Translated by śramaṇas Hui Jue etc. from Liangzhou of the Yuan Wei Dynasty in Gaochang Commandery
Section One: Brahmā Entreated the Buddha to Expound the Dharma with Six Matters
Thus have I heard:
At one time, the Buddha was in the land of Magadha, at the place of practice of Skilled Victory. Having just attained Buddhahood, in his heart he thus reflected: “Beings are deluded and inverted, it is very difficult to transform and teach them. If I dwell in the world, there will be no benefit for the world. It would be better to enter nirvāṇa without remainder.” At that time, the Great Brahmā, knowing the Buddha’s thought, came from the realm of the Brahmā to the Buddha’s dwelling. He bowed his head and prostrated at the Buddha’s feet, knelt long with joined palms, and entreated the Buddha: “May the World-Honored One constantly turn the Dharma wheel and not enter into nirvāṇa.” The Buddha answered the Great Brahmā, saying: “Beings are covered by the dust of defilements, delighting in worldly pleasures, without wisdom in their hearts. If I remain in the world, it will be vain and without benefit. As I intend, it would be better to enter into the bliss of quiescence.”
At that time, the Great Brahmā again bowed down before the Buddha and said: “World-Honored One, today the ocean of Dharma is already full, the banner of Dharma is already raised, it is precisely the good time to moisten and guide beings. Moreover, at present the number of beings who can be delivered is especially great. Why does the World-Honored One wish to enter nirvāṇa, causing these beings forever to lose their refuge? World-Honored One, in the distant past you often gathered the medicine of Dharma for beings, curing the sufferings of beings, even for the sake of obtaining a single verse you did not begrudge sacrificing your own body and wife and children in order to seek the true Dharma. Why now do you not keep beings in mind but wish to abandon them?
Long ago, in Jambudvīpa there was a great king named Surūpa, who ruled over eighty-four thousand small kingdoms, sixty thousand rivers and mountains, and eight thousand koṭis of villages. The king had twenty thousand consorts and ten thousand ministers. At that time King Surūpa’s merit and virtue were without peer. He protected and cherished the people and their wealth, and caused the people to dwell in boundless abundance and joy. The king thought in his heart: ‘As I now am, I only use treasures and wealth to nourish beings, but I have not a teaching of Dharma to make them secure and established. This is my fault; it is truly most unfortunate! Now I ought to seek a firm and lofty true Dharma that can universally enable beings to be freed from the sea of suffering.’ Thinking thus, he immediately proclaimed throughout Jambudvīpa: ‘If there is anyone who can explain wondrous Dharma for me, I will provide whatever he requires, never going against his request.’ Although the king proclaimed this order throughout the whole land, inviting one who would speak Dharma, no one responded. This made the king greatly sorrowful, grieving without measure.
The heavenly king Vaiśravaṇa, seeing the king so afflicted with compassion, wished to test the king, and thus transformed into a rākṣasa demon who came to the gate of the palace. This rākṣasa had a blue face and red eyes, tusks protruding over the upper lip, hair standing bristling upward, fire spewing from the mouth, and he shouted: ‘Who wishes to hear the Dharma, I shall come and speak it!’ The king, hearing these words, rejoiced exceedingly, and personally went out to welcome him. He advanced forward to pay him reverence, prepared a high seat for him, and invited him to sit. The king also summoned his ministers and officials, causing them to surround the rākṣasa before and behind, to hear him speak Dharma. At that time the rākṣasa said to the king: ‘Seeking Dharma is difficult, how could it be heard so easily?’ The king, folding his hands, said: ‘Whatever you require, I shall supply, never going against you.’ The rākṣasa answered: ‘If the king is able to give me his beloved consort and child to eat, then I will speak Dharma for you.’ Then the king gave to the rākṣasa one of his beloved consorts and one of his sons of excellent qualities.
The rākṣasa, having received them, before the high seat and surrounded by the assembly, took them and ate.
At that time the various lords, officials, and ministers, seeing the king act thus, all wept without ceasing, in deep regret and distress. They rolled upon the ground, urging and beseeching the king not to do such a thing. But the king’s resolve to hear the Dharma was already fixed, not to be turned back. Then the rākṣasa demon, having finished eating the king’s wife and son, spoke for the king a single verse:
‘All things are impermanent, all who are born have suffering.
The five aggregates are empty, quiescent, without mark, without self, and without that which belongs to self.’
When the rākṣasa finished speaking this verse, the king, having heard it, greatly rejoiced, without the slightest thought of regret in his heart. He immediately wrote it down and dispatched envoys to proclaim it throughout Jambudvīpa, causing everyone to read and recite this verse. At that time the heavenly king Vaiśravaṇa resumed his original form and praised, saying: ‘Excellent! How marvelous, beyond compare!’ The consort and the prince had not in truth been eaten.
That king of that time is now the Buddha. World-Honored One, you in former times, for the sake of seeking Dharma, even acted in such a way. Why now would you abandon beings, not saving them, and enter into nirvāṇa?”
“Moreover, World-Honored One, in the distant past, beyond measure and innumerable asaṃkhyeya kalpas, in Jambudvīpa there was a great king named Kāñcacanasāra. He governed over eighty-four thousand villages in the various realms, had twenty thousand consorts and maidens, and ten thousand ministers at his command. This king was very compassionate, cherishing and pitying all persons and all things. The people relied upon him with utmost devotion. Within the land, grain was abundant, prices were cheap, and the people gratefully admired the king’s benevolence, regarding him as a compassionate father whom they loved and respected. At that time the king thought in his heart: ‘Now I am the most revered, occupying the foremost seat of a kingdom. The people under my protection are each peaceful and happy. Yet though this is so, I have not yet exhausted all the strength of my heart. Now I should seek wondrous Dharma to benefit them.’ Having resolved thus, he sent his ministers to announce and proclaim throughout the land: ‘If there is anyone who can expound wondrous Dharma for me, whatever he requires, I shall completely fulfill.’
At that time a Brāhmaṇa named Raudrāksa came to the palace gate and said: ‘I have wondrous Dharma.’ When the king heard this, he was overjoyed, immediately went forth to welcome him, offered reverence, and prepared bedding, inviting him to sit. Together with his attendant ministers he joined palms and said: ‘May the great master bestow compassion upon us, pity us who are foolish and lowly, and expound wondrous Dharma so that we may know.’ Then Raudrāksa said to the king: ‘The wisdom I have obtained was gained by untiring effort, wandering to far places and constantly seeking. It was little by little accumulated, truly not easily obtained. Why then should I allow you all at once to hear it completely?’ The king replied: ‘Whatever you wish, please speak forth. We shall provide it.’ Raudrāksa then said: ‘If the great king today, upon his own body, with a blade cuts a thousand hollows in which to place lamps as offering, then I will speak Dharma for you.’
The king, hearing these words, was even more joyful. He immediately dispatched his men riding elephants for thirty thousand miles to announce throughout Jambudvīpa: ‘King Kāñcacanasāra, for the sake of hearing wondrous Dharma, after seven days will upon his body cut flesh to make hollows and light a thousand lamps.’
At that time the various lesser kings and all the people, hearing this news, each harbored grief and sorrow, and all hastened to come to pay homage to the king. Having bowed before him, they all with one voice said: ‘Now in this world all beings depend upon the great king, just as the blind depend upon one to lead them, just as children rely upon their mother. After your death, upon whom shall we depend? If upon your body you cut the flesh to make hollows and light a thousand lamps, your body surely will not fully recover. Why would you, for the sake of one Brāhmaṇa, abandon all beings in the world?’ At that time the twenty thousand consorts in the palace, five hundred princes, and ten thousand ministers also joined palms in reverence and urged him in the same way.
Then the king replied: ‘All of you must by no means extinguish my mind of seeking the unsurpassed path. I do this deed vowing to attain Buddhahood, and when I have attained Buddhahood, I shall first deliver all of you.’ At that time the assembly, seeing that the king’s resolve was fixed and unchangeable, could only weep without ceasing, in deep regret and distress, casting themselves upon the ground. But the king was unmoved in the least. He again said to the brāhmaṇa: ‘Now I may cut my body and light the thousand lamps.’ Soon it was begun. In the flesh cut from the body hollows were made, within which oil and wicks were placed. The multitude, who had just collapsed to the ground, seeing this sight, once again rose and cast themselves down as though a great mountain had collapsed. The king then said to the brāhmaṇa: ‘May the great master bestow compassion upon me and first expound Dharma for me, and then light the lamps. If I die first, I fear it would be too late to hear Dharma.’ Raudrāksa, hearing this, then spoke the Dharma verse:
‘What is constant all comes to an end, what is high must surely fall.
All meetings must part, all who are born must die.’
Having spoken this gāthā, he then began to light the lamps. At that time the king was exceedingly joyful, without even the slightest thought of regret, and he himself made this vow: ‘Today I seek Dharma in order to accomplish the Buddha-path. In the future, when I become Buddha, I shall surely use the light of wisdom to illuminate and guide beings, so that they may quickly escape affliction and darkness.’ Having made this vow, the earth and heavens quaked greatly, even the palaces of the Pure Abodes trembled mightily. The devas all looked downward and saw a Bodhisattva making an offering of Dharma, even to the extent of destroying the body and not sparing life.
Therefore they all descended from the Pure Abodes, filling the sky, weeping tears like pouring rain, and raining down celestial flowers as offerings.
At that time Śakra, lord of the devas, also descended from his heavenly palace to stand before the king. He ceaselessly praised the king and then asked: ‘Great king, now you suffer pain unbearable. Do you harbor regret in your heart?’ The king immediately answered: ‘No.’ Śakra again said: ‘Now the great king’s body trembles without ceasing, yet still you say you do not regret. Who can know how the truth really is?’ The king again vowed: ‘If from the beginning until now I have harbored no regret in my heart, may all the wounds and scars upon my body immediately heal.’ As soon as he spoke these words, all the wounds and scars upon his body at once healed. The king of that time is the Buddha of today.
World-Honored One, in former times you did not fear suffering and torment in order to seek wondrous Dharma, all for the sake of beings. Now that your merit and virtue are perfected, why would you abandon beings and enter nirvāṇa, causing them forever to lose the light of wisdom?”
“Moreover, World-Honored One, in a past life, in Jambudvīpa there was a great king named Bhṛṅgāra, who governed over eighty-four thousand villages of the various realms, possessed twenty thousand consorts and maidens, five hundred princes, and ten thousand ministers. The king could take compassion as his heart, treating the people as his children. At that time the king delighted in the true Dharma, and he dispatched his ministers to proclaim throughout the land: ‘If anyone can expound the great Dharma for me, whatever he needs I will satisfy.’
A Brāhmaṇa named Raudrāksa then came to the palace gate and said: ‘If anyone wishes to hear the great Dharma, I can speak it for them.’ When the king heard these words he was overjoyed beyond measure, personally went out to receive him, paid him reverence with bowed feet, joined his palms and asked after his welfare, led Raudrāksa into the great hall, set up a high seat and invited him to sit, then joined his palms and said: ‘I earnestly hope the great master will expound the Dharma for us.’ Raudrāksa said: ‘The Dharma I have realized was gained by wandering the four quarters and enduring many years of toil; why should the great king expect to hear it all at once?’ The king folded his hands and said: ‘Whatever you wish to obtain, I earnestly entreat you to declare it; toward the great master we will not be stingy in the least.’ Raudrāksa then answered the king: ‘If you can upon your body drive in one thousand iron nails, I will expound the Dharma for you.’ The king immediately agreed and fixed the matter to be done after seven days.
The king then dispatched his men riding elephants for thirty thousand miles to announce to all subjects throughout Jambudvīpa: ‘King Bhṛṅgāra, seven days from now will drive one thousand iron nails into his body.’ When the subjects heard this, they all gathered outside the palace and said to the king: ‘We, your subjects from the four quarters, by the king’s grace dwell in safety and prosperity; we beseech the great king, for our sakes, do not drive one thousand iron nails into your body.’ At that time the consorts, maidens, princes, ministers, and all within the palace simultaneously implored the king: ‘We earnestly beg the great king to have mercy on us; do not for the sake of one person lightly cast away your life and abandon all beings in the world.’
The king replied: ‘In lives long ago within the cycle of birth and death I have had my body destroyed countless times; many were due to the three poisons of greed, hatred, and ignorance. If one were to count the bones lost for these causes they would rise higher than Mount Sumeru; the blood shed by beheading would exceed the waters of the five rivers; the tears of lamentation would surpass the waters of the four seas; and so on, endlessly, innumerable. Lives were thrown away in vain, never once because of seeking Dharma. Today I drive in iron nails to seek the Buddha-way; when I attain Buddhahood, I will with the sharp sword of wisdom cut off the root of your afflictions. If this is so, why do you wish to obstruct my mind that seeks the Buddha-path?’ At that time the people were struck dumb.
The king then said to the brāhmaṇa: ‘May the great master bestow grace and compassion, first speak Dharma to me, and then drive in the nails; otherwise, if I die before hearing, it will be too late.’ Raudrāksa then uttered this verse:
‘All things are impermanent; those born endure suffering.
All dharmas are empty of arising; truly there is nothing that is mine.’
When this verse was recited, Raudrāksa immediately drove one thousand iron nails into the king’s body. At that time the lesser kings, the officials, and all present prostrated themselves to the ground, like a great mountain collapsing, rolling and weeping without cease, so that they lost their sense of direction. Then the six kinds of tremors shook heaven and earth. The devas of the desire and form realms, not understanding the cause, descended from the heavens. Seeing a Bodhisattva who for the sake of seeking Dharma would not shrink from hardship even to the point of injuring his own body, they began to weep; their tears fell like a great rain, and they rained celestial flowers as offerings.
At that time Śakra came before the king and asked: ‘Great king, today you are vigorous and steadfast, not fearing pain, all for the sake of seeking Dharma. What is your final aim? Do you wish to be a wheel-turning king equals Śakra? Or the throne of Śakra, of Māra, of Brahmā?’ The king answered: ‘What I do is not for the sake of comfort in the three realms; all merit I am making is dedicated to the aspiration for the Buddha-way.’ Śakra further said: ‘Great king, now you are destroying your body and enduring such torment; do you not have any regret?’ The king answered: ‘No.’ Śakra said again: ‘Look, the king’s body can hardly endure now, and yet you say you have no regret; by what proof can this be shown?’ The king then vowed: ‘If I am sincere from the heart and have no regret, may my body be restored to its former state.’ When he had spoken these words, the king’s body at once recovered as before. Śakra and the people present were exceedingly glad, and all shouted for joy.
World-Honored One, now that your ocean of Dharma is full and your merit and virtue are complete, why would you abandon all beings and hasten to enter nirvāṇa without expounding the Dharma?”
“Moreover, World-Honored One, in a time long, long ago, before innumerable asaṃkhyeya kalpas, in Jambudvīpa there was a great king named Brahmā, who had a son the crown prince Dharmakāma, who delighted in the true Dharma and sent men to search in the four directions but could not find it; the prince, unable to obtain the true teaching, was exceedingly distressed and sorrowful.
Śakra, knowing the prince’s sincere quest for Dharma, assumed the form of a Brāhmaṇa and came to the palace gate, saying: ‘I know the true Dharma; whoever wishes to hear it, I will expound it.’ The prince, hearing this, immediately went out to receive him, paid obeisance at his feet with great respect, led him into the great hall, set up bedding and a high seat and invited him to sit. Then, joining his palms, he said: ‘I earnestly implore the great master, out of compassion for my eager heart seeking Dharma, please expound the teaching for me.’ The brāhmaṇa said: ‘Learning Dharma is a difficult matter; I obtained what I know only after long apprenticeship and years of arduous study. How could you expect to hear it all at once?’ The prince answered: ‘Whatever the master requires, speak it; my body and wife and children are not dear to me.’ The brāhmaṇa said: ‘If you now dig a great pit of fire, ten fathoms deep, heap it full of fierce flames and then leap into it as an offering, I will speak the Dharma to you.’ The prince immediately caused such a great pit to be dug.
The king and queen, the ministers and court ladies, upon hearing this, were deeply unsettled; they all gathered together and came to the prince’s chamber to persuade the prince and to entreat the brāhmaṇa: ‘Out of compassion, have pity; for our sakes do not let the prince cast himself into the fire pit. Whatever you require, the realm, the city, wives, children, even our bodies shall obey your command.’ The brāhmaṇa said: ‘I do not force; I follow only the prince’s vow. If he can do it, I will speak; otherwise I will not.’ Seeing his resolve firm, all were silent.
The king then sent messengers riding elephants three thousand miles to announce to all the people of Jambudvīpa: ‘Prince Dharmakāma, for the sake of seeking Dharma, seven days hence will cast himself into a fire pit; those who wish to behold it should assemble early.’ At that time lesser kings and the people from the four quarters, strong and weak supporting one another, gathered at the prince’s residence, long kneeling with joined palms, and with one voice said to the prince: ‘We the subjects from the four quarters, relying on and revering you as if you were a parent, if you now leap into the fire pit, the world will be as if bereft of a father; we shall have no support. We beseech you to have pity for us: do not for the sake of one person abandon all beings.’
The prince then said to the assembly: ‘In lives of old through the round of birth and death I have countless times lost my life: among humans, because of greed we slaughter one another; in the heavens when life-span is exhausted there is grief and loss of desire; in hell one is burned by fire, boiled in cauldrons, chopped by axes, sawn apart, cut by knives, pierced by spears, crossing the River of Ash, climbing the Sword-tree—within a single day the number of deaths is innumerable; the torments endured pierce the heart and cannot be fully told; as a hungry ghost a hundred venomous worms bore into the body; as an animal the sufferings are still greater, the body provided to be eaten by others while forced to do heavy labor and eating only grass—such agony is beyond count. To undergo these sufferings in vain and to lose life without once having done good for the sake of seeking Dharma: this is unbearable. Now I use this foul, loathsome body as an offering to seek Dharma. Why then do you obstruct my mind that aspires to the unsurpassed way? I cast away my body to obtain the Buddha-way; when I become a Buddha I shall bestow upon you the fivefold Dharma—precepts, concentration, wisdom, liberation, and the liberative wisdom-vision.’ Hearing this, the assembly fell silent. The prince stood at the edge of the fire pit and said to the brāhmaṇa: ‘I entreat the great master to first expound Dharma for me; if I die before, it will be too late.’ The brāhmaṇa then uttered a verse:
‘Always maintain thoughts of loving-kindness, remove thoughts of hatred and harm,
with great compassion pity beings, grieve for their suffering and weep like rain.
Cultivate expansive gladness, regard others’ attainments as your own.
Act with a heart of saving and protecting — this alone accords with the practice of a Bodhisattva.’
When the brāhmaṇa finished this verse, the prince desired to cast himself into the fire pit. At that moment Śakra and Brahmā each seized one of the prince’s hands and advised him: ‘All beings in Jambudvīpa rely upon the prince’s grace to find their places; if you cast yourself into the pit, the world will be as bereft of a father. Why would you take your own life and abandon all?’ The prince, gratefully addressing the gods and the people, asked: ‘Why do you seek to obstruct my aspiration for the unsurpassed way?’ Śakra and the assembly were again silent. The prince then leapt into the fire pit. Immediately heaven and earth quaked violently; the devas in the sky wept together, their tears falling like great rain, and the fire pit at once became a lotus-pond; the prince sat upon a lotus-throne in the midst, the devas showered flowers and the petals fell in depths as high as a person’s knees.
That Brahmā of that time is now King Pure-Rice, that queen then is now Māyā, and that crown prince Dharmakāma of that time is the World-Honored One Himself. World-Honored One, in those past labors you sought Dharma so arduously in order to teach beings; now, having your merit and virtue complete, you should with wisdom and wondrous Dharma moisten and nourish those withered beings — why would you abandon them and enter nirvāṇa without expounding the Dharma?”
“Moreover, World-Honored One, in a time long before innumerable asaṃkhyeya kalpas, in the land of Benares there were five hundred sages. Their teacher was named Uttara, who constantly longed to pursue the true Dharma and greatly wished to practice; therefore he sought learning in the four directions and proclaimed: ‘Whoever can expound the true Dharma for me, whatever he requires I shall fulfill.’
Upon hearing this, a Brāhmaṇa came to him and said: ‘I possess the true Dharma; whoever wishes to hear, I will speak it for them.’ Uttara joined his palms in reverence and said: ‘I earnestly entreat you, out of compassion, to expound the Dharma for me.’ The brāhmaṇa replied: ‘To seek Dharma is an exceedingly difficult matter; what I know was obtained only after countless hardships. Why should you expect to hear it so easily? That would not be reasonable. If you sincerely and wholeheartedly wish to learn, you must obey my instructions.’ The sage answered: ‘I shall not disobey any command the great master gives.’ Then the brāhmaṇa said: ‘If you now will flay your skin to make paper, strip out your bones to make a pen, and with blood and ink copy my Dharma, then I will teach you.’ Upon hearing these words Uttara rejoiced and leapt forward in reverence. He immediately flayed the skin from his body, stripped out his bones, and with blood and ink, looking up at the brāhmaṇa, said: ‘Now is the time; I earnestly entreat you to speak quickly.’ The brāhmaṇa then uttered this verse:
‘Constantly restrain your conduct: do not kill, do not steal, do not commit sexual misconduct;
do not speak two-tongued speech, do not speak harsh words, do not speak falsehood, do not speak frivolous talk.
In your heart do not cling to various desires; do not give rise to notions of anger and poisonous resentment.
Abandon all wrong views—this is the practice of a Bodhisattva.’
When the brāhmaṇa had finished reciting this verse, Uttara immediately wrote it down and sent others to proclaim and copy it, commanding that all the people in Jambudvīpa recite it and practice accordingly.
World-Honored One, then you sought the Dharma with such hardship, yet in order to teach beings you had not the slightest regret. Now, having perfected your merit and virtue, why would you abandon all and enter nirvāṇa without expounding the Dharma?”
“Moreover, World-Honored One, long ago, before countless asaṃkhyeya kalpas, in Jambudvīpa there was a great king named Śibi. The fortress where King Śibi dwelt was called Devapati, and within the city the people lived in abundant joy without measure. At that time King Śibi ruled over eighty-four thousand small kingdoms throughout Jambudvīpa, sixty thousand rivers and mountains, and eight thousand koṭis of villages. The king had twenty thousand consorts and maidens, five hundred princes, and ten thousand ministers. The king took compassion as his heart, cherishing all living beings.
At that time Śakra’s five virtues departed from him, and his life was drawing to its end; sorrowful and joyless, he grieved. Vishvakarman, seeing his condition, stepped forward and said: ‘Why are you so distressed, with a face of grief?’ Śakra answered: ‘I am about to die, and the signs of death are already manifest. Now in the world the Buddha-Dharma has perished, and there are no great Bodhisattvas. I feel unsettled and so I am sorrowful.’ Vishvakarman said to Śakra: ‘Now in Jambudvīpa there is a great king who practices the Bodhisattva path; his name is Śibi. His resolve is firm, diligent, and vigorous; he will surely accomplish the Buddha-way. You should go to rely upon him; you will certainly gain protection, and he can also deliver you from your present peril.’ Śakra then said: ‘If he is truly a Bodhisattva, we should first test whether he is sincere. You transform into a dove, I will transform into a hawk, and I will pursue you closely, straight to that great king’s abode. You beg him for protection—by this means we can test whether he is truly sincere.’ Vishvakarman answered Śakra: ‘A Bodhisattva should not be burdened with added suffering, but should be supported with offerings; therefore it is not fitting to trouble him with such a coercive trial.’ Then Śakra spoke this verse:
‘I do not act from malice; as true gold must be refined in fire,
So by this method testing a Bodhisattva is to verify whether he possesses a heart of utmost sincerity.’
Having spoken this verse, Vishvakarman at once transformed into a dove, while Śakra became a hawk, closely pursuing behind. When the hawk was about to seize the dove, the dove, greatly terrified, hastened to fly to the great king and sought protection beneath his arm. The hawk soon arrived, stood before the palace, and said to the king: “This dove is my food. It has fled here to you, O King; you should promptly return it to me. I am starving.” King Śibi replied: “I have already vowed to save all beings. He has come here seeking my refuge; I will never give him to you.” The hawk then said: “Now the great king vows to save all beings, but if my food is cut off, my life will not be preserved. Are beings such as myself not also included among ‘all’?” The king answered: “If I provide you other flesh, will you eat it?” The hawk replied at once: “Only freshly killed warm flesh can I eat.” The king reflected: “If I now seek newly killed flesh, harming one life to save another, there is no true benefit. Apart from my own body, every creature has its life and cherishes it.” Thinking thus, he at once took a sharp knife and cut flesh from his own thigh, offering it to the hawk in exchange for the dove’s life.
The hawk said to the king: “As a donor, the great king should treat all equally. Though I am but a small bird, in reason there should not be unfairness. If you wish to use your own flesh in exchange for this dove, you should weigh it to make the amount equal.” The king then commanded his attendants: “Quickly bring scales, hang the hook in the middle, and place pans on both sides.” Immediately the dove was placed in one pan, and the flesh cut from the king’s body was placed in the other. But even when all the flesh from his thighs was cut away, it was still lighter than the dove. Then he cut flesh from both arms and both flanks, until nearly all the flesh of his body had been stripped away, yet still it weighed less than the dove.
At that time the king straightened himself and sought to step onto the scale pan, but his strength was exhausted; he fell to the ground in a faint, and after a long time regained consciousness.
wakening, he reproached himself: “Through long ages I have been bound by my own mind, revolving in the three realms, tasting all manner of suffering, never once using it to accumulate merit. Now is precisely the time to be diligent, not to lapse into negligence.” Constantly urging and chastising himself, he gathered his spirit, forced himself to rise, and climbed onto the pan of the scales, his heart filled with joy, believing this deed to be wholesome.
Then the earth quaked in six ways, and the palaces of the gods shook without cease. Even the gods of the form realm descended from their heavens. In the sky they beheld a Bodhisattva undergoing austere hardship, damaging his body, single-mindedly seeking the great Dharma without sparing his life. Knowing this, the gods all wept, their tears pouring down like great rain, and rained celestial flowers as offerings.
At that time Śakra resumed his true form, stood before the king, and said: “Today you have undertaken such an austere practice. What do you seek to obtain? Do you wish to become a wheel-turning king, or a Śakra, or a Māra, or a Brahmā? Within the three realms, what fruit do you hope for?” The Bodhisattva answered: “What I seek and aspire to is not honor and glory within the three realms. All my deeds are solely for the pursuit of the Buddha-way.” Śakra then said: “Now your body is injured, the pain cuts to the marrow; do you feel no regret at all?” The king replied: “None.” Śakra said again: “You say there is no regret, but who can know this? I see your body trembling ceaselessly, your breath short and broken, and yet you claim no regret. What proof is there?” The king at once made a vow: “From the beginning until now I have not harbored the least regret. What I aspire to attain I shall surely attain. If what I say is true and not false, may my body immediately be restored.” When he had vowed thus, his body was at once restored, more vigorous than before. Śakra and the people were all amazed, considering it unprecedented, and rejoiced with unrestrained delight.
That King Śibi is now the Buddha. World-Honored One, in former times you gave no regard to your life in order to teach and save beings. Now, World-Honored One, the ocean of Dharma is full, the banner of Dharma towers high, the drum of Dharma is established, the torch of Dharma shines bright. To teach and deliver beings is now the fitting time. Why would you abandon the multitude of beings and enter nirvāṇa without expounding the Dharma?”
At that time the Great Brahmā, joining his palms before the Tathāgata, praised him, recounting thousands of examples of how in past lives the Tathāgata had sought Dharma to save beings. Then the World-Honored One, invited by the Great Brahmā, went to Benares, to the Deer Park, to turn the Dharma wheel. Thus the Three Jewels first appeared in the world.
At that time the devas, nāgas, yakṣas, and the host of the eight classes of spirits, upon hearing this, were all filled with joy and reverence, faithfully upholding and practicing the teaching.
Section Two: Mahāsattva Gives His Body to Tigers
Thus have I heard:
At one time, the Buddha was in Śrāvastī, in the Jeta Grove, the Garden of Anāthapiṇḍada. When it was the time for alms-round, the World-Honored One put on his kāṣāya robe, took up his alms bowl, and, only accompanied by Ānanda, entered the city to beg for food. At that time there was an old mother who had only two sons. These two sons, stealing without restraint, were caught by the owners of the goods and were being sent to the king. According to the law, they should be sentenced to death, and so they were handed over to the caṇḍāla for execution. As they were being taken to the place of execution, from afar they saw the World-Honored One. The mother and her two sons together prostrated before the Buddha and begged for compassion: “We sincerely implore the Divine Honored One to bestow mercy, to deliver us from this suffering, and to save the lives of my sons.” Their manner was sincere and truthful, exceedingly pitiable.
The Tathāgata, out of compassion, then sent Ānanda to the king to request their release. The king, upon hearing the Buddha’s teaching, immediately set them free. Having been delivered from this suffering, the mother and her two sons were filled with gratitude and joy beyond measure. At once they went to the Buddha’s dwelling place, bowed their heads to his feet, joined their palms, and said: “By the mercy and grace of the Buddha we have preserved our lives. We sincerely implore the Divine Honored One to have compassion upon us, allowing us to hear the teachings and enter into the order of cultivation.” The Buddha immediately permitted them, and proclaimed: “Come, bhikṣus.” At once their hair fell off and the clothes they were wearing turned into kāṣāya robes. Their reverence for the Buddha arose from within, and their pursuit and faith in the Buddha’s path grew ever more firm. Then the Buddha expounded the Dharma for them, so that all defilements of body and mind were forever cleansed away. They attained the fruit of Arhatship, and their mother, after hearing the Dharma, attained the fruit of Anāgāmin.
At that time Ānanda personally witnessed this event, marveled at its unprecedented nature, and also began to praise the manifold virtues of the Tathāgata. He further exclaimed: “What deeds of merit did this mother and her two sons perform in past lives that they now encounter the World-Honored One, are freed from grave offenses, obtain the bliss of Nirvāṇa, and moreover receive such special merit? How joyous a matter this is indeed!”
The Buddha said to Ānanda: “Not only today did these three meet me and thus preserve their lives. In past ages too, they once received my beneficence and thereby survived.”
Ānanda said to the Buddha: “I do not know how, in past ages, the World-Honored One preserved the lives of these three persons. How was that matter?”
The Buddha said to Ānanda: “In the distant past, countless asaṃkhyeya kalpas ago, within this Jambudvīpa there was a great kingdom. Its king was named Mahāratna (which in Jin language is called ‘Great Jewel’). He ruled over five thousand small kingdoms. The king had three sons. The eldest son was named Mahāpraṅāda; the second son was named Mahādeva (which in Jin language is called ‘Great Deva’); the youngest son was named Mahāsattva. This youngest son, from childhood, practiced charity and loved all living beings as tenderly as a newborn infant.
At that time the great king, together with the ministers, consorts, and princes, went out to travel and enjoy themselves. The king grew somewhat weary and wished to rest for a while. The three princes together wandered into the forest to play, where they happened upon a tigress who had just given birth to two cubs. The tigress, overwhelmed by hunger, was on the verge of devouring her two cubs. The youngest prince, seeing this, said to his two elder brothers: ‘This tigress now is suffering in great misery, so emaciated she is about to die. Having just given birth to two cubs, I observe that her intention is to eat them.’ The two elder brothers replied: ‘It is just as you say.’ The youngest then asked: ‘What should this tigress eat now?’ The elder brothers answered: ‘If she could obtain freshly slaughtered flesh with warm blood, that would satisfy her.’ The youngest then asked: ‘Is there anyone now who could do this, to save the tigress’s life and allow her to live?’ The two elder brothers replied: ‘This is a very difficult matter.’
Then the young prince silently thought: ‘Through the long cycle of live and death, I have countless times given up my body, yet always in vain. At times it was because of greed, at times because of anger, at times because of delusion, never once because of the Dharma. Today I am fortunate to encounter a field of merit. How should I make use of this body?’ Having resolved his mind, he then continued forward with his two elder brothers. After a short distance, he said to them: ‘My elder brothers, please go on ahead. I have some personal matter to attend to, and will come afterwards.’ Saying this, he quickly turned back along the path to where the tigress was, and stood before her. But the starving tigress, her mouth too dry, could not open it to bite. Then he pierced his own body with a sharp stick to let blood flow. After the tigress licked the blood, her mouth could open, and she then began to devour the flesh of his body.
The two elder brothers, waiting long but not seeing him return, reflected upon his words and actions just before, and recalling his compassionate nature, concluded with certainty that he must have gone to the tigress and offered his body. They hurried to the spot and found Mahāsattva already lying dead before the tigress, his body torn and bloodied, the tigress having consumed his flesh. Seeing this, the two brothers collapsed to the ground, fainting as though dead. After a long while they revived, and again they wept incessantly, their grief so unbearable that they fainted once more, and later revived yet again.”
In her sleep the queen dreamt that there were three doves playing together in the wilderness. Suddenly a hawk seized the little dove and devoured it. Terrified, she awoke in fright. Upon awakening she spoke to the king: “I have heard an old saying, ‘Doves are omens of children and descendants.’ Now I have dreamt of the little dove being eaten, which means that misfortune must befall my beloved son.” At once she sent people in all directions to search.
After a while the two elder sons came before their parents. The parents asked: “Where is our most beloved youngest son now?” The two elder brothers, choking with grief, could not speak. After a long time they finally said: “The tiger has already devoured him.” The parents, upon hearing this dreadful news, immediately fell to the ground in a faint. After a long time they revived, and together with the second prince, the queen, and the palace women, they hastened in great distress to the place where the youngest son had perished. By this time the starving tiger had consumed all the flesh of the little prince’s body, and only the scattered bones remained upon the ground. The mother held his head, the father grasped his hand, and they wept without ceasing, swooning again and again, thus for a long time.
After Mahāsattva passed away, he was reborn in Tuṣita Heaven. He thought to himself: “By what good deeds have I obtained such blessed recompense?” He then used the divine eye to look around, surveying all five destinies, and saw his former dead body still lying in the mountains, while his parents were overcome with grief, mourning endlessly. He pitied the foolishness and delusion of his parents, and feared that because of their excessive lamentation they might even lose their lives. He thought: “Now I ought to go and admonish them.” Thus he descended from the heavenly palace, remained suspended in the air, and with various teachings he consoled his parents.
“The parents raised their heads and asked him: “Which deva are you? Please tell us.” From the sky soon came the reply: “I am the prince Mahāsattva. Because I gave my body to save the starving tiger, I am now born in Tuṣita Heaven. Great King should know: all dharmas must return to emptiness; life must come to an end. To commit evil surely leads to falling into hell; to do good certainly brings birth in the heavens. Birth and death are both natural and ordinary matters. Why then must you drown in the ocean of sorrow and affliction, unable to awaken, and not diligently cultivate and perform many wholesome deeds?”
The parents answered: “Your conduct is of great compassion, cherishing all living beings, but you abandoned us and chose to end your life. We long for you so much that our minds are confused and deranged. The suffering we endure is beyond measure. Is this great compassion you practice truly like this?” Then that heavenly being again replied with various marvelous and excellent verses to express gratitude to his parents. The parents thus attained a little awakening. They then made a casket of the seven precious substances, placed his bones within, buried them, and erected a stūpa above. Then the heavenly being vanished, and the king and the multitude returned to the palace.”
The Buddha said to Ānanda: “At that time the great king Mahāratna—was he any other person? He is now my father Śuddhodana. At that time the king’s consort is now my mother Mahāmāyā. At that time Mahāpraṅāda is now Maitreya. The second prince Mahādeva is now Vasumitra. As for the prince Mahāsattva at that time—was he any other person? It was I. At that time the tigress was this very old mother. The two tiger cubs at that time are this old mother’s two sons today. Long ago I delivered them when their lives were in desperate peril, granting them safety. Now that I have become a Buddha, I likewise must deliver them from peril and suffering, so that they may forever be freed from the great suffering of birth and death.”
At that time Ānanda and all those present, having heard all that the Buddha had spoken, rejoiced without limit and cultivated in accordance with the Buddha’s teaching.
Section Three: Two Brāhmaṇs Observe the Fast
Thus have I heard:
At one time the Tathāgata was in Śrāvastī, in the Jeta Grove, the Garden of Anāthapiṇḍada. At early night, two devas came to the Buddha’s dwelling. The radiance upon those devas shone so that the Jeta Grove hermitage glittered like gold and jade, and the Buddha then conveniently expounded wondrous Dharma. After hearing the wondrous teaching, the two devas’ minds opened greatly and they both obtained traces of the path; then they bowed their heads to the Buddha and returned to the heavens.
Early the next morning Ānanda said to the Buddha: “Last night two heavenly beings visited the World-Honored One; their forms were majestic, their garments radiant, their pure light brilliant. What meritorious deeds did they formerly perform to attain such a marvelous result?”
The Buddha told Ānanda: “After the Parinirvāṇa of Kāśyapa Tathāgata, leaving the teaching behind for later generations, two brāhmaṇs observed the eight precepts. One of them aspired to be born in the heavenly realms; the other aspired to be a king. When the first returned home, his wife called him to eat, and he answered her: ‘I have just received the Buddha’s precepts, and the rules include not eating at the wrong time.’ The woman replied: ‘You are a brāhmaṇa; the brāhmaṇa teaching has its own precepts—why do you accept the fast of another teaching? If today you disobey me and do not eat with me, I will tell the other brāhmaṇs and drive you out of the order, never to be with you again.’ Hearing this, that brāhmaṇa was filled with fear and broke his precept, eating with his wife at an untimely hour. The two therefore lived out their lifespans and died in due course. The one who wished to be king, because he strictly kept the precepts, was finally reborn into a royal family; the one who wished to be born in the heavenly realm, because he broke the fast, was born among the nāgas.
At that time there was a man who guarded the king’s orchard and daily brought various fruits to the court. One day he found in a spring an extraordinary mango, beautiful in color and aroma. He thought: ‘When I go to the palace I am often seen and stopped by the doorkeeper; I should present this fruit to him.’ Acting on this thought, he gave the mango to the palace gatekeeper. The gatekeeper, having received the mango, thought secretly: ‘When I report matters I am often delayed by the eunuch; I should present this mango to him.’ So he respectfully gave the mango to the eunuch. The eunuch, having received it, passed it on to the queen. The queen, having received it, presented it to the king. The king ate the fruit and found it exceptionally sweet, and asked the queen: ‘Where did this come from?’ The queen at once told the king the truth, layer by layer, tracing it back to the orchard keeper. The king summoned the orchard keeper and asked him: ‘In my orchard there are such excellent fruits—why did you not present them to me but to others?’ The orchard keeper then told the whole truth, item by item. The king told him: ‘From now on you shall regularly present such mangoes; do not fail in this duty.’ The orchard keeper replied: ‘These mangoes are not from any planted tree; they were obtained from the spring. If the king commands me to bring such mangoes constantly, I fear I shall not be able to do so.’ The king then said: ‘If you cannot do it, we will behead you.’ The orchard keeper left the palace and returned to his orchard, sorrowful and anxious, and cried aloud.
At that time a nāga, hearing his weeping, transformed into human form and came forth to ask him: “What matter makes you weep so bitterly?” The orchard keeper then told the whole affair from beginning to end. The nāga returned to the water and brought forth many sweet mangoes upon a golden tray, presenting them to the orchard keeper, and said to him: “You may take these mangoes and offer them to your king, and convey my words, saying: ‘The king and I were originally good friends. Formerly when we were in the human world, we were both brāhmaṇs and together received the eightfold precepts of fasting, each seeking his own wish. Because you strictly upheld the precepts, you became a king among men. Because I did not keep the discipline, I was reborn as a nāga. Now I wish to diligently cultivate the fasting precepts, seeking to cast off this nāga body. Therefore I request from you the text of the eightfold fasting precepts, and hope that you will send it to me. If you do not heed my words, I shall flood your country with the ocean.’” The orchard keeper then presented the mangoes to the king and told him the story the nāga had related.
When the king heard this, he was very displeased. “What can be done? In the world today there is no Buddhadharma, and the text of the eightfold fasting precepts no longer exists; it absolutely cannot be obtained. But if I do not grant his request, I fear he will endanger the country.” Thinking thus, he became deeply troubled. The king had one minister whom he most revered. The king said to him: “The divine nāga requests the precept text. I rely upon you, beloved minister, to find it and deliver it to him.” The minister replied: “Now in the world there is no such precept text—how could it possibly be obtained?” The king said to him: “If you cannot obtain it, then I shall kill you.”
When the minister heard this, in fear and sorrow he returned to his own house. This minister had an aged father, of great virtue and esteem. Each time the minister returned from outside, he always showed a pleasant face to gladden his father’s heart. But this time upon returning home, the father saw his son with a gloomy countenance, unlike his usual self, and asked him: “For what reason are you thus?” The minister then told the matter one by one in full detail. His father replied: “In my house, the pillar of the hall often flashes forth light. If it is split open and examined, perhaps some strange thing will be found.” Following his father’s words, the minister ordered the hall pillar to be cut open and searched carefully, and indeed two scrolls of Buddhist scripture were found: one was the Sūtra of the Twelve Links of Dependent Origination, and one was the text of the eightfold fasting precepts. The minister immediately brought these two scrolls and presented them to the king. The king, upon obtaining the scriptures, was overjoyed, and placed them upon a golden tray, and himself personally offered them to the nāga.
The nāga, having received the scripture, was exceedingly delighted, and brought forth the finest treasures as gifts in return to the king. The nāga upheld the eightfold fasting precepts, diligently cultivated, and strictly observed them. When he died, he was reborn in the heavenly palace. The human king also cultivated according to the fasting precepts, and after death was born in the heavenly palace. Thus the two former brāhmaṇs were once more together. Last night they both came to me here, to inquire and to receive the teaching of the true Dharma. At that time they attained the fruit of Srotāpanna, forever escaping the sufferings of the three evil destinies, wandering only among humans and devas. Thereafter they shall finally attain Nirvāṇa.”
When the Buddha had spoken thus, all the great assembly present were each filled with immeasurable joy, and cultivated according to the Buddha’s teaching.
Section Four: The Poor Man of Benares Makes an Offering
Thus have I heard:
At one time the Buddha was in Śrāvastī, in the Jeta Grove, the Garden of Anāthapiṇḍada. At that time, within the garden there was a great elder who begot a son. The boy’s appearance was upright and comely. Only a few days after his birth, he was already able to speak. He asked his parents: “Is the World-Honored One here?” His parents replied: “He is.” He asked again: “Are the venerable Śāriputra, Ānanda, and the others here as well?” His parents replied: “They are all here.”
When his parents saw that their child, just born, could already speak, they thought that he might not be an ordinary human, yet they did not know the reason for this, so they went to ask the Buddha. The Buddha said: “This child has blessings; you need not harbor doubts.” His parents rejoiced greatly and returned home.
The son then requested them: “I wish my parents would invite the Buddha and the assembly of bhikṣus.” His parents told him: “To invite the Buddha and the Saṅgha requires offerings and provisions; this is not something that can be prepared immediately.” The son said: “It is only necessary to sweep and clean the hall, adorn the beds and seats, and prepare three high seats; then a hundred flavors of food and drink will naturally arrive.” He also said: “My mother from a former life is still alive today, dwelling in the country of Benares. Please go and bring her here for me.” His parents followed his words and dispatched someone riding an elephant in haste to Benares to summon his mother from his former life.
The reason three high seats were to be set was this: the first was for the Tathāgata, the second for his mother of a former life, the third for his mother of the present life.
The Buddha, together with the community of monks, entered his family’s courtyard and sat down in order. Sweet and delicious foods appeared freely and abundantly. The Buddha expounded the Dharma for them. His father, his two mothers, and his whole household, upon hearing the Buddha’s teaching, were filled with great joy, and all attained the first fruit. When the boy grew up, he bade farewell to his parents and left home, diligently cultivated the right practice, and attained the fruit of Arhatship.
Ānanda said to the Buddha: “What deeds of merit did this śramaṇa cultivate in past lives, that he was born into a noble and wealthy family, could speak at a very young age, and later cultivated the path until he attained supernormal powers?”
The Buddha told Ānanda: “This person, in a former life, was born in Benares as the son of an elder. After his father died, the family estate declined, and they gradually fell into poverty. Although he lived during the time when the Buddha’s teaching flourished in the world, he had no offerings to present to the Buddha. Thinking of this, he was disheartened and could not release his grief. So he abandoned his noble house and worked for others. After a year, he obtained a thousand taels of gold. The nobleman asked him: ‘Do you wish to take a wife?’ He answered: ‘I do not.’ The nobleman again asked: ‘For what will you use this gold?’ He replied: ‘I wish to use the gold to make offerings to the Buddha and the noble Saṅgha.’ The nobleman said to him: ‘If you wish to invite the Buddha, I too will contribute gold and plan together with you. The assembly should be held in my house.’ The poor man then consented.
Thus they prepared delicious foods and invited the Buddha and the monks. Because of this condition, when he died he was reborn into the family of an elder. Now again he invites the Buddha, and upon hearing the Dharma has attained the path.” The Buddha told Ānanda: “That poor man of the past is now this elder’s son, the śramaṇa.”
When the Buddha had spoken thus, all those present were filled with joy and followed the Buddha’s teaching.
Section Five: The Sea God Questioned the Sailors
Thus have I heard:
At one time the Buddha was in Śrāvastī, in the Jeta Grove, the Garden of Anāthapiṇḍada. At that time there were five hundred merchants in that country who wished to go to sea to seek treasures. They consulted among themselves: “We must find someone skilled in this matter to serve as our guide.” So they invited an upāsaka who upheld the five precepts to join them on their voyage.
When they reached the sea, the sea god transformed himself into a rākṣasa, with a hideous form, a dark blue-black face, long tusks protruding from his mouth, and fire blazing upon his head. He came and pulled at their ship, asking the merchants: “In the human world, is there anything more terrifying than I?” The virtuous one answered: “Certainly there are things far more terrifying than you, many times more fearsome.”
The sea god asked again: “What are they?” The reply was: “In the world there are foolish people who commit many unwholesome deeds: killing, stealing, indulging in lust without restraint, false speech, divisive speech, harsh words, and frivolous talk. They are filled with the poisons of greed and anger, and are overwhelmed by wrong views. After death they fall into hell, where they suffer countless torments. The wardens of hell drag forth these sinners and punish them with many tortures: some are hacked with knives, some are dismembered upon carts until their bodies are divided into thousands of pieces, then crushed in mortars, or ground upon stone mills. They are forced upon mountains of swords and forests of blades, burned by fire, torn apart by carts, steamed in cauldrons, boiled in soups, cast into freezing waters, or plunged into boiling excrement, enduring every manner of torment. They suffer these agonies for tens of millions of years. All this is far more dreadful than you.” When the sea god heard this, he released them and vanished from sight.
The ship traveled a few more leagues, and the sea god transformed again, this time into a man of emaciated body, with only sinews and bones joined together. He came and pulled at the ship, and asked the sailors: “In the human world, is there anyone more gaunt and thin than I?” The virtuous one answered: “There are those more emaciated than you.” The sea god asked: “What persons are more emaciated than I?” The virtuous one answered: “There are foolish ones, with evil and base hearts, greedy and jealous, knowing not generosity. After death they fall into the state of hungry ghosts. Their bodies are vast as mountains, their throats as narrow as a needle’s eye, their hair long and disheveled, their forms blackened and gaunt. For tens of millions of years they see neither water nor food. Their condition is far more pitiful than yours.” The sea god then released the ship and disappeared into the waters.
“The ship sailed on a few more leagues, and the sea god transformed yet again, this time into a man of exceedingly handsome form. He came and pulled at the ship, asking the merchants: “In the human world, is there anyone whose beauty can compare to mine?” The virtuous one replied: “There are those whose beauty surpasses yours a hundred thousand times.” The sea god asked again: “What people are more beautiful than I?” The virtuous one replied: “There are wise men in the world who practice wholesome deeds. Their body, speech, and mind are ever kept pure; they revere and believe in the Three Jewels with sincerity and constantly make offerings. Such persons, after death, are reborn in the heavens. Their appearance is bright and pure, upright and peerless, surpassing yours by tens of millions of times. Compared with them, you are like a blind monkey compared with a maiden in her prime.”
Then the sea god scooped a handful of sea water and asked him: “Is this handful of water greater, or is the sea greater?” The virtuous one replied: “The handful of water is greater, not the sea.” The sea god asked: “What you now say—do you speak this with utmost sincerity?” The virtuous one replied: “What I say is entirely true, not false in the least. How do I know? Though the sea is vast, yet it has an end. When the kalpa is exhausted, two suns will arise together, and all the streams and springs will dry up. When three suns appear, all the small rivers will dry up. When four suns appear, the great rivers will be dry. When five suns appear, the seas begin to diminish. When six suns appear, the seas are reduced by two-thirds. When seven suns appear, the seas are entirely dried. At that time Mount Sumeru will crumble and collapse, and down to the earth’s depths all will burn into scorched soil. But if one, with utmost sincerity, offers even a single handful of water to the Buddha, or gives it to the monks, or offers it to one’s parents, or bestows it upon the poor, or gives it to birds and beasts—such merit, though countless kalpas may pass, will never be exhausted. From this perspective, one knows that the sea is little, and a handful of water is great.”
The sea god rejoiced greatly, and brought forth precious jewels as gifts for the virtuous one, and moreover used wondrous treasures to make offerings to the Buddha and the Saṅgha.”
At that time the merchants and the virtuous one had gathered enough treasures and returned to their country. The virtuous one, together with the five hundred merchants, went before the Buddha, prostrated at his feet, and after making obeisance each presented treasures and the precious jewels given by the sea god, offering them to the Buddha and the monks. All knelt and joined their palms, and said to the Buddha: “We wish to become disciples, to receive the pure transformation.” The Buddha immediately granted them: “Come, bhikṣus.” At once their hair fell off and Dharma robes appeared upon them. The Buddha preached the Dharma to them in accordance with their capacities, and they at once awakened, all defilements and false thoughts utterly cleansed away, and attained the fruit of Arhatship.
At that time, those present who heard the Buddha’s teaching all rejoiced greatly and practiced accordingly.
Section Six: Gangādatta
Thus have I heard:
At one time the Tathāgata was at the Bamboo Grove hermitage in Rājagrha. In the grove there was a high minister who was extremely wealthy but had no son. On the bank of the Ganges there stood a celestial shrine of Manibala, to which all the people paid great reverence. The minister therefore went to that shrine to make supplication: “I have no offspring. I have heard of the great merits of the celestial deity who protects beings and grants wishes. If, when I return home, you grant my wish and give me a son, I will adorn the deity’s body with gold and silver and anoint the sanctum with fragrant pastes; but if my wish is not answered, I will destroy your shrine and smear your whole body with excrement.”
When the deity heard this, he thought to himself: “This man is rich and powerful, not one to be trifled with. If I grant his wish and give him a son, my own merit may be too small and I may not be able to fulfill his vow; if his vow is not fulfilled, the shrine and I shall surely be disgraced.” The shrine-spirit went and related the matter to Manibala. Manibala’s power also could not accomplish it, so he went to see King Vaiśravaṇa and told him the case. Vaiśravaṇa replied: “My power too cannot make him have a son; one should go and petition the ruler of the gods.”
Vaiśravaṇa at once ascended to the heavens and reported the matter to the ruler of the gods: “I have a minister named Manibala who lately told me: ‘There is a minister in Rājagrha who begged me for a son and took a solemn vow: if his wish is fulfilled he will increase offerings to the shrine; if not, he will destroy and defile the shrine.’ That man is wealthy and influential and will see his words through. I entreat the Lord of Gods: grant that he may have a son.” The ruler of gods answered: “This matter is extremely difficult; it will require finding the proper karmic condition.”
At that time one heavenly being whose five virtues had departed and whose life was nearing its end was present. The ruler of gods said to him: “Your life is ending; would you be willing to be reborn in the household of that minister?” The heavenly being replied: “I wish to leave the world and become a bhikṣu, to practice the right conduct. If I am born into honor and wealth, it will be more difficult later to abandon the world; when desire fills the heart it will be hard to accomplish my aspiration.” The ruler of gods said: “Even if you are born there, as for your desire to study the path, I will assist you.”
When the heavenly being’s life ended, he descended and was conceived in the minister’s house. Upon birth his appearance and form were handsome and dignified. The minister immediately summoned an augur to name the child. The augur asked: “From where was this child obtained?” The minister answered: “From the Manibala deity by the Ganges.” Therefore they named him Gangādatta.
Gangādatta grew up with a single-minded wish to learn the Dharma, and he told his parents he wished to leave home. His parents said: “We are very wealthy now and our estate is vast. You are our only son; you should inherit our household and property. As long as I live I will not permit you to do this.” His desire to leave home was thus refused by his parents, and he was extremely distressed. He then conceived the thought of seeking death by giving up his life in order to obtain a different birth and thence easily ordain. He secretly ran away and leapt from a high cliff, yet when he fell to the ground he was not injured; he went to the river and threw himself in, yet the water carried him and he suffered no harm; he swallowed poison, but the poisonous vapors had no effect and he could not die. He then thought: “I should transgress the law so that the king will put me to death.”
Later, the queen and the palace women went out to bathe at the garden pond. After removing their garments they left them in the grove. Gangādatta stealthily entered the grove, took their clothing and began to leave, but was seen by the guards and was brought before King Ajātasattu.
When the king heard of this he was exceedingly enraged and took up his bow and arrows intending to shoot him dead with his own hand. But the arrows shot forth and rebounded, striking the king himself; three times he attempted to shoot and could not hit him. Greatly terrified, the king cast aside his bow and asked him: “Are you a god, a nāga, or a spirit?” Gangādatta said: “If you will grant me one request, then I shall tell you.” The king said: “I grant it.” Gangādatta said: “I am neither a god nor a nāga nor a spirit; I am the son of the minister of Rājagrha. I wish to leave home, but my parents would not consent, so I sought to die and be reborn elsewhere. I leapt from cliffs, cast myself into rivers, took poison, yet was unharmed; therefore I resorted to breaking the law in order that I might be executed. Although you just tried to slay me, you could not cause me the least injury—how cruel is this fate! I beseech your majesty’s mercy: permit me to leave home and study the path.” The king then told him: “I permit you to leave home and cultivate the holy way.” He then took him to the Buddha’s dwelling and recounted the events that led him to seek ordination. The Tathāgata ordained him as a śramaṇa and clothed him in the robes, making him a bhikṣu. The Buddha taught him the Dharma in accord with his condition; Gangādatta’s mind was opened and clarified, and he attained the fruit of Arhatship, possessing the three knowledges and the six supernatural powers and endowed with the eight liberations.
Ajātaśatru said further to the Buddha: “In his former lives, this man, Gangādatta, by what wholesome roots did he gain such power that, though he leapt from cliffs he did not die, though he sank in water he did not drown, though he swallowed poison he suffered no pain, though struck with arrows he was not harmed, and that he was able to encounter the Holy One and finally transcend birth and death?”
The Buddha told the king: “In countless past lives there was a great kingdom called Benares. Its king was named Brahmadatta. Once he went into the forest with his consorts for amusement. The palace women sang aloud, and outside the grove a man lifted his voice and joined in song. The king, hearing the man’s singing, was greatly angered and jealous, and ordered his men to seize him and put him to death.
At that time a minister, coming in from outside, saw the man imprisoned and asked the attendants: ‘For what reason has he been confined here?’ Those nearby told him what had just happened. The minister then said: ‘Do not carry out the execution yet. Let me go to see the king.’ The minister entered the forest and said to the king: ‘The offense this man committed is not one of grave guilt. Why must he be killed? Though he sang in response to the women, he did not see their faces, nor was there any act of seduction or fornication. I pray the great king bestow mercy and spare his life.’ The king raised no objection and agreed with the minister’s words, pardoning the man’s death sentence.
Having escaped this peril, the man thereafter served the minister faithfully and with diligence for many years. Later, he thought to himself: ‘Lust brings harm more deadly than blades and swords. The hardships and dangers I have now suffered all arise from lust.’ With this thought, he said to the minister: ‘Please allow me to leave home and sincerely cultivate the path.’ The minister replied: ‘I will not hinder you. If you accomplish the Way, it would be best if you could return to see me again.’ So he went into the mountains and marshes, concentrated on contemplating the subtle truth, awakened in spirit, and became a Pratyekabuddha. Afterwards he returned to the city and visited the minister’s house. The minister rejoiced and invited him to receive offerings, providing delicious food and fine clothing, sufficient in all four seasons.
At that time the Pratyekabuddha manifested divine transformations in the open sky: from his body issued water and fire, and great radiance shone forth. When the minister saw this, he was filled with immeasurable joy. He then made a vow: ‘Because of my compassion, your life was preserved, and you attained the Way. With this merit, I vow that in every life I shall be wealthy and noble, long-lived, wondrous and extraordinary by tens of millions of times; may my wisdom and virtue be as wondrous and extraordinary as my wealth and long life.’
The Buddha further told the king: “At that time, the minister who saved a man’s life and enabled him to attain the Way is precisely Gangādatta. Because of this condition, in the place where he dwells his life cannot be cut short midway. Now, having encountered my appearance in the world, he has accomplished the fruit of Arhatship.”
When the Buddha had spoken thus, those present all listened devoutly, rejoiced without limit, and respectfully practiced in accordance.
Section Seven: Sujāte
Thus have I heard:
At one time the Tathāgata was in the Bamboo Grove hermitage of Rājagṛha. On that occasion the World-Honored One and Ānanda, clad in their robes and bearing alms-bowls, went into the city to beg for food. There was an old man and an old woman, both blind, poor and destitute, without a fixed dwelling, living under the city gate. They had only one son, a boy of seven, who constantly went about begging to support his parents. When he obtained fruits and vegetables, he gave the good ones to his parents; the remaining sour, bitter, foul, and poor things he ate himself.
Ānanda, seeing this child though so young showing such reverence and filial devotion, felt compassion. After the Buddha finished begging and returned to the hermitage, he preached the Dharma to the assembly. Ānanda then knelt, joined his palms, and said to the Buddha: “Just now, when I accompanied the World-Honored One into the city for alms, I saw a child full of loving filial piety living beneath the city gate with his blind parents, begging from door to door. Of the food he received, the fine fruits and vegetables he first gave to his aged parents; the broken, foul, and most inferior things he himself ate. Day after day he does so; he is exceedingly lovable and reverent.”
The Buddha said to Ānanda: “Whether ordained or household, to cherish loving-kindness toward and to support one’s parents, if one calculates its merit, it is extraordinarily excellent and beyond measure. Why so? I myself recall past lives in which, out of loving filial piety, I supported my parents and even used my own flesh to rescue my parents from imminent peril; due to that merit I rose to be a ruler among gods, to be a sovereign among men, and even to become a Buddha—honored above the three realms—all arising from that virtue.”
Ānanda said: “I do not know, World-Honored One, how in past lives the one who showed such filial piety and, sparing not his life, used his body to rescue his parents from danger — how did that event occur?”
The Buddha said to Ānanda: “Listen carefully and reflect well; I will now tell it.”
Ānanda replied: “Yes, I will listen attentively.”
The Buddha said: “Before countless asaṃkhyeya kalpas, in this Jambudvīpa there was a great kingdom named Takṣaśilā. At that time the king was called Deva. That king had ten princes, each ruling a realm; the youngest prince was called Śupratiṣṭhita (in the Jin language, ‘Splendid Abode’). His domain and people were the most prosperous and content. At that time a great minister named Rāhu harbored a treacherous heart and rebelled, killing the great king. Afterward he seized regency and acted as king, sending troops to the various realms to slay the princes. The youngest prince, much venerated by spirits, once entered a garden to view the place. A yakṣa arose from the earth, knelt at length, and said: ‘Minister Rāhu has rebelled and slain the great king; he now sends troops to kill your brothers and seeks to destroy you also. Consider taking precautions to escape this calamity.’ Hearing this, the prince’s heart was shattered with fear and that very night he planned his escape.
At that time there was a son named Sujāte (in the Jin language, “Noble Birth”), seven years old, of comely form and bright intelligence, exceedingly dear. The prince loved him, going out and returning while carrying the child and weeping with lamentation. The prince’s wife, seeing him coming and going in terror, asked: ‘Why do you hurry with such fearful countenance?’ He answered: ‘It is not something you can know.’ She took hold of him and pleaded: ‘My life is joined with yours; do not abandon me in peril! If there is anything, tell me now!’ The prince replied: ‘Recently, when I entered the garden, a yakṣa came up from the earth and knelt before me, saying: “Minister Rāhu has now risen in rebellion, has killed the great king, has sent troops to slay your brothers, and now will send troops to kill you as well; you should escape.” Hearing this, my heart was seized with fear, and I hasten to depart lest the troops arrive.’ His wife prostrated and said to the prince: ‘Permit me to accompany you; do not leave me alone and abandon me!’ Then the prince, taking his wife and embracing his son, departed together intending to go to another country.
At that time there were two roads—one road required seven days, and the other road required fourteen days. When they first set out, in panic and haste they had prepared only seven days’ provisions, and even those provisions were but enough for a single person. After leaving the city, confused in mind, they took the road requiring fourteen days. After several days their food was exhausted; hungry and faint, they had no means left. Out of pity for his son, the prince resolved to kill his wife to save himself and to nourish his son. He let his wife carry the boy in front while he followed behind, drawing his sword to slay her. The son looked back and saw his father drawing the blade to kill his mother. At once he joined his palms and said to his father the king: “May the great king rather kill me than harm my mother!” With earnest entreaty he admonished his father and saved his mother’s life. He said to his father: “Do not kill me all at once. Cut away my flesh little by little, so that it may last for several days. If you cut off my life, the flesh will rot and not endure.” Thus the parents, weeping and lamenting, cut the child’s flesh and ate.
Day by day they cut and ate, until his flesh was gone and only bones remained. Before reaching another land, their hunger was yet more severe. The father again took his blade and at each joint pared away what little flesh was left, and they obtained a meager portion. Then the parents prepared to abandon the son and go on. The boy thought to himself: “My life remains but a little. I hope my parents will leave me a small portion of the flesh.” His parents did not disobey, but divided the flesh into three parts—two parts for themselves, and the remaining part, together with what remained of his flesh, eyes, tongue, and so forth, they left to him, and then bade him farewell and departed.
The son then made a vow: “Now with my body and flesh I feed my parents. With this merit I pray to seek the Buddha-path, to universally save all beings in the ten directions, to deliver them from every suffering and bring them to the bliss of Nirvāṇa.” As he uttered this vow, the three-thousandfold world quaked in six ways. The deities of the form realm and desire realm were astonished, not knowing why their palaces trembled. They looked with the divine eye upon the world and saw the Bodhisattva offering his own flesh to support his parents, vowing to attain Buddhahood and to save all beings. For this reason heaven and earth shook. Then all the devas descended, filling the sky, weeping and shedding tears like heavy rain.
At that time Śakra, Lord of the Gods, wishing to test him, transformed into a beggar and came to ask for alms. The son took the flesh in his hand and gave it to him. Then Śakra transformed into a lion, a tiger, and a wolf, desiring to devour him.
The boy thought: “These beasts wish to eat me. Whatever bones, flesh, marrow, and brain remain in me, I will give to them.” His heart gave rise to joy without regret. Śakra, seeing his steadfast resolve unmoved, then revealed himself in his own form, standing before the boy, and said: “Your filial devotion is such that you offer your very flesh to nourish your parents. With this merit, what do you seek? The throne of Śakra, of Māra, of Brahmā?”
The boy answered: “I do not wish for pleasures of the three realms. With this merit I seek the Buddha-path, vowing to save all immeasurable beings.” Śakra said again: “You give your body to nourish your parents—do you feel any regret toward your parents?” The boy replied: “With utmost sincerity I nourish my parents; I feel not the least regret, not so much as a hair’s breadth.” Śakra said again: “I see now that your body’s flesh is gone. For you to say you have no regret—this is hard to believe.” The boy replied: “If it be true that I have no regret, and if my wish is to become a Buddha, then may my body be restored.” When he had spoken this vow, his body was restored as before. Then Śakra and all the other devas together exclaimed in one voice: “Excellent! Excellent!” His parents and the people of the realm came to where the prince was, marveling at this unprecedented event.
At that time the king of that country, seeing the marvelous deed of the prince, revered him all the more, rejoiced without limit, and together with the prince’s parents escorted him into the palace with the utmost honor, cherishing him with compassion. The king himself led forth his troops and, with King Śupratiṣṭhita and Prince Sujāte, returned to his own realm, executed Rāhu, and enthroned the rightful king. Father and son ruled in succession, the country was prosperous and at peace.
The Buddha said to Ānanda: “The Śupratiṣṭhita king of that time is now my father Pure-Rice; the mother of that time is now my mother Mahāmāyā; and the Sujāte prince of that time is now myself. Because in past lives I cherished filial devotion, nourished my parents, and with my own flesh rescued them from peril, by this merit I was always born among the noble and exalted, enjoying boundless blessings among gods and men. Because of this merit I finally brought about my attainment of Buddhahood.”
At that time the great assembly, hearing the Buddha recount his former causes, each one wept with grief and wonder, reflecting on the Buddha’s extraordinary filial devotion. Among them were those who attained the fruit of Srotāpanna, of Sakṛdāgāmin, of Anāgāmin, and of Arhatship; some set their minds on the unsurpassed true path; some dwelt on the stage of non-retrogression. The entire assembly rejoiced greatly, reverently received the teaching, and practiced accordingly.
Dharma Torch 