Translated by śramaṇas Hui Jue etc. from Liangzhou of the Yuan Wei Dynasty in Gaochang Commandery
Section Fifteen : Khuḍa’s giving of the body
Thus have I heard:
Once, the Buddha stayed on Mount Gijjhakuta of Rājagṛha. At that time the World-Honored One suffered from a wind ailment. The physician-king Jīvaka prepared a medicated ghee, compounded from thirty-two kinds of medicinal substances, and had the Buddha take it daily in the amount of thirty-two taels.
At that time Devadatta was often filled with jealousy toward the Buddha; he thought himself incomparable in greatness and longed to be on equal footing with the Buddha. When he heard that the World-Honored One took the medicated ghee, desire and covetousness arose in him and he wished to take it together with the Buddha. He therefore ordered Jīvaka to prepare the same medicine for him. Jīvaka did so and told him, “Take four taels each day.” Devadatta asked, “How many does the Buddha take?” Jīvaka answered, “Thirty-two taels each day.” Devadatta then said, “I too should take thirty-two taels each day.” Jīvaka replied, “The Tathāgata’s body is not the same as yours; if you take more you will surely bring on suffering and affliction.” Devadatta said, “If I take thirty-two taels, that will naturally dispel affliction; what difference is there between my body and the Buddha’s body? Just give it to me to take.” So he imitated the Buddha and took thirty-two taels each day. The medicine circulated through his body and flowed into every channel; because his bodily strength was weak and could not endure the transformation and elimination of the medicine, his whole body and limbs endured unbearable suffering, he groaned and cried out, distressed and tossed about.
The World-Honored One, seeing this, was moved with compassion. From a distance He reached out His hand and stroked Devadatta’s head; the medicinal power was instantly dispelled, the pain was removed, and the malady was immediately cured. When Devadatta saw, he recognized it was the Buddha’s hand and said, “Siddhārtha, your other skills are beyond what the world can hold. If you have learnt medical skills, the world would benefit..” When Ānanda heard these words he was grieved and, kneeling long, said to the Buddha, “Devadatta truly does not know gratitude. The World-Honored One is so kindly and has dispelled his affliction for him, and yet he utters such unwholesome words. What sort of disposition could give rise to such a heart, causing him to cherish long-standing jealousy toward the World-Honored One?”
The Buddha told Ānanda, “Devadatta not only today harbors an unwholesome intention to harm me, but in past lives he frequently formed an evil intention to kill me.”
Ānanda said to the Buddha, “I did not know of his past harm to you; what were the causes and conditions for that?”
The Buddha said, “Listen attentively and I will tell you.”
“World-Honored One, I will listen with care.””
The Buddha told Ānanda, “In a past, very remote and incalculable asāṃkhya kalpas ago, in this Jambudvīpa there was a great city called Benares. At that time the king of that land was named Brahmadatta; he was violent in disposition, without loving-kindness, given to luxury and sensual pleasures, ever jealous and eager to do harm. Once he dreamed of a golden-haired beast whose every hair ended in gold radiance; its brilliance shone round about and made the surroundings appear golden. He thought to himself, ‘Since I saw it in a dream, there must be such a creature in the world; I should gather the hunters and obtain its fur.’ Having formed this thought, he gathered together all the hunters and told them, ‘I dreamed of a beast covered in golden hair, the tips of its hairs scintillating and dazzling; I believe such a creature must exist within my realm now. I want you to hunt widely for it; if you obtain its pelt you shall receive heavy rewards so that your descendants for seven generations will have food without end; if you do not diligently hunt and fail to obtain it, I will destroy your entire families.’ ”
At that time, after the hunters received the king’s command, they were full of sorrow and without any plan. They gathered together in one place to discuss the matter, saying, “The beast that the king dreamed of is truly something never seen in all our lives. Where should we go to seek it? If we search and do not find it, and thereby offend against the royal law, we shall never have a way to live.” After discussing, they became even more troubled. Then someone said, “In the nearby high mountains and marshes there are already many venomous insects and fierce beasts. If we go far away to seek it, we surely will not be able to obtain it, but instead may perish in the wilderness. Let us secretly recruit one man and send him to seek the beast.” Everyone agreed. So they selected one man, persuaded him, saying, “You may go forth with all your strength to search in all places; if by good fortune you return fully successful, then we shall combine all our belongings and reward you richly; if you should perish in the mountains and marshes and not return, then we shall deliver these belongings to your wife.” When the man heard this, he thought, “For the sake of these men, I can give up my life.” With the plan settled, he prepared all kinds of equipment and, facing danger, departed.
He journeyed for a long time, his body weary and his strength exhausted. At that time it was the height of summer; when he came to a path of hot sand his lips were cracked, parched and weak, oppressed by heat, nearly perishing. Moreover, his heart was bitter and anguished, overwhelmed with grief. He could not help but cry out, “Is there anyone who, with compassion, will pity me, sympathize with me, and save my life?”
In those mountains and marshes there was a wild beast named Khuḍa, whose skin and hair were golden, the tips of the hairs scattering forth radiance. From afar it heard the man’s words and, feeling deep compassion, it leapt into a cool spring, came to where the man was, and swiftly and strongly brought him to the water’s edge, bathing him. As it walked it also picked up melons and fruits for him to eat. When his body was restored, he thought, “It seems this radiant, golden-haired wondrous beast is the very one my great king seeks. Yet when I was on the point of death, it saved my life. Its favor and virtue have not yet been repaid; how could I harbor a thought of harming it? But if I do not capture it, those hunters and their families will all be executed.”
Thinking thus, grief overcame him. Khuḍa then asked him, “Why are you not joyful?” With head lowered and in tears, he told the matter of his heart. When Khuḍa heard, it said, “This affair needs not trouble you. My pelt is easy to obtain. In former lives, though I gave away my body countless times, I never gained happiness. Now, being able to use this skin and hair to save their lives, my heart is greatly delighted. If you wish to obtain it, then simply flay me; I have already given it to you, and I have not even the least regret.” At that time the huntsman slowly flayed the wondrous beast’s fur.
At that time, Khuḍa himself made a vow, saying, “Now with my fur I bestow alms to this huntsman, that he may save the lives the people love. I hope by means of this merit to universally give to all beings under heaven, and to use it to accomplish the unsurpassed, true and perfect Dharma of the Buddha, so as to deliver all beings who suffer the pains of birth and death, enabling them to peacefully reach the state of Nirvāṇa and eternal bliss.” After he made this vow, the three thousand lands quaked six times in succession; the palaces wherein the gods dwelt were shaken and unsteady. The gods, astonished, sought the cause of this matter and saw the Bodhisattva giving his skin as alms to all beings. Then they descended from the heavens, scattering flowers in offering, weeping tears as if rain.
When the fur was flayed, his fleshly body lay bare, blood flowing without cease, unbearable to behold. Then eighty thousand flies, ants, and the like gathered upon his body, biting and devouring it together. At that time he wished to move toward a cave, yet feared to harm those flies and ants and such creatures, so he endured the pain and remained motionless. At last he completed the giving of his body and died there. Then those creatures that had bitten and eaten the Bodhisattva’s body, when their lives ended, were all reborn in the heavens.
The hunter, bearing the fur, returned to the kingdom and presented it to the king. The king, upon seeing it, was greatly delighted, filled with a wonder never before known. He cherished the soft and fine fur, often spreading it beneath him for lying down, feeling secure and joyful.
Thus, Ānanda, do you wish to know who was at that time the beast named Khuḍa? It was I myself. And that King Brahmadatta was Devadatta of today. And those eighty thousand insects are the eighty thousand gods whom attained the Path when I had just attained Buddhahood and turned the Dharma Wheel. This Devadatta, even in past lives, once harmed me, and even until today has no mind of kindness, always intent upon harming me.”
The venerable Ānanda, together with the many who were present to hear the Dharma, after listening to all that the Buddha had spoken, were sorrowful and moved, each deeply stirred, and became more diligent in seeking the essentials of the Buddha Dharma. Some attained Srotāpanna, some attained Sakṛdāgāmin, some attained Anāgāmin, some attained Arhat; some planted the causes and conditions of a Pratyekabuddha; some gave rise to the resolve for unsurpassed Buddhahood; some dwelt in the stage of non-retreat. All were boundless in joy and reverently undertook the practice.
Section Sixteen: The Bhikṣuṇī Subtle (In the Tanjur version this section is in the Fourth Scroll, as Section Nineteen)
Thus have I heard:
At one time, the Buddha was dwelling at Jeta’s Grove in Śrāvastī. After King Prasenajit departed from the world, the prince Virūḍhaka succeeded to the throne. He ruled with cruelty and without righteousness. He drove drunken elephants into the people, trampling them to death, and such acts of brutality were without number. At that time, many women from noble and great clans, seeing that the king was so violent, felt grief in their hearts, became weary of worldly life, and together renounced home to become bhikṣuṇīs. The people of the kingdom, seeing that these women were either of the Śākya clan or of royal lineages, foremost in dignity and beauty within the land, had all abandoned their various desires and renounced home to seek the path. Then there were five hundred persons who all marveled at this and strove to make offerings.
The bhikṣuṇīs said among themselves: “Now, although we in name have renounced home and become nuns, yet we have not taken the Dharma-medicine to remove such desires as lust, anger, and delusion. Therefore, we should all go together to the dwelling of the bhikṣuṇī Sthūlanandā, to inquire about the Dharma, hoping to obtain a method that can restrain desire.” Thus they went to her dwelling, paid homage, inquired about the Dharma methods, and declared: “We all, though it is said that we have renounced home to seek the path, have not yet obtained Dharma like ambrosia. Now we wish to hear and to realize.”
At that time, Sthūlanandā secretly thought: “Now, I should cause them to violate the precepts, so that I alone will inherit the robe and bowl. What a delight that would be!” Therefore she said to them: “You all are women of noble and great clans, possessing fields and estates, the seven treasures, elephants, horses, and herds of slaves and servants—whatever you wish, you have it. Why abandon these things, uphold the precepts of the Buddha, and renounce home as bhikṣuṇīs? It would be better to return home, live the unsurpassed pleasures of husband and wife, give alms freely as you please, and thereby gain glory for one entire lifetime.” The bhikṣuṇīs, hearing these words, became bewildered in mind, wept without ceasing, and left her presence.
They then came to the dwelling of the bhikṣuṇī called Subtle, approached, paid homage, and inquired about the Dharma. Each said: “We, for a long time in our households, were attached to worldly life. Now, although we have renounced home to study the path, still our minds cannot avoid being unsettled and unrestrained, our lust burns fiercely, and we cannot ourselves dissolve and dispel it. We hope to receive compassion, that you may expound the Dharma for us, thereby releasing us from sinful thoughts and extinguishing lust.” The bhikṣuṇī Subtle then said to them: “What you wish to ask—do you wish it regarding past lives, or the present life, or the future life?” The bhikṣuṇīs replied: “Let the past and future be put aside for now. We wish you to speak concerning the present life, so that our doubts may be untied.”
The bhikṣuṇī Subtle then said to them: “For example, lust is like a great fire burning in mountains and marshes, spreading everywhere and multiplying, harming countless things. Because of lust, people harm one another. This lust grows day by day, until one falls into the three evil destinies, never able to emerge. Those who delight in the household, who cling to the union of man and woman, feel it to be affectionate love and honored pleasure. But once they encounter the afflictions of birth, old age, sickness, and death, or the vexations of being entangled in official affairs, then they cannot avoid weeping in pain, so much so that the heart and liver are broken, the breath departs, and then revives again. One who clings deeply and firmly to family, his mind bound and lingering, unable to let go—this is even more painful than being imprisoned in fetters.
I myself was born in a family of Brahmins. My father held a position of honor, foremost in the land. At that time, there was a son of a Brahmin household, intelligent and wise. Hearing of my comely appearance, he sent a go-between with gifts, betrothing me as his wife, and so I was married and bore children. The parents of my husband both passed away in succession. At that time, I was pregnant, and I said to my husband: ‘Now that I am pregnant, my body is defiled and impure, and I am soon to give birth. Here it is dangerous. I should return to my parents’ home—it would be better.’ My husband immediately said: ‘Good.’ And so he sent me back home. On the way, my body suffered pains, and I rested beneath a great tree. My husband, at that time, lay down in another place. In the middle of the night, as I gave birth, from below flowed much foul and impure matter. A venomous serpent, smelling it, killed my husband. I called out many times, but he did not answer. At daybreak, I struggled with all my strength to crawl over and take his hand, and then I knew he had been killed by the venomous serpent, his body gnawed and torn, his limbs already scattered apart. Seeing this scene, I was overcome and fainted away. My eldest son, seeing his father dead, raised his voice in wailing and wept bitterly. Hearing my son’s crying, I at once revived, and so I carried the elder son upon my shoulder, held the younger son in my arms, weeping as I continued upon the road.”
The road was perilous and without any trace of people. On the way I encountered a great river, both deep and wide. I placed my elder son on the riverbank and first carried the younger one across the waters, intending to return and bring the elder. But the elder son, seeing me coming back from afar, entered the water himself, and unexpectedly was swept away by the current. I pursued him, yet it was beyond my strength to save, and I could only watch him rise and sink in the water until he vanished without trace. I had no choice but to return again for the younger one, but alas, he had already been devoured by wolves, and I saw only blood flowing across the ground. Once again I was overcome and fainted, and only after a long time revived, with nothing else to do but continue on my way.
I encountered a Brahmin, who was a friend of my father. Astonished, he asked from where I came and why I was so distressed and emaciated. I told him of the many sufferings I had endured. When the Brahmin heard this, he pitied me for being so forsaken and desolate, and we wept bitterly together. I asked: “Are my parents, relatives, and neighbors all safe and well?” He answered: “Your parents and the whole household, young and old, all perished recently in a fire.” Hearing this, I fainted once more, and after a long time revived. The Brahmin, out of compassion, took me to his home, supplying me with food and clothing in abundance, treating me as though I were his own child.
At that time, another Brahmin, seeing my comely appearance, wished to take me as his wife. I consented, and again we formed a household together. Once again I became pregnant. On the day of childbirth, my husband went elsewhere to drink wine and did not return until nightfall. At that time I was just about to give birth, alone, enclosed within the room. Before the child was fully born, the Brahmin returned and knocked loudly at the door. Since no one opened, he grew enraged, broke the door, and came in. Seeing me, he struck me. I hurriedly explained the reason, but his anger grew even greater. He then killed the infant that had just been born, cooked it in ghee, and forced me to eat it. I was overwhelmed with grief and sorrow, and as I could not bear to eat, he beat me. Having swallowed it, bitterness filled my heart, and I thought: “Surely my good fortune has been exhausted, that I must meet with such a husband.” Thus I fled.
I came to Benares, and outside the city rested beneath a tree. At that time, in that land, there was a householder’s son who had recently lost his wife and had buried her in a garden outside the city. Out of attachment to his wife, every day he went to the grave outside the city to weep. At that time, he saw me and asked: “From where do you come, sitting here alone by the roadside?” He also said to me: “Now I wish to go with you to the high terrace in that garden to look around—do you consent?” I agreed, and thus we became husband and wife. After some time, the householder’s son fell ill, and the illness could not be cured; he died. At that time, the law of that country decreed that if a man, while alive, loved someone, then when he died, that person must be buried together with him in the tomb.
Although I was buried, my life still remained. At that time, a band of thieves opened the grave. Their leader, seeing my comely appearance, took me as his wife. Yet within only dozens of days, when once again they went out to steal and plunder, they were discovered by the owners, and his head was cut off. His followers returned the corpse to me, and according to the custom of that country, I was buried together with him in the grave once again.
Three days passed. Some wolves, foxes, dogs, and such creatures came and dug open the grave, intending to gnaw the dead body, and thus I was able once more to behold the sky. Thereupon I deeply reproached myself, thinking: “What calamities and misdeeds from before have caused me, within so short a time, to meet with such sufferings, dying and reviving again? What offerings should I make in order to preserve the rest of my life?” Then I thought further: “I have often heard people say that a man of the Śākya clan abandoned his households and studied the Way, reached enlightenment and named Buddha. He is wise and all-knowing, able to discern past and future. I should go and entrust my body and mind to the Buddha.” Thus I went to Jeta’s Grove. From afar I beheld the Tathāgata, like a tree full of luxuriant blossoms, like the bright moon encircled by myriad stars.
At that time, the World-Honored One, by his threefold trainings free of outflows, knew that I should be delivered and therefore came forth to meet me. At that time, my body was naked, with nothing to cover myself. I sat upon the ground, using my hands to cover my breasts. The Buddha said to Ānanda: “Bring clothing for that woman to wear.” I put on the clothing, then performed the rite of kneeling and bowing, and laid out all the sinful calamities I had suffered, saying, “I hope to be pitied and rescued, and to be permitted to cultivate the path.” The World-Honored One said to Ānanda: “Entrust this woman to Gautamī and have her give her the precepts.” Then Mahāprajāpatī received me as a bhikṣuṇī, and explained to me the essential meaning of the Four Truths, and the principles of suffering, emptiness, and impermanence. Having heard the Dharma of the Buddha, I cultivated diligently and practiced with much exertion, attaining the state of Arhatship and knowing past and future. Now, in the present life, the various sufferings I have borne are hard to recount one by one. Every smallest part has causes and conditions from previous lives.”
At that time, the bhikṣuṇīs again asked: “What faults did you commit in your past lives that you now suffer such calamities? We wish to hear you tell of them.”
The bhikṣuṇī Subtle answered: “You all, listen quietly as I tell it. In a past life, there was a householder, who, though he possessed wealth beyond measure, had no descendants. He then took a concubine. Though she was a woman from a humble family, her appearance was beautiful, rare in the world. He loved her deeply. She became pregnant, and after ten months gave birth to a boy. Husband and concubine both cherished him greatly and never tired of looking upon him. At that time, however, the householder’s principal wife thought to herself: ‘Although I am of a noble family, I have no child. If this boy grows to adulthood, he will certainly inherit the lineage, and all the fields and wealth will be his. Then all the labor I have borne in gathering wealth will be in vain, and I will end in emptiness!’ Thus she gave rise to jealousy, forming a scheme to kill the child while he was yet small. She took an iron needle and pierced the seam of the infant’s skull where it was not yet closed, making sure no one would discover it. As a result, the child gradually grew weak and thin, and after about ten days he died.
The concubine was anguished and sorrowful, fainted away and then revived. Suspecting that the principal wife had harbored jealousy and killed her son, she questioned her: ‘Was it because you yourself had no child, and in your resentment you killed my son?’ At that time, the principal wife swore an oath, saying: ‘If I killed your son, may my husbands in every life be slain by venomous serpents; if I have sons, may they be swept away by great waters or devoured by wolves; may my body be buried alive; may my son be cooked and forced upon me to eat; may my parents and the entire household, young and old, be burned to death in fire. Why do you slander me? Why do you slander me?’
At that time, I did not believe that retribution could fall upon myself, and so I once made such an oath. Now, all these things have come to pass upon me. No one takes the consequences for me. You should know that the householder’s principal wife of that time is myself today.”
The bhikṣuṇīs then asked: “Then by what causes and conditions did you come to be so fortunate as to see the Tathāgata, and he came forth to meet you, so you obtained the Dharma, thereby escaping the suffering of birth and death?”
Subtle answered: “Long ago, in the land of Benares, there was a great mountain called Mount of Immortals. Within the mountain often dwelt pratyekabuddhas, śrāvakas, heretics, and seers, seldom was it without. At that time, a pratyekabuddha entered the city to beg for food. A householder’s wife, upon seeing him, rejoiced immeasurably, and made offerings to him. When the pratyekabuddha had finished eating, he rose into the sky, emitting water and fire from his body, lying and sitting in midair. At that time, the woman, seeing this, made a vow, wishing that in her future lives she too might obtain the path in such a way. That woman of that time is myself today. Because of that cause, I was able to encounter the Tathāgata, my mind opened and attained liberation, cultivating to Arhatship. Although I attained Arhatship, there has always been a burning iron needle piercing down from the crown of my head, emerging from the soles of my feet, day and night without end. Such is the working of good and evil karma—it does not wither nor decay.”
At that time, the five hundred noble-born bhikṣuṇīs, having heard her discourse, were struck with dread in their hearts. They contemplated the root of desire, seeing it as blazing fire, and thus desire never again arose. They regarded household life and the bond of husband and wife as more bitter than imprisonment. Thus they extinguished the defiled desires, and all at once entered meditation. Some attained the fruit of Arhatship, forever free from afflictions. Together they said to the bhikṣuṇī Subtle: “We were all entangled in lust and unable to extricate ourselves, but now, by your compassionate grace, we are at last delivered beyond birth and death.”
At that time, the Buddha praised, saying: “Excellent indeed! Bhikṣuṇī Subtle, as one who cultivates the path, to be able to use the Dharma to teach and transform beings, leading them to liberation—she is truly a disciple of the Buddha.”
All the assembly who heard the discourse rejoiced, and faithfully practiced it with reverence.
Section Seventeen: Aśoka’s Offering of Soil (In the Tanjur version this section is in the Fourth Scroll, as Section Twenty-Two)
Thus have I heard:
At one time, the Buddha was dwelling in the Anāthapiṇḍada Garden of Prince Jeta’s Grove in Śrāvastī. The World-Honored One and Ānanda, in the early morning, entered the city to beg for alms. They saw a group of children playing in the middle of the road. They had each gathered up mounds of soil, shaping them into palaces and houses, and also constructing storehouses to hold treasures and the five kinds of grain. One child, seeing the Buddha coming from afar, whose appearance shone with radiant light, gave rise to reverence from the depths of his heart, joyfully leapt up, and aroused the mind of giving. He then took from the soil storehouse of “five grains,” held it in his hands, and wished to offer it to the Buddha. Because he was short in stature and could not reach the Buddha, he said to another child: “Let me climb upon your shoulders so that I may use this grain to make offering to the Buddha.” The other child rejoiced greatly and replied: “Yes.” Thus he climbed onto his shoulder and presented the soil to the Buddha. The Buddha then lowered his bowl and bent his head to accept the soil. Afterwards, he said to Ānanda: “Take this soil and plaster the dwelling where I reside.” When the alms round was ended, they returned to Jeta’s Grove.
Ānanda then used the earth to plaster the Buddha’s dwelling. One wall was plastered, and all the soil was exhausted. He then straightened his robes and reported the matter in detail to the Buddha. The Buddha said to Ānanda: “Just now, that child, with boundless joy, made an offering to me of a small amount of earth, sufficient to plaster one wall of my dwelling. Because of this merit, after more than a hundred years following my nirvāṇa, he will be reborn as a king named Aśoka. The other child will become his minister. Together they will rule over all the lands of Jambudvīpa, causing the Three Jewels to flourish and be revered. Everywhere they will establish offerings to the Buddha throughout all Jambudvīpa, and they will also construct eighty-four thousand stupas in my honor.”
Ānanda, rejoicing, asked: “What merit did the Tathāgata create in former times that has now brought about the retribution of eighty-four thousand stupas?”
The Buddha said to Ānanda: “Attend closely and listen well. Before the inconceivably asāṃkhya kalpas, there was a great king named Vāsuki, who ruled over eighty-four thousand kingdoms within Jambudvīpa. At that time, there was a Buddha named Puṣya. King Vāsuki, together with his ministers and subjects, made offerings to that Buddha and to the bhikṣu-saṅgha, supplying the four requisites, with boundless reverence. At that time, the king thought in his heart: ‘Now, in this great kingdom, the people can often see the Buddha and can worship and make offerings. But the people of the smaller kingdoms, being far away and remote, have no chance to cultivate blessings. Therefore, I should have the image of the Buddha painted, and distribute it to each small kingdom, so that they may worship and make offerings.’ He then summoned painters and instructed them to make images.
The painters came before the Buddha, and when they beheld his majestic and noble form, they wished to paint it truthfully. Yet whenever they painted one feature, they forgot another; and painting again, they still forgot; always painting one part while losing another, so that they could not complete it. At that time, the Buddha Puṣya himself mixed the colors and with his own hand painted one image to serve as the model. Thus the painters were able to copy and paint eighty-four thousand images. Each image was pure, wondrous, and magnificent, perfectly upright and incomparable like the Buddha himself.
These images were given as offerings to the various small kingdoms, one to each. And the king commanded: ‘Order the people to worship with flowers and incense.’ The kings and subjects of those small kingdoms, receiving the images of the Tathāgata, were filled with boundless joy, revered and honored them as though they were the Buddha himself.
Thus it was, Ānanda: King Vāsuki is myself today. Because in that life I painted eighty-four thousand images of the Tathāgata and distributed them to the small kingdoms for worship, relying on that merit, I have received blessings life after life. Whether in heaven or among men, I have always been an emperor. In every rebirth, I have been born with a comely and wondrous form, endowed with the thirty-two marks and the eighty fine features. By the power of this merit, I myself attained the Buddha body. After my nirvāṇa, I also received the retribution of eighty-four thousand stupas.”
The virtuous Ānanda, together with the many who were assembled to hear the Dharma, upon hearing the words of the Buddha, were filled with utmost joy and diligently practiced them.
Section Eighteen: The Offering of Seven Jars of Gold (In the Tanjur version this section is Twenty-Three)
Thus have I heard:
At that time, the Buddha was dwelling in the Anāthapiṇḍada Garden of Prince Jeta’s Grove in Śrāvastī. The bhikṣus, however, were dwelling in other countries for the summer retreat. After ninety days, when the retreat had ended, they each came to visit the Buddha, to receive the Dharma teaching of the Holy One. At that time, the World-Honored One and the bhikṣus had been apart for a long while. Upon seeing them, he gave rise to feelings of kindness and compassion, and extended his thousand-spoked wheel-marked hand to console them. With great humility he greeted them, saying: “While dwelling in distant and secluded places, you all did not lack for food and offerings, I trust?”
The merit of the Tathāgata is unmatched in the world, and yet today he treated the bhikṣus with such humility, regarding them with reverence and respect. Ānanda, seeing this scene, felt wonder in his heart, and asked: “The arising of the World-Honored One in the world is most extraordinary, and your merit and wisdom are also rare among men. Yet now you so humbly comfort and inquire after the bhikṣus—this is such a marvelous thing! I do not understand—do you speak such humble words because they dwelt in remote places?””
The World-Honored One said: “Do you wish to know? Then listen carefully and reflect well; I shall tell you the causes and conditions.” Ānanda said: “I will respectfully listen and receive the teaching.”
The Buddha said to Ānanda: “Before the inconceivably asāṃkhya kalpas, in this very land of Jambudvīpa, there was a great kingdom called Benares. At that time there was a man who loved the managing of household wealth, and delighted especially in gold. Tirelessly he strove to gather and amass it. He did not fear hardship, traveling far in all directions in pursuit of gain, and all the wealth he obtained he used only to procure gold, which he stored until one jar was filled, and then hid it beneath the ground. In this way, through years of toil and effort, neglecting food and clothing, he accumulated without ceasing until there were seven jars of gold, all buried underground. Later, this man fell ill and died. Because he cherished gold as his very life, he was reborn as a venomous serpent, returning to the place where he once dwelt, to guard the jars of gold.
After many years, the house collapsed and fell into ruin, with no one to live there. Yet the venomous serpent that guarded the jars, when its lifespan came to an end, because of its strong attachment to gold, was again reborn as a serpent. It coiled its body about the jars of gold, guarding them, in this way passing through tens of thousands of years. At last, at the time of a further rebirth, it suddenly gave rise to weariness, thinking: ‘Because of these jars of gold, I have been reborn in a foul and ugly form, without end. Now I should offer these jars of gold into a field of supreme merit, so that I may in life after life receive blessed reward.’ Having resolved this, it went to the roadside, slipped into the grasses, and concealed its body, saying: ‘If someone comes by, I shall speak of this matter to him.’”
At that time, just as it happened, a man came by, and the serpent called out to him. Hearing the voice, the man looked about to his left and right, but saw no one, and so continued walking forward. The serpent then left the grass and revealed its form, calling out: “Hey, man! Come near me.” The man replied: “Your body is poisonous and evil—why do you call me? If I come close to you, I will surely be harmed.” The serpent answered: “If I bore an evil thought, even if you did not approach me, I could still harm you.” The man, terrified, had no choice but to follow it to its dwelling place.
The serpent said: “Now, here in this place there is a jar of gold. I wish to entrust it to you to be used as an offering. Can you accept it? If you will not, then I will harm you.” The man said: “I will accept it.” Then the serpent brought forth the jar of gold and handed it to the man. It also said: “Use this jar of gold to make offerings to the saṅgha. On the day of the feast, come here with a basket and carry me there.”
The man took the gold to the saṃghārāma and presented it to Karmadāna, telling him in detail how the venomous serpent wished to make an offering to the Buddha. The monks accepted the jar of gold and made ready fine foods and delicacies.”
On the day of the feast, the man came with a small basket to the serpent’s dwelling. The serpent, seeing that the man had come as promised, was overjoyed, and earnestly greeted him. It coiled its body and lay upon the basket. The man covered the serpent with a blanket, lifted it up, and bore it toward the monastery.
On the road, they met another man, who asked the basket-bearer: “From where do you come? Is your health well?” The basket-bearer made no reply. The man asked twice again, but still there was no answer. The venomous serpent then became resentful, its poison growing hot within, and it wished to kill the bearer. But it restrained itself, thinking: “This man is truly without sense of occasion. Another spoke kindly to him, respectfully asking three times, yet he did not give even one reply—how hateful this is!” With this thought, it again gave rise to the wish to poison him, but then reflected: “This man is performing merit on my behalf, and I have not yet repaid his kindness.” Thus, again and again, it restrained itself, until its mind grew calm. It thought: “This man bears me great kindness. Though in this he acted wrongly, it should still be endured.”
When they came to an open place where there were no others, the serpent said: “Let me down.” Then it reproved the man and admonished him with precepts. The man nodded in assent, his heart filled with regret, blaming himself, giving rise to humility, and toward all things feeling reverence and compassion. The serpent again instructed him: “Do not act in such a way again.”
Then the man carried the serpent to the saṃghārāma and stood before the monks. When the time came for the monks to eat, the serpent rose and moved about, and had the man offer incense to the monks one by one. With a mind of faith it gazed upon those who received the incense, never averting its eyes until all had been seen. Then the monks, one after another, circumambulated the stūpa once. The man then brought water for the monks to wash their hands. The serpent, with boundless reverence, gazed upon the monks washing, never tiring of it.
When the monks had finished eating, they expounded the Dharma for the serpent. The serpent was filled with joy and increased even more its thought of giving. It then led Karmadāna to the place where the gold was buried, and offered the remaining six jars of gold in full to the saṅgha. When this meritorious act was accomplished, its life ended, and it was reborn in the Trāyastriṃśa Heaven.”
The Buddha said to Ānanda: “Do you suppose that the man who carried the serpent was another? It was I myself. And the serpent of that time is now Śāriputra. On that day when I bore the serpent and was reproved by it, I was filled with shame and remorse, and I made a vow, giving rise to humility, regarding all living beings as equal, never retreating from that mind, even until this day.”
At that time, all the bhikṣus, together with Ānanda and the others, upon hearing what the Buddha had spoken, rejoiced and faithfully put it into practice.
Section Nineteen: The Immediate Retribution of Kṣemā (In the Tanjur version this section is in the Fourth Scroll, as Section Twenty-Four)
Thus have I heard:
At one time, the Buddha was dwelling in the Bamboo Grove Monastery at Rājagṛha, together with countless disciples of eminent dignity who accompanied him. In the kingdom there was a certain Brahmin, extremely poor, lacking in wealth and grain, and gradually declining in old age. He asked others: “In this world, what should one do so that in this very life one may enjoy blessings?” Someone answered: “Do you not know? Now the Buddha has appeared in the world, conferring blessings on beings and protecting all things, so that nothing remains beyond liberation. The Tathāgata has four noble disciples of eminent rank—Mahākāśyapa, Mahāmaudgalyāyana, Śāriputra, and Aniruddha. These four venerables always pity the destitute, constantly performing good deeds to deliver the multitude of beings who live in suffering and distress. If you are able to give rise to a faithful and reverent heart, and prepare food to make offerings to these worthies, then in this very life you may obtain the rewards you seek.”
When the Brahmin heard this counsel, his heart was filled with immeasurable joy. As he traveled through his country, he spoke everywhere of what he had learned, and by selling his labor he obtained a little wealth. Returning home, he immediately arranged food and drink, and reverently invited the noble saints to make offerings for one day. With utmost respect and sincerity, he hoped to gain reward in this very life. The Brahmin’s wife was named Kṣemā (which in the language of Jin means Safe). She served the venerable monks as they finished eating, and the eminent disciples then exhorted her to receive the Eight Precepts. After she had received the precepts, they each returned to their monastery.
At that time, King Bimbisāra was out hunting in the mountains, forests, and marshes, and on his return to the city he saw a criminal who had violated the king’s law, bound and standing by the roadside, his face full of sorrow, begging the king for a little food. The king, moved with compassion, promised to give him some food.
But after returning to the city, being busy with affairs, he completely forgot the matter. In the middle of the night he suddenly thought: “Earlier I promised to give that criminal food—how could I have forgotten?” He then ordered someone to deliver food to him, but within the entire palace, inside and out, not one person was willing to go. They all said: “Now it is the middle of the night, and along the road there may be fierce beasts, evil spirits, rākṣasas, and countless perils and calamities. We would rather die here than go there.”
At that time, the king thought of the criminal’s lonely and helpless condition, and he felt troubled and greatly compassionate. So he proclaimed: “Whichever person of the people in the land will go there to deliver food shall be rewarded with a thousand taels of gold.” Yet still not one person was willing to go.
At that time, Kṣemā heard people say: “For one who upholds the Eight Precepts, all demons, evil spirits, venomous beasts, and harmful calamities cannot injure them.” Kṣemā then thought: “My household is poor, and now I am holding the precepts. The person the king seeks must surely be me. I should go and receive this reward of gold.” So she went to the king’s palace to volunteer for the task. The king said: “Deliver this food to that criminal on my behalf. If you return safely, I shall certainly give you a thousand taels of gold.”
Kṣemā then accepted the command, carrying the food and setting out along the road, gradually going farther and farther from the city. All along the way she upheld the precepts with a heart of utmost sincerity, without negligence or fault. Suddenly, she encountered a rākṣasī named Lambha. That spirit had just given birth to five hundred sons and was exceedingly hungry and thirsty. When it saw Kṣemā coming, it wished to devour her. But because Kṣemā was upholding the precepts, the rākṣasī instead gave rise to fear. Pressed by unbearable hunger, it appeared in its form and begged Kṣemā for some of the food she carried. Kṣemā did not refuse its wish but took out a small portion and offered it. Because it was a spirit, that little food was sufficient to fill its belly.
Then the rākṣasī asked: “What is your name?” The woman answered: “I am called Kṣemā.” The rākṣasī was overjoyed and said: “Today, as I gave birth, it was safe and without harm. Thanks to you, my life was saved and I received great benefit. Since I owe my life to you, and now I know your name, I shall repay you with a cauldron filled with gold that I have in my dwelling. When you return, take it away.” It then asked: “And where are you going?” Kṣemā replied: “I am carrying this food to deliver to that man.” Lambha then said: “I have a younger sister named Ārambhā, who dwells further on. If you see her, please give her my regards and tell her that I bore five hundred children and that I am safe and well. Tell her everything, so that she knows my condition.”
Kṣemā agreed and went on her way. She met Ārambhā and faithfully conveyed in detail that Lambha had borne five hundred children and that her body was safe and sound. When Ārambhā heard this, she was filled with boundless joy, and asked the woman: “What is your name?” She replied: “I am called Kṣemā.” Ārambhā then said: “My elder sister has given birth safely, and your name itself means Safe—how truly auspicious this is! Now, in my dwelling there is a cauldron filled with gold. I grant it to you—when you return, take it away.” She then asked: “And where are you going?” Kṣemā replied: “I am carrying the king’s food to deliver to that criminal.” Ārambhā said: “I have a younger brother named Pūrṇakin who lives further on. Please give him my greetings, and tell him as well the news of my elder sister.”
The woman proceeded smoothly onward and came to Pūrṇakin. She told him in detail the news of his two sisters: that his elder sister had given birth to five hundred children and that she was safe and sound, without any misfortune. When Pūrṇakin heard that his two sisters were well, his heart was filled with immeasurable joy. He then asked Kṣemā: “What is your name?” The woman answered: “I am called Kṣemā.” The spirit replied: “Your name means Safe, and you also bring me safe news of my sisters—this is a double joy!” He then said to her: “In my dwelling I also have a cauldron filled with gold. I give it to you—when you return, take it away.”
Parting from him, she went along her way, arrived at the place of the criminal, and gave him the food. Then she turned back on the road, collected the three cauldrons filled with gold, and brought them home. She also went to the king and received the promised reward of a thousand taels of gold, and returned home. From then on she was delivered from poverty and became wealthy.
The people of the land, seeing the luxury and prosperity of her household, were full of envy and gladly sought to become servants in her home. The king, hearing that this family had such great merit, summoned them to the palace and appointed them as ministers. Thus they both enjoyed the stipend of the state, and their household was abundantly rich. Filled with faith and sincerity, they gave in great measure, widely making offerings. They invited the Buddha and the saṅgha, and established a great altar. The Buddha and his many disciples all came. After the meal was completed, the Buddha expounded the Dharma for their household, and their minds were at once opened, attaining realization as Srotāpannas.
At that time, all those assembled, including Ānanda and many others who heard the Buddha’s words, were filled with joy and diligently cultivated the practice.
Section Twenty: The Poor Woman Nandā (In the Tanjur version this section is in the Eleventh Scroll, as Section Fifty-Three)
Thus have I heard:
At one time, the Buddha was dwelling in the Anāthapiṇḍada Garden of Prince Jeta’s Grove in Śrāvastī. In that kingdom there was a woman named Nandā, poor and alone, who depended upon begging for her livelihood. She saw that the king, the ministers, and all the people, whether great or small, each and every one of them made offerings to the Buddha and the saṅgha. Then in her heart she thought: “Because of past sins, I am now poor and destitute, without kin. Though I live within a field of blessings, I have no seed to plant within it.” Thus she was pained and sorrowful, and deeply reproached herself.
So, while begging, she hoped to obtain even a meager gift, but after walking all day, she received only a single coin. She took it to the oil shop, intending to buy oil. The shopkeeper asked: “With only a single coin you can buy only a very little—what will you do with it?” Nandā explained in detail all that was in her heart. The shopkeeper pitied her, and gave her double the measure of oil. Nandā, having received it, rejoiced in her heart, for it was enough to make one lamp. She then went to the monastery and offered it to the World-Honored One. She placed the lamp among the many lamps before the Buddha, and made a vow: “In this present life, I was born poor, and I can only offer this small lamp to the Buddha. I hope by means of this merit, in future lives I may receive the light of wisdom to shine forth, dispelling the defilements and darkness of all beings.” Then she bowed in reverence and departed.
Through the night, all the other lamps were extinguished, but this one lamp alone still burned. At that time, Maudgalyāyana, seeing that dawn had come, wished to gather up the lamps. He saw that this lamp still shone brightly, the oil and wick not in the least diminished, as if it were newly lit. Then he thought: “In the daytime, there is no use for lamps.” So he raised his hand to fan it, but the lamp continued to burn without being dimmed. Again he fanned it with his robe, yet still the lamp did not dim at all.
The Buddha, seeing Maudgalyāyana attempt to extinguish this lamp, said to him: “Now, this lamp is not something you Śrāvakas can shake. Even if you were to pour upon it the waters of the four great seas, or blow upon it with the vīraṃ wind, you could not extinguish it. Why is this so? Because this lamp was offered by one who gave rise to a vast and great mind.”
After the Buddha said this, the woman Nandā came again to pay homage to the Tathāgata, bowing with head and face to the ground. At that time, the World-Honored One gave her a prophecy of future Buddhahood, saying: “In the future, after two asaṃkhyeyas and one hundred kalpas, you shall become a Buddha named Lamp-Light, complete with the Ten Titles.” Nandā rejoiced immeasurably, knelt down before the Buddha, and said: “I wish to renounce home and become ordained.” The Buddha consented, and thus she became a bhikṣuṇī.
The venerable Ānanda and Maudgalyāyana, seeing this poor woman freed from her suffering, having renounced home and receiving a prophecy that she would one day become a Buddha, then knelt down, joined their palms, and asked: “What deeds did the woman Nandā commit in past lives, that she for so long a time relied upon begging for her livelihood? And for what cause was it, that when the Buddha appeared in the world, she revered him beyond measure and wished to make offering?”
The Buddha said to Ānanda: “In the past there was a Buddha named Kāśyapa. At that time, the wife of a householder personally went to request the privilege of making an offering to him. But Kāśyapa had already accepted the invitation of a poor woman, who had attained the path of the Anāgāmin. Then the wife of the householder, thinking herself possessed of great wealth, despised that poor woman, and resented that the World-Honored One had first accepted the poor woman’s invitation. She said: ‘Why does the World-Honored One not accept my offering, but instead accepts the offering of that wretched beggar woman?’ Because she spoke such harsh words, scorning one who was noble and holy, therefore from that time on, for five hundred lives she was born in families of poverty and lowliness, surviving by begging for food. Yet, since in that life she also reverently and joyfully made offerings to the Tathāgata and the saṅgha, it came about that in this life, when the Buddha appeared in the world, she was able to renounce home, receive a prophecy of future Buddhahood, and be honored throughout the land.”
At that time, the monks present, hearing the Buddha’s teaching, were all filled with great joy. The king, the ministers, and the people, hearing that this poor woman, by offering a single lamp, had received a prophecy that she would one day become a Buddha, all gave rise to reverence and respect. Each bestowed upon her fine clothing and all manner of requisites, so that nothing was lacking. The men and women of the entire land, high and low, young and old, all strove to offer lamps of fragrant oil. Carrying lamps in their hands, they came to Jeta’s Grove and made offerings before the Buddha. Because the people were so many, the lamps filled the whole monastery, and throughout the groves the light shone everywhere, like stars scattered across the sky. This continued daily for seven days and seven nights.
At that time, Ānanda, beholding this wondrous sight, was filled with joy, yet also sighed in wonder, reflecting on how vast and profound were the virtues of the Tathāgata, that such things should come to pass. He then stepped forward and asked: “I do not know what wholesome roots the World-Honored One cultivated in past lives, that he now receives such countless offerings of fragrant oil lamps?”
The Buddha told Ānanda: “In the distant past, two asaṃkhyeyas and ninety-one kalpas ago, in this land of Jambudvīpa there was a great king named Vāsuki, who ruled over eighty-four thousand small kingdoms. The chief queen of that king bore a prince, whose entire body was of the color of purple-gold, endowed with the thirty-two marks and the eighty excellent features. Upon the crown of his head was a natural jewel-treasure, from which all forms could be reflected, shining with dazzling light. The king then summoned an astrologer to divine his fortune and to give him a name.
When the astrologer saw him, he beheld the prince to be wondrous beyond compare. He raised his hand and said: ‘Excellent, excellent! This prince, whether in heaven or on earth, has no equal. If he remains at home, he will surely become a Wheel-Turning Sage King; if he renounces home, he will accomplish Buddhahood.’ He further asked the king: ‘When the prince was born, was there anything extraordinary?’ The king replied: ‘Upon the crown of his head, there was a jewel-treasure, radiant with light, and it was innate from birth.’ Therefore he was named Ratnaśikhin (which in the language of Jin means Jewel Bun).
As he grew in years, he renounced home and cultivated the path, and before long he attained Buddhahood. He taught and transformed the people of the world, delivering countless beings.””
At that time, his royal father invited the Buddha and the saṅgha, and made offerings for three months. Among the bhikṣus there was one named Āryamaitra (which in the language of Jin means Noble Friend). During those three months he was responsible for the donation of the lamps, and every day he went into the city to visit the elders, householders, and the people, requesting donations of ghee, lamp oil, wicks, and such things.
At that time, the king had a daughter named Muni. From the high tower she saw that this bhikṣu, day after day, entered the city to ask for such things. In her heart she held him in great reverence, and so she sent someone to ask: “Venerable bhikṣu, why do you labor so, what things do you seek to obtain?” The bhikṣu replied: “I am in charge of the the donation of lamps for the Buddha and the saṅgha, and therefore I enter the city daily to call upon the worthy ones, seeking lamp oil, lamp wicks, and the like.” The messenger returned and reported this to her. She rejoiced immeasurably, and said to Noble Friend: “From this day forward you need not go begging from house to house. I shall regularly send ghee and lamp wicks and such things to you.” The bhikṣu accepted, and from then on such offerings were delivered to the monastery.
The bhikṣu Noble Friend, day by day attending to this work, lighting lamps in offering to the Buddhas, grew ever more steadfast in his broad mind to save beings. Then the Buddha gave him a prophecy, saying: “In future lives, after asaṃkhyeya kalpas, you shall become a Buddha named Dīpaṃkara, complete with the Ten Titles.”
The king’s daughter Muni, when she heard that the bhikṣu Noble Friend had been prophesied to Buddhahood, thought in her heart: “All the lamp oil and lamp wicks for the lamps were originally provided by me for the bhikṣu’s work. Now he shall one day become a Buddha, but I have received nothing.” She then came before the Buddha and spoke out all that was in her heart. The Buddha in turn gave her a prophecy, saying: “In future lives, after two asaṃkhyeyas and ninety-one kalpas, you shall become a Buddha named Śākyamuni, complete with the Ten Titles.”
When the king’s daughter heard this, her heart overflowed with immeasurable joy. Then she transformed her body into that of a man, performed the great ritual, and asked to become a śramaṇa. The Buddha consented. He practiced diligently without rest, never ceasing in his exertion.
The Buddha said to Ānanda: “The bhikṣu Āryamaitra of that time—was he another? He is none other than the past Buddha Dīpaṃkara. And the king’s daughter Muni—was she another? She is none other than myself. Because in former times I gave offerings of lamps, from then onward, through countless kalpas, whether in the heavens or among men, I have enjoyed bliss, my body surpassing others. Until today, having perfected the body of a Buddha, I now receive the blessed retribution of so many lamps of light.”
At that time, among the many who were present and heard the Buddha speak, some attained the first fruit up to the fourth fruit, some planted the wholesome roots of the Pratyekabuddha path, and some gave rise to the aspiration for the unsurpassed true Way. The venerable Ānanda, together with the assembly, all diligently and joyfully cultivated the practice.
Section Twenty-One: The Causes and Conditions of King Great Radiance’s First Arousal of the Bodhi-Mind
There are people who are rich in wisdom, whose minds are keen and agile; by means of a small cause and condition they can arouse a great mind and turn toward the Buddha’s path. But there are people who are indolent and slothful; though they have great causes and conditions, they cannot arouse the mind to turn toward the Buddha’s path. Therefore a practitioner should strengthen his mind and establish resolve, so as to grasp good opportunities. How is all this known?
At that time, the World-Honored One was dwelling in the Anāthapiṇḍada Garden of Jeta’s Grove in Śrāvastī. Surrounded by the fourfold assembly of disciples and by many kings, ministers, and people, all reverently making offerings, there were many in the great assembly who felt doubt, thinking: “By what causes and conditions did the World-Honored One at first arouse the mind of unsurpassed bodhi, and thus cultivate the path, become a Buddha, and bring vast benefit to beings? We too should arouse the mind of unsurpassed bodhi and accomplish the Buddha-way to bring peace to beings.”
The venerable Ānanda, knowing what was in the hearts of the people, rose from his seat, straightened his robes, came forward to the Buddha and said: “Now, in this assembly, the people all have doubts in their hearts, wishing to know by what causes and conditions the World-Honored One in former days aroused the great Bodhi-mind. We hope you will speak of it to bring vast benefit to all beings.”
The Buddha said: “Excellent, excellent! Your question is very good. You should listen attentively and reflect well, and I shall tell you.” At that time, the great assembly was utterly silent; the wind, the rivers, the cries of birds and beasts all became still. All the people, as well as the devas, nāgas, spirits, and gods, were struck with awe and joy to hear, and they all fixed their attention upon the Buddha.
The Buddha said to Ānanda: “In the distant past, beyond measureless, boundless, asaṃkhyeya kalpas, within this land of Jambudvīpa there was a great king named Great Radiance. He had great blessings and great virtue, was wise and courageous, and his royal power was full and complete. At that time, on the border there was another king with whom he had close ties. What that kingdom lacked, King Great Radiance would at once send; and from that country, precious things were often offered to King Radiance.
“At that time, this other king went up into the mountains to hunt and captured a great elephant—upright and wondrous, snow-white like the Crystal Mountain, its seven parts resting firmly upon the ground, so pleasing to behold. He thought to himself: ‘I should present this to King Great Radiance.’ So he adorned it most splendidly, with ornaments of gold, silver, and precious gems, the rarest treasures of the world. When it was prepared, he sent men to bring it to King Radiance. When King Radiance beheld this elephant, the joy in his heart was beyond words.”
“In his realm there was an elephant-tamer named Sañjaya. The king said to him: ‘You are to train this elephant.’ Sañjaya accepted the command and soon succeeded in taming it. The elephant was then decked with headgear adorned with many precious gems. The tamer came before the king and said: ‘This elephant has been trained to utmost gentleness. May the great king come and see, and try it himself.’
“King Great Radiance, hearing this, rejoiced in his heart and wished at once to see it. So he struck the golden drum, assembled his ministers, and ordered them to come and watch.
“When the people were gathered, the king mounted the great elephant, shining like the sun newly risen over the mountain, radiating light in all directions. Together with his ministers he went out of the city, heading toward the place where the elephant was to be tested. But the elephant, in the prime of its strength, saw a herd of elephants eating lotus roots in a pond, and its desire flared forth. It bolted wildly, chasing the she-elephants, and ran into the depths of the forest.
“At that time, the king’s crown and garments fell to the ground; his body was scratched and cut by the trees, blood staining his hair and beard. The king felt dizzy, overwhelmed with terror, and thought himself surely about to die. He asked the elephant-tamer: ‘Will I still be able to live?’ Sañjaya answered: ‘In the forest there are many trees. If the king can seize one, he can preserve his life.’ Then the king grasped a tree branch, and the elephant ran on. The king climbed down from the tree and sat upon the ground. Looking at himself, his crown and robes were gone, his body was wounded. He was deeply distressed, confused, and wandered out of the forest not knowing where his followers were.”
“The elephant-tamer too had seized a branch and so escaped. Emerging from the forest, he saw the king sitting there in distress and alone. He came forward, bowed his head, and said: ‘May the great king not be anxious or sorrowful. The fire of lust in this elephant should now be spent. Living in the wild, it will surely tire of coarse weeds and foul river water. Then it will long for the palace’s pure surroundings and rich food, and naturally return.’ The king said: ‘Now I care no more for you or for the elephant. Because of this elephant I have nearly lost my life.’
“At that time, the ministers all thought in their hearts: “Perhaps the great king has already been harmed by the crazed and frenzied elephant.” So they searched along the way, following signs. Some found the king’s lost crown or garments, others discovered patches of blood. Thus they traced and found the king, and brought him back to the city riding upon another elephant. The people of the city, seeing that the king had suffered such great distress, were all sorrowful and troubled without exception.
“Meanwhile, the mad elephant was still running wildly through the marshes and wilds. It ate the bitter coarse grasses and drank the foul and filthy waters, and gradually its lustful fire was extinguished. Remembering the palace’s coolness and rich fine food, it sped like a swift wind and at last returned to its place.
“The elephant-tamer then said to the great king: “The elephant that earlier ran away has now returned. May the king come to see it.” The king said: “I no longer need you, nor do I need the elephant.” Sañjaya said: “If the great king does not need me, that is acceptable. But at least come and see my method of taming elephants.” So the king ordered a seat to be placed upon a flat plain.
“At that time, the people of the country, hearing that the tamer wished to have the king see his method of training the elephant, all gathered there. The king left the palace, and the citizens lined the roadside, guiding him to the place of seats. The tamer brought the elephant forward, and summoned craftsmen to fashion seven iron balls, which were heated red-hot in fire. In his heart he thought: “Once the elephant swallows these iron balls, it will surely die, and then perhaps the king will regret it.”
“So he spoke to the king, saying: “This treasure of a white elephant can only be possessed by a Wheel-Turning Sage King. Though it has committed a small fault, it should not be put to death.” The king said: “If the white elephant was not fully tamed, then it should not have been given for me to ride. If you say it is tamed, why then did such a thing occur? Therefore I have no need of you, nor of the elephant.”
“The tamer said: “If the great king has no need of me, that is one matter; but as for the elephant, to destroy it is too great a pity.” The king, in his fury, ordered him to go far away at once. Sañjaya left, weeping, and said: “The great king has no sense of closeness or distance, of gratitude or resentment. His heart is cruel, though he speaks fine-sounding words.” All in the great assembly, both great and small, hearing these words, wept tears and fixed their eyes intently upon the elephant.”
“The tamer then spoke to the elephant: “Swallow these iron balls. If you do not, then with the iron hook I shall split open your skull.” The white elephant knew his intent, and thought: “Better for me to swallow these burning iron balls and die than to endure being killed by the iron hook, just as a man would rather be strangled than burned alive.” So it bent its front knees, kneeling before the great king, with tears falling down, hoping that at the last moment the king might spare its life. But the king, in his rage, turned his head aside and would not even look upon it. Sañjaya said: “Why do you not swallow the iron balls now?”
“The white elephant looked all around, thinking: “Among these people, it seems there is no one who will save my life.” Then it picked up the iron balls, placed them into its mouth, and swallowed them. At once its entrails burned away, and the iron balls pierced through its belly. Thus the white elephant perished, like striking a glass mountain with a vajra. When at last the iron balls fell to the ground, they were still glowing red-hot.
“The multitude of people present, seeing this scene, were all filled with grief and wept bitterly. The great king too, beholding it, was shaken with fear and astonishment, and was filled with deep remorse. At once he summoned Sañjaya and asked: “Since the white elephant was so tamed, why was it that earlier, in the forest, you could not subdue it?”
“At that time, the devas of the Pure Abodes knew that King Great Radiance should at this moment give rise to the unsurpassed Bodhi-mind, so they displayed their divine power and caused the elephant-tamer to kneel and answer: “Great King, I can only tame the body of the elephant, but I cannot tame its mind.” The great king at once asked: “Then who is there that can both tame the body and at the same time tame the mind?” The answer was: “There is the Buddha, the World-Honored One, who is able to do all of this.”
“When King Great Radiance heard the name of Buddha, his heart was shaken and his hair stood on end. He asked: “This Buddha you speak of—of what clan is he born?” Sañjaya answered: “The Buddha, the World-Honored One, is born of two lineages: one is called Wisdom, the other is called Compassion. He unceasingly cultivates the six practices, namely the six pāramitās. With all merits and wisdom perfected, he is then called Buddha. He can tame himself, and at the same time he can tame all beings.”
“When the great king heard this, he was struck with awe and his heart leapt in joy. He returned to the palace, bathed in fragrant water, put on fresh garments, ascended a lofty tower, and bowed in all four directions. Toward all beings he aroused a mind of great compassion. He burned incense and made a vow, saying: “May all the merit that I have be dedicated to the Buddha-path. When I attain Buddhahood, not only may I tame my own mind, but at the same time I may tame the minds of all beings. Even if I must dwell in Avīci Hell for the span of one kalpa, so long as even one being may thereby gain a little benefit, I will willingly enter Avīci. I will never abandon the Bodhi-mind.” When he finished his vow, there were six kinds of tremors; the great mountains and oceans either collapsed or sent forth vast waves. In the sky, natural music drifted down, and countless devas played celestial songs. They sang in praise of the Bodhisattva: “For one such as you, before long you will certainly attain Buddhahood. When you become Buddha, may you deliver us. We, now present in this pure Dharma assembly, should also partake of such blessings.”
The Buddha then asked the bhikṣus: “Do you wish to know who was the white elephant that swallowed the iron balls at that time? He is none other than Nanda. The elephant-tamer then was Śāriputra. And King Great Radiance—was he another? He is none other than myself. It was at that time, seeing how the white elephant was tamed, that I first gave rise to the thought of cultivating the path. Thus I eventually cultivated the path and attained Buddhahood.”
All those present at the great assembly, hearing that the Buddha had undergone such ascetic practices, some attained the four fruits, some aroused the mind of the great Way, some renounced home and practiced the path—none failed to rejoice immeasurably and to revere and practice diligently.
From this it is known: if one strengthens resolve and diligently cultivates, even a small cause and condition can accomplish a great matter. But if one is slothful and negligent, even when meeting with vast causes and conditions, nothing will be achieved. Therefore, the practitioner should be diligent and vigorous, and turn toward the Buddha-path.
Dharma Torch 