Bodies Manifested, Part 4

Countless kalpas ago, five ascetics dwelt together in the mountain forests, four of them senior teachers and one their attendant, who gathered fruit and drew water for them at every proper hour without fail. One day, having gone far to gather fruit juice, the attendant grew drowsy and fell asleep, failing to return in time; past midday, the four teachers, having missed their meal, grew resentful and cursed him. Overhearing this, the attendant withdrew beneath a tree, reproaching himself for having served faithfully for years only to fail his teachers' meal this once — and, feeling he had thereby lost the very teaching and fallen short of the four boundless states, he died of this very grief. He had always worn sandals of the seven treasures, sitting cross-legged with his feet raised — and, in death, one of these jeweled sandals fell into the water and sank.

Reborn thereafter into a heterodox household, he became the very child of the curse just spoken over him. By ten years old, playing with his companions by the roadside, he was noticed by a passing brahmin, who, examining the many children there, saw in this "cursed child" an unmistakably noble bearing, his features finer than any ordinary person's — and told him that such a face was unfit for common play, for he bore the very signs of a king. The boy protested that he was merely the cursed child, with no royal bearing at all — but the brahmin insisted that his own scriptures' prophetic signs matched the boy's form exactly, and that when the current king of this land died, the throne would surely pass to him. The boy answered only that, should this prove true, he would remember the debt owed — and the brahmin, having said his piece, slipped away at once to another kingdom.

Not long after, the king of that land died without heir, and messengers were sent in every direction seeking a worthy successor; seeing this same boy's extraordinary bearing, they reported back to the ministers at once, and, with full ceremony, came to receive him. The whole court rejoiced; bathed in fragrant water and robed in the five ceremonial vestments, crowned and belted with the royal sword, he ascended the throne and ruled facing south, the realm at peace and its people delighted.

The brahmin, observing the heavens above and the earth below, knew the boy had indeed succeeded to the throne, and came to the palace gate seeking audience. Bowing and invoking his own former prophecy as fulfilled exactly as sworn, he was told by the king that it was indeed true, and that he might ask for whatever he wished. The brahmin asked only two things: that his own food, dress, and daily routine be equal to the king's own in every respect, and that he be consulted as an equal partner in every state decision, never excluded. The king agreed.

The king ruled with true justice, never wronging his own people — but the brahmin, growing arrogant, treated the senior ministers with contempt, and the ministers, resentful, together petitioned the king that so weighty a throne ought to consult its own elder statesmen, not rely solely on this one beggar-ascetic, whose growing arrogance now insulted every office in the court and would soon invite mockery, even invasion, from neighboring kingdoms. The king answered that he had made a solemn vow to the man and could not now break it — but, the ministers persisting, suggested only that the king simply not eat together with the brahmin at mealtimes any longer, which alone might correct his presumption. The king agreed, and thereafter ate ahead of the brahmin whenever he could.

The brahmin, furious, demanded to know why the king now ate alone against their original agreement, and cursed him: "Bah, cursed child!" The king, in response, simply provided him travel funds and had him expelled from the kingdom. Traveling alone through distant lands, enduring cold and heat, exhausted and haggard, the brahmin at last reached another country and went to the house of a fellow brahmin, an old family friend, who asked where he had come from and what scriptures he had mastered. He answered that, driven by hunger and cold along his journey, he had forgotten everything he once knew. His host, concluding the man was now good for nothing else, set him to work in the fields, providing him a servant-boy along with a plow and oxen.

The brahmin worked this servant-boy mercilessly, driving him back and forth across the level ground without rest, until the boy, in despair, resolved to drown himself in the river — and there, by the water, found a single jeweled sandal. Reflecting that the brahmin's own harsh treatment might be softened by such a gift, he brought it back and presented it to him. Delighted, the brahmin reflected that this sandal, worth an incalculable sum, might well be offered to the king to atone for his own past offense — and he returned at once to the king's own country, presenting the sandal and confessing his former fault, begging pardon.

The king said, "Very good," and had him kept concealed behind a curtain, seated there, while he summoned his ministers and asked them: "Have you all seen the former brahmin lately?" They answered no. "And if you were to see him now, what would you do?" They answered they would subject him to every manner of punishment. The king then produced the jeweled sandal to show them, and had the brahmin come out to meet them, saying that since he had brought this rare treasure, he ought to be forgiven. The ministers protested that this brahmin's crimes were as vast as a mountain or an ocean, and that a single sandal could hardly atone for them — only if he produced the matching pair might his crime be excused. The king agreed, and sent the brahmin out once more to find the second sandal.

Distressed, the brahmin returned to his former master's house and asked the servant-boy where he had originally found the sandal; the boy led him back to the very spot by the river, but, searching everywhere, they could not find its pair, and the boy gave up and left. The brahmin, reflecting that the sandal must have floated down from somewhere upstream, followed the current back up the river — and there saw a great lotus, its thousand-odd petals caught in the swirling current, a fish holding it in its mouth. Thinking that even this lotus, though not the sandal itself, might serve as an offering to atone for his fault and regain his former favor, he took hold of it — and there, beneath a tree, saw the four sages seated together.

The sages asked where he had come from, and he explained that he had lost the king's own favor and, a single sandal being insufficient atonement, had come upstream seeking its match, without success. The sages told him: "As a learned man yourself, you ought to know when to advance and when to withdraw. That king is our own former disciple, whom we cherished and honored, sharing food and seating alike with him — how could you have cursed him so carelessly as 'cursed child,' a crime deserving death? We will not question you further, but only point you to that tree there: the king, in a former life, was our own attendant, who died sitting cross-legged, and it was then that one of his jeweled sandals fell into the water and lodged upon his very foot."

The brahmin took up the sandal, bowed in gratitude and apology, and returned to the king's own country to present it. The king rejoiced, and his ministers, satisfied, restored the brahmin to his former place of honor. The Buddha said: that king was myself; the four sages were the buddhas Krakucchanda, Kanakamuni, Kāśyapa, and Maitreya; and that brahmin was Devadatta (Source: Sūtra of the Five Sages).

Long ago, the bodhisattva and his own uncle, an elder and a younger kinsman, each carried their country's goods together into a land of naked people. The nephew argued that entering a country meant following its own customs, adapting one's conduct with tact — better to hide one's own refinement and go along with the ignorant than stand apart. The uncle objected that propriety could not be compromised nor virtue abandoned — how could they go naked and ruin their own former dignity? The nephew answered that the ancient sages themselves taught that one might lose one's own life sooner than one's own conduct, yet here it was rather a matter of adapting to the moment — even an initial mockery might later be praised as the wisdom of skillful means. And so the two went in together.

The uncle proposed that the nephew go in first to observe how things stood, then report back through a messenger. The nephew agreed, and within ten days sent word back that one must indeed follow the local custom. The uncle, furious, retorted: "To abandon propriety and follow beasts — is that the conduct of a gentleman? You may do as you like, but I will not."

The custom of that country was to gather every full and new moon night in revelry — heads anointed with sesame oil, bodies painted with white clay, bone ornaments strung about the neck, two stones clacked together while the men joined hands and danced and sang freely together. The bodhisattva-nephew joined in, and the country's people, delighted, praised him; the king, taking pity, favored him, and foreign traders paid him ten times the ordinary rate for his goods. The uncle, however, entered the country still riding in his own carriage, insisting on strict formality, offending the local people's own sensibilities — and the king, angered at this perceived arrogance, had his goods confiscated and had him flogged, only releasing him at the nephew's own pleading.

Returning together to their own country, the nephew was seen off along the road with praise, while the uncle was mocked and had his ears boxed. Ashamed and furious, the uncle demanded: "What kinship do you have with these people, and what grievance with me, that you should favor them and see me robbed — is this not slander on your part?" And he swore an oath against his own nephew: "From this day forward, life after life, I will torment you without mercy." The bodhisattva, grieved, wept and vowed in turn: "Life after life, may I encounter buddhas, see the Dharma, and personally serve the monastic sangha, that the four kindnesses may cover and benefit all beings everywhere — and though my uncle wrong me, let me never break this very vow." From that time forward, the uncle has repeatedly done the nephew harm, and the nephew has repeatedly saved him regardless. The Buddha told the monks: that nephew was myself; that uncle was Devadatta (Source: Sūtra of the Peacock King; also found in the Collection on the Perfections, fascicle 5).

Countless incalculable kalpas ago, when this world was named Stainless Sumeru and human life spanned a hundred years, a buddha named Sugandhapadma, "Fragrant Lotus," arose in the world. After his own nirvāṇa, in the age of the semblance Dharma, I was then a mighty wheel-turning sage king named Durjaya, "Unconquerable," ruling all of Jambudvīpa with a thousand sons of my own. I converted every one of them to give rise to the resolve for unsurpassed, perfect awakening, wishing myself to go forth and cultivate the path during this same semblance age, to further strengthen the Buddha's own remaining teaching — save six sons alone, who refused to give rise to the bodhi-resolve or go forth however I pleaded with them.

Asking them again what would move them to this resolve, these six answered only that if I would give them Jambudvīpa itself, they would then give rise to the unsurpassed resolve. Delighted at even this qualified answer, I reflected that, having already converted the whole of Jambudvīpa's people, I might as well now divide the continent into six parts, grant one to each of these sons, and let them attain the resolve on these terms before I myself went forth. I divided Jambudvīpa into six and bestowed it upon my six sons, then went forth at once.

The six sons soon fell into conflict, raiding and warring against one another, until the whole of Jambudvīpa suffered failed harvests and starvation, rain no longer fell in season, trees withered without flower or fruit, and every bird and beast went hungry, their own bodies wasting with hunger's fire. I then gave up my own flesh, skin, and blood to feed these starving beings to their fill — throwing my own body down, which, through the power of my original vow, became a mountain of flesh a full yojana high and equally wide. From that moment, people, birds, and beasts alike began to eat this flesh and drink this blood — and, through that same vow, the mountain only grew larger the more it was consumed, until it reached a thousand yojanas in height and breadth alike, its very edges sprouting human heads complete with hair, eyes, ears, nose, mouth, lips, and tongue, each head calling out in its own voice: "All beings, take freely as you wish — drink this blood, eat this flesh, take these eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and teeth until you are fully satisfied" — and then urging each of them toward the resolve for unsurpassed, perfect awakening, or, failing that, toward the śrāvaka or pratyekabuddha path, or at least toward rebirth in heaven or human wealth and happiness.

Through the power of that same original vow, my body never diminished, sustaining, across ten thousand years, every human being, spirit, bird, and beast throughout Jambudvīpa to their complete satisfaction. Know that across those ten thousand years I gave away countless, boundless, incalculable bodies of flesh and blood to feed countless, boundless beings to their fill, without a single thought of regret arising even once — and, in just this way, throughout the ten directions, in buddha-worlds as numerous as the sands of the Ganges, I have given my own body, blood, and flesh to feed beings to their fill, as the perfection of giving (Source: Sūtra of Compassionate Lotus Flower, fascicle 9; largely the same account also appears in the Sūtra of the Buddha-World of Fragrant Lotus of the Past, though without naming the bodhisattva directly).

Long ago, the bodhisattva was a great merchant-magistrate of immense wealth, ever devoted to the Three Jewels, compassionate toward all beings. Visiting the market one day, he saw a turtle for sale and, moved to pity, asked its price. The turtle's owner, knowing the bodhisattva's own boundless compassion and unmatched wealth, and that he would never haggle, named an exorbitant price — a million coins, take it or he would eat the turtle himself. The bodhisattva agreed at once, took the turtle home, bathed and cared for it without harm, then released it by the water, watching it swim away, and vowed with tears of both grief and joy: "May all beings suffering in the great hells, in animal births, or in prison soon win their own release from calamity, safe in body and whole in life just as you are now" — and, bowing to the ten directions with joined palms, vowed further: "For all beings, endlessly troubled and suffering beyond measure, may I become the very earth beneath them, a spring in drought, a raft in flood, food in hunger and drink in thirst, clothing in cold and shade in heat, a physician for the sick and a light in darkness — and when this world grows corrupt and inverted, may I myself become a buddha within it and deliver these very beings." The buddhas of the ten directions praised this vow, declaring he would surely attain it.

That very night the turtle came knocking at his gate; startled by the sound, he sent someone out to look, and, learning it was the turtle, went to see it himself — and the turtle spoke to him in human words: "Having received such great kindness, my life and body are now whole, with no way to repay you — yet, as a creature of the water, I know when the water will rise or fall, and a great flood is coming that will bring great harm; please ready a boat in advance, and I will come to guide you to safety when the time comes." The bodhisattva agreed.

The next morning he went to the palace and reported this to the king, who, trusting the bodhisattva's own long-established good name, moved his own household to higher ground. Soon the turtle came again, warning that the flood had arrived and urging him to load the boat at once and follow wherever it led, promising safety. As the boat set out, a snake approached it, and the bodhisattva said to take it aboard; the turtle agreed. Next a drifting fox appeared, and again the bodhisattva had it taken aboard, the turtle agreeing as before. Then a drowning man appeared, beating his own chest and crying to heaven to save his life — and the bodhisattva again said to take him aboard, but this time the turtle objected strongly: ordinary human hearts, it warned, are treacherous and rarely sincere to the end, quick to forget kindness and chase advantage, given to hatred and betrayal. The bodhisattva answered that having already saved every creature aboard, to now abandon a fellow human being would hardly be compassionate, and that he could not bear to do so — and took the man aboard regardless. The turtle only sighed, "You will regret this," as they reached dry land.

The turtle then took its leave, its debt repaid — but the bodhisattva told it that when he himself attained buddhahood as the Tathāgata, free of all attachment, truly and perfectly awakened, he would surely deliver it as well; the turtle rejoiced and departed, and the snake and fox likewise went their own ways, the fox making its home in a burrow.

There the fox discovered an ancient hoard of a hundred catties of pure gold, and, delighted, resolved to repay its own debt of kindness, hurrying back to report: "This small creature, having received such kindness and been spared its own small life, sought only a den to settle in, and there found a hundred catties of gold — a find neither dug up, nor stolen, nor robbed from anyone, but the fruit of my own sincerity; I offer it now to you, my worthy benefactor." The bodhisattva, reflecting that to refuse it would only waste it, while accepting it would let him give it onward to relieve the poor, accepted the gold and used it for charity. The drowning man, seeing this, demanded half the gold for himself — the bodhisattva gave him ten catties, but the man, unsatisfied, accused him of having dug up or stolen the gold and threatened to report him to the authorities unless given a full half share. The bodhisattva answered only that he wished to give equally to all the poor, and that the man's own demand for an exclusive share was itself unjust — at which the man went and reported him to the magistrate regardless.

The bodhisattva, seized and imprisoned with no one to appeal to, took refuge only in the Three Jewels, repenting and reproaching himself, vowing that all beings might soon escape the eight difficulties and never suffer such ingratitude as he now did. The snake and fox, meeting together, wondered what could be done — and the snake declared it would rescue him, taking a fine medicine in its mouth and slipping into the prison, where, seeing the bodhisattva's own wasted, grieving state, it told him: "Keep this medicine with you — I intend to bite the crown prince himself with a poison so severe none can cure it, and you alone, applying this very medicine, will heal him." The bodhisattva said nothing, and the snake did exactly as it said; as the prince lay dying, the king proclaimed that whoever could save him would be made prime minister and share in the governance of the realm. The bodhisattva came forward, applied the medicine, and the prince was healed at once. The overjoyed king asked how this had come about, and the bodhisattva explained the whole affair from the beginning — at which the king, grieved and ashamed at his own error, had the drowning man executed, granted a general amnesty throughout the realm, and made the bodhisattva prime minister himself, taking him by the hand into the palace to sit beside him.

The king asked what teaching this wise man held to, what path he cherished, that had brought such humane benefit reaching all beings between heaven and earth — and the bodhisattva answered that he expounded the Buddha's own sūtras and cherished the Buddha's own path. Asked whether the Buddha had left any essential teaching, he answered yes — the Buddha's own teaching of the four kinds of impermanence, which, if kept in mind, brings boundless blessing. The king, delighted, asked to hear its substance, and the bodhisattva expounded it. The king declared himself now truly convinced that the Buddha taught no fixed self — if even one's own body could not be kept forever, how much less a kingdom? Grieving that his own former king had never heard this unsurpassed, true teaching of impermanence, suffering, and emptiness, the king emptied his own treasury to relieve the poor, cherishing widows, orphans, and the destitute as his own children, so that the whole country rejoiced, laughing as they went about their days, praising heaven that a bodhisattva's own transforming power could reach even this far — and the whole land, in every direction, praised his virtue until peace prevailed everywhere. The Buddha told the monks: that bodhisattva was myself; the king was Maitreya; the turtle was Ānanda; the fox was Śāriputra; the snake was Maudgalyāyana; and the drowning man was Devadatta (Source: Sūtra of the Perfection of Giving).

The Lion Who Ransomed a Monkey's Children

Long ago, the bodhisattva was once a lion dwelling in the forest, a close friend to a monkey, who entrusted her own two children to the lion's care. A hungry vulture, hunting for food while the lion slept, seized the monkey's children and carried them off to a tree. Waking and finding them gone, the lion saw the vulture holding them aloft and said: "I accepted this trust of two children from my friend the monkey and, through my own carelessness, let you take them, breaking my own promise. I ask you now to return them — I am king among beasts, you are lord among birds, our own rank equal; it is only right you give them back." The vulture answered that the lion did not know his own place — hunger recognized no such equality between them. Knowing he could not persuade the bird, the lion tore flesh from his own flank with his claws and traded it for the monkey's own children.

Also, long ago, when people suffered widely from a wasting jaundice-sickness, the bodhisattva, then born as a red fish, gave his own flesh to the sick to cure their disease. And also, long ago, the bodhisattva, born as a bird dwelling in the forest, saw a man who had wandered into deep water where no person should tread, and been caught in a water-spirit's own snare — a snare whose knot, once set, could not be undone by any ordinary means, save one: fetching a certain medicinal herb from the fragrant mountains and laying it upon the snare, whereupon the cord would rot away and the man be freed. Innumerable such past lives as these, each rescuing beings in its own way, are recorded in what is called the Jātaka Sūtra (Source: Mahāprajñāpāramitā-śāstra, fascicle 33).

The Six-Tusked White Elephant

Subhūti asked the Buddha: if a bodhisattva has truly accomplished roots of goodness, why would he ever be reborn as an elephant or horse? The Buddha answered: a bodhisattva, though truly possessed of merit and accomplished roots of goodness, takes on animal form for the benefit of beings, incurring none of an animal's own karmic guilt by doing so. Even within an animal's body, a bodhisattva shows compassion toward his own attackers in a way neither arhats nor pratyekabuddhas can match — for though an arhat or pratyekabuddha, attacked by an enemy, will not retaliate, neither can he actively cherish and provide for that same attacker as a bodhisattva does.

Once, as a six-tusked white elephant, the bodhisattva was shot in the chest by a hunter's poisoned arrow. He wrapped the hunter in his own trunk to shield him from the other elephants' retaliation, telling his own mate: "You are a bodhisattva's own wife — why give rise to such hatred? This hunter's fault lies in his own afflictions, not in the man himself; when I attain unsurpassed, perfect awakening, I will extinguish those very afflictions — just as one treats the demon possessing a man, not the man himself." He then calmly asked the hunter why he had shot him, and, told the man needed his own tusks, went to a rock and broke them off himself to give him, blood and flesh tearing away without complaint, then provided him food and showed him the way home — a compassion neither arhat nor pratyekabuddha possesses.

Asked why the bodhisattva does not simply teach the Dharma in human form rather than taking on such animal bodies, the Buddha answered: sometimes beings, seeing a human teacher, do not believe or accept the teaching, yet on seeing an animal expound the very same Dharma, are moved to faith and joy and accept its instruction. A bodhisattva, wishing to perfect great compassion and act it out concretely rather than merely speak of it, does this precisely because beings, astonished at what they see, are thereby led to enter the path (Source: Mahāprajñāpāramitā-śāstra, fascicle 93).

Two Nāgas and a Venomous Viper

Long ago, the bodhisattva and Ānanda, having both finished serving out a former karmic debt, were reborn together as nāgas. One of them proposed: "You and I have seen everything there is to see together in the ocean — shall we not go up onto dry land for once and wander there?" The other objected that people on land were vicious, and encountering trouble there they could not easily escape. The first suggested they transform into small snakes, keeping to empty roads and hiding whenever anyone approached — what was there to fear in that? And so they agreed, and went up together to look around.

Not long after emerging from the water, they met a venomous viper on the road, who, seeing the two snakes and harboring murderous intent, spat its venom at them. One of the two wished to kill the viper in turn, but the other, in compassionate forbearance, restrained him, saying: "A truly noble being forgives even the foolish; to forbear what seems unbearable is itself the sages' own teaching" — and spoke this verse:

"Greed and desire make a man into a madman, with no sense of right in his own heart;
before jealousy and the wish to harm, only silent forbearance brings true peace."

The one snake, having spoken in praise of forbearance, was heeded by the other, who respectfully accepted the counsel and did not harm the viper. One of them then said: "Let us return now to the sea together" — and, as they departed, unleashed their own true, majestic power, shaking heaven and earth, raising clouds and pouring rain, startling humans and spirits alike. The viper, terrified, lay as though already dead, unmoving, refusing all food for seven days out of continued malice. The snake who wished to kill the viper was Ānanda; the snake who counseled forbearance was myself; and the venomous viper was Devadatta (Source: Collection on the Perfections, fascicle 5).

A man, cutting wood in the forest, lost his own way and, disoriented, wandered on as a heavy rain fell; night came, and, cold and hungry, threatened besides by venomous creatures and beasts, he took shelter in a stone cave — where a great bear, seeing him, made him flee in terror, until the bear itself spoke: "Do not be afraid — this den is warm, and you may lodge here safely." The rain continued unbroken for seven days, during which the bear provided him sweet fruit and clean water without fail; when the rain finally stopped, the bear led him out and showed him the way home, telling him only: "I am a being under my own karmic guilt, and man is my natural enemy — should anyone ask, do not say you have seen me." The man agreed.

Going on, he met hunters, who asked where he had come from and whether he had seen any game — and he answered that he had indeed seen a great bear, one who had shown him great kindness, and that he could not betray it by revealing its location. The hunters pressed him: "You are a man yourself — why cherish a mere bear over your own kind? Now that you have lost your own way once, when will you pass this way again? Show us where it is, and we will share our own catch generously with you." His heart changed, and he led the hunters to the bear's own den; they killed it and gave him his promised share — but the moment he reached out to take the meat, both his own arms fell off at the elbow. Asked by the hunters what sin he had committed, he answered: "That bear looked after me as a father looks after his own child, and I have now betrayed its kindness — this is surely the fruit of that very crime."

The hunters, terrified, dared not eat the meat themselves, and instead offered it to the sangha. The most senior monk there, an arhat of the six supernormal powers, told the others: "This was a bodhisattva, who in a future age will become a buddha — do not eat this flesh." A stūpa was raised at once in its honor. The king, hearing of this affair, decreed throughout the realm that no one who betrays a kindness may be permitted to dwell within it — and from this event, people everywhere came to praise those who remember kindness received, through this very story's many lessons (Source: Essential Matters from the Various Sūtras).

Long ago, the Buddha dwelt in Vārāṇasī at the Deer Park of the Sages, where every manner of seer possessing the five supernormal powers came to study — no place for ordinary people. The king, going out to hunt, drove a herd of a thousand deer into a net, his infantry surrounding them on every side, and the terrified deer either cried out and blindly rushed the net or lay flat, hiding themselves on the ground.

Śākyamuni Buddha, then a bodhisattva, was king of that very herd, and told them all: "Be at ease and fear nothing further — I shall find some skillful means and beg mercy from the king, and surely win our lives back; let none of you act rashly." The deer king then approached the human king and knelt before him begging for mercy. Seeing this from a distance, the king ordered his own men not to harm the deer. The deer king said: "I see, O King, that you wish to kill a thousand deer to supply your own kitchen for a single day — but in this heat, meat cannot keep long. Have mercy instead: let one deer be sent to your kitchen each day, without troubling your own men to hunt, and the supply will never fail." The king asked whether the deer king was truly the eldest and greatest among his own herd, and, told yes, and asked again whether this was truly certain, and told yes once more, released the herd and returned with his own troops to the city.

The bodhisattva then led five hundred deer, while Devadatta led another five hundred, each herd sending one deer daily to the palace kitchen in turn. When it came to Devadatta's own herd's turn, a doe several months pregnant was due to go — and she pleaded with her own herd's king that, being so near to giving birth, she be allowed to wait until after her fawn's own turn came before hers. Devadatta, angered, retorted: "Why not go at once — who else would die in your place?" The doe, weeping and crying out in grief, went instead to plead with the bodhisattva's own herd, asking the same mercy. The bodhisattva asked her whether her own king had refused her request, and, told yes, comforted her: "Do not be afraid — I will go in your place today."

The deer-king bodhisattva then gathered his own thousand deer and earnestly charged them never to grow careless, nor to trespass upon the king's own autumn crops. When Devadatta rebuked the pregnant doe again for her supposed excuse, the bodhisattva told him to stop, for her plea to spare her unborn fawn was entirely just, and that he himself would go in her place to spare that unborn life. The herd, moved, declared their own wish to die in the king's place in turn, that their own king might live and all of them graze and roam in peace, free of fear.

The bodhisattva then went himself to the palace kitchen, offering himself for slaughter — and the cooks, seeing the deer king himself arrive, reported at once to the king, unsure whether it was proper to kill so eminent a deer. The king had the deer king brought before him and asked: "Are the thousand deer already exhausted, that you yourself now come?" The deer king explained the whole affair — how the herd, through its own breeding, had only grown larger rather than smaller, and how he had come to spare an unborn fawn's life. The king, deeply moved and self-reproachful, confessed that he, an ordinary mortal unable to distinguish true virtue, had wrongly slaughtered living beings all this time, and had now been brought to see his own fault by this. He decreed throughout his realm that anyone found hunting or killing deer be put to death, and sent the deer king home, forbidding the eating of venison anywhere in his kingdom on pain of beheading — and it is from this very event that the place came to be called the Deer Park (Source: Sūtra of Similes and Parables, fascicle 9).

A Deer King Caught in a Snare

The Buddha said: long ago, near the foot of the Himalayas, there lived a deer king named Tejorāja, "Majestic Virtue," lord of five hundred deer. A hunter set a snare baited with grain; the deer king, walking ahead of his herd, caught his own right leg in the hidden snare. Reflecting that if he showed his own distress at once, the herd would not dare finish eating the grain, the deer king waited until they had all eaten their fill before revealing his own trapped leg — at which the herd fled, save one doe, who remained and spoke this verse:

"Great king, know this: the hunter is coming — please strive with all your power to free yourself from this snare and go."

The deer king answered in verse:

"I have striven with all my strength, but my strength is now spent; the snare draws only tighter, and I cannot break free."

The doe, seeing the hunter arrive, then spoke to him in verse:

"Take your sharp knife and kill me first — only then, I beg you, release the deer king to go free."

The hunter, hearing this, was moved to compassion, and answered in verse:

"I shall kill neither you nor the deer king — I release you both, to go wherever you wish."

The hunter freed the deer king at once. The Buddha said: the deer king of that story was myself; the five hundred deer were the five hundred monks now present (Source: Sarvāstivāda Vinaya, Miscellaneous Recitations, fascicle 1).

Long ago, the bodhisattva was born as a nine-colored deer, its fur nine different hues, its horns white as snow, dwelling by the Ganges and grazing on grass and water there, close friends with a crow. One day a drowning man, swept along by the current, rose and sank by turns, crying to heaven: "Mountain spirits, tree spirits, devas and nāgas — why does none of you pity me?" The deer, hearing this from the water's edge, told him: "Climb onto my back and hold my horns" — and carried him safely to shore. The man, once on land, circled the deer three times in gratitude, bowing before it, and begged to become its own servant, fetching water and grass for it forever — but the deer refused, saying only that they should each go their own way, and that if he truly wished to repay this kindness, he should tell no one where the deer could be found, for its own hide and horns would surely tempt someone to kill it otherwise.

Sometime later, the country's own queen dreamed of this nine-colored deer and, feigning illness, refused to rise from bed. Asked why, she told the king she had dreamed of an extraordinary deer, its fur nine colors, its horns white as snow, and that she wished its hide for a cushion and its horns for a whisk-handle — and that if the king could not obtain them for her, she would surely die. The king proclaimed throughout the realm that whoever could capture this deer would receive half the kingdom to govern, along with a golden bowl filled with silver grain and a silver bowl filled with golden grain.

The drowning man, hearing this and coveting such wealth, reflected that the deer was after all a mere animal, whatever became of it — and went to the king to reveal where it could be found. The king, delighted, promised him half the kingdom if he could truly deliver the deer's hide and horns — and at that very moment leprous sores broke out across the informer's own face. He told the king that though this deer was but an animal, it possessed great spiritual power, and urged him to send a large force of soldiers to be sure of capturing it.

The king sent out a great army, which reached the riverbank where the crow, perched in a tree, saw them coming and called out: "Old friend, wake up — the king is here!" But the deer, deeply asleep, did not stir until the crow flew down and pecked its own ear, startling it awake. Looking about, it found no way to flee, and so went straight toward the king's own chariot. The king's attendants moved to shoot it, but the king stopped them, saying this was no ordinary deer, but surely some deva. The deer spoke: "Great king, do not shoot me — I once saved the life of a man now in your own kingdom" — and, kneeling, asked the king who had revealed its location. The king pointed toward his chariot, at the man whose face now bore leprous sores. The deer raised its head to look at this man's own face, tears falling uncontrollably, for this was the very man it had once, without regard for its own life, thrown itself into the water to save — a man who had broken his own promise and proven less trustworthy than a mere piece of driftwood.

The king, ashamed, rebuked his own people three times over: "You received this creature's own kindness — how could you then wish to kill it?" — and decreed throughout the kingdom that anyone who drove this deer away would have his entire clan of five put to death. From then on, thousands of deer came to depend upon it, grazing on grass and water without ever harming the crops, the rains falling in season, the harvest abundant, the people free of illness, the whole age at peace.

That nine-colored deer was myself; the crow was Ānanda; the king was my own father, King Śuddhodana; the queen was Sundarī; and the drowning man was Devadatta. Though I bore him only good will, he still sought to harm me — while Ānanda, the crow, held to his own sincere devotion throughout (Source: Sūtra of the Nine-Colored Deer).

A Goose King's Ransom

Long ago, near the city of Vārāṇasī, there was a pond named Rain-Formed, filled with fish, turtles, geese, wild geese, and ducks of every kind, among them a goose king named Rāṣṭrapāla, "Realm-Protector," lord of five hundred geese. A hunter set a snare of woven hair; the goose king, walking ahead of the flock, caught his own right leg in it, and reflected that if he showed his own distress the other geese would not finish eating the grain, so he waited until they had eaten their fill before revealing his trapped leg — at which the flock flew off, save one goose, named Sumukha, "Fine-Faced," who alone would not abandon his king.

The goose king asked his own minister: "Could you take my place, walking ahead of the flock as king?" Sumukha answered he could not. Asked why, he answered in verse:

"I vow to follow my king in life and death alike, sooner to die with my king than to live on apart from him. Great king, know this: the hunter is coming — strive with all your power to free yourself from this snare."

The goose king answered in verse:

"I have striven with all my strength, but my strength is now spent; the snare draws only tighter, and I cannot break free."

Sumukha, seeing the hunter arrive, spoke to him in verse:

"My king's own fur, fat, and flesh are no different from my own — take your knife and kill me instead, and release my king unharmed."

The hunter answered: "I shall kill neither of you — I release you both, to go wherever you please," and freed the goose king at once. The two geese, flying off together, resolved to repay so rare an act of mercy generously, and asked the hunter what he might want in return — to which the hunter, astonished that mere animals could offer any such repayment, was told: "The king of Vārāṇasī is named Brahmadatta, 'Given by Brahmā' — carry us to him upon your own shoulders."

The hunter carried the two geese, borne on his shoulders, through the city streets, their fine appearance drawing crowds who offered five, ten, even twenty coins apiece, all urging that they not be killed, so that by the time he reached the palace gate the hunter had already gained great wealth. At the palace, the hunter set the geese down, and the goose king asked the gatekeeper to announce to King Brahmadatta that Rāṣṭrapāla, king of the geese, now waited outside. The king received them at once, provided a golden bed, and, once Sumukha had properly exchanged greetings on his own king's behalf, the two took their seats — the goose king greeting King Brahmadatta in verse:

"Is your own body at ease? Does your land prosper and thrive? Do you govern your people rightly? Do you rule with an equal heart?"

King Brahmadatta answered in verse:

"I am ever at ease myself; I govern my people by the Dharma; my land ever prospers and thrives; I rule with an equal heart, free of favoritism."

Five hundred such verses of courteous exchange followed, during which Sumukha remained silent throughout. Asked by King Brahmadatta why he stayed silent, Sumukha answered that his own king was a great ruler in his own right, lord of the wetlands, and that between two such kings conversing it was not his place to interject. The king then offered the goose king his own fine garden to dwell in — but the goose king declined, explaining that should the king himself doze off and forget to protect them, or should his own cooks, unable to find other geese, seize them instead for the royal kitchen, harm might easily follow.

At this, the goose king Rāṣṭrapāla, still within the palace, called out, and the whole flock of geese, rising from the pond called Rain-Formed, flew above the palace crying out in grief, their wet wings scattering water over the halls below. Asked what this meant, the goose king explained these were his own kindred — and, asked if he now wished to depart, answered yes. Asked what he desired in parting, the goose king explained only that, having been shown such rare kindness by the hunter, life itself was now precious to him and his companions, and that none should be free to kill one after another as convenient. King Brahmadatta asked how he might repay this whole affair, and the two geese answered: with gold, silver, chariots, coral, agate, clothing, and food for the hunter — and, having said this, rose together into the sky. The Buddha said: the goose king was myself; the five hundred geese were the five hundred monks now present; the hunter was Śroṇakoṭikarṇa; King Brahmadatta was my own father, King Śuddhodana; and the minister Sumukha was Ānanda (Source: Sarvāstivāda Vinaya, Miscellaneous Recitations, fascicle 1).

A Parrot's Wildfire

Long ago, the bodhisattva, manifesting as a parrot, dwelt constantly in a certain tree. Wind, rubbing the branches of that tree against each other, struck a spark, and fire, spreading, soon consumed an entire mountain. The parrot reflected that even a mere bird, having taken shelter in this tree so long, ought to repay such kindness in return — how much more should it do so now, rather than simply flee, unable to bear the thought of not trying to put out the flames. It flew at once to the ocean, and, filling its own two wings with seawater, returned to sprinkle it over the fire, or carried water in its beak, flying back and forth tirelessly between sea and mountain. A good deity, moved by its earnest effort, then extinguished the fire on its behalf (Source: Saṃgharakṣa Sūtra, upper fascicle).

A Sparrow's Extracted Bone

Long ago, the bodhisattva was born as a sparrow king, compassionate toward all beings even at risk to his own body. A tiger, having eaten some animal's bones, found one lodged in its own teeth, and, in mounting pain, lay near death. The sparrow flew into its mouth and pecked at the bone day after day, its own beak growing sore and its body wasting thin, until at last the bone came free from the tiger's mouth. The sparrow then flew up into a tree and recited the Buddha's own teaching: "To kill is the very worst of calamities, its evil beyond measure." Hearing this admonition, the tiger, far from grateful, growled in fury: "You have only just left my own mouth, and already dare lecture me?" Seeing the tiger beyond conversion, the sparrow quickly flew away. The Buddha said: that sparrow was myself; that tiger was Devadatta (Source: Sūtra of the Sparrow King).

Long ago, the bodhisattva, poor and destitute, traveled with a company of merchants to another country. Seeing in the sea how the larger fish preyed upon the smaller, he gave up his own body in the smaller fish's place, that they might have at least a moment's reprieve, throwing himself into the sea — the great fish satisfied, the small ones spared. His own spirit, transmigrating, became the king of the whales, his body spanning several li in length.

When a coastal kingdom suffered drought and famine, its people turning to devour one another, this great fish swam its own body ashore there, that those who ate of it might survive; for months its flesh was carried away in cartloads, yet the fish still lived. A deva descended and asked: "Can you truly bear such suffering for the sake of compassion alone? Why not simply let your own life end and be free of this pain?" The fish answered: "Once my spirit departs and my body rots, these people will only return to devouring one another again — I cannot bear to see that." The deva told him he would surely attain buddhahood and deliver suffering beings — and, at that very moment, someone took the fish's own head, and it died.

Its spirit was reborn as a prince, gifted with a sage's own wisdom, whose kindness and compassion, matching heaven and earth themselves, grieved for his people's poverty and hardship until his voice choked with tears. Yet the drought persisted; he purified his own heart in fasting, refusing every offering, prostrating himself in repentance: "My people's own wrongdoing is my own fault; may my life be given in exchange for rain to relieve them" — mourning every month as a filial son mourns a departed sage-father, his sincerity known far and wide.

The Buddha, together with five hundred followers, then came to that very kingdom; the prince, overjoyed, welcomed him with bows and tears, confessing his own defiled heart unworthy of the Three Jewels' own teaching and the four kindnesses, and that his own harsh rule had brought years of drought and his people's suffering — begging that any calamity fall on himself alone rather than his people. The assembled buddhas answered: "You are a ruler of such compassion and humaneness that your virtue equals Śakra's own; all buddhas know this — accept this blessing yourself and grieve no further." He ordered his people to sow their fields, and every household's own planting flourished; rice transformed abundantly, filling the whole country with grain, each stalk holding several measures, its fragrance delighting the entire realm, which praised the prince's own virtue, kept the precepts throughout, and took refuge in the Three Jewels. The prince, his ministers, and his people, at life's end, were all reborn in heaven. That poor man of the story was myself (Source: Collection on the Perfections, fascicle 1).

Long ago, the bodhisattva was once a turtle king, born and raised in the great ocean, who converted his own kind, so that his subjects and their multitudes all cultivated humaneness and virtue. The king himself practiced compassion, sympathetic joy, and protection, cherishing all beings as a mother cherishes her own child, and, though the ocean's own depths and breadth knew no easy limit, traveled everywhere within it without exception.

Once, resting on the ocean's own surface for days and months at a time, the turtle king's own back grew hard and dry like solid ground — and merchants, arriving from afar, mistook it for an island and settled there, chopping wood, lighting fires, cooking meals, tethering their own oxen and horses, and loading stone cargo directly onto its back. The turtle king, wishing to dive back into the water, feared it would drown the merchants there, and endured the pain as long as it could bear, then devised a plan: submerging slowly into shallower water first, extinguishing the fire's own heat without endangering the merchants at all. The terrified merchants, believing the tide had suddenly risen, cried out in grief, invoking the devas, Śakra, Brahmā, the four heavenly kings, and the sun and moon spirits, begging by their own majestic power to be saved.

The turtle king, moved further to compassion, called out to the merchants: "Do not be afraid — I have only submerged because of the fire burning me, to ease my own pain; I mean you no harm at all." The merchants, hearing this and now hopeful of survival, together cried out, "Homage to the Buddha!" — and the turtle king, filled with great compassion, carried them all back and set them safely on the shore. The merchants, saved, rejoiced without exception, bowing from a distance to praise the turtle king's own virtue, calling it a bridge and ferry carrying countless beings across, a great vessel bearing them beyond the three realms themselves, and asking that, should it attain buddhahood, it deliver them also from the perils of birth and death. The turtle king answered: "Very well, very well — it shall be as you say," and each went their own way. The Buddha said: that turtle king was myself; the five hundred merchants were my five hundred disciples, Śāriputra and the rest (Source: Jātaka Sūtra, fascicle 4).