Translated by śramaṇas Hui Jue etc. from Liangzhou of the Yuan Wei Dynasty in Gaochang Commandery
Section Forty-One: The Pure Abodes Deva Offering Bathing
Thus have I heard:
At one time, the Buddha was staying in the Jeta Grove, in Anāthapiṇḍada’s Park, in the country of Śrāvastī. Then, a Śuddhāvāsa deva descended to Jambudvīpa, to the place of the World-Honored One, and invited the Buddha and the Sangha to bathe and offered to make offerings to them. The World-Honored One silently accepted his invitation. The deva then prepared food and drink, and arranged the bathing implements, warm chamber, and tempered water—neither cold nor hot. He also prepared ghee and bathing grass. When everything was ready, he said to the World-Honored One, “The food and bathing preparations are complete; may the Buddha bathe at the proper time.”
Then the World-Honored One together with the bhikṣus of the Sangha accepted his offering, bathed attentively, and partook of the meal he had provided. The taste of the food was supremely delicious, rare to be found in the world. After eating and rinsing their mouths, they each returned to their seats.”
At that time, Ānanda knelt upon the ground with joined palms and said to the World-Honored One, “This deva—what merit did he accumulate in the past that his form is so splendid, his appearance so dignified, his radiance shining like a great precious mountain? May the World-Honored One kindly explain to us his story.”
The Buddha said to Ānanda, “Listen attentively and bear this well in mind, and I shall explain it for you. In the past, during the time of the Buddha Vipaśyin, this deva, in that life, was born as a child in a poor household, earning his livelihood by working for others to support his family. Having heard Vipaśyin Buddha preach about the merit of bathing the Sangha, he rejoiced in his heart and resolved to make such an offering. Therefore, he labored diligently, obtained a small amount of wealth and grain, and used it to prepare bathing implements and provisions. He then invited the Buddha and the Sangha and served them with his own hands and with utmost sincerity. By virtue of this merit, upon death he was reborn in the Śuddhāvāsa heaven, possessing this radiant and luminous body.”
The Buddha said to Ānanda, “Moreover, this deva, not only today invited the Buddha and the Sangha, but in the time of Buddha Śikhin also came to the human world to make offerings to the World-Honored One and the Sangha; and even until the time of Buddha Kāśyapa, he did the same.”
The Buddha told Ānanda, “This deva not only served and offered to the seven Buddhas, but throughout the thousand Buddhas of the Bhadrakalpa, he will, one by one, invite the Buddhas and the Sangha to bathe, just as he does today, without any difference.” Then the World-Honored One bestowed a prediction upon the deva, saying, “In the future, after countless asaṃkhyeya hundred kalpas, you shall become a Buddha, named Pure Body, with the ten epithets complete; the beings you will guide and transform shall be beyond measure.”
At that time, Ānanda and the rest of the assembly, upon hearing the Buddha’s words, rejoiced immeasurably and said, “The appearance of the Buddha in the world brings boundless benefit. From such a small act of giving, one can receive such vast recompense.”
The Buddha said to Ānanda, “Excellent, excellent, it is just as you have said.” Then he expounded the wondrous Dharma extensively to the assembly. Among those who heard the Dharma, there were some who attained the fruit of stream-enterer, some who attained once-returner, some who attained non-returner, some who attained full liberation, and some who aroused the mind for the Great Path. Each and all rejoiced with sincere hearts and faithfully practiced the teaching.
Section Forty-Two: Prince Good Deeds Went to Sea (In the Tanjur version this section is in the Ninth Scroll, as Section Forty-Two)
Thus have I heard:
At one time, the Buddha was dwelling in Rājagṛha, in the Gṛdhrakūṭa Mountain, surrounded by a multitude of bhikṣus who listened to him expound the Dharma. At that time, the venerable Ānanda saw that Devadatta harbored jealousy and resentment toward the Tathāgata. He once drove a drunken elephant and once pushed down a huge rock from a high mountain, intending to crush the Buddha to death. He used all sorts of means in his attempts to harm the Buddha. Yet the Buddha always embraced compassion, treating all equally, from his own son Rāhula to Devadatta, without any partiality. Ānanda, seeing this, felt sorrowful and dejected, unable to forget the matter. Rising from his seat, he bared his right shoulder, joined his palms, prostrated before the Buddha, and expressed what was in his mind. The Buddha said to Ānanda: “Devadatta not only harms me in this present life, but in past lives too, he has constantly sought to harm me. Yet I have always treated him with kindness.”
Ānanda then said: “I do not know, in the past worlds, how Devadatta had also harmed you in past lives, and the Buddha treated him with kindness. How did this come to be? May you tell us.”
The Buddha said to Ānanda: “In the distant past, beyond measure, beyond count, through innumerable, immeasurable, Inconceivable, and incalculable asaṃkhyeya kalpas ago, there was a king in Jambudvīpa whose name was Ratnavarman (which in the language of Jin means ‘Jeweled Armor’). He ruled over five hundred subordinate kings and possessed five hundred queens and palace maidens, yet none bore him a child. The king year after year prayed to the gods of heaven, the sun, the moon, the mountain deities, the sea deities, and the tree deities, seeking to be granted a son. After many years, there was still no response.
The king was deeply distressed and thought to himself: ‘Now that I have no heir, when I die, there will be none to inherit the affairs of the state, and this will surely bring about chaos throughout the world. Why is that so? The five hundred ministers do not yield to one another; disputes and conflicts will arise, and they will plot against each other. Innocent people will thus suffer harm. The destruction of the country and the misery of the people will all come from this cause.’ Thinking thus, the king grew even more depressed and despondent.
“At that time, a deva, understanding the king’s thoughts, appeared in his dream and said: ‘In the forest outside the city, there are two ṛṣis. One of them radiates a golden light; his merits are profound, and his wisdom is unsurpassed. If you wish to have a son, you may go and directly request him to be reborn in your house. He will certainly agree to do so.’
The king immediately awoke from his dream, his face blooming with joy. He at once prepared carriages and horses, personally leading several attendants to seek out the sage. At last he encountered the sage and earnestly implored him, saying: ‘There is no heir to inherit the throne, and I am greatly troubled. I wish that you would condescend to be reborn in my house to inherit the royal position, so that my worries may be relieved. Please do not despise me, but take pity upon me.’
The sage, seeing the king’s earnest plea, could not bear to refuse him, and thus consented. The other sage also said to the king: ‘I too shall go to your house to be reborn.’ The king was greatly delighted and took his leave of the two sages, returning to his palace.”
“Not long after, the golden-hued sage passed away. The king’s chief queen, whose name was Suma, at that very time felt the signs of pregnancy. A wise woman could discern whether the child in her womb was male or female. She herself said, “The child I carry is certainly a boy.” When the king and the people of the palace heard this, they were exceedingly joyful. The king commanded that all in the inner palace should do their utmost to fulfill Queen Suma’s every wish, so that she might be content and pleased. Her meals and daily living were attended with the greatest care, and her movements were cautiously guarded to prevent even the slightest mistake.
When the ten months of pregnancy had been completed, Queen Suma gave birth to a boy whose appearance was dignified and majestic. His body shone with a golden-purple hue, and his hair was dark blue. His countenance was noble and impressive. The king, along with the palace attendants and ministers, could not gaze upon him enough. Then the king summoned astrologers and physiognomists to read the child’s fate. They arrived quickly and, after repeatedly observing the child’s features and bearing, joyfully said to the king, “This child’s appearance is most auspicious, unequalled in the world. His merit and wisdom are beyond compare.” The king was greatly delighted and again asked the astrologer to give the child a name.
The astrologer inquired of the king, “Since the conception of this child, has any unusual event occurred?” The king replied, “The mother of this child has always been fierce and jealous by nature. She took pleasure in seeing others’ misdeeds, enjoyed spreading rumors, slandering the loyal and virtuous, and disliked the good deeds of others. Yet ever since she conceived this child, her temper and disposition have completely changed. She has become kind and gentle, compassionate toward the weak, admiring of the wise, fond of performing virtuous acts and giving alms, and protective of all beings.”
The astrologer, upon hearing this, exclaimed in praise, “Excellent! This is the will of the child, manifesting through his mother.” Then he named the boy Kalyāṇakarin (which in the language of Jin means ‘Good Deeds‘).
“The king’s secondary consort was named Puṣpa. After the second sage ended his life, he was reborn in her womb. When the time was fulfilled, Lady Puṣpa gave birth to a boy whose appearance and form were of no particular distinction. The king again summoned astrologers to examine the child’s features. After completing their observation, they said to the king, “This child is merely an ordinary person, possessing only the common measure of merit and wisdom found among men.” The king then ordered the astrologer to give the child a name. The astrologer asked if any unusual events had occurred. The king replied, “The mother of this child has always been gentle and kind, compassionate and compliant, rejoicing to praise the virtuous deeds and righteous acts of others. But since she conceived, she has become one who delights in hearing of wrongdoing, harbors jealousy and hatred toward the loyal and virtuous, and is displeased when she sees good deeds.”
The astrologer again said, “This too is due to the will of the child manifesting through his mother.” Therefore, he named the boy Pāpakārin (which in the language of Jin means ‘Evil Deeds’).
The king cherished and protected Kalyāṇakarin with utmost affection, never opposing his wishes. He ordered the construction of palaces for the prince to dwell in during the three seasons: a warm palace for winter, a temperate palace for spring and autumn, and a cool palace for summer, each adorned with music and entertainment within.
The prince gradually grew up. He was exceptionally intelligent and wise, thoroughly mastering the eighteen classical scriptures of the world, reciting them fluently and comprehending their meanings in depth. Once, he requested his father’s permission to go out for an excursion. The king consented and ordered the roads and alleys along the route to be cleansed of all filth and impurities. The prince mounted a great white elephant, beneath a jeweled canopy and precious carriage, surrounded before and behind by tens of thousands of horsemen in attendance. The people along the way crowded both sides of the streets so densely that not even water could flow through. The towers and pavilions beside the road were also filled with countless spectators, all exclaiming that the prince resembled Brahmā himself. His features, bearing, and majestic presence were rarely seen among humankind.
At that time, the prince saw many beggars—emaciated and frail in body, their garments and blankets in tatters, holding broken begging bowls in their left hands and leaning on staffs with their right, humbly and pitiably pleading for alms. The prince asked, “Why are they in such a condition?” The attendants replied, “Among these people are those who are orphans, without father or mother, destitute and homeless, stricken with grievous illnesses, unable to labor and sustain themselves, possessing no savings at all. To sustain their lives, they have no choice but to beg.” The prince, filled with compassion and pity, felt deep sorrow within his heart.
Continuing forward, he saw butchers slaughtering animals, cutting them up and selling the flesh. The prince asked, “Why do they engage in such work?” The butchers all said, “We ourselves do not delight in this trade, but from our ancestors onward, our families have depended on it for livelihood. If we do not do this, we cannot feed our households.” Hearing these words, the prince sighed deeply and turned away.
Then the prince came upon farmlands and saw the farmers plowing the earth. Many living creatures were unearthed—frogs devouring flying insects, snakes devouring frogs, and then a peacock flying down to devour the snake. The prince asked, “What are they doing here?” The farmers replied, “This is our occupation. We till the soil and sow seeds to harvest grains, to feed our families and also to supply the royal house.” The prince sighed and said, “For the sake of food and drink, people kill living beings and debase themselves—how deep and bitter is the suffering of the human world!”
Going farther on, the prince saw hunters chasing birds in flight, shooting at them with bows and arrows. He also saw nets spread upon the ground, in which many birds and beasts were trapped, frightened and crying out in terror, struggling desperately but unable to escape. The prince asked, “Why do they do this?” The hunters answered, “We capture these creatures to sustain our families.” The prince, hearing this, let out a long sigh and departed.
“He then came to the river and ponds and saw fishermen casting their nets to catch fish. The fish were dragged ashore, scattered chaotically upon the ground, leaping and twisting about, countless already dead. The prince again asked, and the fishermen replied, “It is by relying on these fish that our families have food and clothing.” The prince looked up and sighed, filled with compassion in his heart, saying, “For the sake of food and clothing, people commit such acts of killing, and the sins they create increase day by day. What kind of retribution will follow after this?”
When he returned to the palace, he was heavy-hearted and unhappy. He went to see his father and said, “I wish that my father would grant me one request.” The king replied, “Whatever you desire, I shall consent to it.” The prince said to the king, “When I went out on my journey, I saw that people of all kinds, for the sake of food and clothing, deceive, harm, and destroy living beings, creating sins that increase every day. I feel deep pity for them and wish to aid and relieve them. I hope the king will allow me to use the treasures in the royal treasury to give alms to the people and rescue the poor and destitute.” The king, loving the prince dearly and unwilling to go against his wish, agreed.”
“Thereupon, the prince proclaimed to the people: “Prince Kalyāṇakarin will now bestow alms and relief upon the poor and destitute who lack clothing and food. All who are in need, come and receive gifts! Those who require gold, silver, jewels, garments, food, or anything else, come and take what you need.” He opened the royal treasury, bringing forth its treasures and placing them at the city gates and in the central marketplace, giving freely whatever people asked for.
Before long, ascetics, Brahmins, the impoverished, and the sick—all, old and young together—came continuously to receive the alms. Those in need of garments were given garments; those in need of food were given food; gold and jewels were freely distributed. People passed the news eagerly among themselves, and soon the word spread across the entire Jambudvīpa. Crowds came in throngs to receive the alms, and two-thirds of the royal treasury’s reserves were used up.”
“The minister in charge of the treasury entered the palace and reported to the king: “Great King, you rule over five hundred subordinate states, and the envoys from these states, when they come and go, all require funds and provisions. Now the prince has been giving alms on a vast scale and has already spent two-thirds of the treasury’s reserves. I beseech the king to consider this carefully and not to regret it later.”
The king replied to the minister, “My prince has his mind wholly set on giving and helping others, and his resolve cannot be changed. If I forbid him, he will surely fall into distress and sorrow. Why should I cause him such trouble? Let him take freely from the treasury as he wishes. Do not hinder him.”
“Before long, of the remaining portion of wealth that had not yet been distributed, again two-thirds were used up. The same minister came once more to report: “Of what remained from before, two-thirds have now again been spent on almsgiving. There is but a small portion left, which must be kept for emergencies; it must not be entirely depleted. I hope the king will consider this deeply, and should misfortune arise later, do not hold me accountable.”
The king thought for a while and said to the minister, “I love this son more than anything else and cannot bear to go against his will. When he comes to take treasures, you may purposely avoid him; if he presses urgently, then give them to him. In this way, sometimes he will obtain what he asks for, sometimes not, and perhaps the supplies will last a little longer.”
Following the king’s command, when a few days later the prince again came to request treasures, the minister made excuses and went elsewhere to avoid him. Thus, the prince sometimes obtained what he sought and sometimes did not, and in this way his needs were not always fully satisfied.”
“The prince perceived what had happened and thought to himself: “What authority does this keeper of the treasury have to dare act against my will? Surely this must be by my father’s command. Yet as a son, it is indeed not right to exhaust the wealth accumulated by one’s parents. Now that little remains in the treasury, what means can I find to obtain enough treasures, so that I may give alms to all beings without ever lacking?” Thinking thus, he began inquiring everywhere, asking, “What kind of endeavor in this world can bring great wealth, enough to be spent freely as one wishes?”
Some people said, “If you do not fear hardship, go afar and become a merchant—only thus can great wealth be gained.” Others said, “If you do not fear the cold of winter nor the heat of summer, till and cultivate the fields diligently, and wealth will surely come.” Still others said, “Raise livestock and tend them carefully; if they breed and flourish in their seasons, wealth can also be attained.” Yet others said, “Only by disregarding one’s life and venturing across the sea to the palace of the Nāga King to seek the wish-fulfilling jewel can one truly gain the greatest wealth—if this venture succeeds, it brings the utmost fortune.”
“Hearing all these opinions, the prince thought: “Trading, farming, and raising livestock are not suited to me, and the wealth gained from them is limited. Only going across the sea to the palace of the Nāga King accords with my heart’s desire—this is what I shall endeavor to accomplish.”
Having made up his mind, he said to the king, “I intend to go into the great sea to seek treasures, so that I may use them to give alms to all people and never be exhausted. I earnestly wish that my father and mother would permit me.”
When the king and queen heard the prince’s words, their hearts were overcome with anguish. They said to him, “Why do you wish to go into the great sea? If you wish to give alms, then according to your will, we will give you all that remains of our family’s wealth for your almsgiving. Why must you disregard your life and speak of venturing into the ocean? Moreover, we have heard that the sea is filled with dreadful perils—black tempests, rākṣasas, vast whirlpools in the waters, giant makara fish, and waves as high as mountains. Few among men can escape these calamities. Of a hundred who set sail together, sometimes only one returns alive. Why are you so hasty to cast yourself into such danger? Your mother and I are tormented with fear for you. The vassals, ministers, and people are all as though scorched by fire, terrified for your safety. Quickly abandon this thought, and trouble us no more with such insistence.””
Though the king spoke thus, the prince’s heart remained fixed upon his great vow, determined to bring salvation and relief to all beings. No matter how earnestly the king entreated him to stay, the prince was unmoved, resolved to accomplish this matter even at the cost of his life. Having set his mind, he came before the king, prostrated himself with his five limbs touching the ground, and said, “I beg you to understand my intent and allow me to fulfill my wish. If you refuse, I shall kneel here and never rise.”
The king, the queen, and the palace ministers saw that the prince’s resolve was firm and could not be changed, and since he had sworn to remain kneeling without rising, they all came together to exhort him in various ways, hoping to move his heart. Yet the prince would not yield. One day passed, then two, then three; by the sixth day, the king and queen discussed, saying, “The prince has now gone six days without food, and tomorrow will be the seventh. If this continues, his life will surely be in peril. Since childhood, whatever he has set his mind upon, he has never failed to accomplish. His determination cannot be altered. If we permit him to go to sea, there still remains a faint hope that he might survive; but if we do not, he will certainly lose his life. Therefore, it is better to grant his request, and when the time for worry comes, we shall face it then.”
Having thus decided, the king and queen together went before Prince Kalyāṇakarin, each taking one of his hands, tears streaming down their faces, and said to him, “We consent to let you go to sea. Please rise now and take some food.”
Hearing his parents’ consent, the prince immediately rose joyfully and said to them, “Though I go to the sea, I shall not be long before I return. Please do not be anxious or worried for me.” The king prepared a great feast, and outside the palace he issued proclamations everywhere, saying: “Prince Kalyāṇakarin is now preparing to go into the great sea. Whoever wishes to accompany him, come and join this voyage.” In a short time, five hundred merchants came forward, all declaring their willingness to go to sea with him.
“At that time, within the kingdom there was a blind navigator who had in former days made several voyages deep into the great sea. When the prince heard of his deeds, he went personally to pay him a cordial visit, speaking to him kindly and persuasively: “Please accompany me on my voyage and guide me through the seas, showing me the right directions and warning me of the dangers.” The navigator replied, “I am already old in years and blind, unable to see. Though I myself also wish to venture again upon the sea, I am truly of no use now. The king cherishes the prince with great affection and cannot bear to have him out of his sight even for a moment. Now, if he hears that you wish to sail with me and that I have agreed, he will surely hold me responsible.”
Hearing this, the prince returned to the palace and said to the king, “There is within this realm a blind navigator who has in the past several times journeyed across the sea. I hope you will explain to him the great purpose of this undertaking and issue a royal command permitting him to accompany me.”
The king, hearing the prince’s words, went personally to the navigator and said, “My son, the prince, has set his mind firmly upon voyaging into the great sea. No words of counsel can move him, and I, being left with no choice, have granted him permission. He is still young and has never known hardship; he does not yet understand the perils of the journey. I have heard that you have traversed the great sea before and know well how to act and avoid dangers upon it. I hope you will change your mind and, though weary with age, consent to accompany him.”
The navigator replied, “I lament only that I am old and blind, unable to see. Yet since Your Majesty has issued this command, how could I dare to disobey?” Hearing this, the king returned to the palace.”
“Thereafter, the prince and the navigator discussed together the auspicious day for departure. The king, having come back to the palace, said to those around him, “Whoever among you holds affection and respect for me, go forth with Prince Kalyāṇakarin to the sea in search of treasures.”
Then Pāpakārin came forward and said to the king, “I am willing to go with my elder brother into the sea.” The king, hearing this, thought to himself, “Now that Kalyāṇakarin has his brother accompanying him on this perilous journey, should danger arise, he will have someone upon whom he can rely more than any other.” Thus, the king consented.”
“The prince then took out three thousand taels of gold: one thousand he used to purchase provisions, one thousand to equip the ship, and another thousand to procure various necessary supplies. When all preparations were complete, they awaited only the moment of departure. The king, the queen, the nobles, ministers, and the common people all came weeping to bid them farewell. The prince and his companions set forth, reaching the seashore, where they reinforced the ship. Its deck was seven layers thick. When the wind arose, they pushed the vessel into the water and bound it to the shore with seven ropes.
The prince ordered a herald to ring a bell and proclaim loudly: “All of you, listen well! The great sea contains countless perils—whirlpools beneath the waters, fierce nāgas, rākṣasas, black storm clouds rolling forth terrifying winds, waves towering like mountains, makara fish of immense size, and many other dangers besides. Those who have ventured into the deep sea and returned alive are very few. If any of you now feel hesitation or fear, it is not too late to turn back. But whoever has truly set his heart to forsake his own life, unmindful of parents, unbound by wife and children, let him sail forth with me to seek the treasures. If we find the treasures and return safely, our wealth will last through many generations.”
After the proclamation was read, one rope was cut. Each day they did the same, and on the seventh day, after the final proclamation, the last rope was severed. Raising the sails to meet the ocean wind, the ship sped forward like an arrow loosed from the string, carrying them straight to the land of treasures.”
The prince was exceedingly intelligent and profoundly learned, skilled in discerning the quality of various precious gems and understanding their worth. He explained to his companions the distinctions between the superior and the inferior treasures, instructing them to choose according to their liking, but he solemnly warned them to take neither too much nor too little, for if they took too much, the ship would become heavy and might sink, and if they took too little, it would not be worth the peril of risking their lives. Having admonished them thus, he took leave of the main party, boarded a small boat together with the navigator, and continued onward.
“The navigator said, “Ahead there should be a white mountain. Do you see it?” The prince replied, “I see it.” The navigator said, “That is the Silver Mountain.” Sailing farther, the navigator again said, “Ahead there should be a blue-colored mountain. Do you see it?” The prince answered, “I see it.” The navigator said, “That is the Mountain of Beryl.” Going farther still, the navigator said, “Now there should be a yellow-colored mountain. Do you see it?” The prince replied, “I see it.” The navigator said, “That is the Golden Mountain.”
When the ship arrived at the foot of the Golden Mountain, they sat down upon the sands of gold. The navigator then said, “My life is nearing its end, and I can no longer endure. I can only point out one more direction to you. Follow the path I have taught you, and ahead you will find a wondrous city filled everywhere with treasures. When you reach the city gate, if the gate is closed, there will be a vajra pestle beside it. Take up that pestle and strike the gate, and within the city five hundred celestial maidens will come forth, each bearing a precious jewel to offer to you. Among them there will be one celestial maiden most noble and majestic; she will hold a jewel of blue color called cintāmaṇi. When you see this wish-fulfilling jewel, seize it firmly at once and do not let it be lost. As for the other treasures, you may also take as you wish, but you must restrain yourself and not speak with them any further. Now I have come to the final moments of my life; the time left to me is short. After I die, for the sake of my service to you, please bury me here, interring my body in this golden sand.”
Having said this, the navigator passed away. The prince wept bitterly, performed the burial as requested, and then proceeded forward according to the navigator’s instructions.”
When he reached the city of seven treasures, the gates were tightly closed. Seeing the vajra pestle beside the gate, the prince followed the navigator’s instruction and struck the gate with it. The gates opened, and five hundred celestial maidens emerged one after another, each carrying a precious jewel and offering it to the prince. The one leading them held a blue-colored jewel, just as the navigator had said—it was indeed the cintāmaṇi. The prince received all the jewels one by one, wrapped them securely in the corner of his robe, and set forth on his journey home.
“Not long after parting from the prince, Pāpakārin told the others, “We have come so far; we ought to take more so it will be worth the trouble,” and, driven by greed, they took far too many things. When the prince returned, the vessel was already overloaded, and on setting out it capsized. The merchants were tossed up and down in the waves, sinking and rising, but because Kalyāṇakarin bore the cintāmaṇi upon his person he did not sink. From a distance Pāpakārin called out to the prince, “Quick, save me—do not abandon me!”
Hearing the cries, the prince seized Pāpakārin by the hand and kept him afloat; together they strove with their combined strength and at last reached the shore. Once ashore, Pāpakārin said to his elder brother, “We two brothers left our parents to go to sea, hoping not to return empty-handed. Who would have thought this misfortune on the way—only our lives are preserved; this is truly shameful.” Kalyāṇakarin, simple, honest, and sincere by nature, replied, “I have obtained treasure.” The younger asked to see it; the prince untied his robe and showed the cintāmaṇi to Pāpakārin.
Seeing the jewel, Pāpakārin thought within himself, “My father favors my elder brother alone; I do not mind that, but now we went together and he obtained this rare and marvelous treasure while I return empty-handed. Henceforth my father will surely despise me still more. What shall I do? Better to kill my brother while he sleeps and take his treasure back to tell the king that he drowned in the sea—then my father will love me and treat me no longer as before.” Having resolved upon this, he secretly plotted and then said to his brother, “The villages and dwellings are drawing near; we ought not both sleep at once. It would be best to take turns on watch and guard the treasure.” The brother agreed, and they kept alternating the night watches.”
When it was Pāpakārin’s turn to sleep, he slept an unusually long time. Because Kalyāṇakarin had kept watch so long before, he slept deeply. Pāpakārin went into the grove where a kind of tree grew bearing very sharp thorns; he took two thorns, each about one and a half chi long, and came to his brother while Kalyāṇakarin still slept soundly. Grasping the thorns, he drove them in to the root and pierced out his brother’s eyes, then tore out the cintāmaṇi and departed. The prince was in excruciating pain and cried aloud, “Pāpakārin! Pāpakārin! There are robbers here!” He called several times, but there was no answer.
“The tree-spirit then told the prince, “Pāpakārin is the robber who harmed you; after he wounded your eyes he took your jewel and departed.” Kalyāṇakarin was miserably tormented as he crawled along, and at last he slowly arrived in the realm of Ṛṣibhadra. He came to the edge of a pond just as five hundred cows were coming there. The lead cow, seeing him, felt both awe and compassion and stretched out its tongue to lick him, while the other cows gathered round in astonishment. A herdsman came and saw the prince lying on the ground with long tree thorns still protruding from his eye sockets. Noting his noble appearance and bearing, the herdsman knew he was no ordinary man; he pulled out the thorns for him, brought him back to his dwelling, anointed the wounds with buttered milk, provided him with food and constant care. After a time the prince’s injuries slowly healed, and the herdsman never once neglected his caring.
The prince asked the herdsman, “What resources do you have here?” The herdsman replied, “I have no capital; I can only support myself by selling curds and milk.” The prince thought, “I have suffered misfortune and he has cared for me so long; now that my wounds have mended and I can move a little, I should go elsewhere.” He told the herdsman, “You have tended me with unfailing courtesy and the entire household has treated me very well. I cannot repay your great kindness. I intend to go into the city and beg to sustain myself.”
Hearing this, the herdsman suspected that his wife or servants might be speaking ill of Kalyāṇakarin, so he asked his household, “”What improprieties have you committed that would make so honored a guest wish to depart?”” The household replied, “”We treated him like a brother and knew not why he would leave.”” The herdsman therefore said to the prince, “I have given you service without fault; do not leave my house to beg elsewhere.” The prince, moved by his deep loyalty and righteousness, remained a little longer.”
After some days, the prince said to the herdsman, “You have treated me with every courtesy and your household has been very kind. Yet I have resolved to go into the city; please send one attendant and escort me there.” Seeing the prince’s determination and fearing that resisting it would displease him, the herdsman personally escorted him into the city. When the two were about to part, the prince said, “Have pity on me and buy for me a lute so I may amuse myself.” The herdsman bought a lute for him, and they clasped hands and bade farewell.
The prince was skilled in many arts and versed in literature and music. He stood at a gateway and sang aloud, accompanying himself with drum and lute; his voice was clear and beautiful. The townspeople heard and paused to listen, never satiated by his singing; they brought him food and drink. Five hundred beggars in the city came to rely upon him and, following him, obtained sufficient food.
In the realm of Ṛṣibhadra there was a gardener who tended the king’s mango orchard. When the mangoes ripened, parrots came to peck at them, and the gardener alone could not prevent the depredation. He presented the mangoes to the king, some having been spoiled by parrots. The king, seeing this, was angry and prepared to punish the gardener. The gardener, fearing punishment, explained that his household lacked hands and begged the king’s pardon, promising to recruit more help so that it would not recur. The king spared him and did not punish him. The gardener went out to recruit workers and saw Kalyāṇakarin begging by the roadside. Observing his demeanor, which seemed honest and upright, he asked, “Will you guard my orchard for me?” The prince replied, “I cannot see; how could I do it?” The gardener said, “If you truly will, though you cannot see, there is a way: tie many fine cords to the tree branches and suspend little bells on them; tie the cords together and hold one end. If you hear any movement, pull the rope and the bells will ring, frightening away the parrots.” The prince agreed that if this would work, he could do it. They settled the arrangement, and the prince went to keep watch over the orchard.
“When Pāpakārin returned to the kingdom, the king was puzzled that he came back alone and inquired about what had happened. Pāpakārin said, “We met with misfortune—the ship was overloaded and sank. Kalyāṇakarin, together with all the merchants and the jewels we had obtained, sank to the bottom of the sea. I struggled desperately in the waves and, by fortune alone, preserved my life.”
When the king and queen heard this news, they fainted on the spot and lay senseless for a long time. Only after attendants sprinkled cold water on their faces did they at last revive. The vassals, ministers, and citizens of the whole realm, on hearing the tidings, were overcome with grief. The king and queen said to Pāpakārin, “Kalyāṇakarin sank into the sea—why did you return? Why did you not perish together with him?” The people throughout the land wept bitterly; cries of mourning filled both court and countryside as though everyone had lost their own parents.
The prince had once raised a beloved wild goose. The king said to it, “The prince who raised you has gone to sea and drowned, never to return. Why do you not go and see, so that at least we might know where his body lies?” He wrote a letter, tied it to the goose’s neck, and released it.”
The goose soared high into the sky and flew everywhere searching. One day, it came to the orchard and heard Kalyāṇakarin’s singing; recognizing his voice, it flew down. Seeing the prince, the goose cried with a sound both sorrowful and joyful. The prince recognized the goose and untied the letter, but since his eyes were blind, he could not read it. He asked for paper and pen and wrote a letter to the king, recounting in detail how Pāpakārin had blinded him and taken the jewel, and describing the hardships and sufferings he had endured along the way. He tied this letter to the goose’s neck, and the goose flew away.
“Now, the king of Ṛṣibhadra had a daughter of exquisite beauty, unmatched in the world. The king cherished her as the apple of his eye and never opposed her wishes. One day, the princess said she wished to visit the orchard to stroll and enjoy the view, and the king permitted her to go. When she arrived, she saw Kalyāṇakarin sitting among the trees—his hair disheveled, his eyes blind, his clothes tattered. The moment she saw him, she was deeply moved and drawn to him, and she sat down beside him to speak with him.
When mealtime came, the king sent attendants to summon his daughter. The princess told the messenger, “Report to my father that the meal should be brought here—I shall dine here.” She said to Kalyāṇakarin, “I wish that you dine with me.” The prince replied, “I am a beggar, and you are a king’s daughter. How can we share a meal? If the king hears of this, he will surely punish me severely.” The princess persisted and pleaded again and again: “If you will not agree, then I will not eat at all.” After much urging, the prince, unable to refuse her insistence, ate with her.”
“Their words grew ever more congenial, their feelings closer, until they could no longer bear to part or look upon anyone else. When the sun was about to set, the king again sent attendants to summon the princess. She told the messenger to report to the king: “I wish to take this gardener as my husband; I will not marry any king or prince. My heart now belongs entirely to him, and I am deeply devoted to him. I beg my father not to hinder me.”
The messenger returned to the king and told him all. The king, unwilling to defy his daughter, said to himself, “Truly misfortune has befallen me! This daughter of mine is unfilial to the extreme. King Jeweled Armor once came to seek her hand for his elder son, Prince Kalyāṇakarin. Now that the prince has gone to sea and has not returned, she would rather marry a beggar. Such a thing disgraces our name and brings shame upon us—where could I hide my face?” Having spoken thus, he sent for the princess again. But the princess stood firm and refused to repent. The king, loving his daughter deeply and unable to overcome her will, took both the princess and Kalyāṇakarin back to the palace, concealed them in the inner quarters, and let them be joined as husband and wife.”
“For several days, the princess went out by day and returned only at night. Kalyāṇakarin grew puzzled and said to her, “You and I are now husband and wife, yet you go out every morning and come back only in the evening. This shows that your heart is not here—perhaps your affections lie elsewhere? Otherwise, how could you act so?” The princess swore an oath, saying, “My mind and heart are entirely devoted to my husband. Even the slightest thought, as thin as a strand of hair, has never strayed toward another. If my words are true and not false in the least, may one of your eyes be restored to sight as before.” The moment she spoke her vow, one of Kalyāṇakarin’s eyes became bright and clear again.
The princess then asked him, “Where are your parents?” The prince said, “Have you ever heard of King Ratnavarman?” She replied, “I have heard of him.” The prince said, “That is my father. Have you ever heard of Prince Kalyāṇakarin?” She said, “I have.” The prince said, “That is I.”
The princess was astonished and asked, “How did you come to such misfortune?” The prince recounted to her all that had happened. The princess sighed deeply and said, “Pāpakārin sought to murder you—never since ancient times has there been such an evil man. If you were to capture him, how would you punish him?” The prince said, “Though Pāpakārin tried to harm me, I shall never bear resentment against him.” The princess said again, “This is too hard to believe. He treated you so cruelly—how could you not hate him?” Then Kalyāṇakarin made a solemn vow, saying, “Toward Pāpakārin I indeed harbor not even the slightest trace of hatred, not even as fine as a hair’s breadth. If my words are true and not false in the least, may my other eye also be restored to sight.” No sooner had he spoken the vow than both his eyes were fully restored.”
“When the princess saw that her husband’s eyes were clear and bright, and beheld his noble and majestic appearance, such as she had never seen before, her joy was beyond measure. She hastened to her father and said, “Do you know Prince Kalyāṇakarin, the son of King Jeweled Armor?” The king replied, “I know him.” The princess said, “Would you like to see him now?” The king asked, “Where is the prince?” The princess said, “My husband is the prince.”
The king laughed and said, “This girl speaks rediculars and has lost her senses. Kalyāṇakarin went to sea and never returned. She must have mistaken some blind beggar for the prince.” The princess pleaded with the king to come and see for himself. The king went to visit and, recognizing the beggar, saw that he was truly Prince Kalyāṇakarin. He trembled with fear, ashamed and astonished, and prostrated himself upon the ground before the prince, repenting and saying, “In truth, I did not know before that you were Prince Kalyāṇakarin. I beg you to forgive my fault.”
He secretly escorted the prince to the border of his realm and then sent messengers to proclaim, “Great King! Prince Kalyāṇakarin has returned from the sea!” The king of Ratnavarman prepared a grand procession and went forth with his ministers to receive him in person. Upon returning, he held a great feast, adorned the princess splendidly, and publicly announced that she would be given in marriage to prince.”
“Meanwhile, the goose flew back to its homeland. The king, seeing the letter it carried, learned that his elder son was still alive and knew all that he had suffered. The king and queen were both grieved and overjoyed, and everyone in the palace and throughout the realm was moved with emotion, anger, and indignation. Pāpakārin was seized, shackled with a cangue, and thrown into prison.
The king then sent an edict to the king of Ṛṣibhadra, saying: “The prince has endured great hardship and fallen into your domain. Why have you remained silent and not reported it? When this decree reaches your country, immediately prepare elephants, horses, carriages, and escorts to return the prince. If there is any delay, I shall come myself.””
“The envoy delivered the letter to the kingdom of Ṛṣibhadra. When King Ṛṣibhadra read it, the prince said to him, “The herdsman who once tended me showed me great kindness. I now wish to see him again; please have him summoned.” The king at once called for the herdsman. Kalyāṇakarin said to the king, “When my eyes were blinded, this man sustained me and nourished me. He is as my own parents. If you hold me in regard, I pray that you reward him.”
The king rejoiced greatly and immediately bestowed upon the herdsman fine garments, chariots drawn by elephants and swift horses, lands, gardens, houses, gold, silver, treasures, servants, and slaves, as well as all the cattle he had once sold. The herdsman was overjoyed and from then on lived out his days in comfort and prosperity.”
“The king of Ṛṣibhadra sent envoys back with a message: “The prince’s misfortune and his stay in my country were unknown to me. Now his eyesight has been restored, and he has taken my daughter as his wife. I am preparing a magnificent procession and shall personally escort the prince back to his homeland.”
He therefore commanded that five hundred white elephants be adorned with gold and silver trappings, decorated in splendid majesty. He selected five hundred attendants to serve the prince and five hundred maidens of graceful beauty, skilled and virtuous, adorning them with various jewels. He also prepared five hundred carriages, lavishly ornamented with treasures, to carry the princess. The king of Ṛṣibhadra himself led his ministers, accompanied by countless chariots and horsemen. Musicians and dancers surrounded the procession before and behind, filling the air with joy and celebration as they made their way homeward.”
When the envoys returned to King Ratnavarman and presented the letter, the king was overjoyed. He gathered all the vassal kings, prepared a grand escort, and led his ministers, the ladies of the inner palace, and the royal household to go forth in person to the border to welcome his son.
“From afar, the prince saw his father approaching. He descended from his carriage and walked on foot to bow in reverence before his parents. The king and queen also descended from their carriage. The three embraced one another, weeping and rejoicing together. After such long separation, their longing had been profound; now, seeing their son again, their sorrow and joy were inexpressible. The vassal kings, ministers, and citizens who witnessed this scene were moved beyond words, filled with wonder and joy.
When the first greetings and conversations were completed, the royal procession turned back toward the capital. Bells and drums resounded, ceremonial music filled the air, and all rejoiced without exception.
As they approached the city gates, the prince asked his father, “Where is Pāpakārin now?” The king replied, “Such a wicked man has no equal in the world. I could not bear to look upon him; he has long been imprisoned in the dungeons.” The prince said to the king, “Please release him.” The king answered, “His sins are heavy and his crimes unpardonable; I have not yet held him to account—how can he be freed?” The prince said again, “If he is not released, I shall not enter the city.” The king, seeing his son’s firm resolve, was compelled to order Pāpakārin’s release.
When Pāpakārin was freed from prison, he came to pay homage to the prince. The prince embraced him and spoke words of comfort and kindness. Thereupon the entire procession entered the city and proceeded to the royal palace.”
At that time, the affection and reverence of the king, queen, princes, ministers, and people toward Kalyāṇakarin were greater than ever before. They saw how the prince treated the one who had once been his enemy as though he were his own son. Though Pāpakārin had once blinded him, the prince bore not even the slightest trace of resentment, not as much as a hair’s breadth. All who beheld this marveled and praised, saying, “How extraordinary! In heaven or among men, there is nothing that can compare to this.”
“When the prince returned to the royal palace, the brotherly affection between him and Pāpakārin was as it had been in former days. The prince asked, “Where is the jewel?” Pāpakārin replied, “On my way back, I buried it in the earth by the roadside.” Messengers were sent to retrieve it, but they could not find the jewel. The prince himself went to the spot, and when he arrived, he discovered the jewel there. All the treasures were brought back to the palace, and the prince distributed five hundred of the jewels among the lesser kings, each receiving one. Only one cintāmaṇi jewel remained, which the prince kept for himself.
Holding the jewel in his hand, he made a vow, saying, “If you truly are the wish-fulfilling jewel, then let my parents, wherever they go or rest, have jeweled thrones adorned with all kinds of precious gems and topped with canopies of seven treasures.” No sooner had he spoken than the thrones and jeweled canopies appeared. Again he held the jewel and prayed, “Let the royal treasury and the stores of the ministers and vassals, which were once emptied through my almsgiving, now be replenished and filled again.” He held the jewel and made his wish toward all directions, and immediately all the treasuries were filled once more with wealth and treasures. The prince then proclaimed to the people and the vassal states: “Prince Kalyāṇakarin will, seven days from now, cause treasures of every kind to descend from the heavens.” The entire nation heard the proclamation.”
“When the appointed day arrived, the prince bathed and burned incense, raised tall banners, placed the jewel upon his head, put on newly made, pure ceremonial garments, and took a censer in his hands. Facing the four directions, he bowed and said, “If this is truly the wish-fulfilling jewel, then let the heavens rain down all that people require.”
As soon as he finished his prayer, clouds and mists arose in the sky, and a clear wind blew, sweeping away all impurities. Then rain fell, settling the dust upon the earth. Afterward, from the heavens descended food and delicacies, followed by grains of every kind, then garments, and at last countless jewels and treasures until they covered the land. The people rejoiced without limit—treasures became to them as common as pebbles.
The prince issued a proclamation to the world: “Now that you all possess sufficient wealth and comfort, there is nothing you lack. If you are grateful for this benevolence, then from this day forward restrain your speech and conduct; never again commit evil deeds, but devote yourselves wholly to good.” The people of the world, grateful for the prince’s immeasurable generosity, heeded his words, turned their minds toward virtue, and ceased from all wrongdoing. When their lives ended, they were all reborn in the heavens.”
The Buddha said to Ānanda: “You should know that Prince Kalyāṇakarin at that time was myself in a former life; that King Ratnavarman was my father of this life, King Pure-Rice; that the queen then was my mother, Mahāmāyā; that king of Ṛṣibhadra was now Mahākāśyapa; that the princess of that time is now Gopī; and that Pāpakārin is now Devadatta. Those who received my kindness in that past age are the eighty thousand heavenly beings when I attained enlightenment and disciples who were given predictions. Ānanda, in that life, when Devadatta sought to harm me, I endured many hardships, yet I always treated him with compassion and kindness. How much more so now that I have attained perfect enlightenment and am free of afflictions and enmity, pervading all with great compassion—how could I not love him, who has caused me but little harm?”
When the Buddha finished speaking, the assembly was deeply moved. Seeing how the World-Honored One, for the sake of all living beings, had endured such countless sufferings and yet never abandoned his compassionate resolve, they sighed in admiration, saying that none in heaven or on earth could equal such conduct. They were filled with both sorrow and joy, and each devoted himself diligently to contemplation of the wondrous Dharma. At that time, some attained the fruit of Srotāpanna, some attained the fruit of Sakṛdāgāmin, some attained the fruit of Anāgāmin, and some attained the fruit of Arhat. Some planted wholesome roots that would lead to the enlightenment of a Pratyekabuddha, and some aroused the irreversible aspiration for Bodhi. All rejoiced in their hearts and, with utmost sincerity, accepted and practiced the teaching.
Section Forty-Three: Mahāratna
Thus have I heard:
At one time, the Buddha was in the country of Kapilavastu, in the Nyagrodha Saṅghārāma. The Buddha had just returned to his native land. At that time, the people of the Śākya clan beheld the Buddha’s majestic demeanor—unsurpassed in beauty, his body of golden hue, adorned with the thirty-two marks, pleasing to behold and never wearisome to the eyes. The people gathered in the markets and along the streets, all speaking with one voice in praise of the Tathāgata, saying, “Among this great assembly, none can compare with him; truly he is worthy of the highest reverence.”
When the bhikṣus heard such words of praise, they went together to report them to the World-Honored One. Then the World-Honored One said to the bhikṣus, “You should know, in past ages as well, among great assemblies I was also the most honored and most magnificent, not only in this present life.””
At that time, the bhikṣus said to the Buddha, “We do not know, in the past worlds, how the Buddha was the most honored and most magnificent among the assemblies. How did this come to be?”
The Buddha then said to the bhikṣus, “Listen attentively, listen attentively, and keep this in your hearts. I shall explain to you in detail the events of the past.”
They replied, “Yes, we are joyful and willing to hear.”
The World-Honored One said, “In the past, innumerable, Inconceivable, asaṃkhyeya kalpas ago, in this very Jambudvīpa there was a great king named Ratna. Under his rule were eighty-four thousand vassal kings, ten thousand ministers, and five hundred princes. He had twenty thousand consorts and palace maidens. The chief queen was named Devabhāti. She was the last to become pregnant and gave birth to a prince. This prince was of handsome countenance; his body shone with a purple-golden radiance; his hair was dark blue; within the palms of his two hands appeared the mark of a thousand-spoked wheel; on the sole of his left foot was the form of a horse, and on the sole of his right foot was the form of a white elephant. The blessings and virtue of this child made him especially noble among all people. Therefore, following the names of his parents, he was named Devaratna. Raised under excellent guidance, he gradually grew up.
King Ratna suddenly contracted illness and was about to die. The vassal kings, ministers, and princes came to visit his sickbed and inquired of him, saying, ‘If the great king passes away, among the vassal kings and princes, who shall inherit the throne?’
King Ratna replied, ‘If I die, whoever is fully endowed with ten kinds of virtues shall be established as king. And what are these ten kinds of virtues? First, his body is of purple-golden color and his hair is dark blue. Second, in the palms of both hands there appear the golden wheel marks, complete and without flaw. Third, on the sole of his right foot is the image of a white elephant. Fourth, on the sole of his left foot is the image of a horse. Fifth, when he puts on the royal robes, they fit his body perfectly—neither too large nor too small. Sixth, when he sits upon the royal jeweled throne, his majesty and virtue are lofty and unshakable, and the throne remains firm and stable. Seventh, the vassal kings and ministers all rejoice and revere him together, acclaiming him with one voice; and within the inner palace, the queen and concubines are joyful and delighted, bowing to him in reverence. Eighth, when he goes to the temples to make offerings to the deities, the clay and wooden images there all bow down to him in respect. Ninth, his blessings, virtues, authority, and power are such that from heaven seven kinds of precious treasures will rain down, fulfilling every need. Tenth, his mother is Devabhāti. If there is one who possesses these ten virtues without a single deficiency, then he shall be enthroned as the great king.’
Having thus declared his intent, impermanence arrived, and he passed away.”
Then, the vassal kings and the five hundred princes, beginning from the eldest, were examined one by one to see whether any possessed the ten virtues. Those princes did not have golden-colored bodies nor dark-blue hair; in the palms of their hands there were no marks of the golden wheel; on the soles of their feet there were no forms of the white elephant or the horse. When they put on the royal robes, they did not fit properly. When they sat upon the jeweled throne, the carved wooden lions upon it were startled and enraged, standing upright as if to attack and roar. The vassal kings and subjects showed no reverence. When they entered the inner palace, the concubines were displeased, and none offered them homage. If they went into the temples to worship the heavens, the clay and wooden images of the gods paid them no regard. When they commanded that treasures descend from heaven, no response appeared. And some were not born of Queen Devabhāti. Thus, among the five hundred elder princes, not one possessed even a single of the ten virtues.”
Only the youngest prince remained. His body was of purple-golden hue, his hair dark blue; upon opening his hands, the marks of the golden wheel were complete; upon showing his feet, the forms of the white elephant and the horse were vivid and bright as if painted in light. When he put on the royal robe, it fitted perfectly. When he sat upon the royal throne, his bearing was stately and majestic. All the vassal kings and subjects paid him homage. When he entered the inner palace, the concubines bowed in reverence. When he entered the temple halls, even the clay and wooden images of the gods inclined themselves in worship. When he commanded treasures to fall from the heavens, the words had scarcely been spoken when precious jewels rained down. When asked whose son he was, it was known that his mother was Queen Devabhāti. Thus, being complete in all ten virtues without lack, the vassal kings and subjects bowed down and enthroned him as the great king.”
“On the fifteenth day after his ascension to the throne, when the sun had just risen, a precious golden wheel appeared from the east, with a thousand spokes, a full yojana in width and breadth. The king descended from his throne, knelt with his right knee upon the ground, and said, “If my blessings and virtues truly make me worthy to be king, then may this golden wheel correspond with me.” Just as he spoke, the golden wheel came before the palace and hovered in midair.
A white elephant came forth from the Fragrant Mountain, its skin and tail adorned with strings of precious gems. When the king mounted it, the white elephant could soar through the air, circling the four quarters of the world from morning until noon. When it walked upon the earth, wherever its feet touched, the ground turned into golden sand.
A blue-green horse appeared, its body dark with a blue sheen, its mane and tail glimmering with pearly luster. When the king mounted it, within the time it took to eat a single meal, it had traversed the entire world, neither weary nor fatigued.
A miraculous wish-fulfilling jewel appeared of its own accord, radiating light that illuminated a fifty miles around, whether by day or by night. It could cause the seven precious treasures to fall from heaven, fulfilling all desires.
A jade maiden also appeared naturally, graceful in form, of utmost beauty, perfectly suited to the king’s heart.
The treasurers who managed the royal stores could always provide the seven treasures as the king desired, in complete sufficiency, never lacking. The officers who oversaw the armies, whenever the king required weapons, needed only to turn their heads to look, and the troops were already assembled, arrayed in strict formation, mighty and awe-inspiring.”””
“With the seven treasures all fully possessed, the king reflected, ‘I enjoy the royal position entirely due to the wholesome deeds and merits cultivated in former lives. Henceforth I should continue to increase them so that they will never cease.’
He then bathed his body with fragrant water, put on new and pure garments, took up an incense burner, knelt toward the east, and said, ‘Virtuous ones of the eastern direction, please accept my invitation.’ Immediately, twenty thousand Pratyekabuddhas appeared in the royal palace. In the same way, he made offerings to those of the south, west, and north, and sixty thousand Pratyekabuddhas came as invited. The king and his ministers made offerings with utmost devotion.
The eighty-four thousand vassal kings had been away from their own lands for a long time and requested permission to return. The great king allowed them to depart. Then the vassal kings said to the king, ‘There are too many sages here; we beg the great king to lessen his own offerings somewhat and divide them among us, so that we may also share in such meritorious rewards in the future.’ The great king thus entrusted forty thousand Pratyekabuddhas to the vassal kings for them to make offerings continually. After eighty-four thousand years, when the vassal kings came to the end of their lives, they were all reborn together with the great king in the heavenly realms.”
The Buddha said to the bhikṣus, “You should know, at that time, King Ratna was my father, King Pure-Rice; Queen Devabhāti was my mother, Queen Mahāmāyā; the great King Devaratna was myself; and the five hundred princes of that time are the five hundred bhikṣus here today. At that time I was already the most dignified and magnificent among the assembly. Today I have attained Buddhahood, complete with all the marks of a precious body, the most wondrous and supreme among all beings.”
When the assembly heard the words of the Buddha, some attained the fruit of Srotāpanna, some attained the fruit of Sakṛdāgāmin, some attained the fruit of Anāgāmin, and some attained the fruit of Arhat. Some planted wholesome roots leading toward the enlightenment of a Pratyekabuddha; and some aroused the irreversible Bodhi-mind. All rejoiced in their hearts, and with utmost sincerity accepted and practiced the teaching.
Section Forty-Four: Good-Seeker and Evil-Seeker
Thus have I heard:
At one time, the Buddha was staying in the Jeta Grove, in Anāthapiṇḍada’s Park, in the country of Śrāvastī. At that time, Devadatta, though he had already renounced the household life, became deluded by gain and offerings, and committed the three great heinous offenses: he pushed down a great boulder in an attempt to crush the Buddha, wounding the Buddha’s toe; he released a fierce elephant, intending for it to harm the Buddha; and he sowed discord among the Sangha and murdered bhikṣuṇīs who had attained the complete extinction of outflows.
Because of killing and doing harm, Devadatta grew suspicious and fearful, dreading the retribution that would follow. At that time, there were six heretical teachers, and Devadatta went to inquire of them. They expounded various false doctrines to him, saying, “To commit evil deeds bears no sin, and to do good deeds brings no merit.” Devadatta believed them deeply and without doubt, thereby cutting off his wholesome roots.”
Ānanda, recalling their kinship as close as hands and feet, was both sorrowful and indignant. Grieving and choking with emotion, he said to the Buddha, “Devadatta is deluded and senseless; he has done unwholesome deeds, destroyed his wholesome roots, and brought disgrace upon the sons of the Śākya clan.”
The Buddha said to Ānanda, “Devadatta is not only in this present life deluded by greed for pleasure and thus severed his wholesome roots. In past lives also, through craving for enjoyment, he brought about his own destruction.”
Ānanda said to the Buddha, “World-Honored One, in former lives how did Devadatta lose his life through craving for pleasure? I wish to hear the Tathāgata explain it in detail.”
The Buddha said to Ānanda, “Listen carefully, and I shall tell you. In the distant past, innumerable, Inconceivable, asaṃkhyeya kalpas ago, in this very Jambudvīpa there was a country named Benares. At that time there was a merchant named Mahāyayu. His wife, after conceiving, became kind-hearted, gentle, and virtuous. When her term was complete, she gave birth to a son, whose form was upright and proper. The parents loved this child dearly. They prepared sweet and delicious food, invited guests and physiognomists, and held a great celebration. Holding the child in their arms, they presented him to the people to be named. The physiognomist asked, “What auspicious sign appeared when this child was conceived?” The father replied, “After conception, my wife naturally became kind-hearted and good-natured.” The physiognomist then named the child Good-Seeker. Good-Seeker grew up loving to do good deeds, kind and compassionate toward all living beings.
Later, the mother again conceived, but after this conception her disposition became perverse and malicious. When her term was complete, she gave birth to another son, whose form was ugly and unpleasant to look upon. Again, the physiognomists were invited to name him. They asked, “What sign appeared when this child was conceived?” The father replied, “After conceiving this child, my wife’s temperament became cruel and wicked.” The physiognomist then named the child Evil-Seeker. Evil-Seeker, when grown, delighted always in doing evil deeds, was full of greed and jealousy, and constantly harbored desires.”
“As they both grew older, they wished to journey with the merchants to the great ocean in search of treasures. Each of them gathered five hundred attendants and set forth, one after another. The journey was long and distant. Along the way, they exhausted their provisions, and after seven days without food, all were on the verge of death.
At that time, Good-Seeker and the merchants together devoutly prayed to the spirits, seeking deliverance and aid. In the vast expanse of water, they saw from afar a great tree with luxuriant branches and dense leaves, and when they approached, there was a spring of water beside it. Good-Seeker and the others sincerely entreated for mercy and assistance. Their earnest hearts moved the deity, who appeared before them and said, “Cut off one branch of this tree, and whatever you desire will appear.”
Overjoyed, they cut off one branch, and sweet and delicious drinks flowed forth. When they cut a second branch, all kinds of food appeared—delicacies of every kind—and everyone ate and drank their fill. When they cut a third branch, fine garments appeared, complete in every detail. When they cut a fourth branch, boundless treasures appeared, enough to satisfy all needs.”
”Later, Evil-Seeker arrived. Seeing that those before him had already taken and enjoyed their fill, he thought to himself, ‘If these branches can produce such fine things, how much more wondrous treasures must lie within the roots? I should cut down the roots, and then I will obtain treasures of supreme beauty and marvel.’ He therefore commanded his attendants to dig and cut.
Good-Seeker, perceiving his intention, was angered and grieved, and said to Evil-Seeker, ‘When we were weary and starving, our lives hanging by a thread, it was through the grace of this tree that we were preserved. How can you harbor such cruel and evil thoughts as to cut down its roots?’ But Evil-Seeker paid no heed to these words of admonition and continued to dig toward the roots.
Good-Seeker, saddened and full of pity, unable to bear seeing the roots destroyed, led his people and returned home. In the end, the tree was cut down, and immediately five hundred rākṣasas seized Evil-Seeker and all his merchants and devoured them. Thus they lost their wealth, their companions, and their very lives.”
The Buddha said to Ānanda, “At that time, Good-Seeker was myself. The father of that time was my father, King Pure-Rice; the mother of that time was my mother, Queen Mahāmāyā; and the Evil-Seeker of that time is now Devadatta. Devadatta has not only in this present life committed evil deeds and craved for wealth and pleasure—he has been the same in every life. In countless past lives I have met him again and again, always teaching him to do good, yet he would never listen, and instead deepened his enmity toward me.”
At that time, Ānanda and the four assemblies, upon hearing the Buddha’s words, were filled with both sorrow and joy. Each encouraged and exhorted one another, reverently accepted the teaching, and faithfully put it into practice.
Dharma Torch 