: “This is ‘arising.’” This story is a parable showing that when someone cannot deeply understand the meaning of Dharma, it is necessary to use an illustration, and only then can he gain comprehension.
(Twenty-three)
Once there was a countryman who temporarily stayed in the capital. He saw a man who had been whipped, and hot horse dung was applied to his back. He asked: “Why do this?” The man replied: “It helps the wound to heal more easily and prevents scars.” The rustic man remembered this in his heart. Later, when he returned home, he said to his family: “In the capital I gained much wisdom.” Afterwards his family asked him: “What wisdom have you obtained?” He then called a servant and said: “Take up the whip and give me two hundred lashes.” The servant, afraid of his master and not daring to disobey, struck him heavily with two hundred lashes, so that the master’s blood flowed down his back. The master then said to the servant: “Fetch hot horse dung and apply it to my wounds, it will help them heal and prevent scars.” Then he said to his family: “Do you understand? This is wisdom.” This story is a parable of a low-grade ascetic who has already encountered a bright teacher and received the precepts. When he sees another receiving precepts, he then abandons the precepts he had received and once again returns to the ways of the world, thereby destroying the Dharma-body. This is like being lashed with two hundred strokes, blood flowing down the back; then to seek precepts again is like applying horse dung upon the wound.
(Twenty-four)
In a foreign land there was a master of incantations who subdued nāgas by mantra. He filled a kuṇḍikā with water, went to the nāga’s pool, and concentrated his mind in reciting the mantra. Immediately the nāga beheld great fire blazing up from the bottom of the pool, so that the entire pool was aflame. The nāga, terrified of the fire, raised its head and gazed afar to the mountains, but again saw great fire. The fire burned the high mountains and the lakes; looking up to the summit of the mountain, there was no place to remain, for everywhere was burned and heated, with nowhere to escape. Only in the water of the kuṇḍikā could refuge be found. The nāga then extinguished the fire around it, contracted its body, and entered into the kuṇḍikā. That nāga pool is a parable of the Desire Realm; the lofty mountains and great lakes are a parable of the Form Realm; the mountain summit is a parable of the Formless Realm; the master of incantations who subdued the nāga is a parable of the Bodhisattva; the water of the kuṇḍikā is a parable of Nirvāṇa; the art of subduing the nāga with incantations is a parable of teaching and transforming beings according to conditions; the blazing of great fire is a parable of the manifestation of the impermanence of worldly affairs; the vast body of the nāga is a parable of arrogance and pride; the contracting of the body is a parable of humility and reverence. This story tells that the Bodhisattva reveals the great conflagration of the destructive kalpa, in which the Desire Realm and the Form Realm are all engulfed in fire, and the great fire of impermanence terrifies beings. The Bodhisattva wishes that people will abandon arrogance and become humble and modest, and only then can they all enter Nirvāṇa.
(Twenty-five)
Once, in a foreign land, there was a stone that had long existed, lying by the roadside, constantly crushed by cart wheels and trampled by horses, and gradually worn away. At that time, some people disliked that it obstructed the road, and they were determined to remove it. They immediately shattered the stone, and behold, a venomous serpent came forth from within it. When it met the wind it grew large, and in but a moment its body covered the whole of Jambudvīpa. Within a single day, in Jambudvīpa, all humans and every kind of animal were devoured, and only then did the serpent perish. This is a parable of evil retribution: even that occurs so swiftly; how much more so when a Bodhisattva, who is originally an ordinary person, accumulates merits and virtues over countless kalpas, and upon arousing the Bodhi-mind attains awakening, becomes a Buddha, expounds the Dharma, rescues and delivers beings seeking Nirvāṇa—such fruit ripens swiftly; is that strange?
(Twenty-six)
Once there was a serpent whose head and tail quarreled with each other. The head said to the tail: “I ought to be the leader.” The tail said to the head: “I also ought to be the leader.” The head said: “I have ears that can hear, eyes that can see, and a mouth that can eat food. When walking, I am in the foremost position, therefore I should be the leader. You have none of these abilities, and so you should not be the leader.” The tail said: “It is because I allow you to move that you are able to go forward. If I were to coil myself three times around a tree, then what could you do?” So for three days it did not release, and the head of the serpent could not obtain food and was about to starve to death. The head said to the tail: “Release me, and I will let you be the leader.” Hearing these words, the tail immediately released. The head then said to the tail: “Since you are the leader, let you go in front.” When the tail went forward, it had not gone many steps before falling into a pit of fire and perishing. This story is a parable for when in the Saṅgha there may be wise and virtuous elder monks who are able to judge rightly the Dharma and the precepts, but the lower monks of shallow understanding refuse to submit. The elder, unable to persuade them, says: “Do as you wish.” Matters then cannot be accomplished, and together they violate the Dharma, just like that serpent falling into the fire pit.
(Twenty-seven)
Once there was a fowler who spread his net by the side of a lake and placed bird food within it. Many birds called their companions and together rushed to feed upon it. The fowler pulled his net, and many birds were ensnared within. At that time there was one bird, large in body and strong in power, who lifted the net with his body and flew upward together with the flock. The fowler gazed at their shadows and pursued them in chase. Someone said to the fowler: “The birds fly in the sky while you walk upon the ground. How foolish you are!” The fowler replied: “It is not as you say. Those birds must perch at night, but their destinations are not the same. Surely they will fall to the ground.” The fowler still pursued without stopping. When night fell, looking upward at those birds, they flew up and down, contending to the left and to the right: some flew eastward, some westward, some wished to go to the forest, some wished to go to the abyss. Thus quarreling and contending, before long they fell to the ground. The bird-catcher then obtained those birds and killed them one by one. The fowler is like Māra Pāpīyān; the wide-spread net is like the afflictions that bind people; carrying the net in flight is like a person who has not yet abandoned afflictions but seeks liberation from birth and death; perching at nightfall is like a person giving rise to laziness and not striving forward; the birds seeking different perching places are like people who give rise to the sixty-two wrong views and are always opposing one another; the birds falling to the ground are like people who, receiving evil retribution, fall into hell. This story illustrates that afflictions and defilements are the net of Māra.
(Twenty-eight)
When the Buddha was in the world, there were five hundred strong men who all became śramaṇas, dwelling together in one place, practicing meditation and reciting sūtras. Then violent bandits came, plundering wildly, seizing all the robes and bowls of the śramaṇas, leaving only their inner garments. After the bandits departed, the śramaṇas, clad only in inner garments, all went to the Buddha and carefully explained what had happened. The Buddha said to the śramaṇas: “Why did you not shout loudly?” The śramaṇas answered: “We did not dare to cry out, for we had not received the Buddha’s permission.” The Buddha then said to the bhikṣus: “If you do not shout, the bandits will come every day to strip your robes. Who could provide you with robes each day? From today onward, I permit you that when you see bandits coming, you may shout loudly, and take up sticks and stones to frighten them and drive them away, but do not intentionally harm them.”
What people esteem are the body, life, and wealth. Yet none of these three is worth clinging to, nor are they to be despised. The body is not worth clinging to, for it is impermanent, perishable, and unstable. The ignorant, confused, and deluded cling to it as if it were their own, and through greedy attachment give rise to unwholesome causes, falling later into evil destinies—therefore it is not worth clinging to. Yet it is not to be despised, because with this body one may meet sages and worthies, bend the body in kneeling and prostration, offer reverence, and afterwards obtain the indestructible vajra-jeweled body—therefore it is not to be despised.
Life is not worth clinging to, for people in order to preserve life commit evil actions such as killing, stealing, and sexual misconduct, and with the mouth commit the four kinds of wrong speech, and with the mind give rise to greed, avarice, hatred, and wrong views, falling later into hell—therefore life is not worth clinging to. Yet it is not to be despised, because with life one may meet sages and worthies, listen to their exposition of the Dharma, comprehend the subtle meanings of the Dharma, practice throughout one’s life, and afterwards obtain long life immeasurable and without end—therefore it is not to be despised.
Wealth is not worth clinging to, for wealth is seized by five robbers: thieves, water, fire, officials, and evil descendants. These five may suddenly come, and in an instant wealth is entirely lost—therefore wealth is not worth clinging to. Yet it is not to be despised, because when one encounters wholesome causes, one may perform giving, make offerings of every kind without omission and without avarice, and afterwards attain inexhaustible treasures, which may be used to assist the poor and save the destitute, and the gain is infinite and without limit—therefore it is not to be despised.”
To cultivate and establish merit and virtue, one should always seek the Buddha-path with sincere heart, not merely the rewards of humans and heavens. Why is this so? It is like planting grain: one should seek only the fruit. Although the fruit is not yet ripe, the stalks and leaves are naturally obtained. Likewise, in practicing giving and cultivating merit, one should set vows, follow the proper discipline, and seek only Buddhahood. Even though the way of Buddhahood and Nirvāṇa is not yet fulfilled, the pleasures of men and heavens, the Cakravartin king, Śakra the lord of the gods, and Brahmā the heavenly king will all naturally come forth. It is like planting grain—there is no need to deliberately expect the stalks and leaves, for those are naturally obtained. Therefore, one should not merely seek the human and heavenly rewards of happiness.
(Twenty-nine)
Once in Sindhu there was a place of practice where there were one hundred thousand śramaṇas. Among them, over fifty thousand had already attained Arhatship, had mastered the six kinds of supernormal powers, and had eliminated various afflictions. The remaining fifty thousand—some had attained the lower three paths, and some had not attained even the lower three paths. At that time, a certain elder wished to obtain the happiness of humans and heavens so that he might fulfill his desires. He came to the stūpa monastery, offering food to the great Saṅgha. At that time there was one elder monk, a great Arhat who had attained the six kinds of supernormal powers. He was very old, his beard white, his teeth fallen, his body withered, dry, and feeble, yet among the hundred thousand monks he held the highest seat. He chanted blessings for the donor elder, and after eating and washing his hands, he said to the elder: “Donor, today’s giving brings about great guilt and retribution.”
At that time, all those in the assembly who had not attained the path thought that since the elder monk was advanced in age, he must have spoken such wild words deliberately. The elder monk said: “The matter is truly so, it is not wild speech.” Someone asked: “This man has planted wholesome causes of merit—how could he instead receive guilt and retribution?” The elder monk replied: “You know only one part and do not know the second. This man has planted causes of merit and will enjoy happiness in the human and heavenly realms. But while enjoying them, he will give rise to pride, become self-satisfied, and not seek liberation. Seeing the Buddha he will not make offerings, seeing the sūtras he will not recite, seeing the śramaṇas he will not hold reverence. Following only his own mind, he will act wantonly and without restraint. When his blessings are exhausted, he will fall into evil destinies, and after countless kalpas, when the retribution is at last finished, only then will he gain release. Therefore he incurs great guilt because he receives the great reward of the world. If, however, he had done good works with a sincere heart seeking the holy path, then the retributions he would later receive would never be of such kind.”
(Thirty)
Once in the land of Sindhu there were two poor men, with few means of livelihood, who usually sustained themselves by selling curds. Each carried on his head a jar of curds, intending to sell them at the market. At that time it happened to rain, and the road was muddy and slippery. One of them was clever, and he thought to himself: “Today it rains, the road is slippery and difficult to walk. If I fall, the jar will shatter and the curds will be lost. Now I shall skim off the butter in advance—if I fall and the jar breaks, the loss will not be great.” The other man lacked wisdom and carried the curds without having skimmed the butter to the market. Along the way, on the slippery road, the two men fell together. One wept in sorrow and grief, lying upon the ground and unable to rise; the other showed no sorrow on his face, nor regret nor resentment. Someone asked: “You two both broke your jars of curds, and the loss is the same, with no difference between you. Why then does one grieve alone, weeping in remorse, while the other remains calm without regret?” One of them answered: “The curds I carried had not been skimmed of butter. Today when the jar broke, all the goods I carried were lost. Therefore I am distressed and cannot control myself.” The other replied: “The curds I carried had already been skimmed of butter. Now although the jar is broken, the loss is slight, so I am at ease, with no resentment.” The jar is a parable of the body, and the butter is a parable of wealth. Some people are greedy and miserly with wealth, clinging to present gain, not reflecting upon the impermanence of all dharmas. When the body, like a jar, once perishes, wealth is all lost, just like the man who forgot to skim off the butter from the curds, grieving and repenting in vain. Some people firmly believe in the retribution of future lives, and devote all wealth to giving. Thus, when the body, like the jar, is destroyed, the loss is not great. Just like the man whose jar of curds broke yet butter had been skimmed, his heart is at ease, without regret.
(Thirty-one)
Once five hundred merchants sailed upon the sea in search of treasures. They encountered a Makara fish who raised its head and opened its mouth, intending to devour men. On that day the wind was mild, yet the ship sped forth like an arrow. The merchant leader said to the people: “The ship sails too swiftly, we may do without sails—let us lower them.” They followed his words and let down the sails, yet the ship went even faster, and could not be stopped. The merchant leader asked the man in the lookout tower: “What do you see?” The man answered: “I see two suns rising, below there is a white mountain, and in the middle a black mountain.” The merchant leader was greatly alarmed and said: “This is the Makara fish. What shall we do? We are all in grave peril. If we enter the belly of the fish, we cannot possibly survive. You each should turn to the gods you serve, and sincerely pray for deliverance from this danger.” Thus each one sincerely prayed and took refuge in the gods they revered, begging for liberation from this peril. Yet the more earnestly they prayed, the swifter the ship went. If they did not stop at once, they would be swallowed into the fish’s mouth. The merchant leader then said to the people: “I venerate a great god, whose name is Buddha. Abandon the gods you formerly revered, and together let us all recite the name of the Buddha!” At that time the five hundred all raised their voices and cried out: “Namo Buddha.” The Makara fish, hearing the Buddha’s name, thought: “Today in the world there is again a Buddha arisen. How could I bear to harm these people?” Thinking thus, it closed its mouth. The waters turned back, and the ship was carried far from the fish’s mouth. The five hundred merchants at once escaped and were delivered. That whale, in a former life, had been a monk, and because of offenses had been reborn in the body of a fish. Hearing the Buddha’s name, he recalled his past life, and thus in that thought gave rise to a wholesome mind. This story shows that the five hundred merchants, merely by sincerely reciting the Buddha’s name for a time, were delivered from a peril as great as heaven and earth; how much more so when one receives precepts, holds to the Buddha-recitation samādhi, where heavy offenses can be lightened, and light offenses extinguished—such events are indeed many.
(Thirty-two)
When a kalpa comes to its end, great fire blazes forth and all things return to emptiness. Because of the combined power of the merits and causes of beings, winds blow from the ten directions. The winds, gust after gust, bring forth great waters. Upon the waters appears a man with a thousand heads and two thousand arms and legs, named Viṣṇu. From his navel grows a golden lotus with a thousand petals. The lotus radiates light as if ten thousand suns shone in the sky. Within the flower there is a man seated cross-legged. This man also emits boundless rays of light; his name is Brahmā, the Heavenly King. From the mind of Brahmā arise eight sons, and from these eight sons there come to be heaven, earth, and mankind. This Brahmā, the Heavenly King, had entirely cut off lust and angry desires. Therefore it is said: if one cultivates meditation, conducts oneself in purity, and severs lust, that is called practicing the “Brahma path.” The Dharma wheel turned by the Buddha is likewise called the “Brahma wheel.” This Brahmā, the Heavenly King, sits upon the lotus flower; therefore all Buddhas, following the conventions of the world, also sit cross-legged upon lotuses, and there they expound the six pāramitās. Whoever hears this Dharma will surely attain Anuttarā-samyak-saṃbodhi.
(Thirty-three)
Once there was a noble woman, beautiful in form and outstanding in appearance, who renounced the household life, practiced the path, and realized Arhatship. She walked alone in the forest outside the city, and on the road she encountered a man. This man, seeing the bhikṣuṇī’s comely appearance, gave rise to deep lustful desire. He blocked her way and swore, saying: “If you do not yield to me, I will not let you pass!” Then the bhikṣuṇī expounded to him the truth that the human body is nothing but pus and blood, urine and excrement, and other impure things: “Head, eyes, hands, and feet—what is there to covet in them?” The man said to the bhikṣuṇī: “What I desire are your beautiful eyes.” Immediately the bhikṣuṇī used her right hand to pluck out one of her eyes and gave it to the man, her face covered in blood. When the man saw this, lustful desire at once ceased. The bhikṣuṇī, holding her eyeball in her hand, returned to the Buddha. The Buddha restored her eye, and she recounted all that had taken place. Because of this, the Buddha established a rule: from that time forth, bhikṣuṇīs were not permitted to lodge outside the city or to walk alone in villages.
(Thirty-four)
All the grasses and trees of the world can serve as medicine; only because of not knowing and not recognizing them are they left unused. Once there was a divine physician named Jīvaka, who could prepare medicines from herbs, shaping them into forms like children, pleasing to all who beheld them, and his medicines cured all diseases. Sometimes he would use one herb to cure many kinds of sickness, and sometimes he would use many herbs to cure one sickness. Among all the grasses of the world, none did he leave unused; among all the sicknesses of the world, none was there he could not heal. When Jīvaka passed away, all the medicinal plants of the world wept together, giving forth voices: “We all can be used to cure diseases; only Jīvaka understood us! Since Jīvaka has died, there is no one who knows us. The people of later times will surely use medicines wrongly, or take too much or too little, so that diseases will not be cured, and the people of the world will say we herbs are ineffective. Thinking thus, we weep.” Only one herb, called harītakī, was in another place, and it alone did not weep. Speaking to itself, it said: “The many illnesses—I can cure them all. Those who take me, their sickness will be healed; those who do not take me, will naturally not recover. There is no need for someone to understand me, and so I do not weep.”
Jīvaka is a parable for the Buddha; the many herbs are a parable for the various Dharmas; harītakī is a parable for the contemplation of impermanence. This means that when the Buddha was in the world, he skillfully used all Dharmas, and could take lust, anger, and delusion as medicine to cure the sickness of people; as for the other wholesome Dharmas, he employed them according to conditions, without fixed method, like a good physician healing illness. After the Buddha passed away, there are few who can skillfully use the Dharmas with such adaptability. The contemplation of impermanence can cure many illnesses: it can cure lust, it can cure anger, it can cure delusion. Those who skillfully apply it can eliminate illness; those who do not skillfully apply it still come to no harm. Therefore it is compared to harītakī. The other Dharmas are not easy to use; in employing them one must rely on a good teacher. If skillfully applied, they can gradually heal illness; if not skillfully applied, they can increase illness.
(Thirty-five)
Once there was a butcher who came to King Ajātaśatru and requested the fulfillment of a wish. The king asked: “What is your wish?” He replied: “Great King, during festival banquets you must have animals slaughtered. I hope the king will entrust this task to me, and I will certainly carry it out with all my strength.” The king said: “Slaughtering is something that people are unwilling to do. Why are you eager to do it?” He replied: “Formerly I was a poor man, making my living by slaughtering sheep. Because of this, I was reborn in the Heaven of the Four Heavenly Kings. When that heavenly lifespan ended, I came again among men, and once more slaughtered sheep. At the end of that life I was reborn in the second heaven of the Desire Realm. In this way, through six lives I have slaughtered sheep. Because of engaging in this occupation, I have been reborn throughout the six heavens of the Desire Realm, enjoying inexhaustible blessings. For this reason today I request this favor of the king.”
The king asked: “If it is as you say, how do you know this?” He replied: “I know the circumstances of my former lives.” The king, hearing this, did not believe, thinking it to be wild speech: how could such a base person know the matters of former lives? Later he asked the Buddha. The Buddha answered: “It is indeed as he said, not false speech. In a former life, this man encountered a Pratyekabuddha. Seeing the Buddha, he rejoiced, concentrated his gaze, raising his eyes to behold the Buddha’s head, lowering his eyes to behold the Buddha’s feet. A wholesome mind immediately arose. Because of this merit, he was able to be reborn successively in the six heavens of the Desire Realm, and when born among men, he could remember former lives. Because the wholesome cause had ripened, he was able six times to be reborn in heavens and among men. Because the evil cause had not yet ripened, he had not yet begun to suffer. When this body comes to an end, he will fall into hell, suffering the punishment of slaughtering sheep; when the hell is finished, he will be reborn as sheep, repaying debt after debt, one by one. This man’s knowledge of former lives is shallow, seeing only matters within the six heavens of the Desire Realm, and not seeing the condition of the seventh existence before that. Thus he thought that slaughtering sheep was the cause of rebirth in heaven. To know only this is neither supernormal power nor wisdom.”
(Thirty-six)
Once there was a king who deeply understood that sin and blessing, and believed in the certainty of retribution. All his life he delighted in giving, and never opposed the wishes of others. His name was renowned in every direction; none were ignorant of him. At that time, a neighboring country raised an army and attacked his land. The king reflected: “If I go forth to war, there will certainly be many wounded and dead. It is better that I alone perish, than that the people be sent to die.” When the army of the neighboring country came, entering through the east gate of the city, the king departed through the west gate. Alone, he fled into the wilds and forests.
At that time, a brāhmaṇa came from afar, passing through the forest, and encountered the king. They inquired of one another. The king asked the brāhmaṇa: “From where do you come, and where are you going?” The brāhmaṇa said: “I have heard that a certain king delights in giving and never opposes the wishes of others. Therefore I have come from afar, wishing to request something.” The king at once replied: “The king of whom you speak—that is I.” The brāhmaṇa, hearing this, was astonished and asked: “Why is the king now in such a state?” The king then related in detail the matter of fleeing from the invasion.
When the brāhmaṇa heard, he fell to the ground unconscious. After a long time, the king raised him up and sprinkled him with water, and at last he revived. The king asked him: “What is the reason that you became thus?” The brāhmaṇa said: “All my life I have been poor, lacking food and clothing, without possessions. Therefore I came from afar, wishing to beg for treasures. But now I have met the king in such condition! Thus in grief I could not control myself.” The king then comforted the brāhmaṇa: “Do not be distressed. I will cause you to obtain much treasure. That king of the neighboring country, although he has seized my land, has not captured me. He has issued orders in the outlying regions to capture me, offering heavy rewards. You may bind me with cords and deliver me before that king. When he rejoices, he will certainly reward you greatly.”
So the brāhmaṇa did as the king had said, tying his hands with a grass rope, and brought him before the palace gates of the foreign king. The gatekeepers, seeing them, hastened into the palace to report. The foreign king, hearing this, was astonished and overjoyed, and ordered his guards to bring the captured king and the brāhmaṇa before his throne. The foreign king asked the brāhmaṇa: “What means did you have to seize this man?” The brāhmaṇa answered: “I had no means at all. When he was king, his will was to delight in giving, and therefore I came from afar, wishing to ask him for something. By chance I met him in the forest. He asked me, ‘Where are you going?’ I replied, ‘I am going to the certain king.’ He said, ‘That king is I.’ When I heard these words, I at once fainted and lost consciousness. He raised me up and sprinkled me with water, and again asked me, ‘Why have you come to this pass?’ I answered, ‘In a former life I was unwilling to give, and thus in this life I am poor, and so I came from afar to beg for treasures. My wish not being fulfilled, I grieved.’ He comforted me, saying: ‘Do not despair. I will give my own body to supply your need. Take cords and bind my arms, and bring me to the palace gate. The king will himself reward you.’”
When that king heard the brāhmaṇa’s account, he immediately wept, descended from his seat, and said to the original king: “You are truly the real king. I am the thief.” So he led his army back to his own land. The former king resumed his throne and ruled as before. This story shows that when the Bodhisattva was still an ordinary man, the great virtues he practiced moved others so deeply. If someone can write and uphold the scriptures, and with such sincerity practice them, then heavenly beings and evil men alike will in the end be unable to harm him.”
(Thirty-seven)
There are two kinds of thieves. One is the “thief with force in hand,” and the other is the “thief of expediency.” The thief with force in hand uses his hands to bore holes through walls, sometimes carving them in the shape of a lion’s head, or in the shape of a lotus flower. Entering into houses, he steals property, but does not take all—he carries off only a small portion, leaving the larger part, so that the owner may still live, and further wishing people to say he is a good thief. Once a thief with force in hand had stolen and then returned home, changed his clothes, and together with the crowd went to the victim’s house to look. When the people saw the hole bored in the wall, they all said: “This is a clever thief.”
At that time, among them there was one wearing the garb of a brāhmaṇa, who was in fact a thief of expediency. He said: “This cannot be called a clever thief. He used much effort, yet gained little wealth. How can this be called clever? If one uses no effort and yet gains much wealth, only then can it be called clever.” The thief with force in hand remembered these words in his heart. After the crowd departed, he followed and asked him: “What is meant by a thief of expediency?” The thief of expediency replied: “If you wish to know, just follow me. In a little over a month, I will let you see.”
Then the thief of expediency devised a scheme. He changed into the clothes of a brāhmaṇa and went to the house of a wealthy elder, saying to the elder: “I need but a small thing. Will you give it to me?” At that time the elder thought he was asking for the price of a garment, and immediately agreed: “Certainly I will give it to you.” Before the thief had even received the money, he went again and said: “That which you promised me before, may I certainly obtain it?” The elder replied: “Certainly you shall obtain it.” In this way, three times he made the same request. Then the thief of expediency wrote a document, and went to the authorities to accuse the elder: “Such and such an elder owes me one hundred thousand taels of gold, and refuses to repay.” The thief of expediency brought forth the elder’s enemies to serve as witnesses.
At that time, the authorities summoned both the witnesses and the elder, and asked the witnesses: “Is what you say true?” The witnesses replied: “It is true.” The authorities then commanded the elder to give the gold to this brāhmaṇa. Thus the thief of expediency, without using force in hand, obtained a great amount of wealth. Rejoicing in another’s merit is of the same kind.
(Thirty-eight)
There was once a nāga who could with but a single drop of water cause rain to fall upon one country, or upon two or three countries, or even upon the whole of Jambudvīpa. The nāga thought: “I must store this drop of water well, so that it may always remain and never dry up. Where is such a place to be found?” It reflected: “No other place can be found—only if I put it in the great ocean will it never dry up.” This story is a parable showing that if one wishes to give little and yet obtain great and boundless reward, one must establish one’s life within the Dharma of the Buddha. It also shows that because the water drop and the nāga’s wisdom come together, there is a place of reliance and it does not dry up; so too, when giving is joined with prajñā, the giving is rightly directed, and the reward is inexhaustible.
(Thirty-nine)
The reason why a Wheel-turning king is able to obtain the golden wheel is because Śakra, Lord of the Gods, once commanded the Four Heavenly Kings that within one month, on six days, they should patrol the world and observe the good and evil among humans. The Four Heavenly Kings, together with their princely sons and envoys, saw that a great king of a great nation governed the realm with the Ten Wholesome Deeds and the Four Immeasurables, laboring for the people with a heart compassionate as a father. They reported this matter to Śakra. Śakra, hearing this, wished to reward the king for his deeds, and ordered Viśvakarman to bestow upon him the golden wheel. Viśvakarman then brought forth the golden wheel and gave it to Vaiśravaṇa, the Heavenly King. Vaiśravaṇa gave the golden wheel to a flying yakṣa, and the flying yakṣa presented it to that great king. Vaiśravaṇa commanded the yakṣa: “You must constantly hold the golden wheel for the king, letting it remain above the king’s head until the end of his life, without interruption midway.” Then the yakṣa day and night held the golden wheel for the king, advancing and retreating at the king’s command, until the king’s life was ended. Then he returned the golden wheel to Vaiśravaṇa. Vaiśravaṇa gave it back to Viśvakarman, and Viśvakarman placed the golden wheel again in the treasury.
(Forty)
Once there was a great Brahmā named Bhaga. Because in former lives he had planted the causes of long life, while seventy-two Brahmās had already passed away, his own life endured. Because of his long life, he gave rise to wrong views, believing that he had no birth or death, no change or decay. He also thought: “I have attained mastery. Henceforth, others cannot see me at will. If I wish to be seen, then I am seen; if I do not wish to be seen, then I am not seen.”
The Buddha, with his divine mind and the wisdom-eye, clearly knew his thoughts. Together with Śāriputra, Maudgalyāyana, Mahākāśyapa, and Mahākātyāyana, the four great disciples, he ascended into the air and sat upon the crown of the great Brahmā’s head—Śāriputra on the right, Maudgalyāyana on the left, Mahākāśyapa in front, and Mahākātyāyana behind. The Buddha said to the great Brahmā: “You imagine yourself permanent and unchanging, free and sovereign. Why then am I now sitting upon your head?” Again he asked: “What have you seen, that you imagine yourself eternal, free and sovereign?” The great Brahmā replied: “In our Brahmā world, seventy-two have already died, and only I have not perished. Moreover, three great and virtuous devas have died, and still I have not perished. For this reason, I believe there is no birth, death, or change.”
The Buddha said to the great Brahmā: “I am the All-Knowing One. I see your birth, and I see your death. In all my knowledge of the dharmas there is no error. Do not be deluded and blind, imagining that you have no birth, death, or change.”
That great Brahmā also remembered the conditions of his past lives and wished to attain Buddhahood. Yet he did not know whether the Buddha truly knew. So he said to the Buddha: “Does the Buddha know the reason I have obtained long life?” The Buddha said to the great Brahmā: “You once practiced as an immortal possessing the five supernormal powers. You saw people sailing upon the sea, when a sudden storm arose, waves towering to the sky. You used the power of your supernormal powers to rescue them, lifting them to the shore, saving them from the calamity of death. This was the first cause. Again, you were once a great minister of a great kingdom. There was a village that violated the law of the king. The king in his wrath sought to slaughter the entire village. Out of compassion, you exhausted your wealth to intercede, and the whole village was spared. This was the second cause. Because of these two causes, you obtained this long life. After thirty-six more kalpas, your life will end.”
When the great Brahmā heard the Buddha’s words, faith naturally arose in him. He focused his mind, and at once attained Anāgāmin. This great Brahmā, because of such causes, obtained such a long life. How much more so the Buddha, who throughout countless kalpas has accumulated vast vows, with compassion for beings—when they seek his head, he gives his head; when they seek his eyes, he gives his eyes; whatever is sought, he grants it. Though his body fills all space, it is not considered big; though his lifespan endures through dust-mote numbers of kalpas, it is not considered long.
Dharma Torch 