Translated by śramaṇas Hui Jue etc. from Liangzhou of the Yuan Wei Dynasty in Gaochang Commandery
Section Fifty-Two: Unhurt, the Finger-Necklace (In the Tanjur version this section is Fifty-One)
Thus have I heard:
At one time, the Buddha was staying in Śrāvastī, in the Jeta Grove, Anāthapiṇḍada’s Park. At that time, there was a king named Prasenajit. The king had a minister who was wise and extremely wealthy. His wife became pregnant and gave birth to a son whose appearance was upright and whose countenance and bearing were extraordinarily distinguished. When the minister saw his son, he rejoiced greatly. He immediately summoned an astrologer to examine and interpret the child’s marks. The astrologer, upon seeing the child, was delighted and said, “This child bears the marks of great fortune. Among men, he will be exceptionally outstanding. He is intelligent, wise, eloquent, and possessed of virtue surpassing that of ordinary people.” When the father heard this, he was exceedingly pleased and ordered someone to choose a name for the boy.
The astrologer then asked, “Since the time of conception, has there been anything unusual?” The minister replied, “His mother originally had a temperament that was not very kind, but ever since she became pregnant, she has become exceptionally gentle and respectful. Her disposition has grown calm, she delights in praising the virtues of others, feels compassion for the sufferings of all beings, and no longer enjoys speaking of others’ faults.” The astrologer said, “This is due to the child’s own intent and nature. He should therefore be named Akṛcchraka (which in the language of Jin means ‘Unhurt’)”
As the child gradually grew up, his body became strong and majestic beyond compare. He possessed the strength of a great hero; one man’s might was enough to resist a thousand others. He could leap and seize flying birds, and when he ran, he was swifter than a galloping horse. The minister, his father, loved him dearly.”
At that time, in that country, there was a brāhmaṇa who was wise, learned, and well-versed in many scriptures. He was followed by five hundred disciples who studied under him. The minister then entrusted his own son to this brāhmaṇa, so that the boy might learn knowledge and instruction. The brāhmaṇa agreed and accepted him as a student. Akṛcchraka studied diligently day and night; what he learned and mastered in one day surpassed what others could learn in an entire year. Before long, he had thoroughly comprehended all the branches of knowledge. The brāhmaṇa teacher esteemed him greatly. In all conduct and manners, the teacher always went together with him, and the other students all admired and revered him.
At that time, the wife of the brāhmaṇa teacher saw that he was handsome in appearance, exceptional in talent and bearing, and she gave rise to feelings of desire. Her passion grew and could not be restrained. However, because many disciples always accompanied him and he never acted alone, she had no chance to speak to him privately. Her desire unfulfilled, she became often depressed and melancholy.
Just then, a dānapati came to invite the teacher and his disciples to receive offerings for three months. The brāhmaṇa teacher and his wife discussed the matter in their house, saying, “Now I am going to accept the dānapati’s invitation for three months of offerings, and someone must be left behind to manage the household affairs.” When his wife heard this, she was delighted and secretly planned in her heart. She said to the brāhmaṇa, “This matter should be handled thus. The household affairs are many and burdensome, so someone capable should be left to take charge. Akṛcchraka should remain and be instructed to manage all later matters.”
Therefore, the brāhmaṇa instructed Akṛcchraka, saying, “I am now going to accept the dānapati’s invitation. There are many affairs in the house that must be attended to. Since you are capable, you should take charge of the household in my stead.” Unhurt accepted the command and remained at home, not accompanying the others. The teacher and his disciples then set out on their journey.”
The woman rejoiced inwardly, filled with delight. She adorned herself carefully, displaying her beauty and charms in every way, and engaged Unhurt in conversation, seeking to sway his mind. Yet Unhurt’s resolve was firm; he had no intention of approaching her intimately. The wife of the teacher, her lustful desire increasing ever more, then spoke to him frankly, saying, “I have long harbored affection for you, but because there were always others present, I could not express my feelings. When your teacher departed, I deliberately arranged for you to remain. Now that only the two of us are here alone, you should comply with my desire.
Unhurt politely declined, saying, “As one who holds the vows of a brāhmaṇa, I shall never defile myself by committing adultery with my teacher’s wife. Should I violate this precept, I would no longer be a brāhmaṇa. I would rather die for this than ever commit such a deed.””
At that time, the teacher’s wife, finding her hopes destroyed, was overcome with shame and anger. She secretly devised a plot. When the teacher was about to return, she tore her garments, scratched her face, covered her body with dust, and lay haggard upon the ground without uttering a word.
When the brāhmaṇa teacher and his disciples came back together, he entered the house and, upon seeing his wife’s miserable appearance, asked, “What has happened to you?” The wife wept and said, “Do not ask.” The brāhmaṇa questioned her again, “What has happened? You should tell me—why do you not speak?” She cried and said, “That Akṛcchraka whom you so highly praised—ever since you left, he has continually violated me. Just now, when I resisted, he tore my clothes and injured my body. How could you have taken in such a disciple?”
Hearing this, the brāhmaṇa’s heart burned with wrath. He said to his wife, “This Unhurt has the strength of a thousand men, and he is the son of the king’s minister, born of a noble lineage. Though I wish to punish him, I must proceed gradually and with caution.”
Having thus decided, the brāhmaṇa went to meet Unhurt and, with skillful means and seeming kindness, said to him, “Since my departure, you have labored hard managing the household. You have ever been loyal and sincere toward me, and I have often thought of how to repay your devotion. I possess a secret method which I have never revealed to anyone. If you practice it and attain success, you will be born directly into the Brahmā heaven.”
Unhurt knelt and asked, “What is this method?” The teacher replied, “If within seven days you behead one thousand people and from each take one finger, making a garland of one thousand fingers to wear as adornment, then Brahmā himself will descend to meet you, and at the end of your life you will surely be reborn in the Brahmā heaven.”
Hearing these words, Unhurt hesitated and said to his teacher, “This cannot be right—how could one be born in the Brahmā heaven by killing living beings?” The teacher said again, “You are my disciple. Do you not believe my most essential words? If you do not believe, then the bond between teacher and pupil is severed. Go your own way and remain here no longer.”
Then the teacher recited a spell and planted a sword upright in the ground. When the incantation was complete, evil thoughts arose in Unhurt’s mind. The teacher, knowing what was in his heart, handed the sword to him.
He took the sword in his hand and went outside. Whenever he encountered a person, he killed them and took one of their fingers, stringing them together into a necklace. People, upon seeing him, all called him Aṅgulimāla (which in the language of Jin means ‘Finger-Necklace’). He went everywhere killing people, and by the seventh day, he had obtained nine hundred and ninety-nine fingers—just one short of a thousand. He wished to kill one more person to complete the thousand, but everyone had hidden away, and no one dared to come forth. He searched everywhere and could find no one.
For seven days he had taken no food. His mother, pitying him, sent people to bring him something to eat, but they were too frightened to go. Having no choice, his mother herself carried food to him. When her son saw her from afar, he ran toward her intending to kill her. His mother said, “Ehou! You unfilial one! Why do you harbor such evil thoughts and wish to harm me?” The son replied, “I am following the instruction of my teacher—to gather a thousand fingers within seven days. Then I shall fulfill my wish and be born in the Brahmā heaven. The seven days are now complete, but I can find no one else. I have no choice but to kill my own mother.” The mother said, “If it must truly be so, then take only my finger, and do not kill or injure me.”
At that time, the World-Honored One saw from afar and knew that he could be delivered. Thus he transformed himself into a bhikṣu and approached him. When Aṅgulimāla saw the bhikṣu, he abandoned his mother, leapt up, and ran toward him to kill him. The Buddha, seeing him come, slowly moved away. Finger-Necklace ran with all his might, yet could not catch up, and shouted from afar, “Bhikṣu, stay still!” The Buddha replied from a distance, “I have always been still; it is you who have not stopped.”
Finger-Necklace asked, “What do you mean that you are still, but I have not stopped?” The Buddha answered, “My faculties are calm and tranquil; thus I have attained freedom. But you, following the instruction of evil teacher, have accepted false and perverted views, thereby altering your nature and disturbing your mind. You kill living beings day and night, committing boundless evil deeds.”
Upon hearing these words, Finger-Necklace’s mind suddenly awakened. He threw away his sword from afar and took refuge.
The Tathāgata, waiting for this very moment, resumed his Buddha form, radiant as the sun, with the thirty-two auspicious marks shining in wondrous brilliance. Seeing the Buddha’s luminous appearance and majestic demeanor, Finger-Necklace prostrated himself upon the ground, repenting of his transgressions and reproaching himself deeply. The Buddha expounded the Dharma to him briefly, and he attained the pure Dharma eye; his mind became purified and filled with faith. He then requested to go forth. The Buddha consented, saying, “Come, bhikṣu.” Instantly, his hair fell away by itself, and the monastic robe appeared upon his body. The Buddha, according to his faculties, again expounded the Dharma to him. All his defilements were extinguished, and he attained the fruit of Arhatship. Then the Buddha brought him back to the Jeta Grove.
At that time, the people of the kingdom, upon merely hearing the name of Finger-Necklace, were all seized with terror. Pregnant women and animals, overcome by fear, were unable to give birth. There was then an elephant that could not deliver its offspring. The Buddha instructed Finger-Necklace to go forth and sincerely proclaim, “Since the time of my birth, I have never killed a single being.” Finger-Necklace said to the Buddha, “I have already killed so many people—how could I truthfully say I have never killed?” The Buddha told him, “From the moment you took refuge in the sacred Dharma, your true life began.”
Then Finger-Necklace, properly robed and composed, went according to the Buddha’s instruction and declared those words before the people. All beings thereupon regained their natural peace, and life in the land returned to normal. Finger-Necklace returned to the Jeta Grove Monastery and sat in meditation within a chamber.
At that time, King Prasenajit assembled a great army, intending to personally go and suppress Aṅgulimāla. When the army passed by the Jeta Grove, they were about to launch an attack. In that grove, there happened to be a bhikṣu whose appearance was exceedingly ugly, yet whose voice was remarkably pure and melodious. When he lifted his voice in song, the sound was harmonious and flowing beyond compare. The soldiers, captivated by it, listened intently, none of them growing tired of hearing; the war elephants and the army horses raised their ears, halted, and refused to move forward.
The king was astonished and asked his charioteer, “Why is this so?” The charioteer replied, “The song has made the war elephants and horses stop and listen.” The king said, “If even these beasts delight so in hearing such a song, why should we humans not stop and listen as well?” Thus, together with all the others, he went into the Jeta Grove.
He dismounted from his elephant, unfastened his sword, put aside his parasol of command, and approached the Buddha, bowing and exchanging greetings. By then, the bhikṣu had ceased his singing. The king was the first to speak, saying, “The song I heard just now was pure and exquisite, harmonious and flowing. I was moved with admiration and delight. I wish to meet this person and befriend him. I will grant him a hundred thousand pieces of gold.”
The Buddha said to him, “You must first make the offering; only then may you see him. For once one has seen him, one will have no wish to give him even a single coin.” The king made the offering, and then he was shown the bhikṣu. Seeing his appearance—so coarse and hideous that it was difficult even to look upon—the king at once lost all desire to offer him wealth.
Rising from his seat, the king bowed down before the Buddha and said, “This bhikṣu is so unsightly and unpleasant to behold, yet his voice is deep, pure, and resonant. What deeds has he done in the past that have brought him to such a result?”
The Buddha said to the king, “Listen carefully and attend with full attention. In a past age, there was a Buddha named Kāśyapa. After he had completed his work of guiding and delivering sentient beings, he entered Parinirvāṇa. At that time, there was a king named Krivi who gathered the relics and wished to build a stūpa to enshrine them. Then, four nāga kings transformed themselves into human form and came to visit the king. They inquired about the stūpa, saying, ‘Will it be built with precious jewels, or will it be made of earth?’ The king immediately replied, ‘I wish the stūpa to be magnificent, but I do not possess so many jewels—how could I construct it in such a way? I now plan to build it of earth, five leagues in circumference and twenty-five leagues high, as tall and splendid as possible, so that all may come and behold it.’
“The nāga kings said to him, ‘We are not human beings—we are nāga kings. Having heard that Your Majesty intends to build a stūpa, we have come to ask about it. If you truly wish to construct it with precious materials, we shall assist you.’ The king rejoiced greatly and said, ‘That you would do so is truly wonderful!’ The nāga kings then said, ‘Outside the city gates there are four great springs. From the spring in the east, if its water is used to make bricks, they will turn into blue beryl; from the southern spring, if its water is used, the bricks will become pure gold; from the western spring, the bricks will turn into silver; and from the northern spring, the bricks will become white jade.’
“When the king heard this, he was filled with even greater joy. He immediately appointed four overseers, each to take charge of one direction. When the work of three overseers was nearly complete, one of them grew lazy and negligent, and his section of the construction was long delayed. The king came to inspect and reproached him with reason, saying, ‘You are careless in your work and shall surely be punished.’ The man, harboring resentment in his heart, said to the king, ‘This stūpa is so immense—when will it ever be finished?’ After the king departed, he commanded all the workers to labor diligently day and night, and soon the entire stūpa was completed all at once.
“The stūpa rose up high and steep, adorned with countless jewels that shimmered and shone, magnificent in its ornate beauty, wondrous to behold. When that man saw it, joy arose in his heart. He repented of his former fault, took a golden bell, and hung it upon the summit of the stūpa, making a vow then and there, saying, ‘May the sound of my voice in future lives be supremely harmonious and delightful, bringing joy to all beings who hear it. When there arises a Buddha named Śākyamuni, may I behold him and be freed from the cycle of birth and death.’
“So it is, Great King! If you wish to know who that overseer was who once worked slowly and complained that the stūpa was too large—he is this very bhikṣu. Because in that time he complained resentfully and found fault with the stūpa for being too great, for five hundred lifetimes his body has been extremely ugly. Later, because he joyfully hung the golden bell atop the stūpa, vowing for a beautiful voice and to behold me, he has for five hundred lifetimes possessed an exquisite and wondrous voice. And now, having seen me, he has attained liberation.”
The king, having heard these words, took his leave and prepared to depart. The Buddha asked the king, “Where are you going?” The king replied to the Buddha, “In my realm there is a wicked bandit named Aṅgulimāla. He harms and kills the people, committing all manner of evil deeds without restraint. I now intend to lead my men to attack and capture him.” The Buddha said to the king, “Aṅgulimāla now cannot even kill an ant—how could he possibly kill a human being?”
The king thought to himself, “Has the World-Honored One already gone to that place and subdued him?” The Buddha said to the king, “Finger-Necklace has already gone forth as a bhikṣu, practicing the path, and has attained the fruit of Arhatship. He will never again commit evil. He now resides in his dwelling. Would you like to see him?” The king said, “I wish to see him.”
The king then went to the dwelling of the Finger-Necklace. Standing outside the door, he heard the sound of bhikṣu Finger-Necklace clearing his throat. At that moment, remembering the vast harm he had caused in the past, the king was seized by terror, fell to the ground unconscious, and lay there for a long time before recovering. When he regained his senses, he returned to the Buddha and told him what had happened.
The Buddha said to the king, “It is not only today that, upon hearing his voice, you fell to the ground in fright and lost consciousness. In a past age, when you heard his voice, the same thing occurred. Listen carefully, Great King! Long, long ago, in this continent of Jambudvīpa, there was a great kingdom called Benares. In that time, within the country, there was a poisonous bird that preyed upon various venomous creatures and fed upon them continually. Its body was exceedingly noxious and dreadful, impossible to approach or touch. Wherever it passed, living beings perished, and even trees and plants withered entirely.
“Once, this bird flew over a forest and alighted upon a tree. It cleared its throat, preparing to sing. At that time, within that forest, there was a great white elephant king resting beneath another tree nearby. When he heard the sound of the poisonous bird, he was so terrified that he fell to the ground unconscious, unable to move. Thus it is, Great King! The poisonous bird of that time is now Finger-Necklace; the white elephant king of that time is now you.””
The king again said to the Buddha, “Aṅgulimāla was exceedingly cruel, having killed so many people. It is by the grace of the World-Honored One’s instruction that he has turned toward goodness.” The Buddha said to the king, “Aṅgulimāla did not merely kill many people in this present life and then receive my teaching. In past lives also, he killed these same beings, and I likewise instructed him, causing him to give rise to wholesome thoughts.” The king again said to the Buddha, “We do not know what harm these people suffered in their previous lives, nor how the World-Honored One instructed and transformed them. We wish to hear your explanation.”
The Buddha said to the king, “Listen carefully and hold this well in your heart. In the distant past, countless kalpas ago, there was in Jambudvīpa a great kingdom called Benares. At that time, the king was named Brahmadatta. The king once led his fourfold army into the mountains and forests to hunt. Coming to the edge of a marsh, he pursued wild beasts and, being separated from his retinue, rode alone in a chariot deep into the dense woods. The king grew weary and dismounted to rest for a while.
“At that time, within the forest, there was a lioness overcome by strong lustful desire, roaming everywhere in search of a mate but finding none. As she wandered through the woods, she happened upon the king sitting alone, and her passion flared even more intensely. She wished to couple with him. Approaching the king, she raised her tail and turned her back toward him. The king understood her intent and thought, ‘This is a fierce beast. She has the power to kill me. If I do not comply with her will, I may be in great danger.’ Out of fear, the king yielded and coupled with the lioness. When the act was over, the lioness departed. Soon after, the soldiers and attendants caught up with the king, and together they returned to the palace.
“In due time, the lioness became pregnant and, when the months were complete, gave birth to a son. This child’s form was entirely human, except that mottled marks covered his feet. The lioness recalled the past events and knew this was the son of the king. She carried the child in her mouth and placed him before the king. The king, remembering what had occurred, also knew that this was his own son and took him in and raised him. Because the child’s feet bore mottled markings, he was named Kalmāṣapāda (which in the language of Jin means ‘Spotted-Feet’). Spotted-Feet gradually grew up, displaying great intelligence, determination, and bravery. When his father passed away, he succeeded to the throne.
“At that time, King Spotted-Feet had two queens—one of royal descent, the other born of a brāhmaṇa family. One day, the king went out from the city to enjoy the gardens and said to his two queens, ‘Follow after me. Whichever of you reaches me first shall share a day of supreme pleasure with me. Whoever arrives later shall not see me.’ After the king departed, both queens adorned themselves finely, prepared their chariots and horses, and set out together.
“On the way, they came upon a shrine of a deva. The queen of brāhmaṇa birth descended from her chariot to pay her respects. Having completed her worship, she hastened onward, but she arrived later than the other. The king, true to his word, did not receive her. Enraged, the queen was filled with anger and resentment toward the deva, saying, ‘It was because I bowed to you that I was despised by the king. If you truly possess divine power, why did you not protect me?’ Her heart seethed with wrath and bitterness, and she secretly conceived a desire for vengeance.”
“Later, when the king returned to the palace, that queen became even more attentive in her service to him and again won his favor. She then made a request to the king, saying, ‘Please grant me one wish—that I may have freedom throughout the kingdom for a single day.’ The king, partial to her, granted her wish. She went forth and ordered the destruction of the deva’s shrine, leveling the ground where it stood, and then returned to the palace.
“The deva who guarded the shrine was stricken with grief, anguish, and resentment. He came to the palace intending to bring harm, but the guardian deities of the royal palace restrained him and would not let him enter.
“There lived a sage on a virtuous mountain. At that time King Spotted-Feet often made offerings to him. Each day at mealtime the immortal would fly into the palace; he would not eat lavish delicacies but only coarse, plain food. Once, the immortal did not come for a day. The deva learned of this and assumed the form of the immortal, intending to enter the palace. The palace guardian still recognized him and would not let him pass. The deva stood at the gate from a distance and requested the king’s permission to present himself.
“When the king heard that the immortal was requesting an audience outside, he found the matter strange and hastily ordered the guards to admit him. At that the palace guardian, having heard the king’s command, ceased his obstruction. The deva therefore went straight in and sat in the place where the immortal usually sat in meditation. The servants prepared the usual food to offer to him. The transformed sage refused to take the meal and said to the king, “This food is too coarse, and there is neither meat nor fish; how can one eat it?” The king answered, “Great sage, ever since you have come here you have always eaten plain vegetarian fare, so we did not prepare meat or fish delicacies.” The transformed sage again said, “From now on, do not prepare coarse food any more; from now on just provide meat.” The king followed his words and prepared meat. After the immortal had eaten, he departed.
“The next day the original sage flew in. The servants prepared sumptuous delicacies and various kinds of meat for him. The sage was exceedingly angry and was full of resentment toward the king. The king said, “Great sage, you ordered me to do this yesterday.” The sage replied, “Yesterday I was ill and fasted for a day and did not come here. Who told you to do this? You only wished to test me lightly, and so you did this. I curse the king that for the next twelve years he shall eat human flesh.” After speaking these words, he flew back to the mountain.
“Later the kitchen supervisor forgot to prepare meat and, in his anxiety and being at a loss, went outside to look for meat. He saw a dead child, fair and plump, lying on the ground. Thinking to use it as an emergency expedient, he cut off the child’s head and feet, brought them to the kitchen, added various delicious seasonings, and made them into food for the king.
“The king ate and found the taste more delicious than usual; he asked the kitchen supervisor, “I have always eaten meat and have never had meat so tasty as this. What kind of meat is it?” The kitchen supervisor was terrified, fell to his knees before the king, and said, “If the king pardons my crime, then I dare tell the truth.” The king replied, “Speak the truth frankly; I will not pursue your guilt.” The kitchen supervisor therefore told the king, “A few days ago, owing to exceptional circumstances, there was no time to obtain meat; by chance I found a dead child and used it as an emergency substitute. I did not expect that Your Majesty would notice.” The king said, “This meat tastes extremely good; from now on procure it in this way.” The kitchen supervisor said to the king, “Last time it was a chance finding of a child who had died by itself; we cannot find such again.” Those who cooked were afraid of the state law. The king said again, “You shall procure them secretly; even if anyone discovers it, leave it to me to deal with.” The head of the kitchen accepted the order, secretly captured children, and presented them daily to the king.
“At that time the people of the city all wept, saying their children had gone missing, and everyone asked one another, “What is going on?” The ministers gathered to deliberate and decided to investigate covertly, so they planted men in the streets and lanes. They saw the king’s kitchen supervisor dragging a small child and seized him at an opportune moment, bound him, brought him before the king, and gave a detailed report of all the previous child disappearances.
“The king listened to these words and remained silent. The ministers reported again and again to the king, “Now that the thief has been captured and the crime is manifest, the matter should be adjudicated; why do you remain silent?” Only then did the king answer, “I ordered him to do this.” The ministers, filled with resentment, dispersed and conferred together outside, saying, “The king himself is the bandit; he eats our children. How can we govern the realm with a king who eats people? We ought to remove him together to eliminate this calamity.” United in purpose, they plotted together.
“Outside, in the garden, there is a beautiful pond where the king bathed every day. The ministers ambushed soldiers in the garden. When the king went out to bathe and had already entered the pool, the ambushers immediately converged from all directions, surrounded the king, and prepared to kill him. Seeing the soldiers gather, the king asked in alarm, “Why do you besiege me?” The ministers answered, “As king you ought to care for and nourish the people, yet you directed your cook to kill people for food; the people wail and are enraged with nowhere to appeal and cannot endure such cruelty, therefore we must kill you.”
“The king said to the ministers, “Indeed I have committed wrongful deeds! From henceforth I will never do such things again; only beg you to pardon and spare me; I will examine myself and change my ways!” The ministers said, “We will never spare you; even if black snow fell today and black poisonous snakes grew on your head, we would not heed your words—no more need be said.”
“Hearing the ministers’ words, King Spotted-Feet knew he would surely die and that there was no escape; he then said to the ministers, “Although you wish to kill me, please delay a little and let me remain for a short while.” The ministers granted a brief respite, and the king then swore an oath: “All the good deeds I have practiced in this life—ruling the kingdom justly as king, offering to immortals, and all the merits I have accumulated—I now dedicate them; may I be transformed into a flying rākṣasa.”
“No sooner had he finished speaking than he became a rākṣasa as he had said, immediately flew into the void, and said to the ministers, “You have together attempted to slay me by force; fortunately my merit and fortune are deep, and I have been able to save myself. From now on, you had better endure; the wives and children you cherish, I will eat them one by one.” With those words he flew away, stopping in the mountains and forests, flying about and seizing humans to make them his food, so that the people, in fear, hid themselves.”
“After that, he killed and devoured many people, and other rākṣasas came to depend on him, becoming his attendants. His followers grew more and more numerous, and the harm he caused spread ever wider. Later, the rākṣasas said to King Spotted-Feet, “We serve you and have become your attendants. Please hold a banquet for us.” King Spotted-Feet then replied, “I shall capture many kings—until I have gathered a full thousand—and then I will let you, my subordinates, feast upon them as a banquet.” Having made this promise, the king went out to capture them one by one, confining them in the depths of the mountains. He had already seized nine hundred and ninety-nine kings, leaving only one short of the number.
“The captured kings thought, “Now we have reached a desperate end; where can we go? If only we could have King Śuddhasume—he possesses great skillful means and Dharma gates of deliverance.” Then they proposed to the rākṣasa king, saying, “The great king wishes to hold a grand banquet; it must be especially magnificent. You have captured only kings, not common folk. Śuddhasume possesses lofty virtue; if you can obtain him, the banquet of the great king will truly be complete.” The rākṣasa king said, “What lofty virtue does he possess?” and at once took flight, intending to seize him.”
“At that time, King Śuddhasume was preparing to leave the city early in the morning with his palace maidens to bathe in a garden pool. On the way, he met a brāhmaṇa who begged food from him. The king said to the brāhmaṇa, “Wait until I return from bathing, and I will make an offering to you.” When the king arrived at the garden and entered the pool to bathe, the rākṣasa king flew down from the sky, seized him, and carried him away to the mountain. King Śuddhasume was distressed and wept in sorrow.
“King Spotted-Feet asked him, “I have heard that your name is renowned, your virtue exceptional, and your spirit that of a great man who can endure both hardship and prosperity. Why, then, do you grieve so deeply, weeping like a child?” King Śuddhasume said to the rākṣasa king, “It is not that I cherish my body or cling to life. I grieve because, since my birth, I have never spoken falsehood. This morning when I left the palace, a mendicant stood before my chariot begging for alms. I promised him that after bathing I would return to make an offering. Yet on my way out I encountered the great king, who brought me here. Now I fear that if I break my word, I will violate truthfulness, and that is why I am sorrowful—not because I value my body or my life. I only hope that the great king will have compassion and grant me seven days’ reprieve, so that I may go and make the offering to that mendicant, and afterward I shall return here to face death.”
“King Spotted-Feet, hearing these words, said to him, “If you go now, would you truly return here to die of your own accord?” He added, “Even if you do not return, I can still capture you again.” Then King Spotted-Feet released him.
“The king returned to his country, where the mendicant was still there. The king joyfully made offerings and gave alms to the brāhmaṇa. At that time, the brāhmaṇa saw that the king would soon die and feared that he might cling to his kingdom and fall into sorrow, so he spoke this verse to the king:
‘At the end of the kalpa, heaven and earth alike shall turn to ashes. Mount Sumeru and the great seas shall all become ashes.
Devas, nāgas, humans, and ghosts shall all vanish therein. When even heaven and earth and all things perish, how could a kingdom remain unchanged?
Birth, old age, sickness, and death revolve without end. Matters often oppose desire, and grief and sorrow wound the heart.
Deep craving brings heavy calamity; afflictions pervade everywhere. All three realms are full of suffering—what in a kingdom is there to rely upon?
The nature of all things is originally empty; all arise from the union of conditions. What prospers must decay; what is full must return to void.
The multitude of beings, ignorant and unawakened, are but fleeting illusions. The three realms are hollow and insubstantial; so too is the land of the kingdom.
Consciousness has no form, yet it drives four serpents. The great elephant of the seven jewels of ignorance is taken as a chariot of pleasure.
The body has no eternal master; the mind has no fixed dwelling. Form and consciousness shall part—where, then, can there be a kingdom?’
“At that time, King Śuddhasume, having heard this verse, contemplated its meaning and rejoiced boundlessly in his heart. He immediately installed his crown prince to take his place as king, bid farewell to his ministers, and prepared to return to fulfill his promise. All the ministers together said to the king, “May the king remain here without worry over King Spotted-Feet. We ministers will think carefully and set up defenses. We shall forge a house of iron for the king to dwell in temporarily. Though King Spotted-Feet is fierce, what could he possibly do?”
“The king said to the ministers and all the people, “For human beings in this world, truthfulness is the foundation. To live by falsehood and deceit is something my feelings cannot allow. I would rather die for the sake of truth than live by speaking falsehood.” He then expounded to them the many benefits of truthfulness and widely analyzed the faults of deceit. The ministers, grief-stricken and choked with tears, could not utter a word. The king rose and departed from the city; all the people came to see him off, sorrowfully admiring the path he walked—overwhelmed by anguish, yet awakened again. After the king had finished instructing and exhorting them, he set out on his way.
“At that time, King Spotted-Feet thought to himself, “Śuddhasume should be coming today.” So he sat upon the mountain peak, waiting and watching from afar. Śuddhasume coming along the road and his face radiant with joy surpassing all before. The rākṣasa king asked, “You have come so quickly! All beings cherish life—yet you, about to die, are even happier than usual. Having returned to your kingdom, what benefit have you gained?” Śuddhasume replied, “Great King! You are magnanimous and compassionate, granted me seven days to give alms, allowing me to fulfill my vow. Moreover, I heard the wondrous Dharma, and my mind was awakened thereby. As of this day, my heart’s wish is entirely fulfilled. Though I am about to die, the joy in my heart is as if I were alive.” King Spotted-Feet said, “What Dharma did you hear? Try to explain it for me.” Śuddhasume then recited to him the original verse, and again, with skillful means and expedient eloquence, he extensively expounded the Buddha-Dharma, explaining in detail the sin of killing and its evil retributions, and expounding the merits of compassion and abstaining from killing.
“When King Spotted-Feet heard this, he was overjoyed. He reverently bowed, followed the teaching, and no longer harbored any thought of harming others. He released all the captive kings, allowing each to return to his own realm. Śuddhasume then assembled his army, led King Spotted-Feet back to his own country, and restored him to his throne. It had passed twelve years, just as the sage had once predicted. From that time forth King Spotted-Feet no longer ate human flesh. He returned to his sovereign rule and governed his people as before.
“Such was the case, Great King! Do you wish to know who King Śuddhasume was at that time? He is now myself. And King Spotted-Feet—he is now Aṅgulimāla. Those who were eaten by King Spotted-Feet during those twelve years are now the very ones slain by Aṅgulimāla. Throughout successive lives, these people have repeatedly been killed by Aṅgulimāla, while I, through countless lives, have constantly taught and guided them with wholesome deeds. When I recall the past, even when I was still an ordinary being, I was able to teach him to abstain from killing—how much more so now that I have become the Tathāgata, endowed with every virtue and with all evils forever extinguished. How could I not be able to transform him?”
The king again said to the Buddha, “What causes and conditions did these people have in their past lives, that they are constantly, life after life, slain by him?”
The Buddha said to the king, “Listen carefully and attentively! In a remote past, innumerable kalpas ago, there was a great kingdom in Jambudvīpa named Benares. The king of that country was called Brahmadatta. The king had two sons, both endowed with heroic talents and broad wisdom, dignified in bearing, and of most excellent and handsome appearance. The king loved them deeply. At that time, the younger prince thought to himself: ‘When my royal father passes away, my elder brother will inherit the throne and rule the country. Since I am still young, I have no hope of inheriting the throne. To live in this world in this life, since I cannot become a king, what meaning is there in staying in this world? It would be better for me to go into the secluded mountains and forests to seek the path of the immortals.’ Having thought thus, he went and told his father, ‘My heart yearns for the deep mountains, desiring to attain the way of the immortals. I wish you would permit me to go so that I may fulfill this aspiration!’ The prince was earnest and sincere, his resolve firm and unshakable, so the king consented to him, allowing him to enter the mountains for practice.
“After some years had passed, the king passed away, and his elder brother inherited the throne and governed the people. Not long after the elder brother ruled the country, he fell ill and died, leaving no offspring and no one else to inherit the throne. The ministers gathered together to discuss, but they did not know what to do.
“One minister said, ‘The king’s younger son once requested to enter the mountains to study the immortal way. We should go and invite him to return so that he may inherit the throne.’ The ministers, hearing this, were all delighted and said, ‘Indeed, this matter is feasible!’ Thus, they went together into the mountains to invite him to return. When they arrived, they told him everything in detail, saying, ‘We only wish that you may pity us and come to govern our country!’
The ascetic replied, ‘This matter is dreadful. I dwell here enjoying purity, tranquility, and happiness, forever free from sorrow and calamity. The minds of worldly people are fierce and evil; they delight in mutual slaughter. If I become king, I fear I will be murdered. Now I take great delight in this life here; I cannot go to be king.’ The ministers again earnestly entreated him, saying, ‘After the king passed away, there were no heirs, and no one can inherit the throne. Only you, Great Sage, are of royal blood. The country and its people cannot be without a ruler. We only wish that you will have compassion and mercy, change your mind, and come to rule our country!’
The ministers, being sincere and earnest in their pleading, at last moved the ascetic’s heart so that he could not bear to refuse them. Therefore, he went with them back to the kingdom.”
“From childhood, the ascetic had been unaccustomed to matters between men and women. After he came to the country and governed its affairs, he gradually came into contact with women, and his indulgence in sensual desires grew ever deeper. He became wanton and unrestrained, day and night sunk in lustful pleasures, unable to control himself. He then decreed, ‘Whenever any woman in the kingdom wishes to marry, she must first come and obey me before she is permitted to obey her husband.’ Thus, all women in the country who were of upright appearance and suited his fancy were defiled by him.”
“At that time a woman stood bare in the great street before the people and urinated. The bystanders were astonished and laughed aloud, and they reproached her, saying, ‘How shameless you are, to do such a thing!’ The woman answered, ‘What shame is there among women? When you stand and urinate, do you not also feel no shame? I am no different from you — what is there to be ashamed of?’ The people said, ‘What do you mean by these words?’ The woman replied, ‘There is but one man here, the king; all the women of the realm have been defiled by him. If you were men, would you permit such a thing to occur?’ Thereupon the people were stricken with shame and began to deliberate together: ‘What this woman says is indeed true.’ They whispered together in secret, their hearts united, and resolved to slay the king.
“Outside of the city, in a garden, there was a cool pool where the king often bathed. The subjects set an ambush in the garden; when the king came forth from his bath the hidden soldiers sprang out and surrounded him, forcing him and seeking to kill him. The king, amazed, said, ‘What do you intend to do?’ The ministers answered, ‘The king has transgressed the rules of governance, yielded to excessive lust, disturbed the proper customs, and defiled many households. Seeing this state of affairs, we cannot endure it; therefore we wish to remove you and seek another worthy to rule.’ The king, hearing this, was filled with surprise and said to the ministers, ‘Truly I have erred and have brought trouble upon you. Permit me to amend myself; I shall never do thus again. I entreat your forgiveness; let the folk begin anew!’ But the ministers replied, ‘Even should black snow fall from the sky this day, and poisonous serpents spring up upon our heads, we will not spare you — there is nothing more to say!’ The king, hearing these words and knowing death was certain, was filled with wrath and said to the ministers, ‘I dwelt in the mountains and took no part in worldly affairs; you forced me out and made me king. I have not committed so great a wrong, yet you conspire together against me. Now I am alone and weak and cannot protect myself. I swear that in future lives I shall continually slay you; even if I attain the Way, I will not spare you.’ Though he thus swore, they slew him.
“Such, Great King, was the case. If you would know who that ascetic-king was in those days, he was the present Aṅgulimāla; and those ministers and people who together slew the king are those whom Aṅgulimāla now slays. From that time onward they have been slain again and again, and even to this day they continue to be harmed by him.”
At that time the king knelt on both knees and once again addressed the Buddha, saying, “The bhikṣu Finger-Necklace has slain so many people. Now that he has attained the fruition of the Path, will he still undergo the retribution of his evil deeds?”
The Buddha said to the great king, “Evil actions surely bring forth their due retribution. At this very moment, that bhikṣu, within his own chamber, has the fire of hell issuing from the pores of his body; he is suffering extreme torment, a pain piercing to the heart, beyond words to describe.”
Then, in order to make the assembly understand that committing evil inevitably leads to guilt and punishment, the Tathāgata instructed one bhikṣu, saying, “Take a bamboo twig and go to the chamber of the bhikṣu Finger-Necklace, and insert it into the keyhole of the door.” The bhikṣu immediately went and did as the Buddha had commanded. When he inserted the bamboo twig into the door, it was instantly burned to ashes and disappeared. The bhikṣu was greatly astonished and returned to report this to the Buddha. The Buddha said to him, “This is the retribution resulting from evil deeds.” The king and all those present believed and understood.”
At that time Ānanda knelt, joined his palms, and said to the Buddha, “What meritorious deeds did Aṅgulimāla perform in the past that he now possesses such a strong and powerful body, strength equal to a thousand men, quickness and lightness of movement, and runs swift and overtake the flight of birds — and that he has been able to meet the Buddha and transcend the cycle of birth and death? I pray that the World-Honored One will, out of compassion, explain to the assembly the causes and conditions of this.”
The Buddha said to Ānanda, “Listen well. Long, long ago, in the age when the Buddha Kāśyapa dwelt in the world, there was a bhikṣu who managed the affairs of the Sangha. He led the Sangha’s cattle to carry grains and rice, but on the way he met with heavy rain, and there was nowhere to seek shelter. All the grains and the things within the sacks were soaked by the rain. Then that bhikṣu thought to hasten on his journey, yet he was weak in strength and slow in movement, unable to do as he wished, and he felt much vexation in his heart. Therefore he made a vow, saying, ‘May I in future lives possess strength equal to a thousand men, a body light and swift in action, able to run and overtake the flight of birds. When in time to come there arises a Buddha named Śākyamuni, may I behold him and forever be freed from the cycle of birth and death.’
“Ānanda, that bhikṣu who managed the Sangha’s affairs at that time is none other than the present Aṅgulimāla. Because in that life he had renounced and kept the precepts, and because, while managing the Sangha’s business, he made such a vow, from that time onward through successive lives he has always been handsome in appearance, strong in power, and swift in movement, entirely as he had wished. Now he has met me and has thereby transcended birth and death.””
At that time Ānanda and the bhikṣus, the king, and the civil and military officials, all those in the great assembly, hearing the Buddha’s exposition of causes and results, were deeply moved and inspired. They contemplated the Four Noble Truths; some attained the fruit of Srotāpanna, some the fruit of Sakṛdāgāmin, some the fruit of Anāgāmin, and some the fruit of Arhatship; some planted the wholesome roots leading to Pratyekabuddhahood; some aroused the aspiration for the unsurpassed true Path; and some abided in the state of non-retrogression. All of them guarded their body, speech, and mind, restrained their thoughts toward goodness. Having heard the Dharma spoken by the Buddha, they all rejoiced in faith and accepted and upheld it.
Section Fifty-Three: Dhanika (In the Tanjur version this section is Fifty-Two)
Thus have I heard:
At one time, the Buddha was staying in the Jeta Grove, in Anāthapiṇḍada’s Park, near Śrāvastī. At that time there was in the country a brāhmaṇa named Piṇḍola Tvāṣṭra. His wife was ugly in appearance, with greenish eyes, and in his household there were only seven daughters and no son. The family was very poor, and the daughters were all impoverished as well. The brāhmaṇa’s wife had an evil temperament and constantly cursed and reviled her husband. The daughters in turn came home one after another to demand portions of the family wealth, and whenever they were not given what they wanted, they glared with angry eyes and wailed aloud. The seven sons-in-law all came to live together in their father-in-law’s house, making him provide for them. The old man, fearing that any neglect might offend their wishes, tried his utmost to serve them.
At that time his crops in the field had ripened, but he had not yet had time to thresh them. Therefore he borrowed an ox from another to trample the grain. Yet, being careless in watching it, he lost the ox in a marshy place.
Then the brāhmaṇa sat down and reflected, saying, “What evil karma have I created that brings these bitter misfortunes one after another? At home I am cursed by a wicked wife and reproached by seven daughters; my sons-in-law gather at my door, yet I am powerless to support them. Moreover, the ox I borrowed from another is lost, and I do not know where it has gone.” Exhausted, he searched everywhere, weary in body and mind, filled with grief and distress. By chance he came to a grove of trees, where he beheld the Tathāgata sitting beneath a tree, his six faculties tranquil, serene and at ease.
The brāhmaṇa, resting his cheek upon his staff, long gazed upon him and thought, “The śramaṇa Gautama is now most peaceful and happy. He has no wicked wife to curse and quarrel with him, no troublesome daughters to vex him, no poor sons-in-law to burden him. He need not worry over ripe crops in the field, nor borrow oxen from others, nor grieve over lost possessions.”
The Buddha, knowing his thoughts, said to him, “Even as you have thought, so it is. I am now calm and untroubled, free indeed from the curses of a wicked wife, from the vexations of seven daughters, and from sons-in-law gathering at my house. I have no worries about the crops in the field, I need not borrow oxen from others, nor have I the anxiety of losing wealth.” Then the Buddha asked him, “Would you wish to renounce and go forth?”
The brāhmaṇa immediately said to the Buddha, “Now I see this household as a graveyard, and women as hostile thieves. World-Honored One, if out of compassion you permit me to renounce, that would fulfill my humble wish beyond measure.”
The Buddha then said, “Come, bhikṣu!” Instantly the brāhmaṇa’s beard and hair fell away of themselves, and the garments upon his body became robes of a monk. The Buddha expounded the Dharma to him, and there upon his seat all his defilements and afflictions were forever extinguished, and he attained Arhatship.
When Ānanda heard of this, he praised, saying, “Excellent indeed! The Tathāgata’s skillful means of guidance are truly Inconceivable. What meritorious causes did this brāhmaṇa plant in past lives that he could now be freed from so many afflictions and attain such supreme benefit, as a pure white cloth easily receives dye?”
The Buddha said to Ānanda, “This brāhmaṇa is not only today delivered through my grace, escaping suffering and gaining peace and joy. In past lives as well, by relying upon my compassion, he was freed from many calamities and once again obtained security and happiness.”
Ānanda said to the Buddha, “We do not know how, in past lives, the World-Honored One rescued him and freed him from suffering.” The Buddha said to Ānanda, “Listen carefully, listen carefully, and ponder well — I shall now explain this to you in detail.” Ānanda said, “Aye, I shall listen attentively.”
The Buddha said to Ānanda, “In the distant past, asāṃkhya kalpas ago, there was a great king named Ābharatimukha (which in the language of Jin means ‘Handsome’). He governed his realm according to the righteous path, never oppressing the people nor seizing their wealth unjustly. At that time within his kingdom there was a brāhmaṇa named Dhanika, who was poor and destitute, lacking sufficient food to fill his belly. He possessed but a small amount of mature grain, yet was unable to process it, so he borrowed an ox from another to trample and thresh it. When the threshing was finished, he drove the ox back to its owner. Having arrived at the owner’s gate, he forgot to announce its return and went away. The owner, though seeing the ox, thought it had not yet been used up and did not reclaim it. Thus, through mutual misunderstanding, the ox was lost. Later the owner came to Dhanika to demand the ox. Dhanika said he had already returned it. The two then quarreled and reviled each other.
“At that time the owner took Dhanika to the royal palace to appeal to the king for judgment. As they went along the way, they happened to meet one of the royal horsekeepers, whose horse was running away. The horsekeeper shouted, ‘Dhanika! Stop the horse for me!’ Dhanika at once picked up a stone and hurled it toward the horse, striking its leg and breaking it. The horsekeeper then seized Dhanika also, and together they brought him before the king.
“As they went on, they came to a riverbank but did not know the place to cross. There they met a carpenter, who held an axe in his mouth, lifted up his garment and let it hang, stepping forward into the water. Then Dhanika asked him, ‘Where can one ford the river?’ The carpenter, opening his mouth to answer, let the axe fall into the water, where it could not be found. The carpenter too seized Dhanika and went with the others to bring him before the king.
“At that time Dhanika, being pursued by many creditors and weakened by hunger and thirst, begged some white wine from a wine-seller as he went along the road. He lay down upon a bed to drink it, not knowing that beneath the bed a small boy was lying. As he reclined, he pressed upon the boy and crushed his belly. The boy’s mother seized him, crying out, ‘You immoral man! You have unjustly slain my child!’ She too, together with the others, took hold of Dhanika and led him off to the king’s palace.
“When they reached a wall, Dhanika thought to himself, ‘How unfortunate I am! All misfortunes have gathered upon me. When I reach the king, surely he will have me put to death. If I flee now, perhaps I may escape.’ Having thought thus, he climbed over the wall. Beneath it there was an old weaver at his loom; Dhanika fell upon him and the old man died instantly. Then the weaver’s son seized Dhanika as well, and with all the others brought him before the king.
“Then they went on a little farther and saw upon a tree a pheasant. From afar the pheasant called to him, ‘Dhanika, whither are you bound?’ So Dhanika told the pheasant all that had happened. The pheasant said, ‘When you come before the king, ask him on my behalf: “When I sing upon another tree my voice is harsh and displeasing; but when I sing upon this tree my voice is sweet and melodious. What is the reason for this?” If you see the king, please put this question for me.’
“Afterward he met a poisonous snake. The snake asked him, ‘Whither are you now going?’ He related to the snake all that had occurred. The snake said, ‘When you reach the king, ask him for me: “Each morning when I first come forth from my hole my body is soft and I know no pain or disease; in the evening when I return to the hole my body has grown rough and hard and is full of pain, so that I can scarcely enter the burrow.”’ Dhanika accepted this charge as well.
“He next encountered a woman. She asked, ‘Whither would you go?’ and he told her all that had befallen him. The woman replied, ‘When you come before the king, ask him for me: “I know not why, when I go to my husband’s house I long for my father’s home; when I dwell at my father’s house I long for my husband’s house.”’ Dhanika likewise received her request.
“At that time all the creditors surrounded him and brought him before the king. Then the ox-owner stepped forward and said to the king, ‘This man borrowed my ox; I have asked him for it back, but he will not restore it.’ The king asked him, ‘Why do you not return the ox?’ Dhanika said, ‘I am indeed poor; the grain in my field had ripened and he kindly lent me his ox. After I had finished threshing I drove the ox back to his house. The owner saw it, though he spoke no word; yet the ox was indeed at his doorstep. I returned home empty-handed and do not know how the ox was lost.’ The king said to the man, ‘Both of you are at fault — because Dhanika did not give a spoken handover, you should have his tongue cut out; because you saw the ox and yet did not take it back into your possession, your eyes should be gouged out.’ The man replied to the king, ‘Let the matter of the ox be dropped. I am unwilling to have my eyes plucked out, and I am unwilling that another’s tongue be cut away.’ So the king permitted them to reconcile.
“The horsekeeper then said, ‘That unreasonable man struck and broke the leg of my horse.’ The king therefore asked Dhanika, ‘Why did you strike and break the leg of the king’s horse?’ Dhanika knelt and said to the king, ‘The creditor seized me on the road and that man bade me stop the running horse. The steed ran wild and was hard to control; I picked up a stone and threw it in haste, and by mischance struck and broke the horse’s leg — it was not intentional.’ The king said to the horse-keeper, ‘Because you called upon him, your tongue should be cut out; because he struck the horse, his hand should be cut off.’ The horsekeeper said to the king, ‘I will myself procure another horse; do not execute the punishment.’ So they each came to terms and reconciled.”
“The carpenter then stepped forward and said, ‘Dhanika has lost my axe.’ The king immediately asked, ‘Why did you lose his axe?’ Dhanika knelt before the king and said, ‘I merely asked him where the ford was to cross the river. When he answered me, the axe that he held in his mouth slipped and fell into the water channel, and though we searched, we could not find it. It truly was not done by intent.’ The king said to the carpenter, ‘Because you called to him, his tongue should be cut out; and since one should carry tools with the hand but you held it in your mouth, causing it to fall into the water, you should have your two front teeth knocked out.’ The carpenter, hearing this, came forward and said to the king, ‘I would rather lose the axe than receive such punishment!’ So they were each reconciled.
“Then the woman who sold wine also brought Dhanika before the king. The king asked Dhanika, ‘Why did you kill her child in this way?’ Dhanika knelt and said to the king, ‘I was harassed by my creditors, and I was hungry and thirsty. I begged a little wine from her. When I lay down upon the bed to drink it, I did not know that a small child was lying beneath it. After I had drunk the wine, the child died — it was not something I desired. I only pray that the great king will examine and pardon my fault.’ The king said to the woman, ‘You sell wine in your house; many people come and go. Why did you place your child where people sit or lie, and even cover him so that he could not be seen? Both of you are at fault. Your child is already dead, so let Dhanika become your son-in-law and together you may have another child.’ Then he dismissed them. The woman bowed her head and said, ‘My child is already dead; we have now reconciled, yet I will not take this starving brāhmaṇa as my son-in-law.’ Thus they too were each reconciled.
“At that time the weaver’s son again stepped forward and said to the king, ‘This violent man crushed and killed my father.’ The king asked, ‘For what reason did you kill another’s father?’ Dhanika said, ‘My many creditors pursued me. I was terrified and, leaping over a wall to flee, by chance I fell upon him. It was not my wish to cause his death.’ The king said to the man, ‘You both are at fault. Since your father has died, I now give Dhanika to you as a father.’ The man said to the king, ‘My father is already gone; I will never accept this brāhmaṇa as my father.’ The king therefore permitted them also to reconcile.
“At that time Dhanika, having settled all the matters, felt immense joy within his heart, and he stood before the king. He then saw two women contending over a child, presenting their case before the king. The king, who was wise and clever, used skillful expedience and said to the two women, ‘Now there is only one child, and both claim him as their own. I permit each of you to take one hand of the child and pull; whichever of you can draw him over shall have him as her child.’ The woman who was not the real mother, having no compassion for the child, pulled with all her strength, not caring if the child were hurt. But the true mother, moved by deep affection, followed and cherished her child, unwilling to pull hard. The king discerned the truth and said to the woman who had pulled violently, ‘This child is not yours; you have forcedly claimed another’s child. Now, before the king, confess the truth.’ She immediately bowed her head to the king and said, ‘Indeed I was false, and wrongfully claimed another’s child. The great king is wise and holy; may he pardon my offense!’ Then the child was returned to his true mother, and both were released.
“Again, there were two men who disputed over a piece of white cloth, and they likewise came before the king. The king, using his wisdom as before, discerned the matter and rendered judgment in the same way.
“At that time Dhanika said to the king, ‘When these creditors brought me along the road, there was by the roadside a poisonous serpent that earnestly entreated me to convey this message to the king: “I do not understand why, when I come out of my hole, my body becomes soft and pliant, yet when I return to the hole, I am obstructed and suffer pain. I do not know the reason for this.”’ The king answered, ‘The reason is this: when it comes forth from the hole, it has no afflictions; its mind is calm and gentle, and so its body is likewise soft. But while outside, birds, beasts, and other things disturb it, arousing in it fierce anger; thus its body becomes coarse and swollen, and when it tries to enter again, the hole seems narrow and hard to enter. You may tell it, “If, when you are outside, you can keep your mind free from anger as it was when you first came out, this trouble will not arise.”’
“Dhanika again said to the king, ‘On the road I met a woman who asked me to tell the king: “When I am in my husband’s house, I long for my parents’ home; when I am in my parents’ home, I long for my husband’s house. I do not know the cause of this.”’ The king replied, ‘You may tell her, “This is because of your impure mind. While you were at your parents’ home, you secretly took a lover; when you are in your husband’s house, you long for that lover, and when you grow weary of him, you again long for your true husband. That is all. If you can guard your own mind, abandon impurity and return to the right path, you will no longer have such a problem.”’
“Dhanika again said to the king, ‘By the roadside, upon a tree, there was a pheasant that asked me to tell the king: “When I sing upon another tree my voice is harsh and displeasing; but when I sing upon this tree my voice is sweet and melodious. What is the reason for this?”’ The king said, ‘This is because beneath that tree there lies a great store of gold. Therefore, when it sings upon that tree, its voice sounds both mournful and sweet; in other places, where there is no gold, its voice is coarse and unpleasant.’ The king then said to Dhanika, ‘You have committed many faults, yet I have pardoned you. Your household is poor and afflicted to the utmost. The gold beneath that tree is mine, but I now bestow it upon you. You may dig it up and take it away.’
“Dhanika followed the king’s instruction, went back, and reported to all those concerned. He dug up the gold and took it for himself, using it to manage fields and estates, and all the necessities of his life were henceforth abundant and sufficient. Thus he became a wealthy man and enjoyed the pleasures of the world.”
The Buddha said to Ānanda, “That great king Ābharatimukha of that time — do you think he was another? He was none other than myself in a former life. And that brāhmaṇa Dhanika of that time is now the brāhmaṇa Piṇḍola Tvāṣṭra. In that past life I delivered him from many hardships and gave him precious treasures, whereby he attained happiness. Now that I have accomplished Buddhahood, I have again removed his suffering and bestowed upon him the inexhaustible treasure of the Dharma.”
The venerable Ānanda and all those assembled, having heard what the Buddha had spoken, rejoiced in faith, accepted it, and faithfully put it into practice.
Dharma Torch 