Bodhisattvas' Own Practice

The bodhisattva Sadāprarudita, practicing the bodhisattva path under the Buddha of Great Thunder-Sound, sought the Perfection of Wisdom without regard for his own life. Grieving and weeping for seven days, exhausted with hunger and cold, he heard a buddha's own voice from the sky tell him that the bodhisattva Dharmodgata was expounding the Perfection of Wisdom nearby — he should go there without delay. Reflecting that he was too poor to properly honor this teaching, and having lost his body countless times before for the sake of mere desire without ever once giving it up for the pure Dharma, he went into a city and called out in the marketplace, "Who wishes to buy a person?" But the wicked Māra caused the people there to be unable to hear his voice, and, unable to sell himself, he grew despondent. Śakra, transforming into a brahmin, then asked whether he could provide a human heart, blood, and marrow for a sacrifice — and Sadāprarudita, overjoyed at the opportunity, took up a knife and began cutting into his own arm and thigh. An elder's daughter, watching from a balcony, came down and, on hearing his purpose, declared such merit worth giving up bodies numerous as the sands of the Ganges for, and offered him everything he needed instead, wishing to plant the same roots of goodness herself. At this, Śakra resumed his true form, revealing he had never truly needed human flesh at all — it had only been a test — and restored Sadāprarudita's body to wholeness. Together with the elder's daughter's whole household, laden with every fine offering, Sadāprarudita went to hear Dharmodgata's teaching; finding no water to sprinkle the ground before the teacher out of respect, he simply cut his own body again and used his own blood to settle the dust instead (Source: Larger Prajñāpāramitā Sūtra, fascicle 30).

The bodhisattva Nakṣatrarāja asked the Buddha to explain Bhaiṣajyarāja's countless past austerities. The Buddha said: long ago, under the Buddha Candrasūryavimalaprabhāsaśrī, the bodhisattva Sarvasattvapriyadarśana practiced with such diligence that, through the power of hearing the Lotus Sūtra, he attained the samādhi of manifesting every form of body. Wrapping his own body in heavenly cloth and pouring fragrant oil over it, he set himself alight, his light illuminating eighty koṭis of worlds — a true offering of true diligence. His body burned for twelve hundred years before being consumed, and, reborn afterward into a royal household through this very merit, he spoke a verse to his own father:

"In the very place where I once walked in meditation, I attained the samādhi of manifesting my own body;
through diligent, great effort, I gave up the body I loved."

Learning that same Buddha still lived, he returned to attend upon him, rising into the sky on a jeweled platform and praising him:

"Your countenance is wondrous beyond compare, your light illuminating the ten directions;
having once made offerings to you, I now return again to attend upon you."

When that Buddha's own nirvāṇa came, he entrusted his relics to Sarvasattvapriyadarśana, who cremated the body, raised eighty-four thousand stūpas from the relics — yet, still unsatisfied, burned his own two arms before these stūpas for seventy-two thousand years as a further offering. When the grieving assembly lamented their teacher's own incompleteness, he vowed that, having given up both arms, he would surely attain buddhahood — and if this vow were true, his arms would be restored. At once the world shook and his arms were restored exactly as before. The Buddha revealed that Sarvasattvapriyadarśana was Bhaiṣajyarāja himself, and that anyone who burns even a single finger as an offering to a Buddha's stūpa surpasses in merit one who offers an entire kingdom and every treasure of the world to the buddhas, bodhisattvas, and arhats (Source: Lotus Sūtra, fascicle 6).

Long ago, under the Buddha Jaladharagarjitaghoṣasusvaranakṣatrarājasaṃkusumitābhijña, King Śubhavyūha's consort Vimaladatta bore two sons, Vimalagarbha and Vimalanetra, both cultivating the bodhisattva path with great supernormal power. Wishing to convert King Śubhavyūha, who held to heterodox brahminical teaching, the two sons asked their mother's permission to hear this Buddha, and, at her suggestion, first displayed the eighteen transformations before their father, rising into the sky seven palm-trees high. Delighted, the king asked who their teacher was, and, learning it was this Buddha now teaching the Lotus Sūtra nearby, expressed his own wish to see him. The sons, having thus already accomplished their father's own conversion, then asked their mother's permission to go forth themselves; she consented, given how rare a buddha's own appearance in the world is. The whole royal household — the king, his ministers, the queen, her attendants, and forty-two thousand people in all — then went together to the Buddha, whose teaching so moved the king and queen that they scattered their own pearl necklaces in offering, which transformed in the sky into a jeweled platform bearing the Buddha himself, radiant and seated. The Buddha then revealed that King Śubhavyūha, having joined the monastic order, would himself become a buddha in time — and the king at once ceded his throne to his own brother, and, with his queen and sons, went forth to cultivate the Lotus Sūtra for eighty-four thousand years, attaining the samādhi of adornment with every pure merit. The Buddha revealed that King Śubhavyūha is now the bodhisattva Padmaśrī, Queen Vimaladatta is the bodhisattva Prabhāsagarbha, and the two sons are none other than Bhaiṣajyarāja and Bhaiṣajyasamudgata themselves (Source: Lotus Sūtra, fascicle 7).

Long ago, as a bodhisattva, I lived as a brahmin ascetic named Kṣāntivādin, dwelling beneath a tree, my inner defilements purified, possessed of the six supernormal powers, revered by sages and ordinary people alike. A king named Kali, hunting in the mountains, came upon me and, receiving only silence when he questioned me, grew enraged, threatening to kill me for my insolence. I told him only that I had heard him, and, asked who I was, answered simply, "a man of forbearance." Furious, the king cut off my right arm with his sword. I said that my resolve toward the unsurpassed path admitted no quarrel with the times, and vowed that once I attained buddhahood, I would deliver this very king first, so that no being might follow his example. Asked again who I was, I gave the same answer, and the king cut off my left hand, then both legs, my ears, and my nose, my pain immeasurable, as heaven and earth shook and the sun and moon lost their light. The Four Heavenly Kings, outraged, wished to destroy the king and his entire country — but I told them this was in truth the fruit of my own past failure, following me like a shadow follows a form, and that the people themselves bore no blame. My own younger brother, observing all this from another mountain with his heavenly eye, came by his own supernormal power and restored my severed limbs exactly as they had been. I declared my universal compassion now proven true, and the devas and earth-spirits, moved to both grief and joy, bowed in praise. I was that Kṣāntivādin; my brother was Maitreya; and the king was Kauṇḍinya (Source: Collection on the Perfections, fascicle 5).

When a general in Rājagṛha named Siṃhasena had a son born to him, the devas proclaimed at his birth that this child should always reflect on the Dharma alone, never speak of worldly matters, and rely on meaning rather than mere words. Hearing this, the infant never cried and showed no ordinary infant traits, remaining serene and pleasant for seven days without even blinking. Some told the parents this was an ill omen, but they insisted his perfect form proved otherwise, and named him Aśabda, "No-Word." As he grew, wherever the Dharma was taught he listened eagerly yet never spoke himself. Brought before the Buddha, he filled with great joy; Śāriputra asked what karma could produce a child so perfect yet mute, and the Buddha answered that this child was in truth a great bodhisattva, already at the stage of non-retrogression, who had attained the four dhyānas through silent reflection alone, following the devas' own instruction at birth. To demonstrate his own power, he caused every being present to see, in his own right hand, a great lotus as large as a cartwheel, upon which sat a bodhisattva adorned with every mark of perfection. Seeing this, Aśabda bowed and invoked homage to the Buddha — and the bodhisattvas on every lotus spoke the same invocation together, as worlds throughout the ten directions shook and the devas made offerings of music and flowers. Aśabda and the bodhisattvas then rose into the sky, seven palm-trees high, and spoke a verse in praise of the Buddha (Source: Mahāsaṃnipāta Sūtra, fascicle 17).

The World-Honored One, long ago as a bodhisattva named Sadāprarudita, grieved to see the world so corrupt — people chasing profit like moths to a flame, abandoning the eternal refuge of the four immeasurables and six perfections. After a buddha named Prabhāsavimalā-dharma had entered nirvāṇa and his teaching had entirely vanished, Sadāprarudita dreamed of that buddha teaching him, and, his own defilements dissolving, abandoned his wife and children for a solitary mountain life, weeping that he could not encounter a buddha, Dharma, or sangha. A deva finally told him of a great teaching, the Boundless Radiance of Wisdom, through which every buddha attains awakening, and instructed him to travel due east, free of every thought of form and sensation, to find it — then vanished. Sadāprarudita set out, but stopped after only a few days, reflecting bitterly on his own thin merit — until his sincerity moved a buddha from a higher realm to appear before him, attended by devas. Bowing and begging to be taught, he was told only: "The three realms are entirely empty; all things are like illusions, arising and perishing like waves on water — see the whole world this way, and never forget it." Traveling further east to a city entirely of bodhisattvas, he was told of a bodhisattva there who held the very scriptures he sought — but, coming fully to himself, he found he could no longer see the buddha who had spoken to him at all, and wept, wondering where such a radiant vision had gone (Source: Collection on the Perfections, fascicle 7).

The bodhisattva Śraddhā, seeking the true Dharma in an age without it, heard a voice from the sky tell him of a woman, ten thousand yojanas to the east, of the lowest birth and hideous appearance, who alone still recalled half a single verse of a vanished Buddha's teaching — but between here and there lay a vast swamp of mud, ten thousand li across, so treacherous that not even a bird's flight could cross it. Hearing this, I ran east at once and threw my own body into the mud, resolved to die if necessary — and the moment I touched it, a small, clean path appeared, upon which I walked across without difficulty, arriving at last before this woman, living in a crumbling, wretched dwelling, whom I revered as though she were the Buddha himself. She told me she knew only a single half-verse:

"Commit no evil whatsoever; uphold and practice every good."

Hearing this, my body and mind grew calm, my faculties settling of themselves; reflecting on its meaning, I came to understand it fully and gained supernormal power, flying home to proclaim it everywhere. Through this merit I attained an unshakeable faith in the Buddha's own teaching, subduing every demon — for without this faith I had remained forever in birth and death. For the sake of all beings I now reveal this same faith, that they too might uphold and practice it (Source: The Bodhisattva's Definitive Practice, fascicle 1).

Not far north of Śrāvastī, in a village named Sāla, a poor brahmin woman named Bhadrā bore a son, Sarvalokapriyadarśana, who lost his father young. By twelve, he was of unmatched form and eloquence, studying under a brahmin teacher, Maṇibhadra, with such devotion that he retained everything taught him. When the teacher was summoned away and left the boy in charge of his household, the teacher's own young wife, falling into shameless passion for him, seized his robe — but the boy, telling her she was as a mother to him, fled her grasp in shame. The rejected wife, resolving to see him dead rather than let this slight go unavenged, scratched her own body and hung herself by a rope to feign assault. When her returning husband cut her down, she claimed the boy had forced himself upon her. The teacher, recalling omens at the boy's own birth suggesting great and dangerous power, told him he must now kill a thousand people to atone — and the boy, always obedient, though horrified, agreed and set out to do so, taking one finger from each victim to string into a garland, from which he came to be called Aṅgulimāla, "Finger-Garland." Lacking only one more victim, he raised his sword against his own mother, who had brought him food — reasoning he might at least ensure her rebirth in heaven — but the Buddha appeared at that very moment, always just out of reach however fast Aṅgulimāla pursued him. Aṅgulimāla called out in verse:

"Stop, stop, great śramaṇa, prince of King Śuddhodana —
I am Aṅgulimāla, and you shall now pay me your own finger."

The World-Honored One answered:

"Stop, stop, Aṅgulimāla — it is you who should now abide in pure precepts;
I am the Perfectly Awakened One, and I offer you instead the toll of wisdom's own sword."

Watching this exchange, Aṅgulimāla's own heart at last surrendered, and his mother, moved to tears, spoke a verse of her own:

"A treasure long lost I have now regained; eyes long clouded with dust are now clear once more.
Alas for my son, whose mind was so deranged, forever smearing himself with human blood,
a sharp blade ever in his hand, piling up corpses from his many killings —
let this son now follow me instead, and bow in reverence to the Perfectly Awakened One."

(Source: Aṅgulimāla Sūtra, fascicle 1).

Long ago, an ascetic named Jvālāprabha, "Torch-Light," practicing an unbroken vow of celibacy for four million two hundred thousand years, was approached by a potter's daughter who, smitten by his fine appearance, threw herself at him; when he refused her, she threatened suicide. Reflecting that breaking his vow would indeed bring the retribution of hell, but that letting her destroy herself was surely worse, he yielded to her desire, living as a householder with her for twelve years — and, at the end of his life, was reborn in the Brahmā heaven regardless. The Buddha revealed that ascetic was himself, and the potter's daughter was Gopī (Source: Sūtra of the Bodhisattva Wisdom-Superior, upper fascicle).

Two ascetic bodhisattvas, dwelling in a rock cave for over sixty years, revered even by devas and nāgas, once quarreled after Nārada accidentally stepped on the sleeping Tiṣya's head in the dark; Tiṣya vowed to split Nārada's own head into seven pieces when the sun rose, and Nārada, provoked, vowed instead to stop the sun from rising at all to test him. The sun did not rise for five days, plunging the whole kingdom into darkness and panic, until the king, advised that two quarreling mountain ascetics were responsible, went himself to kneel before them and confess that the fault lay with him, not his innocent people. Once Tiṣya's own anger was appeased, he smeared his head with mud and let the sun rise, at which the mud-covered head harmlessly split into seven pieces as promised, leaving him unharmed. The two ascetics then taught the king to govern with boundless compassion and the ten good deeds, which the whole kingdom adopted as law. The Buddha revealed that Nārada was himself, and Tiṣya was Maitreya (Source: Collection on the Perfections, fascicle 7).

Long ago, a bodhisattva prince named Dharmapriya, seeking the Dharma throughout many lands, was told by a man living beside a deep pit that he would share a verse spoken by the Buddha in exchange for the prince's jeweled robe and necklace — and then, once these were given, demanded further that the prince swear an oath and leap into the pit first, before the verse would be told, fearing the prince might otherwise later reclaim his treasure by force. The prince swore the oath, adding his own vow that if his generosity were truly sincere, he would fall unharmed. He then leapt in — and the Four Heavenly Kings caught him gently before he reached the ground, praising the Buddha's own verse as profound and beneficial. The astonished man, coming down to the prince, asked what he sought through such an ordeal, and, told the prince aspired to buddhahood itself, offered to return the treasure — but the prince refused, saying one does not take back a gift once given, like vomited food. Dharmapriya was Śāriputra himself; the man who spoke the verse was Devadatta (Source: Sūtra of the Peerless Purity of Alms-Gathering, upper section).

Good son, long ago before any buddha's own sun had risen in the world, I was a brahmin practicing the bodhisattva path, versed in every heterodox teaching, yet I had never even heard the name of the Mahāyāna's own scriptures. Dwelling in the Himalayas in meditation for countless years, I one day encountered Śakra, transformed into a terrifying rākṣasa, who spoke half a verse once uttered by a past buddha:

"All conditioned things are impermanent — this is the nature of arising and ceasing."

Hearing this, I rose with joy and, seeing only the terrifying rākṣasa nearby, cried out asking who had spoken it, sensing this half-verse had already opened my own mind like a half-moon gradually opening a lotus. Approaching the rākṣasa, I asked where he had obtained it — and he answered only that he had gone many days without food and, driven half-mad by hunger, had spoken it without even knowing its meaning himself. I begged him to finish the verse, promising to become his disciple for life, since the giving of the Dharma, unlike material giving, is never exhausted — but he insisted he could not speak further, admitting at last, when pressed, that he ate only human flesh and drank only human blood, yet lacked the power to kill anyone protected by their own merit. I then offered him my own body in exchange for the rest of the verse: since this body, once dead, would be devoured by wild beasts regardless without any merit gained, I would rather trade this fragile body for something imperishable in pursuit of buddhahood — an exchange, I said, that Brahmā, Śakra, and every buddha throughout the ten directions could bear witness to. The rākṣasa then spoke the remaining half:

"Once arising and ceasing themselves have ceased, this very quiescence is bliss."

Told the verse was now complete and my wish fulfilled, and asked to give my body as promised, I first inscribed the verse on every rock, wall, tree, and roadway I could find, then climbed a high tree and threw myself down. Before I reached the ground, every kind of sound rose through the sky — and the rākṣasa, resuming his true form as Śakra, caught my body gently and set it safely on the ground. Through this very act I leapt ahead twelve full kalpas, destined to attain buddhahood even before Maitreya (Source: Nirvāṇa Sūtra, fascicle 13).

Question: a bodhisattva's body is not wood or stone — how can he remain unmoved when beings dismember him? Answer: some say it is his long cultivation of forbearance itself, like Kṣāntivādin whose severed limbs bled milk instead of blood. Others say it is his deep, lifelong cultivation of compassion, so that, like grass or trees, he feels no anger at all. Others say it is his cultivation of the Perfection of Wisdom itself, his mind so thoroughly emptied that external and internal are equally unmoved. Others say his body is not truly a body of birth and death at all, but one born of the very nature of dharmas beyond the three realms — a body like wood or stone that can nonetheless feel compassion even for its own destroyer. With the Buddha's own eye I see bodhisattvas throughout countless worlds entering hell itself to cool its flames, teaching beings across immeasurable kalpas — giving away external things, yet still unsatisfied until the body itself is given, for external things, however many, inspire no true gratitude in others, while the giving of one's own body alone truly moves them (Source: Mahāprajñāpāramitā-śāstra, fascicle 80).

I recall that, immeasurable kalpas ago, in this same Sahā world, a buddha named Śākyamuni expounded the Nirvāṇa Sūtra. Hearing this teaching was about to be given, I rejoiced but, being poor, had nothing to offer — so I sought to sell my own body, and met a man whose illness required three ounces of human flesh daily, for which he would pay five gold coins. I asked for one day's payment in advance, and, taking this money to the Buddha, offered it entirely to him before listening with sincerity to his teaching — though, being dull-witted, I retained only a single verse of the whole sūtra. Returning to the sick man's house, I gave him three ounces of my own flesh daily for a full month, feeling no pain at all as I held the verse in mind throughout; his illness was cured, and my own body healed completely, without a single scar. Seeing this, I at once awakened the aspiration for unsurpassed, perfect, complete enlightenment. If even a single verse could accomplish this much, how much more benefit would come from the whole sūtra — and, redoubling my resolve, I vowed to become, in time, a buddha myself named Śākyamuni (Source: Nirvāṇa Sūtra, fascicle 20).

As the Tathāgata expounded the Lotus Sūtra, other bodhisattvas asked to be entrusted with protecting it — but the Buddha stopped them, saying that countless bodhisattvas from beneath the earth already existed for this purpose. At once the earth split open, and these bodhisattvas sprang forth together into the sky, going before the jeweled stūpa to bow at the feet of both Prabhūtaratna and Śākyamuni Buddha (Source: Lotus Sūtra, fascicle 5).

Long ago, while the World-Honored One traveled through Rājagṛha, a group of the king's flower-gatherers, seeing him from afar in his radiant majesty, went to bow before him. One among them reflected that human life is hard to preserve and a buddha's own age hard to encounter, and, though bound by a strict king's demand for prompt delivery on pain of execution, resolved to give up his own life if necessary, offering all his flowers to the Buddha instead of the king, and trusting that even death in such a cause would lead to a peaceful rebirth rather than suffering. The Buddha, perceiving his resolve, taught him and his companions the six perfections, the four immeasurables, and the three liberations, and predicted that this man would in the future become a buddha named Suvarṇapuṣpa.

Returning home to bid his family farewell before his expected execution, the flower-gatherer found his own basket, to everyone's astonishment, still miraculously full of fine flowers. His family urged him to present these to the king after all, though his children warned the delay would still be reported regardless — and, sure enough, the enraged king had him seized and bound for execution on sight. Yet the man showed no fear at all, explaining to the astonished king that, having offered his flowers to the Buddha that very morning knowing it meant his own death, he would rather die with merit than live without it. Checking the basket once more, the king found it still miraculously full — through the Buddha's own protection, as the Buddha himself soon confirmed, along with the man's own coming prediction of buddhahood. Overjoyed, the king at once freed him, confessing his own foolishness in having bound so worthy a bodhisattva. The Buddha said, "Well done, well done — one who can correct himself is as good as one who never erred at all" (Source: Sūtra of the Flower-Gatherer Who Defied the King and Received a Prediction as the Buddha Suvarṇapuṣpa).

Good son, a bodhisattva who upholds the precepts makes vows such as these: "I would rather throw this body into a pit of fire than break the precept against impure conduct with women. I would rather wrap my body in burning iron than, having broken the precepts, accept clothing from a faithful donor. I would rather swallow a ball of molten iron than eat food so offered. I would rather lie upon burning iron than accept such bedding, or receive three hundred spear-thrusts than accept such medicine, or throw myself into a cauldron of molten iron than accept such a dwelling. I would rather be pounded to dust than accept the reverence of kings and brahmins with a broken precept. I would rather have my own eyes gouged out than gaze with desire on another's beauty, my body pierced with awls than listen with desire to pleasing sounds, my nose cut off than crave fragrance, my tongue cut out than crave fine flavor, my body hacked apart than crave pleasant sensation." Such cravings, left unchecked, lead one to hell, the animal realm, or the realm of hungry ghosts — this is what it means for a bodhisattva to uphold the precepts and dedicate this practice to all beings.

A bodhisattva cultivating these precepts thereby attains the first, unshakeable stage — like Mount Sumeru, unmoved even by the fiercest winds — unmoved by form, sound, fragrance, or flavor, never falling into the lower destinies, never retreating into a lesser vehicle, and never scattered by the winds of wrong view (Source: Nirvāṇa Sūtra, fascicle 11).

Even one who has only begun to practice the bodhisattva path, before accomplishing anything, already surpasses everyone else — just as the kalaviṅka bird, though still within its egg, already surpasses all other birds the moment it cries out. An arhat once had a novice carry his robe and bowl; whenever the novice privately resolved on the great vehicle, the teacher, perceiving this thought, took the robe and bowl himself and had the novice walk ahead of him — but whenever the novice, reconsidering, wished instead for a quick, lesser path to nirvāṇa, the teacher gave the burden back and made him walk behind. Puzzled at this repeated reversal, the novice was told: "When your mind resolves upon buddhahood, that resolve alone outranks even my own attainment, and so I let you walk ahead; when it turns back toward the lesser vehicle, that goal is still far beneath my own, and so you walk behind." The novice, startled into understanding, resolved thereafter to hold firmly to the Great Vehicle (Source: Mahāprajñāpāramitā-śāstra, fascicle 78).

Long ago, three children of noble families, playing together, saw a buddha's own radiant light and agreed to make an offering. Lacking flowers, they each took the white pearl from their own head to offer instead. Approaching the Buddha, one wished to become like the honored monk on his right, another like the one of supernormal power on his left, and the third to become like the Buddha himself — a wish so great that eight thousand devas praised it as beneficial to all beings everywhere. When the three scattered their pearls upon the Buddha, the two who wished for the lesser path found their pearls resting merely on his shoulders, while the pearl of the one who aspired to buddhahood rested upon his very head, transforming into a jeweled canopy. The Buddha revealed that the two lesser boys were Śāriputra and Maudgalyāyana, who, fearing birth and death, had wished only for swift nirvāṇa — while the third boy, who aspired instead to unsurpassed, perfect awakening, was the Buddha himself (Source: Sūtra of King Ajātaśatru, upper fascicle).

Long ago, as a bodhisattva living an ordinary life, at sixteen, deeply devoted to study, I resolved to hold to the Buddha's own teaching alone for my peace of mind. When my family wished to arrange a marriage, fearing no calamity greater than desire, I fled to another country instead, supporting myself through hired labor. There, an heirless old farmer offered me his own newly adopted daughter, a girl of unmatched beauty, as a bride — and she ensnared my heart before I realized, like a moth drawn to consuming fire, that this was merely the old man's scheme to trap me. I fled by night over a hundred li and took shelter in an empty pavilion — only to find a woman there resembling my own former bride, who likewise ensnared me for another five years, before I again came to my senses and fled once more, only to find yet another such woman waiting ten years further on. Fleeing still further, avoiding even a large house I glimpsed from a distance, I was told by its gatekeeper that a woman confined within wished to see me — and it was the very same woman again, who declared she had vowed across countless kalpas to be my wife, and that there was nowhere I could flee from her. Reflecting on how difficult desire's own root truly was to uproot, I gave rise to the four contemplations of impermanence, extinguishing every affliction of the three realms at once — and the ghost-wife vanished, replaced by the buddhas themselves, who taught me the samādhi free of conceptual thought and conferred upon me the monastic precepts, that I might become an unsurpassed teacher and bodhisattva, delivering beings without limit (Source: Collection on the Perfections, fascicle 8).