Collected by Bhikṣu Dao Lüe
Translated by the Tripiṭaka Master Kumārajīva of the Yao Qin Dynasty
(Twenty-four)
In a foreign land there was a master of incantations who subdued nāgas by mantra. He filled a pot 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 pot could refuge be found. The nāga then extinguished the fire around it, contracted its body, and entered into the pot. 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 pot 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 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. In the two paths, be kind and guard your body and mouth, and do not let yourself be careless in this net. The three evil paths are painful, and the cycle of birth and death is long and unbearable.
(Twenty-six)
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—This is enough to prove.
(Twenty-seven)
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.” Therefore, those who cultivate merits must make vows and not act recklessly, leaving the consequences unclear. This incident can serve as a verification!
(Twenty-eight)
Ānanda said to the Buddha: “The Buddha was born in a royal family, sat beneath a tree contemplating the Way of the Buddha for six years, and thus attained Buddhahood. Is it so easily obtained?” The Buddha told Ānanda: “In the past there was a certain elder. His household was extremely wealthy, possessing all kinds of treasures, yet he lacked a red pearl. Because of this he felt dissatisfied. He therefore led his men into the sea to seek pearls. He passed through dangers and difficulties until he reached the treasure place. There he pierced his body so that blood flowed, wrapped it in an oil bag, and hung it at the bottom of the sea. The pearl-oysters, smelling the fragrance of blood, came to feed upon it, and thus the shells opened. He split open the shells and took out the pearls. After collecting for three years he finally obtained a string of necklace pearls. Returning to the shore, his companions, seeing that he had obtained such a precious treasure, desired together to murder him. So, as they all went to draw water, they pushed him into a well, covered the mouth of the well, and left. He remained at the bottom of the well for a long time. That man then saw a lion coming from a nearby cave to drink water. The man became frightened. After the lion had left, he searched for an opening in the cave and thus emerged, returning to his own country. He went to the house of his companions and said: ‘You have taken my string of necklace pearls. No one knows of this, and you also wished to harm me. You may secretly return them all to me; I shall never speak of it in the end!’ That man, terrified, returned all the pearls. When the true owner obtained them, he brought them back home. At home, two children of his were playing together with the pearls, asking each other: ‘From where were these pearls born?’ One child said: ‘They were born from my pouch.’ The other child said: ‘They were born from the jar in the house.’ The father, seeing this, laughed. His wife asked: ‘Why do you laugh?’ He replied: ‘To obtain these pearls I endured such hardship, yet these little children, relying on me to obtain them, not knowing the true cause, say they were born from the jar.’” The Buddha told Ānanda: “You only see that I attained Buddhahood, but you do not know that through countless kalpas I studied with great hardship, and only now have I obtained it. You say it is easy, just like that child saying the pearl came from the pouch!” Therefore, cultivating all the myriad practices and accumulating merit through many kalpas cannot be attained through merely one affair, one practice, or one body!
(Twenty-nine)
In the past there was a certain guide who entered the sea to gather treasures. At that time five hundred men followed him. The guide said: “Within the sea there are five dangers: first is the swift current, second is the whirlpool, third are the giant fishes, fourth are the female demons, and fifth is the intoxicating fruit. Only by overcoming these dangers may we proceed together.” After they agreed, they sailed with the wind into the sea and reached the treasure-island, each gathering treasures. But one man could not resist the fragrance of the fruit and ate it, becoming intoxicated for seven days. When all the others had gathered sufficient treasures, the sail-wind had already come, and they wished to prepare strictly for return. They beat the drum to assemble, but one man was still missing. Thus all went searching for him and saw him lying beneath a tree, still drunken and not yet awakened. Together they lifted him and brought him back, and also broke off a branch of the tree for him to lean upon, and all returned together to the country. At the gate of the home, hearing joyful news, all came to welcome them. The drunken man, seeing himself with nothing obtained, was very sorrowful alone. Unhappy, he leaned upon the staff and entered the marketplace. The people of the market inquired of its price, even offering up to twenty thousand taels of gold. That man gave it, and asked: “What marvel does this staff possess?” The buyer said: “This is a treasure-branch of the tree. By pounding and burning this staff and fumigating all kinds of tiles and stones, they can all be transformed into precious treasures.” That man begged for a little and took it home to test, and indeed it was as he said, everything he fumigated turned into many treasures. This parable means: the guide refers to the Bodhisattva; the five dangers refer to the five aggregates; the treasure-island refers to the seven jewels of prajñā; the drunkard refers to the mind fallen into sloth and negligence; the breaking off of the treasure-tree branch refers to cultivating oneself with diligence and raising anew vigorous practice; the fumigation of tiles and stones into treasures refers to using the scriptures and path to fumigate all kinds of evil deeds so that they all become Dharma vessels!
(Thirty)
In the past, within the mountains there were two śramaṇas, dwelling in seclusion cultivating practice, who obtained the six supernormal powers. Not far away, a lioness gave birth to two cubs. As they gradually grew, the lioness wished to go abroad. She thought in her heart: “Only these two virtuous and compassionate men can be entrusted with the lives of my children.” She said: “I wish to travel. My two children are still small. I fear they may be harmed by men. I wish to leave them with the ascetics here. I only hope they may receive your compassionate protection. I myself will return to visit them.” The ascetics agreed. The lioness, departing and returning, saw her sons relying upon the ascetics, and once again went away. When the ascetics returned from alms-seeking, the remaining food they always shared together with the cubs. Whenever they saw the ascetics return, the cubs joyfully moved to welcome them. Later, when the ascetics went abroad, hunters encountered the cubs. The lion-cubs ran and hid in the grass. The hunters wished to disguise themselves as the ascetics, so they put on the robes from the hut and entered the grass to seize them. The lion-cubs, thinking they were the ascetics, rushed forth towards them. The hunters struck them dead, flayed them, and took the skins to make lion-pelts worth a thousand taels of gold. When the ascetics returned and did not see the cubs, they sat in meditation and contemplation and knew they had been slain by the hunters. Then, by supernatural power, they seized back the skins and made them into mats to sit upon. They uttered mantras and vows, and again sat in meditation and contemplation, knowing that the cubs were to be reborn in the country within the household of an elder as twin sons. The ascetics went to that house and asked the elder: “What is it that you lack?” He said: “Only that I suffer from having no sons.” The ascetics then prayed for sons for the elder. The elder rejoiced greatly. The ascetics said: “If you obtain sons, how will you repay?” The elder said: “When the sons grow up, I will give them away to become sāmaṇeras.” The ascetics said: “Do not forget this vow.” Then the elder’s wife indeed conceived, and later bore twin sons, identical in appearance. At the age of eight or nine years, when the ascetics passed by, the two sons naturally rejoiced upon seeing them. The ascetics said to the elder: “Do you remember the former vow?” The elder dared not violate his vow, and gave the two sons to the ascetics to become śramaṇas. The ascetics took them into the mountains to study. Not long after, they too attained Arhatship. They often sat upon the mats of their former skins, daily entering meditation and self-contemplation, and thus saw that what they sat upon were indeed their former skins. They then all arose and made obeisance, saying: “By the power of the teacher’s kindness we have attained the Way; it was entirely by the force of compassion.” If even beasts, by the goodness of their hearts, can be liberated, how much more so those whose resolve and feelings arise from virtuous vows? How could they not be liberated?
(Thirty-one)
In the past there was a butcher who wished to make offerings to an ascetic, but because of his evil karma no ascetic was willing to go. Later he saw a newly ordained śramaṇa whose deportment was dignified and orderly, so he invited him to his home and offered him various foods. After the meal he further invited the ascetic, saying: “I wish that you may forever eat at my house.” The ascetic accepted. After they had lived together for a long time, the ascetic personally witnessed him killing living beings before his eyes, yet did not dare to admonish him. This accumulated over many years. Later, when the butcher’s father died, he was reborn as a ghost in the river, cutting his own body with a knife yet immediately restoring it. When the ascetic was crossing the river, the ghost seized the boat, saying: “Only if you drown this ascetic in the river will I allow you to pass.” The boatman was terrified and said (here the original text seems to be missing). The ghost said: “In my household I formerly made offerings to this ascetic, but through many years he did not restrain me from killing. Now I suffer this calamity, and in hatred I wish to kill him!” The boatman said: “Even killing beings alone receives such retribution, how much more killing an ascetic?” The ghost said: “I know, therefore I am enraged! If you can practice giving and cultivate blessings for me, call upon names, chant vows, then I will release the boatman.” The ascetic agreed to cultivate blessings for him, and the ghost released the boatman. The ascetic immediately performed a Dharma-assembly for the ghost, calling upon names, chanting vows. Others also followed to perform Dharma-assemblies. They called to the ghost at the riverbank: “Have you received the blessings?” The ghost said: “I have immediately received them, and no longer have any suffering or torment.” The boatman said: “If tomorrow we again cultivate blessings for you, can you come by yourself?” The ghost said: “I can.” The next morning the ghost transformed into the form of a brāhmaṇa, personally came to make offerings, himself received the chanting of vows, and sat above to hear the preaching of Dharma. The ghost immediately attained the fruit of Srotaāpanna, rejoicing and departing. Therefore between host and guest, in principle one ought to remonstrate and correct one another; even if one falls into the evil destinies, yet by reason of a wholesome connection, it may be said that a spiritual friend is a great condition indeed!
(Thirty-two)
In the past there was a merchant who entered the sea to seek treasures. He encountered a great nāga deity who wished to overturn the ship, causing all to be terrified. The nāga deity said: “Have you ever traveled through such-and-such a country?” They replied: “We have passed through it.” The nāga deity gave him a great egg, as large as a five litron vessel, and said: “Take this egg and bury it beneath the great tree of the marketplace in that country. If you do not carry this out, later I shall kill you.” The man assented. Later, passing through that country, he buried the egg beneath the great tree of the marketplace. From then on, the country was stricken with plagues and illnesses. The king summoned a diviner to consult by incantations, and it was said: “Because there is a python’s egg within the country, therefore comes plague and pestilence.” Immediately they dug it out and burned it, and thus the sicknesses were completely cured. Later the merchant again went to sea and again encountered the nāga deity, who asked about the matter. The merchant said: “Formerly, according to the command of the deity, I buried the egg beneath the marketplace. Then the country was filled with pestilence. The king summoned a brāhmaṇa diviner, who unearthed it, burned it, and all the sick were cured.” The deity said: “I resent that I did not kill you wretches!” The boatman asked the deity: “Why do you do this?” The deity said: “Have you ever heard that in such-and-such a country there was a strongman named So-and-so?” He replied: “I have heard of him, but he is dead.” The nāga deity said: “That was me! When I lived, I delighted in bullying and oppressing the people of the country. Never did anyone restrain me, only praising me, thus I fell into the body of a python. Therefore I wish to kill them all!” Thus people ought to remonstrate and exhort one another to goodness, to follow the good, not relying on power to oppress others, bringing upon oneself calamity and the suffering of the three evil destinies. Only their voice may be heard, their form cannot be seen.
(Thirty-three)
In the past, in the country of Benares there were five hundred blind men who went about begging. At that time there was famine in the world, and they had nothing to obtain. Together they discussed, saying: “The Buddha is in Śrāvastī teaching people to practice giving. We ought to go to that country, and we may thereby preserve our lives.” Each one said: “We should hire a man to lead us there.” Each of the five hundred blind men promised to give one silver coin, and the man agreed to lead them to that country. Thus they set out. The hired man said to the blind men: “The road ahead is perilous. Each of you should give me your money. If we meet with bandits I will hide it for you.” All the blind men handed over their money to him. The man, having obtained the money, abandoned the blind men and left. The blind men wandered for several days, hungry, thirsty, and not knowing the way. They all simultaneously took refuge in the Buddha, saying: “The Buddha is holy. May he have compassion upon us and release us from this calamity.” The Buddha immediately by supernormal power suddenly manifested before them, placing his hand upon the heads of the blind men, and all obtained sight, their hunger and thirst satisfied. The five hundred rejoiced, leaping with joy, and vowed to become disciples. Their hair fell off at once, and they put on the robes and bowls of the Dharma. The Buddha again expounded the Dharma to them, and they all attained Arhatship. They flew through the air, following the Buddha back to the Jeta Grove Monastery. Ānanda asked the Buddha: “What are the past-life causes and retributions of these five hundred men?” The Buddha said: “In past ages there was an elder who hired five hundred men to labor. They took their wages first, but each went away, so that later through many lives they suffered this calamity. At that time the elder was the very man who took the money and left them! Now that their karmic debts are exhausted, they have encountered me and attained enlightenment. Thus now they all have obtained the Way.” Such is the working of karma and retribution. Therefore, as people create karma differently, some are creating karma, some are repaying karma. It cannot be that one is not cautious!
(Thirty-four)
In the past there were two men who were intimate friends, never betraying one another or breaking trust. Later one man committed a crime, and the punishment for his crime was death, so he fled to the house of his friend. The friend did not open the door, but asked: “Who are you?” He replied: “I am your friend. Having committed a crime, I have come to rely on you!” That man said: “In ordinary times we were close, but when danger and difficulty arrive, each must go his own way. I will not let you in!” The friend was deeply unhappy and thought: “Men in ordinary times associate together in coming and going, in food and drink, never abandoning one another. Why, when danger comes, do they thus abandon? Is this benevolence?” He departed, intending to go into the mountains. Then another spiritual friend came to seek refuge with him. That man opened the door and hid him, saying: “Although you and I are distant, yet I ought to send you to a safe place.” So he loaded a cart with jewels and personally escorted the spiritual friend to another country. There the king and elders built palaces for that friend, established fields, dwellings, and treasures, supplied all necessities, and only then did he himself return. At that time the Buddha, seeing this man, took it as a parable: “The man who committed a crime is a parable for the spirit of a man; the intimate friend is a parable for the body composed of the four great elements; the spiritual friend is a parable for the Three Refuges and the Five Precepts. It is like a man who nourishes the body of the four great elements, never lacking food and drink, yet when impermanence arrives, he falls into evil destinies. Seeking it to conceal him for a moment, instead it shuts the door and does not help. Later encountering the spiritual friend, he escorts him to another country, providing palaces and treasuries, without lacking anything. This is a parable for practicing giving and upholding precepts, so that when the body dies, the power of merit leads him to be reborn in heaven, with palaces of seven jewels, clothed in celestial garments, nourished by heavenly foods of a hundred flavors, joy without measure. Therefore when a man is in the world, he should not only care for nourishing himself. He should lessen his expenditures and cultivate merit. What benefit is there in merely nourishing the body of the four great elements? One who is wise should cultivate practice!”
(Thirty-five)
One hundred years after the Nirvāṇa of the Buddha, there was a certain king who served the gods of heaven and conducted a great sacrifice. He wished to use one hundred oxen, one hundred sheep, one hundred pigs, one hundred piglets, one hundred dogs, and one hundred chickens, all entrusted to the cooks to be slaughtered. Among the cooks was a certain upāsaka who said: “I uphold the precepts of the Buddha and cannot kill living beings.” The overseer of the kitchens was extremely angry and reported to the king, saying: “He deserves punishment.” The king asked: “Do you deliberately wish to disobey my command? You should be put to death!” The cook replied: “I am a disciple of the Buddha, who upholds the Five Precepts. I would rather take my own life than violate the teaching of the Buddha and commit killing. If I follow the king’s command and commit killing, after death I shall fall into hell, and only after uncountable millions of years of retribution will my sin be exhausted and I emerge, and I shall always receive the recompense of short life. One who upholds the precepts without deficiency, even if executed by the king, after death will be reborn in heaven, and by heavenly blessings whatever is wished is naturally obtained. Now, if I am to die, I shall be reborn in heaven and receive heavenly bliss. The difference between sin and blessing is too great. Therefore I would rather die; even in death I shall not break the precepts!” The king said: “I give you seven days. At that time I shall have elephants trample you. If you do not die, your words are true.” After seven days, this upāsaka’s body appeared in the form of the Buddha, with the marks and likeness of the Buddha. Five hundred elephants were driven to trample him. The upāsaka’s form, being like the Buddha, raised his hand, and his five fingers transformed into five mountains. From each mountain emerged a lion. The elephants, seeing the lions, were terrified and prostrated on the ground, just as in the time when the Buddha was in the world. Then the king truly believed there was a Buddha, ceased the sacrifice, followed this man to receive the Buddha’s precepts, and the ministers and the people all likewise received the precepts. Thus this man became a teacher of the nation. Such is how the virtuous who uphold precepts can deliver others.
(Thirty-six)
In the past, when the Buddha was in the world, there was a certain upāsikā who, morning and evening, went to the Buddha, making offerings with great devotion, never negligent. The Buddha, knowing this, asked her: “What aspiration do you seek?” She said to the Buddha: “If I may receive blessings, I wish in this present life to bear four sons.” The Buddha asked: “Why do you wish for four sons?” The upāsikā said: “If I bear four sons and they grow to adulthood, I wish that one will manage trade and accumulate wealth, one will cultivate fields and livestock and gather cattle, horses, and grains, one will pursue learning and seek office, protecting the household, and one will leave the home-life to become a śramaṇa, attain the Way and enlightenment, return to deliver his parents and all beings. To seek four sons is precisely for this!” The Buddha said: “May you obtain your wish.” The upāsikā rejoiced, bowed to the Buddha, and departed. Later she bore a son, intelligent and wise, whom she loved more than all the world. When the son grew up he asked his mother: “Why is your love so deep, without measure?” The mother said to her son: “Originally my vow was to have four sons, but I received only you. All my love is given to you, therefore it is so.” She told him all of her original vow. Hearing this, the son deeply remembered his mother’s aspiration and set about managing trade. In less than one year he obtained immeasurable wealth. Next he established fields and livestock, filling marshes with cattle, horses, and grain, beyond counting. Next he pursued learning, sought office, married, and had children. The household thus became a family of great wealth. Again he reported to his mother: “The reason you sought four sons was that each might accomplish one matter. Now I alone have substituted for them, and three matters are already mostly completed, only one matter remains unfulfilled. To leave home and become a śramaṇa would be excellent.” His compassionate mother said: “The vow of four sons is thus fulfilled!” In her heart she thought: “Originally the vow of four sons was to entrust each with one matter, and I feared they might not accomplish it. This one son has accomplished all, surpassing the original vow. If he leaves home, he will certainly attain the Way.” So she permitted him to leave home. The son bade farewell to his mother, went to the Buddha, and requested to become a śramaṇa. Immediately he obtained the full precepts and diligently practiced. Not long after, he attained the fruit of Arhatship, returned to deliver his parents and all beings, obtained blessings and attained the Way, and all rejoiced without limit. Therefore making merit and aspirations depends only on the heart’s resolve. There is nothing sought that cannot be obtained.
(Thirty-seven)
Once in the past there was an old mother who had only one son. He fell ill and died. The old mother dragged his corpse to the graveyard and left it there. Overcome with grief, she could not restrain herself and thought: “I had only one son, who could have cared for me in old age, but he has forsaken me and died. What need have I to live any longer?” So she did not wish to return, but resolved to die together with her son. She refused food for four or five days.
The Buddha, with his wisdom, saw this situation and led five hundred bhikṣus to the graveyard. From afar the old mother saw the Buddha coming, his divine majesty radiant and shining. She seemed as one awakened from a drunken dream, quickly ran to the Buddha, stood before him, and paid reverence. The Buddha asked the old mother: “Why do you remain in the graveyard?” The old mother told the Buddha: “I had only one son. He abandoned me by dying. My love and grief are deep, and I wish to die here with him.”
The Buddha said to the old mother: “Do you wish your son to live again?” The old mother rejoiced and said: “Of course I wish it, World-Honored One.” The Buddha said: “Bring fine incense and fire, and I shall recite an incantation to restore your son to life.” Then he further instructed her: “It must be incense and fire from a household where no one has ever died.” The old mother then went to seek such incense and fire. She first asked each family: “Has anyone in your household, past or present, ever died?” The reply was: “Our forefathers and ancestors have all died.” Every house she asked gave the same reply. Having asked several dozens of households, she still dared not use their incense and fire. She then returned to the Buddha and said: “World-Honored One, I sought everywhere for incense and fire, but there is no household without death, so I have come back empty-handed.”
The Buddha told the old mother: “Since the beginning of heaven and earth, there has never been one who lives forever without dying. The living struggle to go on living, and that is indeed worthy of cherishing. Why then should the old mother be deluded and die with her son?” The old mother’s mental knot was untied, and she understood the truth of impermanence. The Buddha, seizing the occasion, expounded to her in detail the essential meaning of the Dharma. At once the old mother awakened and attained Srotaāpanna. Among those who witnessed this at the graveyard, not fewer than several thousands, all gave rise to the unsurpassed true and perfect Bodhi-mind.
(Thirty-eight)
In the past there was a man who had two wives. The elder wife bore no son, while the younger wife gave birth to a boy, whose countenance was upright and lovely. The husband was exceedingly delighted. The elder wife inwardly bore jealousy, yet outwardly pretended to cherish him, even more than if he were her own child. When the boy was about one year old, all in the household knew that the elder wife cherished and valued him, and thus no one had any suspicion. The elder wife then used a needle to pierce into the child’s fontanel, letting the needle sink into the flesh. The child fell ill, crying and refusing milk, and none in the household, great or small, knew the reason. After seven days he died. The elder wife also wailed and cried. The younger wife, in grief and longing, wailed day and night without cease, neither eating nor drinking, on the verge of death. Later she came to know it was the elder wife who had harmed him, and she sought revenge. She went to a stūpa-temple and asked the bhikṣus: “Venerable ones! I wish to fulfill the vow within my heart. What merit should I cultivate?” The bhikṣus replied: “One who wishes to fulfill a vow should uphold the Eight Precepts of the Fasting Day. Whatever is sought can then be obtained as desired.” She received the Eight Precepts of the Fasting Day from the bhikṣus and departed.
After seven days she died. She was reborn as the daughter of the elder wife, with an upright countenance. The elder wife cherished her greatly. At the age of one year, she died. The elder wife sat upright without eating, sobbing in sorrow, her grief deeper than that which the younger wife had formerly borne. In this way it repeated seven times. Sometimes she lived two years, sometimes three years, sometimes four or five years, sometimes six or seven years. Each rebirth the countenance was more beautiful than before. At last, in the final time, at the age of fourteen she had already been betrothed. On the eve of her wedding, suddenly she died. The elder wife wept, grieving and afflicted, her sorrow and distress beyond words. She no longer ate, day and night weeping tears. She placed the corpse in the coffin, unwilling to close the lid, daily gazing upon it. She saw that the countenance became even more beautiful than when alive.
After more than twenty days, there was an Arhat who saw this matter and wished to transform her. He went to her house to beg alms. A maidservant brought a bowl of rice to him. He refused to accept it, saying to the maidservant: “I wish to see your mistress.” The maidservant reported back: “He wishes to see the mistress.” The elder wife replied: “I am sorrowful to the point of death. How can I go out to see a śramaṇa? Take something to give him as alms, and let him go.” The maidservant brought things to give to the śramaṇa, but he still would not depart. The śramaṇa said: “I wish to see the mistress.” The maidservant went back and forth several times, and still the śramaṇa did not leave. The woman, distressed and weary, seeing that the śramaṇa would not go and disturbed the household, making the mind uneasy and hard to bear, said: “Let him come in!” The śramaṇa entered and saw the woman’s face haggard, her own hand covering it, her hair uncombed. The śramaṇa said: “Why are you thus?” The woman said: “I bore seven daughters, all clever and lovely, yet all died. This daughter was the eldest, about to be married, and again she died. My sorrow is without measure.” The śramaṇa said: “Comb your hair and wash your face, and I shall tell you the cause.” The woman still wept, refusing to cease. The śramaṇa said to her: “Where is your household’s younger wife? For what cause did she die in the past?” Hearing these words, the woman thought: “How does this śramaṇa know of this?” Her mind slightly calmed. The śramaṇa said: “Comb your hair, and I will tell you.” So the woman arranged her hair. The śramaṇa said: “How did the younger wife’s child die?” The woman, hearing these words, was silent, not answering, ashamed within, not daring to speak. The śramaṇa said: “You killed another’s child, causing his mother to grieve and die in anguish. Therefore she has come to be your child seven times in succession. She is your foe, seeking to poison you with grief. Go look at the daughter’s corpse in the coffin—see whether it is still as before.” The woman went to look, and the body had already rotted and stank, unbearable to approach. He asked: “Why do you still long for her?” The woman was immediately ashamed, and then buried the corpse, and earnestly entreated the śramaṇa to receive precepts. The śramaṇa said: “Come to the monastery tomorrow.”
The dead daughter was reborn as a poisonous serpent. Knowing that the woman would go to receive precepts, it waited on the road, intending to bite her. When the woman set out, the serpent blocked her way, preventing her from advancing. As dusk approached, the woman was terrified and thought: “I am going to the śramaṇa to receive precepts. Why does this serpent block me, preventing me from proceeding?” The śramaṇa knew this and went to the place where the woman was. Seeing the śramaṇa, she rejoiced and advanced to pay respect. The śramaṇa said to the serpent: “In future lives you will ever again be the younger wife of another, mutually cruel and harmful without end. In this life, the elder wife once killed your son. You have already caused her grief seven times. Your past and present offenses can now be brought to an end. This woman now goes to receive precepts. You obstruct her path. You will fall into hell in life after life, without end. Now you are born as a serpent. How can you be compared with this woman?” Hearing the words of the śramaṇa, the serpent came to know its past lives, and its afflictions, hatred, and grievances subsided. It laid its head upon the ground, not daring to breathe, reflecting upon the śramaṇa’s words. The śramaṇa uttered vows, saying: “Today the two of you, through many lives, have mutually caused grief. Let the offenses be ended from this day. From now on, in all future lives, never again face one another with malice.” Both the woman and the serpent repented, and the serpent immediately died and was reborn as a human. At that time the woman, hearing the śramaṇa expound the Dharma, at once her mind opened, she comprehended with joy, attained the fruit of Srotaāpanna, and followed the śramaṇa to receive precepts, becoming an upāsikā. Therefore, karmic offenses and retributions of enmity are just so. How can one not be cautious?
(Thirty-nine)
In the past, in the country of Śrāvastī, there was a day when blood rained down, covering the length and width of twenty miles. The king and his ministers were greatly terrified and astonished. Immediately they summoned diviners and those skilled in augury, bidding them calculate to know the auspicious or inauspicious. The diviners replied: “The records of ancient times say: ‘When there is the calamity of blood rain, it portends that there will appear a man-python, which is poisonous and destructive to living beings.’ It is necessary to investigate within the country to discern the calamity.” The king asked: “How can it be discerned?” The diviners said: “This is a poison borne within the human form, difficult to recognize. You should command that all newborn infants in the country be brought forth, and let each spit into an empty jar.” Among them there was one infant who, when spitting into the jar, his spittle immediately turned into flames, and thus they knew this infant was the man-python. The people deliberated, saying: “This being cannot remain among men. He should be removed and placed in some desolate, hidden, uninhabited place. Those condemned to death within the country may be sent to him.” The man-python spewed venom and killed them. In this way, those poisoned and slain numbered seventy-two thousand. Later a lion appeared, roaring with a sound so mighty that within twenty miles all men and beasts were terrified and submissive. The harm it caused no one could subdue. Therefore the king proclaimed a reward for anyone in the country who could drive away the lion: a thousand measures of gold, and a fief of one county. No one answered. The ministers said to the king: “Only the man-python can drive it away.” The king immediately commanded his officers to summon the man-python. The man-python, seeing the lion from afar, went straight before it, exhaled his poison upon it, and the lion immediately died, its body rotting and vanishing. Thus the country was restored to purity and peace.
Later the man-python grew old, fell ill, and his life was about to end. The Buddha, pitying him for his deep and heavy sins, knowing that once fallen into the evil destinies there would be no day of release, said to Śāriputra: “Go and convert him, so that he may be freed from great calamity.” Śāriputra then went to his dwelling, suddenly manifesting before him with the power of supernormal feet. The man-python was enraged, thinking: “I am not yet dead, and already I am despised—without announcement he comes directly before me!” He spewed poison, thinking to harm him. Śāriputra, with compassion and wisdom, resisted; his countenance shone even more splendid, and he was unmoved in the least. The man-python three times spewed poison, yet could not harm him. Then he knew this was a venerable one. His mind turned, and wholesome thoughts arose. With a compassionate heart he gazed up and down at Śāriputra seven times. Śāriputra then returned to the monastery. In but a breath, the man-python died. On the very day he died, the earth quaked greatly—supreme good can shake the earth, and supreme evil can shake the earth also. At that time the king of Magādha went to the Buddha, bowed his head to the ground, and asked the World-Honored One: “After the man-python’s death, into what destiny is he reborn?” The Buddha said: “Now he is reborn in the First Heaven.” The king, hearing the Buddha’s words, marveled, and asked further: “How is it that one of such great evil can be reborn in heaven?” The Buddha said: “Because when he beheld Śāriputra, with a compassionate heart he gazed up and down seven times. By the merit of this, he was reborn in the First Heaven. When the heavenly blessings there are exhausted, he will be born in the Second Heaven. After seven such rebirths, he shall become a Pratyekabuddha and enter Parinirvāṇa.” The king asked the Buddha: “And the seventy-two thousand men whom he killed—will their debt not be repaid?” The Buddha said: “At the time when he becomes a Pratyekabuddha, his body will be like purple polished gold. Then, sitting in meditation beneath a roadside tree, a great army of over seventy thousand men will pass by. Seeing the Pratyekabuddha, they will think he is a man of gold. They will cut and divide his body in pieces. The body in meditation will fall into their hands. When they see it is flesh, they will all reassemble it and place it back, and then depart. The Pratyekabuddha will thus enter Parinirvāṇa. The sins created in this life will then be slightly repaid, and then complete.” The Buddha told the king: “When one encounters a spiritual friend, even if sins are piled high as mountains, they may be extinguished, and one may attain the Way.” When the Buddha spoke this matter, the king and the great assembly all rejoiced in their hearts, bowed to the Buddha, and departed.”
(Forty)
In the past there was a śramaṇa who sat beneath a tree reciting scripture. A bird flew up to the tree and listened to the recitation, listening single-mindedly, not glancing to either side. A hunter shot it and killed it. At the moment of death, the bird’s mind was not scattered, and its spirit immediately was reborn in heaven. It contemplated the origin of its rebirth and came to know one life of its past. After rebirth in heaven, it descended and scattered flowers upon the śramaṇa who sat beneath the tree. The deva said to the ascetic: “By the blessing of the merit of the ascetic’s scripture-recitation, I was released from the body of a bird and reborn as a deva.” The ascetic, hearing the bird’s words, attained the fruit of the Path. The deva, in but a moment, vanished and returned to the heavens. The teacher said: “Disciples of the Way, when life is at its end, if the mind is not scattered, the place of rebirth will not be in the suffering of the evil destinies. One will come to know past lives and one’s former existence. Therefore I recite this scripture to instruct the beings of future generations!”
(Forty-one)
In the past, when the Buddha was in the world, three miles away from the Jeta Grove Monastery there was an old man who was greatly attached to drinking wine. The disciple Ānanda went to admonish him, saying: “Now that the Buddha is here, you should go to pay respect.” The old man said: “I have heard that the Buddha is here, and in my heart I also wish to see the Buddha. But the Buddha is skilled at giving the Five Precepts, among which is the prohibition against drinking wine. If I do not drink wine, it is like an infant being denied milk—I shall die! I cannot endure this, therefore I do not go!” He then continued drinking wine. Intoxicated with drink, he returned only at evening. On the road, his foot struck against a stump, and he fell to the ground as though a great mountain had collapsed, his entire body in pain. He spoke to himself, saying: “This pain has come upon me so suddenly! Ānanda often told me: ‘You should go to the Buddha.’ I did not heed his words. Now my body suffers pain beyond telling.” He then said to his household: “I must go to the Buddha.” The people of the household were astonished, saying: “You formerly refused to go to the Buddha. Why do you now wish to go?” Having spoken thus, he went, stopping at the gate of the Jeta Grove Monastery. At that time Ānanda, seeing the old man had come, joyfully reported to the Buddha, saying: “The old man from seven li away has arrived at the gate.” The Buddha said: “The old man has not come of himself. It is five hundred white elephants that have barely dragged him here!” Ānanda said to the Buddha: “There are no five hundred elephants. He has come by himself!” The Buddha told Ānanda: “The five hundred white elephants are within the old man’s body.” Then Ānanda called to the old man: “Come forward and pay respect to the Buddha.” The old man said to the Buddha: “I long heard that the Buddha was here. Through my ignorance I did not earlier come to honor you. May the Buddha forgive my sins!” The Buddha asked the old man: “If one piles up five hundred cartloads of firewood upon the ground, wishing to burn it all, how many cartloads of fire would it take to burn it away?” The old man answered the Buddha: “No great fire is needed. With but a fire the size of a bean, in but a snap of the fingers it can be wholly consumed.” The Buddha again asked the old man: “How long have you worn this garment?” The old man said: “I have worn this garment for one year.” The Buddha asked again: “If you wished to cleanse this garment and remove its filth, how many years would it take to wash it clean?” The old man said: “If I had but ten litron of pure ash-juice, in but a short time of washing it would be clean.” The Buddha said to the old man: “The evil karma you have accumulated is as though five hundred cartloads of firewood, and as the filth upon a garment worn for a year.” The old man then received from the Buddha the Five Precepts. Then the Buddha expounded to him several hundred words of scripture. The old man’s mind opened in sudden comprehension, and he at once attained the stage of Avaivartika.
(Forty-two)
In the past, one hundred years after the Buddha’s Parinirvāṇa, there was a king named Aśoka. He built palaces and mansions with extreme extravagance, extending five miles in length and width, and summoned painters from all the small neighboring states. When the painters arrived, each painted as he wished, creating various images. From a most remote small country north of Jibin, a painter was sent, and he was the last to arrive. He saw that the walls and the inner and outer parts of the buildings were already covered with paintings, and only at the side of the gate there remained five feet without painting. He then looked upward, observing all things, and did not know what else to paint. In his heart he thought: “When I came just now, I passed through a small city. By the side of the city there was a pond, in the pond were lotuses, and I saw a woman whose countenance was upright and beautiful, her appearance such that she could be called the mother of all people beneath heaven.” Having thought this through, he painted a city, lotuses, and the image of that woman.
The king came to the palace, and before entering, he saw this painting. He asked: “Who painted this?” They answered: “The last painter who arrived.” The king asked him: “Did you paint according to a real form, or did you paint it from imagination?” He answered: “I saw it and painted it, not from imagination.” The king asked: “Did you embellish it, or did you paint it as it was?” He answered: “I did not embellish it, but painted it as it was.” Thus it was known that this woman could be called the mother of the people beneath heaven. He then sent envoys to seek her hand in marriage and make her queen. The envoys, receiving the order, went straight to that country, and seeing the woman’s parents said: “The king seeks to take your virtuous daughter as queen.” The woman’s father said: “She is already married. What shall be done?” The envoys said, “”Then we go to the woman’s husband and told him: “The king has sent us to take this woman as wife.” The journey was long, and after three years they arrived, saying: “You have married the woman who belongs to the most honored person of the king. You should not be miserly. You should immediately give her to the king.” This husband was an upāsaka. He thought to himself: “Humans, because of wealth and beauty, harm themselves. If I do not give her up, I may suffer punishment.” So he gave his wife to the envoys. They departed and reported back to the king. The king, seeing her, was greatly delighted, and at once established her as queen.
When the queen received fine flowers, she sorrowed and wept. The king asked: “Why do you weep?” The queen said: “If the king will forgive my guilt, then I dare speak.” The king said: “Speak.” The queen said: “The fragrance of these flowers is the very same as the fragrance of my former husband. Therefore I weep.” The king was enraged, saying: “You, being the mother of all beneath heaven, still long for a man of low estate? You are an unworthy woman, and must be punished.” He commanded envoys to investigate her former husband, whether indeed he had fragrance. “If he has no fragrance, he must be punished.”
The envoys went to inquire of his family. The family said: “This virtuous man, after losing his wife, bid farewell to his parents, left home to become a śramaṇa, and attained the fruit of Arhatship.” The envoys went to the monastery and said: “The king wishes to see and make offerings to the ascetic.” The ascetic said: “I have nothing at all. Why should I be seen?” The envoys reported: “The king wishes to make offerings to the ascetic.” The ascetic followed the envoys to the palace and announced himself to the king. The king, seeing the ascetic, perceived a fragrance surpassing that of lotuses. The king said: “This man has anointed himself with fragrance.” They bathed him with hot water, and the fragrance grew stronger. They wrapped his body with silk, and the fragrance multiplied. Then the king believed, and asked: “For what cause has this ascetic gained such fragrance? May he tell me.”
The ascetic told the king: “In a former life I was a brāhmaṇa. While traveling far, I saw someone expounding scripture. I joined my palms, rejoiced, and with one mind praised the Bodhisattva. Moreover, I burned a little incense as offering. Because of this I obtained the blessing-reward, so that I have attained the fruit of the Way.”
(Forty-three)
In the past there was a father and son who lived together. They went into the mountains to cut trees, and within the spring water there was gold. The son then returned home and asked his father to divide the household, saying: “I do not want other things. Let all the possessions go to father. Only give me one cart with oxen, two baskets of rice, and one sickle and one axe.” The father did not agree. Though persuaded many times without end, the father at last gave them to him, saying: “Do not return again!” The son then went into the mountains to dig for the gold within the spring. Day after day he dug, yet never obtained any. The father then went with him to see. When he saw such gold, he raised his head and saw at the edge of the mountain there was gold as great as a hill, its shadow reflected upon the water. He climbed up the mountain and with a great log struck the gold down to earth. The father said to the son: “What method should be used in seeking? Only digging the water—when will you ever obtain it?” The son did not understand the method of seeking gold. It is like one who does not uphold the Five Precepts, but only chases after sounds and forms—can such a man’s human body be obtained again? The father is like the one of wisdom who seeks gold, who discerns the original occasion, who upholds the Buddha’s Five Precepts and practices the Ten Good Deeds. Thus he may be reborn in heaven, never losing the human body through successive lives, and in the end attaining the fruit of Buddhahood.
(Forty-four)
In the past Śakra, lord of the gods, was on intimate terms with the Seventh Brahmā. At that time Brahmā descended to the Trāyastriṃśa Heaven and together they wandered. Śakra was troubled and not joyful. Brahmā asked Śakra: “Why are you not joyful?” Śakra said: “Do you not see that the numbers of my heaven are becoming ever fewer? Among men below there are no longer any who practice good, but all fall into evil destinies. None are reborn in heaven. Even the devas, when reborn as humans, do not return again. Therefore I am troubled!” Brahmā said to Śakra: “You should at once manifest death, and transform into a lion of great majesty and power. I shall manifest as a brāhmaṇa, and together we shall descend into Jambudvīpa, to teach and transform the people beneath heaven to practice good. Those who practice good, when they die, may all be reborn in heaven.”
Then each manifested according to his transformation and descended into a certain country. The lion stood in the gate of the city and said: “I shall eat men.” The people of the country saw him, and without exception they were terrified and prostrated, pleading in fear. The lion would not depart. The manifested brāhmaṇa said to the people: “This lion is fierce. Give him thirty men condemned to death, and naturally he will depart.” The king then released thirty prisoners condemned to death from the prison and delivered them to the lion. The lion drove them into the deep mountains. Before devouring them, the manifested deva said to the men: “If you are able to uphold the Five Precepts, and keep in mind the Ten Good Ways, causing body, speech, and mind to be in accord, then this lion will not devour men.” The men said: “We were already condemned to death. What is there that we cannot agree to? We can uphold them.” Then they received the precepts from the manifested one. Therefore the lion did not devour them. The lion said: “I release you. Yet even so, I can know your thoughts. If you do not uphold the Buddha’s Five Precepts, I will still devour you.” Thus the thirty men returned to the country. The people saw them and were astonished, asking: “How have you returned?” They answered: “There was a man who taught us to uphold the Buddha’s Five Precepts, and the lion no longer ate us, therefore we could return.”
The lion again remained at the city gate. The people were greatly afraid, and all followed the thirty men to uphold the Five Precepts. Then the lion departed, and went to another country. In this way he went throughout eighty thousand countries, causing all the people to practice good. When they died, they were reborn in heaven. The heavens became more joyous, abundant, and populous. Such is the Bodhisattva’s skillful means in transforming and delivering beings. In the end he himself attains Buddhahood.
The Buddha told Ānanda: “Śakra Deva manifesting as a lion—that was my body. Brahmā manifesting as a brāhmaṇa—that is now Kāśyapa. At that time he assisted me in transforming and delivering the people beneath heaven, so that I might in the end attain Buddhahood. Therefore now I sit together with him, repaying the kindness of past times.”
(Forty-five)
In the past, during the time of Kāśyapa Buddha, there was a king named Kusuni, who built monasteries and wholly offered to the Buddha. The king’s seventh daughter had formerly served the brāhmaṇas, but later turned to faith in the Buddha. The brāhmaṇas bore resentment in their hearts, and called her “servant of the monks.” The king had ten strange dreams, and inquired of them. The brāhmaṇas, by interpreting the dreams, sought to bring calamity upon this girl, and said to the king: “Only if you burn your most beloved daughter in sacrifice to the gods will there be auspiciousness.” The king was greatly distressed. The daughter asked the king: “Why are you distressed?” The king explained the reason. The daughter said: “If by being burned auspiciousness may come, then I should undertake it!” She asked: “How many days until the sacrifice?” The brāhmaṇas said: “Seven days hence.” The girl said to the king: “Though I am to die, grant me permission to go to where the Buddha dwells, and let the people of the southern part of the city all escort me outside the gates.” The king then gave the order for the escort.
The people accompanied her to the Buddha. Hearing the Dharma, they at once realized the truth. Each day she asked that the people of one city gate escort her forth, so that the people of the four sides of the city might all see the truth. Again she asked that the townsfolk all escort her, and likewise it was so. On the sixth day she asked that the king and the officials of the palace escort her. The Buddha expounded the Dharma to them, and they all realized the truth. Then the king knew that the brāhmaṇas had deceived him. He said to them: “You nearly brought about the wrongful death of my daughter. If you do not now take refuge in the Buddha and leave home to become śramaṇas, you shall be driven out of the country.” The brāhmaṇa, not knowing where else to turn, had no choice but to take refuge in the Buddha, leave home, and become śramaṇa. Later he attained the fruit of Arhatship.
Dharma Torch 