Arhat Śrāvaka Monks

Kāśyapa's own father, Nyagrodha, was a man of Magadha, born into a brahmin family, blessed with such wealth through past merit that his treasures ranked first in the whole kingdom — a fortune falling short of the king's own by only a thousandth part. He and his wife, alone and childless, lived beside a great tree inhabited by a spirit; for years the couple offered animal sacrifices there seeking a child, without success, until, enraged, the husband gave the spirit seven more days, threatening to cut it down and burn it at the crossroads if it failed him again. Terrified, the tree spirit reported this to the heavenly king Praśāntamanas, who in turn told Śakra. Śakra, surveying the desire realm with his own heavenly eye, found no being there fit to become this couple's child, and so appealed to Brahmā, who, searching further, found a Brahmā-heaven deva about to die, and told him he should be reborn in Jambudvīpa as Nyagrodha's own son. The deva protested that brahmins hold many false views, and that he feared being unable to remain their true son if reborn among them — but Brahmā answered that this particular brahmin's own past virtue was great, and that among beings of the desire realm none but this deva was fit to be his son; should he go, Brahmā himself would have Śakra protect him from falling into false views along the way. The deva agreed, and Śakra relayed word to the tree spirit, who told the couple not to be angry — within seven days they would surely have a son.

The seven days passed, and the wife conceived; after ten months, she bore a son whose body shone golden. A physiognomist, examining him, declared that this child, blessed by past merit with great and majestic virtue, held so pure and remote a resolve, free of worldly ambition, that should he ever go forth, he would surely attain the sagely path — news that only deepened his parents' own worry, fearing he might indeed leave the household life. When he turned fifteen, they wished to arrange his marriage; hearing this, Kāśyapa repeatedly told them that his own resolve was set on purity, and that he needed no wife at all. When they would not relent, he told them that, if he must marry, he would accept only a woman of unmatched beauty with skin the color of pure gold — thinking this condition impossible to satisfy and thereby avoid the marriage entirely.

His parents had the whole kingdom searched, and the brahmins, devising a plan, cast a golden statue of surpassing, radiant beauty, like an image of the gods themselves, and proclaimed from country to country that any woman who came to venerate and make offerings to this golden goddess would, upon marrying, receive a husband of matching golden beauty and unmatched wisdom. Women everywhere, hearing this, flocked eagerly to bow and make offerings — save one woman, herself golden-skinned and of unmatched beauty, who remained alone in her own quiet chamber and would not go out. Her companions urged her, saying that everyone who saw the golden goddess had her wish fulfilled — why should she alone refuse to go? She answered that her own resolve was set on tranquility and wanted nothing else — but, pressed further that a single glance could cost her nothing, she finally went along with them to see it, and her own golden radiance outshone the goddess itself.

The brahmins reported this fully to Kāśyapa's father, who sent a matchmaker to her family, declaring his own intentions; her parents, having already heard of Kāśyapa's own reputation, respectfully agreed to the match. The woman herself, hearing this, was deeply distressed, but, pressed by her parents and unable to refuse, married Kāśyapa regardless. The two of them, facing each other, each held their own resolve firm — and though now husband and wife, felt no affection between them at all, and together vowed to sleep in separate beds, never to touch one another. When their parents learned that, though sharing a room, the couple slept apart, Kāśyapa's father had the second bed removed, forcing them to share a single bed — at which the wife made a further vow with her husband: that while she slept, he would remain awake, walking in meditation.

One night, as she slept with one arm hanging off the bed's edge, a great venomous snake approached to bite her — and Kāśyapa, moved to compassion, wrapped his own hand in cloth and lifted her arm back onto the bed. Startled awake, she grew furious, accusing him of breaking their own vow — but Kāśyapa explained that her arm had fallen and a venomous snake threatened to bite it, and that he had acted only to save her, not to touch her out of desire, pointing to the snake as proof. Understanding then, the two of them agreed together: why should they not simply go forth and cultivate the path instead? They took leave of their parents and together renounced the household life, entering the mountains to practice.

A brahmin teacher with five hundred disciples also dwelt in that same mountain, and, seeing Kāśyapa and his wife traveling together, Kāśyapa resolved to part from her, exchanging five hundred taels of gold for a patched robe and settling apart in a separate grove. His wife then took refuge with this same brahmin teacher, seeking to become his disciple — but his five hundred students, seeing this woman's own fine appearance, pursued her daily with lustful advances she could not escape, until, unable to bear it further, she reported this to the teacher, who then admonished his own students to restrain their desires.

Kāśyapa later encountered the Buddha's own appearance in the world, and, hearing the Dharma and receiving his teaching, attained arhatship at once. Learning that his former wife still dwelt among the brahmins, he brought her to the Buddha as well; the Buddha taught her the Dharma, and she too attained arhatship, her hair falling away of itself and a monastic robe appearing upon her body, becoming a nun who traveled and taught widely.

It happened that King Prasenajit was holding a great assembly, and the nuns, gaining entry into the palace itself, taught the king's own consorts to keep a single day's fast. When the king returned to his palace that evening and summoned his consorts, all of them declared they were keeping the fast and none would come to him. Furious, the king demanded of his attendants who had taught his consorts this fast, and, told it was a certain nun, summoned her and forced her, for ninety days, to take the consorts' own place in serving his desire. All of this was the fruit of a karmic bond and a vow made in a past life — for though she had already attained arhatship, she could not thereby escape it (Source: Miscellaneous Similes Sūtra, fascicle 4).

Kāśyapa, giving up begging from the wealthy in favor of the poor, once entered Rājagṛha and came upon a lone, destitute woman, the poorest of the poor, who had dug a shelter into a great heap of refuse in the street and lay there, weak and sick, without clothing or food, save a small screen of woven reed shielding her own body. Near death, she received only foul, discarded rice-water that a rich household's servant threw out, catching it in a broken shard. Kāśyapa, moved to pity, went and begged from her whatever she had. The old woman, in verse, protested that it was too foul to offer — but Kāśyapa, in his own compassion, insisted and accepted it regardless. Delighted, she gave it to him; and, fearing she might doubt whether he could truly eat such filth, he drank it before her at once and rinsed his own bowl clean, displaying his supernormal power. Overjoyed, the woman watched him intently, and Kāśyapa asked what she now wished for. Weary of this world's suffering and longing for heaven's own joys, she wished to be reborn there — and, within days, her life ended, and she was reborn at once in the second heaven, Trāyastriṃśa.

Remembering this kindness, she wished to repay it with an offering, and Śakra, hearing of this, went with his own queen, filling a small vessel with a hundred delicacies, and descended to the poor woman's own former dwelling, transformed in appearance as an old, poverty-stricken couple weaving mats. Kāśyapa, begging there, came upon them, and they told him: "We are poor and suffering ourselves, yet gladly give up what little we have to a worthy man such as you, that we might gain merit." As Kāśyapa lowered his bowl, they opened the small vessel, and its fragrance filled the entire city. Kāśyapa, displeased at being deceived, entered samādhi and flew away, snapping his fingers in joy nonetheless (Source: Sūtra of Mahākāśyapa's Deliverance of the Poor Old Woman).

The devas bowed at Kāśyapa's own feet and spoke a verse in praise: "Great one, do you know? The Dharma-boat is about to break apart; the Dharma-city is about to crumble; the Dharma-ocean is about to run dry; the Dharma-banner is about to fall; the Dharma-lamp is about to go out; those who teach the Dharma are about to depart, and those who practice it grow ever fewer, while evil people only multiply — with great compassion, you must now establish the Buddha's own teaching firmly." Kāśyapa's own mind, calm and unmoved as the great ocean, answered only after a long while: "This world will not last much longer, sunk in ignorant darkness." Reflecting that the Buddha's own teaching, so hard to attain across three incalculable kalpas, must somehow be made to endure, Kāśyapa resolved that only by compiling the Three Baskets could it be preserved for future generations to receive and practice — for the Buddha himself, across lifetime after lifetime, had labored with compassion for beings to attain this very teaching and proclaim it to others, and they themselves ought now to carry it forward in turn. Ascending to the summit of Mount Sumeru, he struck the bell and gong, and spoke this verse:

"All you disciples of the buddhas, if you remember the Buddha, repay his own kindness now — do not yet enter nirvāṇa."

The sound of that gong, together with Kāśyapa's own words, reached throughout the whole trichiliocosm, heard by all; every disciple possessing supernormal power gathered at once to Kāśyapa's side. Kāśyapa told them, through his own heavenly voice: the Buddha has entered his own final nirvāṇa, and every disciple who truly knew the Dharma has likewise passed away or will soon do so; the Buddha's own teaching is about to perish, and future beings, deeply to be pitied, will lose the very eye of wisdom, sunk in ignorance and darkness — we ourselves must therefore uphold the Buddha's own teaching, and only once the compilation of the Dharma-treasury is complete may each of us enter final nirvāṇa as we wish.

Kāśyapa selected a thousand participants, every one already an arhat save Ānanda alone. King Bimbisāra, having attained the path himself, had always ordered his own palace to feed a thousand monks daily, and King Ajātaśatru continued this same practice unbroken. Reflecting that if the assembly went out begging as usual, heretics might come to challenge and disrupt their work, Kāśyapa reported the matter to the king at Rājagṛha, who agreed to provide their food, delivered daily, throughout the three months of the rains retreat.

Kāśyapa then examined who among them still harbored any affliction, and found only Ānanda. Enumerating six offenses of minor wrongdoing against him, Kāśyapa required him to confess these before the assembled sangha. Ānanda obeyed, kneeling with joined palms, baring his right shoulder, removing his sandals, and confessing — whereupon Kāśyapa rose within the assembly, took him by the hand, and led him out, telling him: "You must now exhaust your own remaining defilements entirely — do not return to us until you have done so," and shut the door behind him.

Kāśyapa then consulted with the assembled arhats over who might compile the Vinaya-treasury. The elder Aniruddha suggested Śāriputra, "a second buddha" — though he had already entered nirvāṇa — or the gentle and refined Gavāmpati, who, dwelling in quiet retreat, thoroughly knew the Vinaya-treasury, and was presently in the heavenly grove of the Śirīṣa tree; a junior monk was sent to summon him. Kāśyapa's own message explained that every arhat with exhausted defilements had now gathered in Jambudvīpa for a great matter of the sangha, and that he should come quickly. Gavāmpati, suspicious, asked whether some dispute had split the sangha, or whether the Buddha himself, the sun of the Dharma, had set — and, told that the great teacher had indeed entered nirvāṇa, asked where his own preceptor Śāriputra now was, and was told he had already entered nirvāṇa as well. Asking further after Maudgalyāyana, Ānanda, and Rāhula, he was told Maudgalyāyana had likewise passed away, that Ānanda, still bound by grief, wept without consolation, and that Rāhula, having attained arhatship, was now free of such sorrow. Gavāmpati said: "My own preceptor and great teacher have both already entered nirvāṇa — I too shall not now descend," and entered nirvāṇa himself on the spot.

Ānanda, meanwhile, reflecting on all dharmas in search of his own remaining defilements' exhaustion, sat in meditation and walked in contemplation, yet his own concentration proved too weak to attain the path in time. Exhausted late into the night, he wished only to rest and lie down — and, before his head even touched the pillow, was suddenly, completely awakened, becoming a great and powerful arhat on the spot. That same night he went to the assembly hall and knocked, calling out to Kāśyapa. Kāśyapa asked why he had come, and, told that his own defilements were now exhausted, said: "I will not open the door for you — come in through the keyhole instead." Ānanda entered through the very keyhole and confessed once more. Kāśyapa, no longer holding any reproach, stroked his head, saying: "I did this only to bring you to the path — bear me no resentment for it; I too was treated so in my own time."

Kāśyapa then told Ānanda: "Beginning from the Sūtra of the Turning of the Dharma-Wheel through to the Great Nirvāṇa Sūtra, compile these into the four Āgamas — the Ekottarika, the Madhyama, and the Saṃyukta among them — and this shall be called the Sūtra-Piṭaka." The arhats then asked who could clearly compile the Vinaya-Piṭaka, and all agreed: the elder Upāli, foremost in upholding the Vinaya among the five hundred arhats — and requested him accordingly. Upāli, accepting, took the lion's seat and asked: where was the Buddha, and what precept did he establish, on the occasion when the elder's son Sudinna of Kalandaka first committed the offense of sexual misconduct, thereby establishing the first grave transgression? The arhats then further asked who could clearly compile the Abhidharma-Piṭaka, and, recalling that Ānanda, among the five hundred arhats, was foremost in understanding the meaning of the sūtras, requested him in turn. Ānanda, accepting, recounted: the Buddha, in the city of Śrāvastī, taught the five fears, the five offenses, the five eliminations, and the five cessations — through which, in this very life, one experiences boundless joy in body and mind, yet may still fall into an evil rebirth if these are not upheld — and such teachings together came to be called the Abhidharma-Piṭaka (Source: Mahāprajñāpāramitā-śāstra, fascicle 2).

Having completed the compilation of the Dharma-treasury, Kāśyapa entered Mount Kukkuṭapāda, "Cock's Foot," which split into three peaks around him; spreading grass upon the ground within, he reflected and spoke to his own body: "The Tathāgata once covered you with a discarded, patched robe — you must now remain here until Maitreya's own Dharma-treasury arises," and spoke this verse:

"By my own supernormal power, I shall preserve this body,
covered still in this discarded robe, until Maitreya appears in the world;
I shall then, on his behalf, teach and convert his disciples."

He then entered the threefold samādhi, and, as though passing into his own nirvāṇa, the three peaks closed over his body, as a child returns unharmed into its own mother's womb. Should King Ajātaśatru come first to see him, by prior agreement, the mountain would open for him alone — and, should he fail to see Kāśyapa there, he would vomit hot blood and die. Should Ānanda come, the mountain would likewise open. When Maitreya himself arrives, together with ninety-six hundred million disciples, he will come to this very place and take up Kāśyapa's own body to show his own followers, that they might all learn from the merit of his upheld precepts (Source: Sūtra of King Aśoka, fascicle 7).

Maitreya Buddha, teaching his own disciples likewise through the three vehicles, will be assisted by Mahākāśyapa in this task of conversion. Besides him, the monks Kuṇḍopadhānīya, Piṇḍola, and Rāhula — four great śrāvakas in all — have vowed not to enter final nirvāṇa until the Buddha's own teaching has entirely perished, only then to do so. Mahākāśyapa dwells within a mountain in the village of Videha, in the kingdom of Magadha; Maitreya, together with several thousand followers, will go to that very place, where spirits will open the stone gate to reveal his own meditation cave. Maitreya Buddha will then extend his right hand to point out Kāśyapa, telling the assembled people: "Long, long ago, a disciple of Śākyamuni Buddha, named Kāśyapa, foremost in ascetic practice, is still present even now" — and, taking up Kāśyapa's own patched robe, will put it on himself. Kāśyapa's own body will then suddenly scatter like stars, and Maitreya, gathering flowers of every kind, will make offerings to him out of reverence (Source: Sūtra of Maitreya's Descent and Birth).

A householder in Rājagṛha named Jyotiṣka, returning from a sea voyage, was given a sandalwood bowl, which he placed in a net bag and hung high atop a pole, declaring that any monk or brahmin who could retrieve it without ladder or pole might keep it. Pūrṇa and others, though wishing to see such a feat performed, merely shook their heads and left. Piṇḍola, of the Bhāradvāja clan, went to Jyotiṣka, who told him: "Welcome, Bhāradvāja — whoever retrieves this bowl without ladder or pole may have it." Piṇḍola entered samādhi and, reaching out his hand, took the bowl at once; the householder filled it with rice and gave it to him, and, having eaten, he departed with it.

A certain monk of few desires and easy contentment asked him where he had obtained it, and, told the whole story, rebuked him severely: "To accept an object from an outsider's own naked challenge — how does this befit a monk? To display a superhuman, sagely feat before those who have not even received full ordination is improper" — and reported the matter to the Buddha. The Buddha assembled the sangha and asked Piṇḍola whether he had truly done this, and, told yes, said to him: "Bhāradvāja, you are banished for life — you may no longer dwell in Jambudvīpa." Piṇḍola, accepting this teaching, returned to his quarters, handed over his bedding and couch to the sangha, and, taking up his robe and bowl, vanished from Jambudvīpa, appearing instead in Godānīya, where he continued to teach and convert the fourfold assembly, widely furthering the Buddha's own work (Source: Sarvāstivāda Vinaya, sixth recitation, fascicle 2; largely the same, with minor variations, in the Mahāsāṃghika, Mahīśāsaka, and Dharmaguptaka Vinayas).

The Buddha dwelt at the Nyagrodha Monastery in Kapilavastu. The Śākyas asked the Buddha what past karmic bond caused Kauṇḍinya and his companions to be the very first to hear the Dharma-drum sound at his own awakening, first to receive the nectar of his teaching as it descended, praised by all with one voice beyond measure. The monks, hearing this, reported it to the Buddha, who said: it is not only in this present life that I first delivered these five — long ago, too, I rescued them, using my own body as a boat to save them from drowning and preserve their lives; now that I have become a buddha, I have delivered them first once again.

The monks asked how this had come about, and the Buddha explained: long ago, in Jambudvīpa, under King Brahmadatta of Vārāṇasī, there lived a caravan-leader named Ratnajaya, who, wandering in a forest outside the city, came upon a man weeping bitterly, a rope tied to a tree, his own head placed in the noose, about to hang himself. Asked why, the man explained that, deep in debt and hounded day and night by his creditors, he found no place left in the whole world to escape this suffering. The caravan-leader told him to release the rope at once — he would repay the man's entire debt himself. Overjoyed, the man followed him to the marketplace, where the caravan-leader announced to everyone that he intended to settle this man's debts — and creditors gathered from every side, so many that his entire fortune was exhausted and still could not cover it all, leaving his own wife and children to beg for their survival.

A group of merchants then urged the caravan-leader to join them on a sea voyage — but he answered that, now utterly destitute, he had nothing left to invest. They told him that among their own five hundred number, each would contribute a share to outfit a ship together, and, pooling their funds, they raised three thousand taels of gold, of which the caravan-leader used a thousand to build the ship, a thousand for provisions, and the remaining thousand to support his own wife and children during the voyage. The ship, built by the shore, set sail — but, partway through the journey, met a sudden black storm that wrecked the vessel entirely, leaving everyone stranded with nothing to hold onto.

Five men among them appealed to the caravan-leader, saying they had trusted him and followed him this far, and now, facing certain death, begged him to save them. The caravan-leader answered: "I have heard that the great ocean never keeps a dead body afloat — take hold of me now, every one of you, and I shall give my own life to save you from this peril," vowing that, should he attain buddhahood, he would deliver them from birth and death itself by the unsurpassed Dharma-boat. Having spoken this, he cut his own throat with a knife — and, once his life had ended, the sea spirits raised a wind that carried the survivors safely to shore, every one of them delivered from the sea in peace. Know that this caravan-leader Ratnajaya was my own former self, and that those five men were Kauṇḍinya and his companions (this first account drawn from the Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish, fascicle 10).

The Buddha, dwelling in the Bamboo Grove at Rājagṛha, was asked again by Ānanda what past karmic bond caused Ājñātakauṇḍinya and his four companions to be first to hear the Dharma-drum at his own awakening. The Buddha answered: in a past life, they once ate my own flesh and thereby found peace and safety — and it is for this very reason that they are now first to receive the food of the Dharma and attain liberation through it.

Long ago, in Jambudvīpa, there ruled a great king named Shètóuluó Jiànníng, governing eighty-four thousand kingdoms of Jambudvīpa. When a fiery star appeared in the sky, court astrologers warned the king of coming drought, and indeed no rain fell for twelve years. The king, deeply troubled, calculated his own people's numbers against his granaries' own stores, and found that even at a single pint of grain per person daily, supplies would still run short, and many would die of starvation. Reflecting on how he might save his own people, the king made a vow: "My country's people are starving with nothing to eat — I shall give up this very body and become a great fish, that my own flesh might feed them all." He then climbed a tree and threw himself down, dying at once — and, transforming, was reborn in a great river as a fish five hundred yojanas in length.

Five woodcutters, each carrying an axe, came to that riverbank to cut timber, and the fish spoke to them: "If you need food, come take my own flesh and eat your fill, then carry the rest home — and when I attain buddhahood in a future life, I shall feed and deliver you with the food of the Dharma itself. Tell your own countrymen, too, that whoever needs food may come." The five, overjoyed, did exactly as told, spreading word throughout the whole kingdom until people gathered from every corner of Jambudvīpa to eat of its flesh. Once one flank was eaten bare, the fish would simply turn its body to offer the other side, which would then grow back once consumed — and so, turning again and again, it fed everyone continuously for twelve full years, during which time all who ate its flesh gave rise to compassionate hearts, and, at the end of their own lives, were reborn in heaven. That King Shètóuluó Jiànníng of the story was myself; those five woodcutters were Kauṇḍinya and his companions; and the people who later ate of its flesh are now the eighty thousand devas and disciples who have since attained liberation (this second account drawn from the Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish, fascicle 4).

In the region of Uruvilvā there lived a brahmin ascetic named Uruvilvā-Kāśyapa, leading five hundred disciples with matted hair, already revered as elders, considered arhats by the whole of Aṅga and Magadha. The Buddha came to Kāśyapa's own dwelling and asked to lodge there for one night. Kāśyapa answered that he did not mind, but warned that the room held a venomous dragon that might harm him — the Buddha said this was no trouble, and Kāśyapa granted him leave. The Buddha entered the stone chamber, sat cross-legged, his body upright and mind composed; the dragon, seeing him, breathed out smoke, and the Buddha likewise breathed out smoke; the dragon then breathed fire, and the Buddha likewise breathed fire, until the chamber filled with both smoke and flame together. Kāśyapa, watching from a distance, lamented: "What a pity — Gautama will surely be killed by that venomous dragon."

The Buddha then subdued the dragon and placed it, docile, within his own bowl, and the next morning brought it to Kāśyapa, telling him: "The venomous dragon is now here in my bowl." Kāśyapa reflected: "Though Gautama has indeed attained arhatship and great supernormal power, he is still not equal to my own attainment" — and told the Buddha he might stay, offering to provide his meals. The Buddha answered that he would accept the invitation only if Kāśyapa himself came in person at the appointed hour each day. Kāśyapa agreed to come himself.

After eating, the Buddha returned to lodge again in the stone chamber, and that night entered the samādhi of fire-radiance, illuminating the whole chamber; Kāśyapa, seeing this great blaze from a distance, gathered his own disciples and went to the Buddha, saying: "The time has come — please come and eat. Śramaṇa, why was there such a great fire last night?" The Buddha answered that he had simply entered the fire-radiance samādhi, causing the chamber to blaze with light. Kāśyapa, marveling at this great and majestic power, still maintained inwardly that he himself was not thereby surpassed, since he too had attained arhatship.

After eating, the Buddha lodged that night in a different grove; the next day, when Kāśyapa came again to fetch him for the meal, the Buddha told him to go ahead, that he would follow shortly — and, going first to the Jambudvīpa tree, took its fruit and sat in Kāśyapa's own seat, arriving there before him. Kāśyapa, arriving afterward, asked how he had gotten there first, and the Buddha, offering him the fruit, said its color and fragrance were fine and that he should eat of it. Kāśyapa reflected once more on this great supernormal power, still maintaining that he himself was not thereby surpassed.

After eating, the Buddha returned to his own grove and sat, unleashing yet further displays of supernormal power meant to draw Kāśyapa toward the truth. The Four Heavenly Kings, then Śakra himself, each came bearing offerings to make to the Buddha — and Kāśyapa, together with his five hundred disciples, at last gave up their own fire-worship implements, along with their pure garments and water vessels, casting them into the Nairañjanā River, and came to the Buddha. The Buddha then taught the Dharma to all five hundred in turn, and, seated there, every defilement dissolved and they attained the pure Dharma-eye, declaring their wish to go forth. The Buddha said: "Welcome, monks — practice the pure conduct diligently, and reach the very limit of suffering," and conferred upon them the full monastic precepts at once.

Kāśyapa's own middle brother, Nadī-Kāśyapa, dwelling downstream along the Nairañjanā River, had three hundred disciples of his own; his youngest brother, Gayā-Kāśyapa, dwelling at Gayāśīrṣa, had two hundred disciples. Seeing their elder brother take up the path, the two younger brothers went to ask him whether following this great śramaṇa's own pure conduct was truly superior — and, told that it was indeed superior and wondrous, each went with his own followers to the World-Honored One. The Buddha taught them the Dharma, and, seated there, they too awakened and attained the pure Dharma-eye, declaring: "We too wish to cultivate pure conduct within the Buddha's own teaching." The Buddha said: "Welcome, monks — practice the pure conduct diligently, and reach the very limit of suffering" (Source: Dharmaguptaka Vinaya, second division, fascicle 9).

Subhūti's Past Life of Giving

In Śrāvastī there lived an elder named Kuru, without any son, who prayed to the spirits for one. A voice from the sky told him: your own merit is so great that no ordinary being could be born to you — that is why you have no son as yet; but a certain heavenly king, near the end of his own life, shall be reborn into your household. A son was later born to him, named Subhūti, of fine appearance, eloquent, compassionate, and broadly loving. Subhūti told his own parents he wished to invite the Buddha, and they consented; he then made lavish offerings, and further asked to become a monk himself, which they also allowed. He followed the Tathāgata back to Jetavana and became a monk at once, immediately attaining the stage of a bodhisattva of one more birth, complete with every supernormal power, teaching and converting according to the needs of the world, manifesting among the disciples as an arhat.

Ānanda asked the Buddha what merit Subhūti had originally cultivated to attain this — and the Buddha answered: countless lifetimes ago, this man was born the son of a poor household, and once met a monk who had gone begging throughout the city without receiving anything at all. Seeing the monk's own empty bowl, the young man bowed and said: "Please come home with me, and I will provide for you" — and, bringing him home, took his own portion of food and offered it entirely to the monk, eating nothing himself. Once the monk had eaten, he rose and flew away — and the young man, overjoyed, gave rise to the resolve for the path at once. Through the merit of this single act, he was reborn in heaven for ninety-one kalpas, and has now been born once more into an elder's own household. That young man of the past was Subhūti himself. Such is the merit of even a single act of giving — how much more, then, of many such acts (Source: Sūtra of the Fruits of Blessing).

Subhūti's Birth and Going Forth

Long ago, in Śrāvastī, there lived a great elder named Kuru, of boundless wealth yet without any son, who prayed to every spirit without success. A voice from the sky told him he would be blessed with a son — for a certain heavenly king, near the end of his own life, would be reborn into his own household. The elder, overjoyed, found that within seven days his principal wife had indeed conceived, and, when her term was complete, bore a son named Subhūti, of finest appearance, intelligent, eloquent, broadly loving, and honored by high and low alike; all who saw or heard of him found themselves drawn, through him, toward the joy of the Dharma, benefiting everyone around him.

His own uncles and brothers, growing jealous and resentful, told his mother that this child paid no mind to managing the household and wandered about without restraint — but she answered that this child's own merit was no ordinary thing. Later, when Subhūti asked for food, his mother had a servant girl wash an empty vessel in advance and tell him there was nothing in it — yet, when Subhūti opened the vessel to look, it was found filled of itself with a hundred fragrant, delicious kinds of food, which everyone present ate together and found themselves at peace. Only then did his uncles and brothers realize he was no ordinary child, and invited the Buddha and the great assembly of bodhisattvas to a meal. After the meal, the boy asked his parents to let him become a monk, and his father consented; he followed the Buddha back to Jetavana and became a monk at once, immediately attaining the stage of a bodhisattva of one more birth, and manifesting among the disciples as an arhat (Source: Sūtra of Similes and Parables, in ten fascicles, fascicle 1).

Aniruddha, having already attained arhatship, possessed such fine features that he resembled a woman. Walking alone through the grass one day, a young man, seeing him from a distance and mistaking him for a woman, felt desire stir within him and approached to violate her — only to discover Aniruddha was in fact a man. Looking down at his own body in shame, the young man found it had transformed into a woman's, and, overcome with such deep humiliation and distress that he could not bear to return home, fled into the deep mountains and remained there for several years. His own wife and children, not knowing where he had gone, believed him dead.

Aniruddha, out begging one day, happened to arrive at this very household, where the wife, weeping, told him of her husband's disappearance and begged him for whatever merit might restore her own fortune. Aniruddha said nothing in reply, but, moved by compassion, went into the mountains himself to seek the man out. Finding him, the man repented and reproached himself bitterly — and his own body was restored to that of a man once more, allowing him at last to return home and be reunited with his family (Source: Old Collection of Similes, lower fascicle).

The Buddha dwelt in the Jetavana Grove. Aniruddha, traveling to the kingdom of Kosala, found no monastic lodging along the road, and came upon a young prostitute's house where travelers were received as guests. Aniruddha asked her: "Elder sister, might I lodge here one night?" She agreed. At that time an elder-householder had also come seeking lodging there, and, the space being cramped, the woman invited Aniruddha into her own inner chamber instead. The venerable one sat there cross-legged, his mind fixed in mindfulness before him.

Once the woman of unchaste conduct had finished lighting her own lamps, she came to Aniruddha in the early part of the night and said: "There are elders and brahmins of great wealth nearby who have all asked me to become their wife, but I told them: you are all too plain and unworthy — I have observed the venerable one's own fine bearing, and wish instead to make you my husband." Aniruddha said nothing in reply. She returned again in the latter part of the night and repeated the same request, and again he remained silent. The woman, having by now undressed, came to embrace him — at which Aniruddha, through his own supernormal power, rose bodily into the air. Seeing this, the woman, filled with shame, quickly dressed herself, joined her palms, and, bowing in repentance three times, begged the venerable one to return to his own seat.

Aniruddha then descended, and the woman bowed at his feet and sat to one side, whereupon he taught her the wondrous Dharma at length, admonishing her against desire and impurity and praising the freedom found in renouncing it. Hearing this, the woman's every defilement dissolved on the spot, and she attained the pure Dharma-eye. Having seen the Dharma and attained it, she asked only to be permitted as a lay follower, and received the five precepts as a disciple of the Buddha, further asking the venerable one to accept her own offering. He consented in silence, and she prepared a meal of every fine delicacy; once he had eaten, he taught her the Dharma further, leaving her heart filled with joy (Source: Dharmaguptaka Vinaya, first division, fascicle 8).

Aniruddha's Past Life as a Reformed Thief

Ānanda asked the Buddha: how does what Aniruddha sees with his own heavenly eye differ from what the Buddha himself sees? The Buddha told Ānanda: what the Tathāgata sees is beyond the knowledge of even an arhat or pratyekabuddha, let alone a monk still bound to birth and death such as yourself — how could you possibly know the full reach of my own penetrating sight? Going east from here across buddha-lands as numerous as the sands of the Ganges — where "Ganges" means the great river flowing from Lake Anavatapta to the ocean, forty li wide, its sandy bed reaching down a hundred twenty measures deep — and, for every such sand-grain, imagining a further buddha-land: throughout the whole of such lands, every being, every hidden place, every obscure and shadowy thing, every creature of the most minute form, I see them all entirely — and the same holds true throughout the ten directions equally. How, then, could what Aniruddha sees possibly be compared to what a buddha sees?

Ānanda asked what past karmic bond had given Aniruddha such sight. The Buddha answered: long ago, after the buddha Vipaśyin's own nirvāṇa, a bandit, having just committed a robbery, passed through a stūpa and, wishing to steal the sacred objects within its own shrine, found the lamp before the Buddha's own image about to go out, the darkness leaving him unable to see. The bandit used his own arrow to trim the lamp's wick, restoring its light — and, seeing by that same light the image's own dazzling, awe-inspiring radiance, felt every hair on his body stand on end, and reflected: "Even ordinary people give their own treasures seeking blessing — how could I possibly steal from this place instead?" He abandoned his intent and departed at once. Across ninety-one kalpas thereafter, his own evil gradually diminished and his blessings daily increased. That bandit was Aniruddha himself — and it was through the merit of merely straightening a lamp that he was reborn continually into good circumstances, until at last he encountered the Buddha, went forth, attained the path, and gained the foremost sight among all disciples. How much greater, then, is the merit of one who, with a truly sincere heart, gives up what is most precious to them and lights a lamp before a buddha himself — a merit beyond all measure (Source: Sūtra of Similes and Parables, fascicle 2).

Aniruddha's Past Life as a Poor Laborer

The Buddha dwelt in the Deer Park at Sarnath. Aniruddha told the monks: I recall that, long ago, in this very Vārāṇasī, I was a poor man, hired to carry loads for others to sustain myself. In that age, grain grew scarce and people starved, many dying, and alms were hard to come by. A pratyekabuddha named Pilizhà also dwelt there at that time, going out early each morning to beg. One morning, as I too went out early to take up my own load, I saw this pratyekabuddha, and, returning later with my load, saw him again — and reflected: I saw him go out early this same morning, and now, seeing him again, he surely has not yet eaten.

He then followed me back to my own home, and I resolved to invite him in, taking my own portion of food to offer him, saying: "Sage, this is my own share — please accept it out of compassion for me." The pratyekabuddha took only half into his own bowl, telling me to eat the other half myself and be satisfied — but I answered: "Sage, I have my own household and may eat at any time; you, sage, out of compassion, should accept this offering in full" — and the pratyekabuddha, moved by compassion, accepted it entirely.

Through the merit of this single act of giving, I was reborn in heaven seven times, becoming a heavenly king each time, and reborn among humans seven times more, becoming a human king each time; and now, born into the Śākya clan itself, possessed of boundless wealth, I have renounced this life to study the path and attained realization (Source: Madhyama Āgama, fascicle 12).

Aniruddha, Mahākāśyapa, Maudgalyāyana, and Piṇḍola conferred together: among the people of Rājagṛha who did not yet believe in or delight in the Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha, we ourselves ought to bring them to faith. Having agreed on this, they surveyed the area near and far, and found only the elder Bhadrika and his own sister who did not yet believe in the Three Jewels. The first three śrāvakas said: we can convert Bhadrika ourselves.

This elder had built a house with seven successive gates, and kept three troupes of musicians; whenever it was mealtime, all seven gates would be shut, and one troupe would perform. Aniruddha, at mealtime, appeared begging directly in front of him. The elder asked how he had entered, and, told through the gate, questioned the gatekeepers, who insisted the gates remained shut throughout and no one had passed. The elder then placed a single piece of hemp-cake into Aniruddha's bowl, who took it and left. At the next meal, Kāśyapa came begging in exactly the same way, and was given a single piece of fish, which he likewise took.

The elder's sister then asked him: did you think these monks incapable of finding food elsewhere, that they came begging here specifically? He answered yes. She told him: the first monk who came was named Aniruddha, a son of the Śākya clan, who gave up the pleasures of his own three seasonal palaces and five sensory delights to go forth and study the path; the later monk was Pippalāyana, of the great Māṇava clan, who gave up nine hundred ninety fields, houses, and plow-oxen to go forth and study the path; both, out of compassion for you, came specifically to beg from you. Hearing this, the elder was inwardly moved to reverence — at which Maudgalyāyana, flying through the air, taught the Dharma, instructing and delighting him, and, seated there, his every defilement dissolved and he attained the pure Dharma-eye, seeing the Dharma and its fruit, and took the refuges and precepts at once.

The first three śrāvakas then told Piṇḍola: we have now converted Bhadrika and brought him to faith in the Dharma — it is now your turn to convert his sister. Piṇḍola, early one morning, took his bowl and went to her house; the elder's own sister was at that moment making cakes herself, and, seeing him suddenly come begging, said: "I will not give you any," fixing her eyes on his bowl as though wondering what he intended. Piṇḍola then made smoke rise from his own body, and she said: "Even with smoke rising from your whole body, I still will not give you any." Piṇḍola then made his whole body burst into flame, and she said: "Even with your whole body ablaze, I still will not give you any." Piṇḍola then rose and floated in the air, and she said: "Even floating in the air, I still will not give you any." Piṇḍola then hung upside-down in midair, and she said: "Even hanging upside-down in the air, I still will not give you any."

Piṇḍola reflected: the World-Honored One does not permit us to force alms from anyone against their will — and so departed of his own accord. Not far from Rājagṛha stood a great boulder; Piṇḍola sat upon it, and the whole boulder flew, with him seated on it, into the city of Rājagṛha. The people of the city, seeing this, were terrified, fearing the stone would fall and crush them, and fled in every direction — until it came to rest directly above the elder's sister, and stopped there. She, seeing this, was overcome with terror, and cried out: "Please spare my life, and set the stone back where it was — I will give you food." Piṇḍola then carried the stone back to its original place and came to stand before her once more.

The elder's sister then reflected that she could hardly offer him the large cake she had been making, and resolved to make a smaller one instead — but however small she tried to make it, it kept turning out large regardless; she tried three times over, each cake turning out larger than the last. Reflecting that whatever she tried to make small turned out large anyway, she resolved simply to give him the one cake as it was — but the moment she tried to hand it to him, every cake in the container stuck together, and, reaching for the container itself, found her own hand stuck fast to it as well. She said to Piṇḍola: "If you want cakes, take them all — I freely give every one, and do not begrudge them; why then do you make my hand stick like this?" He answered: "I do not want your cakes, nor your container, nor even you yourself — the four of us conferred together that we would deliver you and one other person; having already converted your own younger brother, it now falls to me to deliver you, and this is simply why I have done as I have."

She asked what he now wished her to do. He answered: "Sister, carry this container of cakes, and follow me to offer it to the Buddha and his twelve hundred fifty monks." She did so, and, remarkably, the offering satisfied the Buddha and the entire assembly completely, with cakes still remaining afterward. She asked the Buddha what she should do with what was left, and the Buddha told her to set it upon ground where nothing grows, or in water free of living creatures. She placed it in such water, which at once boiled and hissed as though red-hot iron had been thrown into a shallow pool — and, terrified, she returned to the Buddha, who taught her the Dharma; hearing it, she attained the pure Dharma-eye and took the refuges and precepts, becoming a disciple no different from any other.

The elders reported all of this to the Buddha, who then rebuked the monks, declaring that from this day forward, no monk was to display such supernormal feats again (Source: Mahīśāsaka Vinaya, fascicle 30).