Bodies Manifested to Fit the Audience

The bodhisattva, as Śakra, held constantly to the truth of suffering and emptiness beyond any fixed form, reflecting in meditation, teaching wherever he traveled, grieving over the foolish and cherishing the wise without ever tiring. Seeing an old friend of his now reborn as a woman, married into a wealthy family and lost in wealth and desire, forgetful of impermanence, sitting idly in the marketplace, Śakra transformed himself into a merchant and sat down as though waiting beside her. The merchant, gazing intently at various passersby, kept breaking into laughter — first at a child playing with a rattle-drum, then at a man sacrificing an ox for his sick father's recovery, then at a woman holding a child who scratched blood from her own mother's cheek. The woman finally asked why he kept laughing at everything before him, including, just now, at her own quarrel with her child — and the merchant answered only: "Have you truly forgotten me, your own old friend?"

Troubled and displeased at this strange remark, she pressed him further, and the merchant explained: he had laughed at the child with the rattle-drum because that child's own spirit had once been her father, now reborn — unrecognized even within a single lifetime, let alone across many; the rattle-drum's own skin came from an ox that had itself, in death, been reborn as the very owner's own child, now beating on his own former hide without recognizing it; the ox sacrificed for the sick father's cure was itself like poison taken to cure illness, since that father, after his own death, would himself be reborn as cattle and slaughtered across many lifetimes for the sin of that very sacrifice; and the child scratching its mother's cheek had itself been, in a former life, a jealous concubine cruelly abused by this very woman, then the principal wife — reborn now as her own child, wounding her face yet unable to voice its old resentment. A husband's own heart, he said, has no constancy — hating one moment, loving the next — unknowable within a single life, let alone across many kalpas. The sūtras themselves teach that attachment to form blinds one to the great path, and that one absorbed in idle talk never hears the Buddha's own voice; this, he said, was why he had laughed. Worldly glory, he warned her, vanishes like lightning — she should recognize impermanence, keep from the company of fools, and honor instead the six perfections. Declaring he would call again at her own gate one day, he vanished.

Troubled, she returned home and waited with a purified heart — and, in time, a man in wretched, worn clothes did appear at her gate, asking to see his old friend within. When told of this, she came out and said he was no friend of hers — at which Śakra, laughing, replied that if she could not recognize him even changed in form and dress within a single life, how much less across different lives entirely. He told her again to serve the Buddha diligently, for a buddha is rarely encountered and monks of high conduct rarely find true offerings, and that life itself passes in a single breath, not to be lost to worldly confusion — then vanished. The whole country, hearing of this, rejoiced and took up the six perfections' own lofty practice. The Buddha told Śāriputra that the woman was Maitreya, and that Śakra was himself (Source: Sūtra of Maitreya's Female Body).

Long ago, in the kingdom of Utpalavatī, its five grains abundant and its people many, there reigned a king named Bali. At that time there lived a courtesan of great beauty. Visiting another's house, she found a woman just having given birth about to eat her own newborn son out of hunger. Asked why, the mother said she was starving; the courtesan asked her to wait while she found food, but the mother said her hunger was too urgent to wait even until the courtesan left the house. The courtesan, reflecting that if she took the child away its mother would starve, but if she left it there it would be eaten, resolved to save them both — cutting off her own two breasts and giving them to the mother to eat instead. The mother, having eaten, was asked if she was satisfied, and said she was, and the courtesan returned home.

A man who came to the courtesan's house, seeing her mutilated breasts, felt sudden compassion and lost all desire for her, and asked her to prove her story true. She said that if it were truly so, her breasts would be restored — and at once they were made whole again. Śakra, seeing the merit of this act of giving and fearing it might displace his own throne, transformed himself into a brahmin and came to her house, where she offered him a golden bowl filled with rice — which he refused. Asked why, he said he did not want the food, only to know if her story of cutting off her own breasts to feed the mother was true. She confirmed it was, and he asked whether she now regretted this act of giving milk. She answered that if her sincerity in that gift had truly been without falsehood, she wished to be reborn at once transformed into a man — and, at these words, she was transformed on the spot.

The king of Utpalavatī had by then ruled fifty years and, his own life ending, died — and his ministers, hearing that this courtesan had transformed into a man, resolved to make him king at once, and enthroned him. Once king, he delighted in giving, providing whatever anyone needed, and taught the entire realm to keep the eight precepts, so that the country prospered and its people rejoiced, living long lives. Reflecting that he had given generously yet never given his own body, and that giving one's own body was the true test, he anointed his body with fragrant oils and lay down on a rock in an empty mountain — where a hundred birds came and devoured him.

After his death, he was reborn into a brahmin household, of fine and handsome form. Grown to maturity, he went secretly to the marketplace and, seeing poor sellers and beggars, grieved that if only people were prosperous no one would need to sell themselves so, and, running home, begged his parents to let him become a monk. They refused, and he fasted five days; his relatives all came to counsel him, but he would not yield, until they finally persuaded his parents to consent, weeping. After caring for his parents six or seven more days, and circling them three times in respect, he departed for a grove of trees, where he found two ascetics who had attained the five supernormal powers, dwelling in the open, reflecting on the path for the sake of all beings through their own austerities. The boy sat beneath the same trees and, through diligent meditation and austerity, likewise attained the five powers himself, surpassing the two ascetics in vigor — following their own practice of eating only fruit that fell naturally from the trees rather than picking it.

Wandering together in search of fruit, the three came upon a pregnant tigress. The boy-ascetic told the two others that she would soon give birth and, starving, might well eat her own cubs — asking who among them would offer his own body to feed her. Maitreya said he would do so — but, going to fetch fruit and returning, they found the tigress had already given birth and, ravenous, was about to devour her own cubs. The boy-ascetic asked again who could save her hunger with his own body, and the three went together to where she lay, jaws open toward the two ascetics — who, in terror, fled into the sky. One of them, weeping in pity yet looking about and finding nothing else to give, could do nothing; the boy-ascetic himself then took up a sharp knife, cut his own arm, and let his blood flow into the tigress's mouth from seven wounds, then threw his own body before her to be devoured entirely.

The Buddha told Ānanda: know that the courtesan, the king she became, and the brahmin's son who threw himself to the tigress were all myself; the two ascetics were the bodhisattvas Kāśyapa and Maitreya. Through diligent practice across sixty kalpas, giving my own body again and again, I surpassed Maitreya by nine kalpas and attained buddhahood first (Source: Sūtra of the Three Transformations in a Former Life).

Long ago, the bodhisattva Śākyamuni was a great king named Sarvadatta, giving freely to all beings whatever they asked and rescuing them from every peril. The devas, spirits, and dragons all reasoned together that the throne of Śakra was held by no permanent occupant, and that whoever's own conduct and merit proved lofty enough would take that seat upon death — and, fearing this king might one day displace Śakra himself, Śakra resolved to test the truth of his own reputed virtue. He transformed himself into a hawk and had a neighboring king transform into a dove; the dove fled to the king's own feet in terror, crying that its life was at its end, and the king promised to save it. The hawk arrived close behind, demanding the dove back as his own rightful food — but the king, having already vowed the dove's safety, offered instead flesh from his own body, a hundred times the dove's own weight, in exchange. The hawk said he wanted only the dove, not other flesh — and, asked what would make him release it gladly, answered that if the king, out of compassion for all beings, would cut his own flesh to match the dove's weight, he would gladly accept that instead.

Delighted, the king cut flesh from his own thigh and weighed it against the dove — yet however much he cut, the dove always somehow outweighed it, until his own flesh was entirely gone and still could not match the dove's weight, his wounds causing him immeasurable pain. Undeterred, the king, in perfect equanimity, ordered his own attendant to kill him and weigh his very marrow against the dove instead, declaring that, bound by his own solemn vow before the Buddha to rescue beings from peril, no amount of suffering could move his resolve any more than a light breeze could move Mount Sumeru. At this the hawk and dove, seeing the king's own true heart, resumed their original forms and bowed to the ground, asking why he sought such suffering at all. The king answered that he sought neither Śakra's own throne nor any flying emperor's crown, but grieved only that beings, sunk in blindness, never see the Three Jewels and, given over to violence, fall heedlessly into hell — and vowed to attain buddhahood himself, to deliver all beings into nirvāṇa.

Śakra, astonished, confessed he had feared the king sought to usurp his own throne, and asked forgiveness for the trial — to which the king answered only that he wished his own wounds healed, that he might continue giving as before. Śakra then had a heavenly physician apply divine medicine, and the king's wounds healed at once, his strength and color surpassing what they had been before. Śakra bowed, circled the king three times in reverence, and departed rejoicing (Source: Collection on the Perfections, fascicle 1).

While the Buddha wandered in Rājagṛha, there lived a wanton woman named Suvarṇaśiras, "Golden-Light-Crown," of surpassing beauty and a complexion like pure gold, so that princes, ministers, and elders alike, seized with desire, followed wherever she went. One day, Suvarṇaśiras and the elder's son Bhīruśruta went together to the marketplace, then, laden with fine food, to a pleasure garden. Mañjuśrī, emerging that day from quiet retreat and moved by great compassion for beings, wondered whom he might convert to the Great Vehicle, and, seeing Suvarṇaśiras and Bhīruśruta riding together toward the garden, judged them fit for conversion. He transformed himself at once into a young man of surpassing, radiant beauty, more splendid than any deva, his very clothing shining forty li, and stood in the road before the woman's own path.

Beside Mañjuśrī, the elder's son and Suvarṇaśiras's own carriage and finery looked like mere heaps of ink beside a bright pearl. Suvarṇaśiras, seeing Mañjuśrī's own radiant, godlike countenance, his body's own brilliance beyond compare, coveted his shining garments and resolved in her heart to abandon the elder's son at once, step down from her carriage, and pursue this new man instead for the sake of his own fine clothes. Perceiving this, Mañjuśrī, through his own wondrous power, stilled her intent — appearing then as a heavenly king in the form of a man, who told her: "Stop, stop — why give rise to such a wandering desire? This person before you has no interest in desire at all." Asked why, the heavenly king answered that this person was the bodhisattva Mañjuśrī himself, able to fulfill any being's own wish, never turning away whatever anyone's heart might seek.

Reflecting that she would surely then be given his fine garments, she stepped down from her carriage and asked Mañjuśrī directly to give her his own robe. Mañjuśrī answered: "Elder sister, if you can give rise to the resolve for unsurpassed, true awakening, I will gladly give you my robe." She agreed at once, gave rise to the unsurpassed resolve, and took up the five precepts (Source: Chapter on the Great Pure Dharma-Gate).

Long ago, in the kingdom of Kāśi, an elder without any son had, together with his wife, lost his own eyesight, and wished only to enter the mountains to seek the unsurpassed path, cultivating a pure and quiet resolve. A bodhisattva named Sarvasudarśana, "All-Good-Seeing," reflecting that this couple's own aspiration was sincere though they could not see, and that entering the mountains blind would surely bring them harm, resolved, at the end of his own life, to be reborn as their son. He was born into that very household and named Śyāma, growing up filial and compassionate, keeping the ten good deeds, tending his parents day and night as though serving the gods themselves.

Past the age of ten, Śyāma knelt before his parents and said that though he was born to them, he would not let his own presence extinguish their prior resolve to enter the mountains — for life in this world is impermanent and uncertain, and he wished them to fulfill their original wish for a pure, quiet life while there was still time, promising to provide for them without fail. His parents agreed, and Śyāma, having given away his entire family's own wealth to the poor of the kingdom, went with them into the mountains, building a hut of reeds with a bed neither too cold nor too hot for any season. A year into their mountain life, the fruit grew abundant and fragrant, springs flowed cool and clear, lotuses of five colors bloomed in the ponds, sandalwood and other trees perfumed the air more richly than ever, and every manner of bird sang as though making music. Lions, bears, tigers, wolves, and other fierce beasts turned only compassionate toward them, grazing on grass and fruit without menace, and Śyāma himself, so filial that he feared even to tread too heavily on the earth, was daily comforted by mountain spirits appearing in human form. Clad in deerskin, carrying a water jug, he drew water while deer and birds drank alongside him without fear.

One day the king of Kāśi, hunting in the mountains, saw a herd of deer and birds by the water's edge and loosed an arrow — which struck Śyāma's own chest by mistake. Struck by the poisoned arrow, Śyāma cried out: "Who has shot a single arrow and killed three ascetics at once?" Hearing a human voice, the king dismounted and came to him. Śyāma said to him: "An elephant dies for its tusks, a rhinoceros for its horn, a kingfisher for its feathers, a deer for its hide and flesh — for what, then, do I now die?" The king asked what manner of person he was, clothed as he was in deerskin indistinguishable from the beasts. Śyāma answered that he was a subject of this very kingdom, who had come with his blind parents to cultivate the path here for over twenty years, never once harmed by tiger, wolf, or venomous creature — only now to be shot by the king himself.

At that very moment a violent wind arose in the mountains, snapping trees, birds crying in grief, lions and bears and every beast howling aloud, the sun losing its light, springs running dry, flowers withering, thunder shaking the earth. Śyāma's blind parents, startled, wondered to each other why their son, gone so long to fetch water, had not returned, fearing some venomous creature had harmed him — for beasts and birds cried out now unlike their ordinary way, wind rising on every side and trees breaking, surely some calamity had occurred.

The king, terrified and filled with self-reproach, confessed that he had come only to hunt deer by the water's edge and, aiming at them, had struck this ascetic instead by mistake — a grave sin indeed, killing an ascetic for the sake of a little meat and receiving now this heavy retribution. He offered his entire kingdom's own treasury, palace, dancing women, cities, and towns to save the boy's life, and, going to him, tried to draw the arrow from his chest, but it was lodged too deep to remove. Birds and beasts gathered from every side, crying out and shaking the mountain, and the king, ever more afraid, felt every one of his own three hundred sixty joints tremble. Śyāma told him: "This is not your fault, but the fruit of my own past karma; I do not begrudge my own life, but grieve only for my blind parents, now aged, who, once I am gone, will have no one left to care for them — that is the true cause of my sorrow, not the pain of this poison."

The king, weeping, vowed that he would rather himself endure a hundred kalpas in hell than let Śyāma die, and knelt before him in repentance, promising that if the boy's life ended, he himself would never return to his own kingdom but remain in these mountains forever caring for his parents exactly as Śyāma had — a vow, he said, that every deva, dragon, and spirit here could witness. Hearing this, Śyāma, though pierced by poison, felt joy in his heart and no regret even in death, and told the king where to find his parents nearby in a grass hut, asking him to go gently, lest they be frightened, and to explain with skillful means that impermanence had come, that he did not begrudge his own life but grieved only for their old age and blindness with no one now to depend on — and to ask, on his behalf, that they forgive whatever wrong he had done across countless past kalpas, wishing only to be reborn with them again in future lives, never separated, and that they themselves live out their full years free of sorrow, protected always by devas, dragons, and spirits. The king, taking several attendants, went to find the parents — and, as soon as he had gone, Śyāma quietly died, birds and beasts circling and licking the blood from his chest in grief.

The blind parents, hearing footsteps not their own son's, were startled and asked who approached. The king identified himself and explained he had come to pay respects to the ascetics dwelling there. The parents, delighted, welcomed him warmly, asking after his own health and that of his palace, his queens, his heirs, his officials, and his people, and whether the rains came in season and the harvest was plentiful, and whether neighboring kingdoms remained at peace — to which the king answered that all was well, thanks to the ascetics' own blessing, and asked in turn after their own life in the mountains, whether wind and rain, beasts and birds, had ever harmed them. The parents answered that, through the king's own kindness, they had always been at peace, and spoke proudly of their filial son Śyāma, who provided fruit and water for them without fail, and who had only just gone to fetch water and would soon return.

Hearing this, the king wept and confessed his own grave fault — that he had come hunting deer by the water and, aiming at them, had struck their son by mistake. The parents, hearing this, threw themselves to the ground as though a great mountain had collapsed, shaking the very earth; the king himself caught and supported them as they wailed to heaven, protesting that their son, so filial he feared even to tread heavily on the ground, had done nothing to deserve such a death — recalling now the wind and the trees breaking and the birds' grief they had just heard, and fearing the worst. The father said only that death comes to all who live and cannot be undone, and asked the king whether their son was yet alive or dead — and, on hearing him confirm what had happened, both parents collapsed together, begging the king to lead them to their son's own body.

The king led the blind parents to where Śyāma lay; the father embraced his feet, the mother his head, both crying out to heaven — the mother licking the wound on her son's chest, praying that the poison enter her own mouth instead, that her own old, blind, useless life be given in exchange for her filial son's, without regret even in death — declaring that if Śyāma's own filial devotion were truly known to heaven and earth, let the arrow be drawn out, the poison removed, and her son restored to life.

At this the palace of Śakra, second heaven, itself shook, and Śakra, seeing with his heavenly eye the two blind parents embracing their dead son and weeping, felt the tremor reach even the fourth heaven of Tuṣita, shaking every heavenly palace there. The four heavenly kings and Śakra himself then descended, in the time it takes to bend and stretch an arm, before Śyāma, and poured heavenly medicine into his mouth — at which the arrow drew itself out, and he was restored to life exactly as before. His astonished parents, seeing their dead son alive again, found their own blind eyes opened as well; every bird and beast rejoiced, the wind stilled, the clouds cleared, the sun shone brighter than before, springs flowed anew, and flowers of five colors bloomed more richly than ever. The king, overjoyed beyond measure, bowed to Śakra, then to the parents and to Śyāma himself, and offered his entire kingdom's own wealth in gratitude.

Śyāma told him that if he truly wished to repay this debt, he should return instead to his own kingdom, comfort his people, and have them all keep the precepts, and never again go hunting to harm wild beasts and birds — for even in this present life such killing brings no true peace, and, at the end of one's own days, leads only to hell; worldly love and attachment are fleeting and cannot be kept forever, though the king himself, through past merit, had attained his own throne, and ought never grow careless simply because he now held power. The king, deeply repentant, resolved from that day to follow Śyāma's own teaching, and his several hundred attendants all rejoiced and took up the five precepts. Returning to his kingdom, he decreed that any blind parents like Śyāma's own should be cared for without fail, on pain of severe punishment for neglect — and, because of Śyāma's own restoration to life, the whole country, high and low, took up the five precepts and the ten good deeds, so that all who died were reborn in heaven, none falling into the three evil paths.

The Buddha told Ānanda: I was that Śyāma in a past life; my blind father was my own father, King Śuddhodana; my blind mother was my own mother, Queen Māyā; the king of Kāśi was Ānanda himself; and Śakra was Maitreya. That I so swiftly attained the unsurpassed true path was entirely due to the blessing of caring for my own parents with such devotion — that from death I was restored to life, moving devas, dragons, and spirits themselves, was the fruit of a filial son's own deep debt to his parents repaid; that I have now become a buddha and deliver this country's own people besides is likewise entirely due to the virtue of filial devotion (Source: Sūtra of Śyāma).

At that time, the bodhisattva Āṭavika, "of the Wilderness," manifested in the form of a yakṣa; the bodhisattva Pāñcika manifested as a deer; the bodhisattva Prajñolka, "Wisdom-Torch," as a monkey; the bodhisattva Vigatarāga, "Free from Craving," as a ram; and the bodhisattva Kṣīṇāsrava, "Exhausted Defilements," as a king goose — five hundred bodhisattvas in all, each manifesting in some different form, every body radiant with a great, fragrant light, each holding a lamp in hand to offer to the buddhas of the ten directions. A bodhisattva named Doubtful-Mind, observing these five hundred, recognized at once that they were all bodhisattvas, and asked the yakṣa Āṭavika why they had taken such forms to make this offering.

Āṭavika answered: long ago, ninety-one kalpas past, under the buddha Vipaśyin, he and these same companions had all been born of one father and mother, brothers together, who took the five precepts and gave rise to the bodhi-resolve for the sake of subduing all beings, and had likewise made offerings to the buddhas Śikhin, Viśvabhū, and Krakucchanda. Before one of these buddhas, the great being Pāñcika had made a great vow: that in a future age he would take the very form of a spirit himself to teach beings, and that should any evil, cruel demon arise, he would expound the three vehicles to subdue it, only afterward completing the path to awakening. Twelve thousand great demons likewise vowed in this world to subdue beings, and further vowed that should any evil spirit seek to destroy the true Dharma, they would themselves discipline it — and it was for this reason that Āṭavika himself had taken on such a spirit's form, to teach and subdue such beings and establish them in the three vehicles.

He explained further: whenever beings turn away from wholesome ways and commit evil through body, speech, and mind, they are already born, in effect, into the three evil paths; and some, through a mixture of good and evil deeds, are reborn specifically as spirits — so that evil spirits multiply while good ones remain few. It was to subdue such beings that he had taken this very form himself, and to turn even kṣatriyas, brahmins, vaiśyas, and śūdras away from evil intentions. He declared there existed a Vajra-Mallet spell capable of preventing every evil spirit from harming the four castes, and even causing birds and beasts to give rise to wholesome minds and be free of every evil fear — and that he now vowed to proclaim this very spell (Source: Mahāsaṃnipāta Sūtra, fascicle 21).

Long ago, while the Buddha still dwelt in Tuṣita heaven, the seer Vasu lived in Jambudvīpa, leading six million two hundred thousand merchants as their caravan-master on a sea voyage for treasure. Returning home by great ship, they met on the way a makara sea-monster, a violent storm, and yakṣa demons — and, in their peril, every one of the six million two hundred thousand vowed to Maheśvara that each would offer him a single sacrificial animal, and, through this vow, escaped all four dangers and reached home safely. Each then prepared a sheep to bring to the god's own shrine.

Vasu, reflecting silently that he must not let these merchants commit an unwholesome act, devised a skillful means: he transformed himself into two men, one a monk, the other a lay brahmin. The brahmin announced among the crowd that their lord and six million two hundred thousand followers intended to go to the shrine — and the monk, meeting him on the road, asked where they were bound. The brahmin said they sought great benefit at the god's own shrine, but the monk replied that he saw them heading instead toward great misfortune, for how could benefit come from unending strife? The people, asking who this stranger was, were told he was a monk, and, asking what he had said, were told he claimed that killing to sacrifice to heaven brought grave sin — at which they scoffed that this foolish monk's words meant nothing and hurried on toward great benefit at the shrine. The brahmin then suggested they consult their own great teacher, now present at the shrine, who knew everything — and all agreed.

The monk, the brahmin, and the crowd together reached the great seer, and the monk asked him directly: does killing to sacrifice to heaven lead to rebirth in heaven, or to hell? The great seer answered that only a foolish monk would doubt it — killing to sacrifice to heaven leads certainly to hell. Vasu himself then interjected: "Not so." The monk retorted: "If it truly does not lead to hell, then you yourself must prove it" — and, at that very moment, Vasu's own body sank straight down into the Avīci hell. The crowd, seeing this, cried out in horror that if even their own wise and eloquent great seer had now been destroyed, how much less could they themselves escape hell.

At this the whole crowd released their sheep and scattered in every direction, fleeing into the mountains in search of true seers, and, finding them, received the seers' own teaching, dwelling in practice for twenty-one years before each, at life's end, was reborn in Jambudvīpa. I myself, descending at that time from Tuṣita heaven, was born in Jambudvīpa into King Śuddhodana's own household; and those six million two hundred thousand people were reborn in Śrāvastī, receiving human form. When I first arrived at Śrāvastī, I subdued these same six million two hundred thousand people and caused them to go forth and give rise to the bodhi-resolve — they were none other than those merchants of old. Know, good sons, that the seer Vasu's own majestic spiritual power converted all these people and brought them at last to me (Source: Vaipulya Dhāraṇī Sūtra, fascicle 1).

Long ago in Jambudvīpa, to the east, a bodhisattva named Lupolo was born there through the power of his own vow, becoming a wheel-turning sage king ruling the four continents, named Ākāśaviśuddha, "Space-Pure." He taught all beings to abide in the ten good deeds and the three vehicles, and gave to everyone without discrimination — yet, however many beggars came, the store of treasure never ran short. Asked by the king where such treasure came from, his own minister explained that though the dragon kings possessed it, they offered it only to a true sage-king — and that in this degenerate age of heavy afflictions, when human life spans only a hundred years, this king was destined to attain unsurpassed, perfect awakening, manifesting as a great dragon king various stores of treasure throughout every degenerate world he chose, reborn seven times in each of the four continents, manifesting in each birth countless hundreds of thousands of koṭis of treasure-stores, one after another, throughout the ten directions — so that in this degenerate age, hundreds of thousands of devas rained flowers from the sky in praise, proclaiming the fulfillment of every heartfelt wish.

King Ākāśaviśuddha's devas named him Sarvadatta, "All-Giving." People came to beg from him his own queens, palace women, and even his own children, and he gave every one of them away. One beggar, named Nīlaprabhā, "Blue Light," who kept the dog-precepts, begged from him the whole of Jambudvīpa itself — and the king joyfully anointed him king with fragrant water, ceding his own throne to him, the people accepting this new ruler while the former king's own life continued unaffected, with the promise that when he himself attained buddhahood, this beggar would receive the prediction of becoming a bodhisattva of one more birth before buddhahood. A brahmin named Lūzhì begged his two feet; a brahmin named Yá begged his two eyes; a brahmin named Jìngjiānláo begged his two ears; a Nirgrantha ascetic named Xiǎng begged his own male organ; a brahmin named Mìwèi begged his two hands — and each was cut off and given at once, without hesitation.

The lesser kings and ministers all cried out at this: "What a fool — what use is flesh cut off and thrown away like this? It will only be devoured by wild beasts and vultures in the wilderness!" But the king vowed: "If my own wish is fulfilled, let this very body become a great mountain of flesh, that all beings who wish to drink my blood and eat my flesh may come here freely, my body growing ever larger the more it is consumed." Having given away even his own tongue, he vowed by this same power to obtain, in a future life, the broad, long tongue of a buddha. When his life then ended in Jambudvīpa, through the power of his original vow he was reborn as a dragon king named Treasure-Revealer, manifesting on the very night of his birth hundreds of thousands of koṭis of treasure-stores of every kind, proclaiming that all might use even his own maṇi-jewels as they wished, himself practicing the ten good deeds and giving rise to the unsurpassed bodhi-resolve. Reborn seven times in this way, each life lasting seventy-seven thousand koṭis of hundred-thousands of years, his boundless treasure-stores continued without end (Source: Sūtra of Choosing Future Degenerate Worlds).

A King's Own Eyes Given to a Blind Man

The Buddha told the venerable Ānanda: long ago there was a king named Sūryacandraprabha, "Sun-and-Moon Brightness," of fine appearance and towering majesty. Going out from his palace, he came upon a blind man, poor and starving, begging by the roadside, who approached the king and said: "You alone are honored, at ease, and content, while I alone am poor and, worse, blind." Moved to pity, the king asked what medicine might cure his blindness — and the blind man answered that only the king's own eyes could heal his own. The king at once took out his own two eyes and gave them to the blind man, his heart entirely at peace, without a trace of regret. That King Sūryacandraprabha was myself. The Buddha said: even Mount Sumeru's own weight can be measured — but the gift of my own eyes cannot be reckoned at all (Source: Sūtra of Maitreya's Questions on the Root Vow).

A King's Forgotten Debt to a Brahmacārin

Long ago, the bodhisattva was a great king who took refuge in the Three Jewels and fully upheld the ten good deeds, wielding no weapons, keeping no prisons; rain and wind came in their proper season, the harvest was rich, and the people prosperous, so that idle gossip vanished from the whole country and everyone recited the true teaching of the six perfections. At that time a brahmacārin of pure, quiet discipline, dwelling apart from the world in the forested mountains, went out one night thirsty and, by mistake, drank from a lotus pond the country's own people had planted. Waking to what he had done, he went to the palace and confessed himself guilty of theft, asking the king to punish him according to the law.

The king said that this was merely natural water, no one's true property, and asked what crime there could be — but the brahmacārin insisted that drinking it without leave was indeed theft, and asked the king to judge him properly. The king, busy with affairs of state, told him to wait in the garden meanwhile; the crown prince had him placed deep within the garden grounds, and the king, caught up entirely in state business, forgot him there for six days. Suddenly remembering, the king asked where the brahmacārin was and had him summoned at once — but the man, keeping his own vow through six days of hunger and thirst, had grown so emaciated that he could barely stand, stumbling on the ground. Seeing him, the king wept, confessing his own grave fault, though the queen only laughed at his distress. The king had him bathed and fed with fine food, personally serving him and bowing in repentance — yet from that single lapse, through the endless cycle of birth and death, even up to the very edge of buddhahood, he was made to go six years without food.

The Buddha told the monks: the king of that story was myself; the queen was Gopī; the crown prince was Rāhula. Because the king forgot the ascetic and let him starve six days, the retribution owed was six years of hunger — yet, since the king personally served and cared for him after those six days, that same six years of retribution was fully exhausted upon the completion of my own path. Gopī's own laughter, at that time, is why, in this present life, she carried Rāhula through six years of difficult pregnancy; and the crown prince's own act of confining the brahmacārin deep within the garden is why Rāhula himself remained six years in the dark womb (Source: Sūtra of the Sparrow King).

A King's Total Renunciation

Long ago, the bodhisattva was a great king who governed his people with compassion, touring the realm every month to give medicine and gruel to the poor, widowed, and sick, always sending a following cart laden with clothing and medicine wherever he traveled, and burying the dead at his own expense — his own good name spreading throughout the world. Śakra, seeing this king's own virtue and fearing he might one day displace him, resolved to test and undo him. Transforming into an old brahmin, he begged from the king a thousand silver coins, which the king readily gave, saying he feared theft where he lodged and wished to entrust them to the king's own keeping; the king, saying his kingdom had no thieves, accepted the heavy trust regardless.

Śakra then transformed into another brahmin and came again to the palace gate, and the king received him. This brahmin praised the king's own renowned virtue, spread to the eight directions, and confessed that, born a commoner himself, he now envied such honor and wished to beg the king's entire kingdom from him. The king agreed at once, and departed with his wife and children in a modest carriage. Śakra, transformed yet again into another brahmin, then begged even that carriage from him — and the king gave it too, going on foot with his wife and children to lodge by the mountainside.

An ascetic of the five supernormal powers, an old friend of the king's, recalling his virtue and now seeing him stripped of his own kingdom, entered meditation and perceived Śakra's own jealous scheme behind it, and, using his supernormal power, appeared before the king at once, asking what troubled him so. The king answered that his own intent was already fully known to his old friend — and the ascetic transformed himself into a single-shaft cart to carry the king onward. Śakra, transformed once more, then begged even this cart from him.

Some thousand li still from the kingdom he sought, Śakra, transformed yet again into the very first brahmin, came demanding back his silver coins. The king, having given away his own kingdom to another, realized he had forgotten the man's coins entirely — and so pawned his own wife and children for a thousand silver coins to repay the debt. His wife, given over to the household that held her in pledge, bathed and removed her own pearls and jewels — which Śakra, transformed into a hawk, snatched away entire; accused then of having stolen and hidden her own jewelry, she was thrown into prison. Her son, sleeping beside the pledge-household's own child, was that same night secretly killed by Śakra, and the household, discovering their own child dead, seized the king's son and delivered him to prison as well — mother and child both held captive, starving and disfigured, crying out with no one to help, until, condemned, they were led out for execution.

The king, having earned back a thousand silver coins through hired labor, went to ransom his wife and son, and, passing through the marketplace, saw them there — and, reflecting on the buddhas and repenting his own past karma that had brought him to this, entered a state of quiet clarity and perceived Śakra's own hand behind everything. A voice from the sky then urged: "Why not kill them at once?" — but the king answered: "I have heard that Śakra himself vows to deliver all beings, grieving for them as a compassionate mother grieves for every living, blood-bearing creature under his protection; if you have attained your own heavenly throne through no evil cause, then act accordingly — but if you now harbor such deep malice, your own sin, once ripe, will surely cast you down into the great hell."

The ruler of that land at once forgave the wife and son their supposed crimes; the two kings, meeting, traced the whole affair to its source, and there was no one in either kingdom, great or small, who did not weep at hearing it. The ruler of that land divided his own kingdom to share with the king; the ministers and people of the king's former country, learning where he now was, came from every corner to welcome him back — the people of the two kingdoms together, one in grief, one in joy. I was that king; my wife was Gopī; my son was Rāhula; Śakra was Devadatta; the mountain ascetic was Śāriputra; and the king of that other land was Maitreya (Source: Collection on the Perfections, fascicle 1).

The Buddha, dwelling in Śrāvastī, told the monks: long ago, the bodhisattva was a great king named Samantaprabha, "Universal Light," whose compassion illuminated the ten directions and whose people praised him as a filial son delights his own parents. A neighboring king, named Āqún, governed with equal justice and possessed strength like a lion's, able to outrun even a flying hawk. One day his own cook, sent early to market for meat, came upon a fresh corpse along the road and, taking its flesh along with the ordinary meat he had bought, prepared it as a special dish — so delicious that every dish he prepared afterward seemed inferior by comparison. When the king rebuked his master chef for the decline in quality, the cook confessed the truth in shame, prostrating himself — and the king, troubled in his own heart, asked only, "Is human flesh truly so delicious?" and, receiving his answer, quietly ordered the cook to provide it as a regular course from then on. For, as the saying goes, one who indulges too richly in taste weakens his own humaneness, and one whose humaneness weakens gives rise to a wolf's own heart — for wolves and dogs crave flesh and destroy life, and are for this reason hated throughout the world.

The cook, obeying this command, began secretly killing people to supply the king's own table. The ministers and people, in growing outcry, together drove the king out; he fled into the mountains, where he took to waiting in ambush for other kings as they traveled, seizing them as a hawk seizes sparrows, until he had captured ninety-nine kings in all.

King Samantaprabha, going out one day to observe his own people's hardships and joys, met a brahmacārin on the road who warned him not to go out that day — but the king, having already given his word, felt bound by his own promise and went regardless, and was captured by Āqún. The king declared he did not fear death, but only regretted breaking his own promised word — and, asked what he meant, explained that a sage on the road, having seen him go out, had wished only to hear a certain teaching from him once more, a debt he had meant to fulfill honestly before dying without regret. Āqún released him briefly to keep this promise.

Having found the sage and given him gold coins as promised, the king returned to Āqún smiling — and, asked how he could smile with his own death now certain, answered that the World-Honored One's own teaching was rarely encountered in all three realms, and that, having now received it himself, what kingdom or life could possibly compare in value? Āqún, asking to hear this teaching himself, was given it by the king — and, startled and delighted, exclaimed: "How magnificent — the World-Honored One's own teaching of the four kinds of impermanence! Not to have heard such a thing is truly to have lived in madness." He at once released all hundred kings to return to their own countries.

Āqún himself, repenting, took up a new life dwelling beneath a tree, reciting the same four verses daily until his own life ended, his spirit transmigrating to become a king's own crown prince. Married, yet unable to father a child, and causing the king his father great worry, a woman of the kingdom was recruited through sorcery to make him fertile — but he grew instead dissolute, abandoning virtue entirely, until the king had him publicly flogged at the crossroads, ordering passersby to strike his head with their fingers in disgrace — and, once ninety-nine people had done so, the crown prince died. His spirit, transmigrating on without end, was reborn again in the time the Buddha himself walked the earth, in Śrāvastī, losing his father young and living alone with his mother, devoted to a brahmin teacher's own path, sincere and courageous, so strong he could wrestle an elephant to its knees — beloved by his teacher and respected by his fellow students far and wide as a worthy man. Whenever the teacher traveled, he entrusted his own household to this student's care.

The teacher's wife, falling into shameless desire, seized his hand and tried to seduce him with lustful words — but Āqún refused her, saying that any elder man in the world was as his own father, any woman his own mother, how much more so his own teacher's wife; he would sooner be burned alive than defile such an order. Ashamed, the teacher's wife withdrew and, scheming for revenge, told her husband on his return that this student's own conduct fell short of his reputation, feigning that the student himself had made improper advances toward her — a slander he believed as sincere truth. The teacher then asked Āqún whether he wished to attain immortality himself — and, told yes, instructed him that killing a hundred people and taking a finger from each would grant him this very power. Obeying, Āqún took up a sword and killed everyone he met, until he had gathered ninety-nine fingers, the whole country in an uproar. Seeing his own mother approaching, he rejoiced that his count was now complete and immortality his at last.

The Buddha, perceiving that this deluded path was leading an entire land astray, transformed himself into a monk walking just ahead of him. Āqún, declaring his tally was now complete, pursued the monk, unable to catch him however fast he ran, and called out for him to stop — to which the monk answered that he himself had already stopped, and it was Āqún who had not. At this Āqún's own mind opened at once, as clouds part before the sun, and he threw himself to the ground in full prostration, repenting his crimes, joined his palms, and followed the Buddha back to the monastery to become a monk himself. The Buddha then revealed his own past life, the four verses of impermanence, and he attained the stream-enterer's own fruit.

The king of that land, hearing this and wishing to see this reformed murderer for himself, asked the Buddha's leave — and the Buddha said that so virtuous a sage might open but one eye to be seen, for his gaze burned too brightly to bear directly; the king asked three times before finally being granted a modest audience the following day. The monk, asked to receive this humble offering, said he would come only to the latrine, never to the main hall — and the king, agreeing, had the latrine itself torn out and rebuilt with fresh timber pillars and beams, its floor bathed in fragrant water mixed with sandalwood, storax, and turmeric into perfumed clay, spread with fine woven mats, carved and adorned with every treasure until it outshone the palace hall itself. The next day the king himself, bearing an incense burner, welcomed the monk there, kneeling to serve him with his own robes gathered up.

The monk then taught: "This latrine was filthy only days ago — could one dine upon it now?" The king answered no. "And now?" The king answered yes. The monk explained: "Before I ever saw the Buddha, I too was as filthy as that former latrine — but through past merit I was born to encounter the Buddha's own age, bathed in his pure transformation, my former stench replaced with fragrance, clean within and without now like a heavenly pearl itself."

Passing later through the marketplace, the monk heard of a woman in obstructed labor, her life in immediate danger, and reported this to the Buddha, who told him to go and assist her delivery through a true statement. Obeying, the monk went and proclaimed the Buddha's own grace — and mother and child were both safely delivered. The Buddha told him: "The day you took up the path may truly be called your own new birth; before encountering the Three Jewels and receiving the great precepts, you were like a child still in the womb — possessing ears and eyes yet unable truly to hear or see." Āqún, replying that he understood he had not truly been born until then, felt his mind open completely and attained arhatship at once.

The Buddha told the monks: King Samantaprabha of that story was myself; because I once gave that same king the four verses, delivering a hundred captive kings and sparing him from further crime, he did not fall into the retribution his acts might otherwise have earned. In an even earlier life, Āqún had once been a monk who carried a bushel of rice to a monastery and offered the Buddha a single knife, rejoicing and praising the Buddha before departing — and it was through carrying that rice that he gained his own great strength, through offering that knife that he gained great treasure, through his own joy that he gained fine appearance, through his own praise of the Buddha that he became a king, and through that same reverent act that his country came to honor him as ruler. The ninety-nine people who struck his head with their fingers were repaid when he in turn took the fingers of ninety-nine others and lost his own life for it; those later victims, seeing him already ruined, and seeing the monk's own compassion instead, chose compassion in turn — for the one who struck him first, in an earlier existence, later became his own mother, so that the malice he first bore returned to him as malice, and the compassion he later witnessed in the monk became his own compassion when he finally saw the Buddha and turned filial. As one plants purely, one reaps purity; as one plants a mixture, one reaps a mixture — good and ill, once sown, return as inevitably as a shadow follows a form or an echo answers a sound, never arising from mere chance (Source: Sūtra of King Samantaprabha).