Śāriputra and Maudgalyāyana

Śāriputra, practicing the bodhisattva path across sixty kalpas, was crossing the river of giving when a man came to beg his own eye. Śāriputra said the eye itself served no purpose — if the man needed his body or wealth instead, he would gladly give it. But the man insisted he wanted only the eye — and Śāriputra plucked one out and gave it to him. The beggar, taking the eye, spat on it and ground it underfoot. Śāriputra reflected: beings such as this are impossible to deliver — better to tame and subdue my own birth and death first — and, from that moment, turned instead toward the lesser vehicle (Source: Mahāprajñāpāramitā-śāstra, fascicle 12).

In South India there lived a brahmin named Tiṣya, a great master of debate. His wife, while pregnant, dreamed of a man clad in armor, wielding a vajra, smashing through mountains as he stood at their edge. Tiṣya, hearing this, declared: "You shall bear a son who will overcome every rival in debate — save one man alone, whose disciple he shall become." From the time of her conception onward, the mother herself grew remarkably eloquent and skilled in debate, so that her own younger brother, Kauṣṭhila, found himself repeatedly bested whenever they argued, and knew the child she carried must be one of great wisdom — abandoning his own studies thereafter and neglecting even to cut his nails, for which people of the time called him the Long-Nailed Brahmacārin.

Seven days after his sister bore her son, the boy was named Upatiṣya (the Sūtra of Similes calls him Upatiṣye) — though people of the time, naming him for his mother, called him Śāriputra, "Son of Śārī." By eight years old, he had recited eighteen collections of scripture and mastered every text there was.

At that time, in the kingdom of Magadha, two dragon-king brothers, Jayanta and Agila, brought rain in its proper season, sparing the land any famine — and the people, grateful, gathered every year in the second month of spring at the dragons' own dwelling for a great assembly, holding music and debate through a single morning, a custom unbroken from ancient times to the present. Four high seats were set out — for the king, the crown prince, the chief minister, and the foremost debater. The eight-year-old Śāriputra, observing the crowd's own attention and finding no one there who surpassed him, ascended the debater's own seat and sat cross-legged. The assembly, astonished, wondered whether he was merely a foolish child or a genius beyond his years — and, though marveling at his precocity, felt too embarrassed by his young age to address him directly, sending instead their own junior disciples to relay questions to him. His answers flowed back so fluently, his reasoning so far surpassing theirs, that the assembled debaters, wise and foolish, young and old alike, all conceded defeat, declaring they had never witnessed such a thing. The king, delighted, ordered an entire village granted to support him permanently, and the whole kingdom, high and low, rejoiced.

At that time there lived a renowned young lion of debate named Kolita, of the great Maudgalyāyana clan, who became Śāriputra's own close friend — Śāriputra prized for his own brilliant clarity, Maudgalyāyana for his own bold, generous spirit, their talents so evenly matched that wherever one went, the other soon followed, and the two swore a lasting bond. Later, both, weary of the world, went forth together to study the path, becoming disciples of the ascetic teacher Sañjaya. They asked their teacher whether he had attained what he himself sought — and he answered: "I have sought the path across many years now, yet do not know whether there is truly any fruit to attain, or whether I myself am simply not the right person for it — either way, I have not attained it."

Some time later, their teacher fell gravely ill; Śāriputra stood at his head, Maudgalyāyana at his feet, and, as he lay gasping near death, the teacher suddenly smiled. Asked why, he answered: "Ordinary people, lacking true insight, are ruled by attachment and desire. I have just seen, in my own mind, the king of Suvarṇabhūmi die, and his chief consort throw herself upon his funeral pyre to join him there — yet the two of them, through their own different deeds, will be reborn in utterly different places." The two disciples wrote down their teacher's own words, intending to verify them later. Sometime afterward, a merchant arrived in Magadha from Suvarṇabhūmi, and the two compared their record against his own account — and found it exactly as their teacher had said. Astonished, they lamented: "Are we simply not the right people for this path, or has our teacher been withholding something from us?" — and the two of them swore an oath together: whichever of us first attains the taste of the deathless nectar shall share it at once with the other.

The Buddha, having converted Kāśyapa and his thousand brother-disciples, then traveled on to Rājagṛha. There, a monk named Aśvajit — one of the first five disciples — entered the city one morning, robed and bowl in hand, to beg. Śāriputra, seeing his extraordinary bearing, his every faculty calm and composed, asked him: "Who is your teacher?" Aśvajit answered: "A prince of the Śākya clan, who, weary of old age, sickness, and death, went forth to study the path and attained unsurpassed awakening — he is my own teacher." Śāriputra asked him to explain his teacher's own doctrine, and Aśvajit answered: "I am still young in years and new to this study — how could I possibly proclaim the Tathāgata's own vast and true meaning?" Asked then only for its essence in brief, he answered: "All dharmas arise from causes and conditions; this same Dharma teaches also their cessation through causes and conditions." At these very words, Śāriputra attained the first fruit of the path (the Sūtra of Similes calls this attaining the fruit of non-attachment).

Returning to Maudgalyāyana, he repeated the verse, and Maudgalyāyana likewise attained the first fruit at once. The two teachers — for each now taught in his own right — together with their own two hundred fifty disciples each, went together to the Buddha. The Buddha, seeing them from afar, pointed to Śāriputra and said: "Foremost in wisdom among my disciples" — and, pointing to Maudgalyāyana: "Foremost in supernormal power." Arriving with their own great assembly of disciples, they told the Buddha: we wish to go forth under your own teaching. The Buddha said: "Welcome, monks" — and at once their hair fell away of itself, monastic robes appeared upon their bodies, complete with bowl, and they received the full precepts. Just over a half-month later, hearing the Buddha teach the Long-Nailed Brahmacārin, Śāriputra himself attained arhatship (Source: Mahāprajñāpāramitā-śāstra, fascicle 11).

The Buddha dwelt in Śrāvastī. Śāriputra asked the Buddha to establish the monastic precepts, and the monks objected: how can precepts be requested before any offense has occurred? The Buddha answered: it is not only today that Śāriputra has asked me to establish rules before any fault existed — long ago, too, in a certain village, the people and householders there, though blameless, once asked me in just the same way to establish laws and punishments.

At that time there was a kingdom named Kāśi, its city named Vārāṇasī, ruled by a king named Śuklakīrti, "Pure Renown," who governed by the Dharma, giving generously, upholding the precepts, and loving his people universally through the path — so that the people prospered in wealth and happiness, villages and towns crowded close together like roosting chickens, and the whole kingdom, mutually respectful, delighted together in music and entertainment. A great minister named Dhāvalī, resourceful and full of schemes, told the king: "Today the whole realm naturally prospers, and the people respect one another — I ask that the king now establish laws and punishments, lest such extreme prosperity give rise to wrongdoing." The king answered that his ministers, being intelligent and forming their own factions, could not simply be regulated all at once — a single reprimand might itself provoke resentment — and, wishing to state his own intent gently, spoke this verse:

"Though power might indulge in wrath, out of compassion I shall still establish order — governing the people by the true Dharma, that no heart may harbor hidden resentment."

The ministers, delighted, answered with a verse of their own:

"Most excellent, honored among people — long may you remain in this world, subduing all; governing all beings by the path, your compassionate shade extending without limit."

The Buddha said: that King Śuklakīrti was myself; that minister was Śāriputra (Source: Mahāsāṃghika Vinaya, fascicle 1).

Śāriputra, during the height of summer's heat, was walking through the Āmra Grove, where a hired laborer, drawing water from a well to irrigate the trees, though lacking any great faith in the Buddha, felt a small spark of faith arise on seeing Śāriputra, and called out: "Venerable one, come — remove your robe and sit beneath this tree; I shall pour water over you without neglecting my own watering duties, and thereby benefit us both." Śāriputra removed his robe and accepted the bath, his body cooled and refreshed, and went on his way at ease.

That very night, the laborer's life ended, and he was reborn at once in Trāyastriṃśa heaven with great majesty, second only to Śakra himself. Reflecting on how he had come to be reborn there, and recalling his own past life, he realized that though his faith had been slight, it was through watering and washing Śāriputra's own body that he had earned this reward — and thought to himself: had my faith been truly deep and sincere, knowing certainly that reward would follow, I would have prepared bathing implements deliberately as an offering; yet even this small, incidental merit, meeting so fine a field, has borne so great a fruit. He went at once to Śāriputra and scattered flowers in offering — and Śāriputra, moved by his own pure faith, taught him the essentials of the Dharma, through which he attained the fruit of stream-entry (Source: Miscellaneous Piṭaka Sūtra).

Long ago, in Śrāvastī, blood once rained from the sky, covering an area forty li wide, and the king and his ministers, greatly alarmed, summoned every diviner and astrologer to determine whether this omen portended good or ill fortune. The diviners answered: ancient records say that a rain of blood presages the birth of a human-serpent, a creature of poisonous harm, and that the whole kingdom should be searched to identify and set apart this coming calamity. Asked how such a creature might be distinguished, the diviners answered: every newborn infant in the kingdom should be brought and made to spit into an empty jar — and whichever child's own spittle burst into flame would be revealed as the human-serpent.

Such a child was indeed found this way, and, since it could not be permitted to remain among ordinary people, it was moved instead to a remote, uninhabited place, where any person condemned to death in the kingdom would be sent to it. This human-serpent killed by spitting venom, and, over time, seventy-two thousand people died from its poison in this way.

Later, a lion appeared, its roar shaking every creature within forty li, ravaging the region uncontrollably — and the king, offering a thousand catties of gold and an entire prefecture to whoever could drive it off, found no one willing to try, until his ministers suggested that only the human-serpent itself might be capable. Summoned and sent to face the lion, the human-serpent breathed out its venom the moment the lion approached, and the beast died at once, restoring peace to the land.

Years later, the human-serpent itself grew old and fell gravely ill, nearing death — and the Buddha, grieving that its own heavy sins would otherwise condemn it to fall into an evil rebirth with no chance of escape, told Śāriputra to go and instruct it, that it might be freed from this heavy retribution. Śāriputra went at once to stand before it. The creature, enraged at being approached so casually while it still lived, thought: "I am not yet dead, and this man treats me lightly, coming directly before me without even a word of introduction" — and breathed out its venom, intending to kill him. Śāriputra, through his own compassionate wisdom, turned the venom harmlessly aside, his own expression serene and untroubled, not a single hair on his body stirring. Three times the creature breathed out its poison, and three times it failed to harm him — and, recognizing at last his own venerable nature, its heart relented and a wholesome feeling arose within it; it gazed up and down at Śāriputra with compassion seven times over. Śāriputra then returned to the monastery, and, drawing in its own breath at last, the human-serpent died that same day.

At that moment heaven and earth shook greatly — for the greatest good, as much as the greatest evil, can move them equally. King Ajātaśatru of Magadha then went to the Buddha, bowed to the ground, and asked the World-Honored One what path the human-serpent had taken in death. The Buddha answered that it had been reborn in the very first heaven. The king, astonished, asked how so grave a sinner could possibly be reborn in heaven — and the Buddha explained: because it gazed upon Śāriputra with compassion seven times over, through the merit of this alone it was reborn in the first heaven; once that merit is exhausted, it shall be reborn in the second heaven, and so on, until, after seven such rebirths, it shall attain pratyekabuddhahood and enter final nirvāṇa.

The king asked whether the seventy-two thousand people it had killed would then go unavenged. The Buddha answered: when it finally becomes a pratyekabuddha, its own body will shine like pure gold, and, seated in meditation beneath a tree by the roadside, a great army of over seventy thousand soldiers, passing by and mistaking it for a golden statue, will hack it apart and each take a share — only to find, once settled in their hands, that it was flesh after all, and, gathering the pieces back together, will leave it there; through this very event it will enter final nirvāṇa. In this way, the grave sin of this present life will be so lightly repaid, and fully discharged. The Buddha told the king: whoever encounters a true spiritual friend may have even a mountain of accumulated sin dissolved away, and may attain the path as well (Source: Sūtra of Similes and Parables, fascicle 9).

The Buddha dwelt at the Bamboo Grove of Kalandaka in Rājagṛha. The venerable Śāriputra, on Vulture Peak, entered the vajra samādhi (the Saṃyukta Āgama calls this having just shaved his own hair and beard). At that time two spirits, one named Kāla, the other Upakāla, sent by Vaiśravaṇa on an errand to King Virūpākṣa to discuss matters of gods and humans, passed by through the sky and, from a distance, saw Śāriputra seated cross-legged, his mind fixed in mindfulness before him, utterly still in samādhi.

Kāla said to his companion: "I feel I could strike this śramaṇa's head with my own fist." Upakāla answered: "Do not entertain such a thought, and do not strike this śramaṇa's head — for this śramaṇa possesses extraordinary spiritual virtue and great power; foremost in wisdom and intelligence among the World-Honored One's own disciples, he is destined otherwise to suffer boundless torment through a long night." The malicious spirit repeated, two or three times, that he was fully capable of assaulting this śramaṇa — and Upakāla warned him: "If you will not heed my words, then remain here — I shall leave you." The evil spirit asked whether he feared this śramaṇa, and Upakāla answered: "I do indeed fear him — should you truly strike him with your hand, the earth itself would split in two, a violent storm would shake the land, the devas would be seized with terror, and the Four Heavenly Kings themselves would know of it at once, leaving us with nowhere left in peace." The evil spirit, undeterred, declared he could still humiliate this śramaṇa regardless — and the good spirit, hearing this, departed and left him.

The evil spirit then struck Śāriputra's own head — and at that very instant the earth shook greatly, a violent storm arose on every side, and the ground split in two, the evil spirit's whole body falling straight down into hell (the Saṃyukta Āgama has Śāriputra himself cry out, "I am burning, I am scalded!" and the demon Kaṭa sinking into hell). Śāriputra then rose from his own samādhi, straightened his robes, and went to the Bamboo Grove, bowing his head to the World-Honored One's own feet and sitting to one side. The Buddha asked him: are you free of any bodily illness? Śāriputra answered: my body has always been free of affliction, save for a slight headache just now. The World-Honored One told him: the spirit Kāla struck your own head with his hand — had that same spirit struck Mount Sumeru itself, the mountain would have split in two; such was his own great strength, yet, through the retribution he has now incurred, he has fallen entirely into the Avīci hell.

The World-Honored One then told the assembled monks: how truly rare and wondrous the power of the vajra samādhi — that it should protect one to such a degree that even Mount Sumeru itself, striking one's head, could never move so much as a single hair. And why is this so? Listen, monks: in this fortunate kalpa, there arose a buddha named Krakucchanda, who had two great śrāvaka disciples, one named Samāyus, the other named Mahāprajñā — Samāyus foremost in supernormal power, Mahāprajñā foremost in wisdom, just as, in my own present age, Śāriputra is foremost in wisdom and Maudgalyāyana foremost in supernormal power. Both Samāyus and Mahāprajñā had likewise attained the vajra samādhi. Once, Samāyus, sitting in quiet retreat, entered a state of profound stillness — and cowherds and grass-gatherers passing by, seeing him, said to one another: "This śramaṇa has died" — and, gathering grass and wood, piled it over his body and set it alight, then left. Samāyus, rising in due course from his own samādhi, straightened his robes, and went into the village to beg; the very grass-gatherers who had burned him, seeing him alive, exclaimed to one another: "This monk died just yesterday, and we ourselves burned him — yet today he lives again!" — and, from this, gave him the very name "Returned-to-Life." Such is the majestic power of the vajra samādhi for any monk who attains it — untouched by water, fire, or blade. Śāriputra has now attained this same samādhi, and moves often between the two states of the samādhi of emptiness and the vajra samādhi alike (Source: Ekottarika Āgama, fascicle 30).

Śāriputra and others once accepted an invitation from the group of six nuns, who prepared many fine foods for the occasion — yet gave the junior monks and novices only rice cooked sixty days prior, mixed with sesame dregs and vegetables. The Buddha asked Rāhula whether the assembly had eaten their fill, and, told the full account, asked who their senior had been — and, told it was the preceptor Śāriputra, said: Śāriputra has eaten unclean food. Śāriputra at once vomited up what he had eaten, and vowed for the rest of his own life never again to accept an invited meal, but always to beg his own food from door to door instead.

Afterward, many great and noble households wished to hold a meal for the sangha and specifically requested Śāriputra's own presence, petitioning the Buddha to order him to accept invitations once more — but the Buddha said not to ask this of him, for his own temperament was harsh and difficult to sway.

Long ago, he explained, there was a king bitten by a venomous snake, and a healer skilled in curing venom used a mantra to summon the very snake that had bitten him. The healer built a fire and told the snake: would you rather enter this fire, or take back your own venom? The snake reflected that, having already spat out its venom, it would not take it back again — and threw itself into the fire instead. That venomous snake was Śāriputra himself (Source: Sarvāstivāda Vinaya, preface, lower section; also found in the Mahīśāsaka Vinaya, fascicle 31, and the Mahāsāṃghika Vinaya, fascicle 40).

The Buddha told Ānanda: one who has attained the four bases of supernormal power may extend his own lifespan for a full kalpa — how long, then, might the Tathāgata himself now live? He asked this three times, but Ānanda, his own mind clouded by Māra, remained silent and did not answer. The Buddha then told Ānanda to rise and go to a quiet place to reflect, and Ānanda went off into a grove.

At that time Māra Pāpīyas came before the Buddha and said: World-Honored One, your own teaching and deliverance of beings throughout the world is now complete, and you have freed as many beings from birth and death as there are grains of sand in the Ganges; your own years, too, are now advanced — you may enter nirvāṇa. The Buddha told Māra: three months from now, I shall enter final nirvāṇa. Māra, hearing this, departed rejoicing.

Ānanda, meanwhile, dreamed of a great tree whose branches sheltered the whole sky, every living thing relying upon it — until a sudden whirlwind arose and struck the tree down, uprooting it at the very place where a certain strong man dwelt, and every being grieved at its fall. Startled awake and deeply unsettled, Ānanda, reflecting on this dream, feared it meant the World-Honored One intended to enter nirvāṇa, and went to the Buddha to report it. The Buddha told him: it is exactly as you say — three months from now I shall enter final nirvāṇa. I asked you earlier whether one who has attained the four bases of supernormal power, cultivated to their fullest, might extend his own life a full kalpa — and, three times over, you gave no answer. Māra then came and urged me toward nirvāṇa, and I have consented. Ānanda, overcome with grief, could not compose himself; the other disciples too, hearing this news from one another, came grieving to the Buddha — but he told them: who can live forever? I have done for you all that needed doing, and taught all that needed teaching — you need only continue your own diligent practice; why grieve so?

Śāriputra, hearing that the Buddha's own nirvāṇa was near, was deeply moved, and, unable to bear witnessing the World-Honored One's own final passing, asked three times for permission to enter his own nirvāṇa first. The World-Honored One told him: you know the proper time — for every sage and worthy must one day pass into stillness. Śāriputra then arranged his robes, made offerings of his own three karmic actions, and, walking backward in reverence, took his leave, together with the novice Cundaka, traveling to Rājagṛha, to the very city of his own birth.

He instructed Cundaka: go into the city and the surrounding villages, and tell the king, the ministers, my own old friends and acquaintances, and all my lay supporters to come and take their leave of me. Cundaka proclaimed accordingly: the preceptor Śāriputra is about to enter final nirvāṇa — whoever wishes to see him should come at once. King Ajātaśatru and the fourfold assembly all hurried there. Śāriputra, in this way, taught extensively, prescribing the right medicine for each person's own affliction, and the assembly there attained, variously, the first through third fruits of the path, some going forth and becoming arhats, others vowing to seek buddhahood — and, having heard his teaching, each bowed and departed.

In the latter part of that night, composing his body and mind, fixing his attention before him, he entered the first dhyāna, then rose from it into the second, and so on in sequence up through the cessation of perception and feeling — then, rising from that same attainment, entered final nirvāṇa. Śakra, together with a great host of devas, came to that place to praise and make offerings; Śakra further ordered Viśvakarman to gather every kind of treasure and adorn a lofty chariot to carry the body to level, open ground, and ordered the yakṣas to fetch sandalwood from the ocean's shore and stack it into a great pyre. The body was placed upon it, anointed with ghee, and the pyre set alight. Once the fire had burned out, Cundaka gathered the relics into a bowl, took up the three robes, and carried them to the Buddha. Ānanda, grieving, said: the great general of the Dharma-wheel has now entered nirvāṇa — on whom shall I now rely? The Buddha answered: though he has passed away, the five-part Dharma-body does not itself perish.

Śāriputra, in a past life too, could not bear to see me die, and so passed away himself first before me. Ānanda asked the Buddha to explain how this had come about in that earlier time, and the Buddha told him:

Long ago, in an inconceivably distant past kalpa, there lived in this Jambudvīpa a king named Candraprabha (in the Liang language, "Moonlight"). The king had twenty thousand consorts and palace women, his chief consort named Sumati-dāna (in the Liang language, "Flower-Giving"), and ten thousand ministers, the foremost among them named Mahācandra (in the Liang language, "Great Moon"). The king had five hundred princes, the eldest named Śīlabhadra (in the Liang language, "Precept-Wisdom"). The city in which the king dwelt was named Bhadrāyus (in the Liang language, "Worthy Longevity"), four hundred yojanas in breadth and length, with a hundred twenty gates in all. The king made a great vow of giving, providing to the multitude whatever they needed, and further ordered his own eighty-four thousand lesser kingdoms to likewise open their own storehouses and give freely — his ministers, obeying, raised golden banners and struck golden gongs, proclaiming the king's own compassionate decree far and wide, within and without, so that every śramaṇa, brahmin, and destitute or orphaned person in the kingdom, strong and weak alike, supporting one another, gathered like clouds and rain to receive whatever they wished. All the people of Jambudvīpa were thus blessed by the king's own grace.

In a smaller kingdom nearby, its own king, named Bhīmasena, hearing of King Candraprabha's own vast and lofty renown, grew consumed by jealousy, unable even to sleep, and reflected: unless King Candraprabha's own name is somehow effaced, my own name will never rise — I must devise some scheme. He summoned various ascetics and asked them how he might rid himself of this rival, and the brahmins answered: King Candraprabha's own compassion and beneficence reach the poor and needy as a father and mother reach their own children — we ourselves alone remain humble and undistinguished by comparison; how could we have any heart to join such a wicked plot? We would sooner take our own lives than participate — and they all departed, refusing his patronage entirely.

King Bhīmasena, ever more troubled, then proclaimed widely throughout his kingdom: whoever can bring me King Candraprabha's own head shall receive half my kingdom to govern, and my own daughter in marriage. A brahmin named Raudrākṣa, dwelling in the mountainside, answered this call. The king, delighted, asked him whether, once he succeeded, he would keep faith with his own oath, and when he would set out. The brahmin answered that he needed only provisions and equipment for the journey, and would depart within seven days. He then performed protective incantations over himself, and, the seven days complete, took his leave of the king, who provided for his journey and sent him on his way.

In King Candraprabha's own kingdom, meanwhile, ill omens had already appeared — the eighty-four thousand lesser kings all dreamed that the great king's own golden banner had suddenly snapped, and his golden gong suddenly cracked; the minister Mahācandra dreamed that a spirit had seized the king's own golden crown — and all were filled with anxious foreboding. The city gate spirit, knowing the brahmin intended to beg the king's own head, barred him from entering; the brahmin circled the city walls repeatedly, unable to gain entrance. A deva of the Śuddhāvāsa heaven, knowing that King Candraprabha's own vow of giving his head would soon be fulfilled, appeared to the king in a dream and told him: you have vowed to give without turning away anyone's own heart — yet a beggar now stands at your very gate, unable to pass. To act as a true giver, this ought not be so. The king, waking with a start, at once ordered his minister Mahācandra to go to the gate and command that no one be turned away.

Mahācandra went to the gate, where the gate-spirit manifested itself and told him: a brahmin has come from another country, harboring a wicked intent — he wishes to beg the king's own head — and it is for this reason I have refused him entry. The minister answered: this is indeed a great calamity — yet the king's own decree cannot be defied. What is to be done? He resolved to have five hundred heads of the seven treasures crafted, to offer in exchange, and ordered this done at once.

The brahmin then went straight to the palace hall and called out loudly: I have come from a distant land, having heard of the king's own virtue, that he turns away no one's own wish in giving — and so I have traveled far, hoping to receive something in turn. The king, delighted, went to greet him and bowed, asking whether his journey had been too wearying, and told him to ask for whatever he desired. The brahmin said: every external object, though freely given, is not truly what I need — I have come this great distance seeking only the king's own head; if you will not disappoint me, please grant it. The king, hearing this, was overjoyed beyond measure. The brahmin asked when he might receive it, and the king answered: seven days from now, I shall give you my own head.

The minister Mahācandra then brought forward the five hundred jeweled heads and told the brahmin: the king's own head, made of mere flesh, blood, and bone, is an unclean thing — why would you want it? Take instead these jeweled heads of equal number in exchange, wealth enough to secure you for the rest of your own life. The brahmin refused, saying he wanted only the king's true head, to fulfill his own resolve. Mahācandra pleaded with him in every way he could, but the man would not be moved — and, in his own grief and despair, the minister's heart broke into seven pieces, and he died on the spot.

The king then ordered his own attendants to mount swift elephants and proclaim throughout every kingdom: King Candraprabha, seven days hence, shall give his own head to a brahmin — whoever wishes to come and see this should hurry now. The eighty-four thousand lesser kings all rushed to the capital by relay, and, seeing their great king, threw themselves before him, beating their own chests: the people of Jambudvīpa depend entirely on your own grace — how could you, for the sake of one man, abandon all of us without pity? We beg you not to give away your head. His ten thousand ministers likewise threw themselves to the ground, beating their chests, begging him to have mercy and not give his head. His twenty thousand consorts likewise threw themselves down, pleading: do not forsake us — without your protection, on whom shall we depend, should you give away your head? His five hundred princes wept before him: we are still children — where shall we go, if you give away your head? Please, out of love for us, do not do this.

The great king then addressed his own ministers, people, consorts, and princes: reflect that, since I first received this body, I have passed through birth and death across ages beyond counting; wandering the three lower realms, my head has been cut off and I have died and been reborn countless times, gaining no merit from it at all; and even reborn among humans, I have fought over wealth and desire, killing again and again out of greed, anger, and delusion, never once giving up my life for the sake of merit. This body, in its very nature unclean, must in any case be discarded before long and cannot be kept forever — to give up this filthy head in exchange for so great a benefit, how could I refuse? I now give this head to the brahmin, vowing through this very merit to attain the buddha's own path and deliver you all from suffering. My own resolve to give is now on the verge of fulfillment — do not, I beg you, obstruct my unsurpassed intent. Hearing the king's own words, all the assembled kings, ministers, consorts, and princes fell silent, unable to answer.

The great king then told the brahmin: now is the time — take my head. The brahmin answered: with the king's own ministers and people crowded all around, I am but one man, too weak to behead the king here in the midst of this crowd — if you truly wish to give it to me, come instead to the rear garden. The king then told his assembled lesser kings, princes, ministers, and people: if you truly love and honor me, do not harm this brahmin — and, having said this, went together with him into the rear garden.

There the brahmin told the king: your own body is young and vigorous, strong as a warrior's — should the blow cause you pain, you might yet change your mind; let me first bind your own hair to a tree, that I may then behead you properly. The king answered: cut off my head, and let it fall into my own hands before you take it away — I give this head now in pursuit of the unsurpassed, true path, vowing to deliver all beings.

As the brahmin raised his knife to strike, the tree's own spirit, watching in deep distress, thought: how could anyone wish to kill such a man? — and struck the brahmin's own ear with her hand, so that his head twisted backward and his limbs went rigid, the knife falling from his hand, and he could not move. The great king then looked up and addressed the tree spirit: beneath this very tree, across my own past lives, I have already given away nine hundred ninety-nine heads in offering — this head now would make the full thousand, completing my own perfection of giving. Do not obstruct my unsurpassed resolve. Hearing this, the tree spirit released the brahmin, restoring him to himself; he rose from the ground, took up the knife once more, and struck off the king's own head, which fell into his own waiting hands.

At that moment the earth shook six ways, and every heavenly palace trembled and grew unsettled, the devas filled with astonished dread — until, looking to see the cause, they beheld a bodhisattva giving up his own head for the sake of all beings, and descended together, weeping tears like rain, praising with one voice: King Candraprabha, in giving his own head, has now fulfilled the perfection of giving — and this praise resounded everywhere. King Bhīmasena, hearing this same news, was so overcome with mingled joy and horror that his own heart split apart, and he died at once.

The brahmin then carried the king's own head away; the assembled kings, ministers, consorts, and princes, seeing it, threw themselves to the ground, crying out together in grief, fainting and reviving in turn. The brahmin, finding the head's own scent already foul, cast it to the ground and kicked it aside as he departed. Someone said to him: your own cruelty has proven so extreme — and, the head now useless to you regardless, why did you demand it at all? The brahmin continued on his way, and everyone he met reproached him and refused him food, until, starving and wasted, he collapsed in utter distress along the road. There, someone who happened to inquire after the news told him that King Bhīmasena had already died — and, his hope thus extinguished, the brahmin Raudrākṣa too soon died, falling straight into the Avīci hell. As for the rest, the ministers and people, moved by grief and gratitude for the king's own kindness, were, upon their own deaths, all reborn in heaven.

Know, Ānanda: that King Candraprabha of the story was myself; King Bhīmasena is now Māra Pāpīyas; the minister Mahācandra is now Śāriputra — who, unable then to bear witnessing my own death, died himself before me, just as, even now, he could not bear to witness my own entry into nirvāṇa, and so entered his own final nirvāṇa first (Source: Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish, fascicle 5; largely the same, with minor variations, in the Sūtra of the Buddha's Repayment of Kindness through Skillful Means).

The Buddha dwelt at Jetavana, in Anāthapiṇḍada's Park in Śrāvastī. On the fifteenth day, the World-Honored One recited the precepts; the assembled monks, five hundred in number (the Mahāprajñāpāramitā-śāstra calls them five hundred great arhats), vanished from Jetavana and reappeared at Lake Anavatapta. The dragon king of that lake came before the World-Honored One, bowed at his feet, and, sitting to one side, observing the Tathāgata's own countenance and the assembled monks, said: I see this assembly is entirely empty of one thing — the monk Śāriputra is not among these seats. The Buddha told Maudgalyāyana: go quickly to Śāriputra and tell him, in my own words, to come.

Maudgalyāyana, receiving this instruction, went to Śrāvastī and told Śāriputra: the Buddha summons you — the dragon king Anavatapta wishes to see you. Śāriputra untied his own outer sash and set it before Maudgalyāyana, saying: you possess great supernormal power — lift this sash and tie it around the Jambu tree of this continent. Maudgalyāyana took up the sash but could not move it at all; straining with all his strength to lift it, the very earth shook instead.

Śāriputra, fearing Maudgalyāyana might strain himself past Pūrvavideha, then had him wrap it instead around Mount Sumeru — and Maudgalyāyana was able to move Mount Sumeru itself with it. Śāriputra then had the sash wrapped around the Tathāgata's own seat, and Maudgalyāyana found he could not move it at all, and, giving up the sash, returned to the dragon king's own place — only to see, from a distance, that Śāriputra had already arrived there before him, seated cross-legged, his body upright and his mind fixed in mindfulness. Arriving at the World-Honored One's own place, he bowed his head at the Buddha's feet and asked: have I not lost my own supernormal power? For I vanished from Jetavana before Śāriputra did, yet did not reappear at this lake until after him — while Śāriputra, vanishing after me, arrived here first and was already seated. The World-Honored One has always said I am foremost — how, then, could I arrive after him?

The Buddha answered: you have not regressed at all — the monk Śāriputra simply possesses great wisdom. Returning to Śrāvastī, the assembly there too grew doubtful of this same question, and the Buddha told Maudgalyāyana: many of the monks lack proper respect for you, saying that Śāriputra's own supernormal power surpasses yours — you should now display your own power before this very assembly. Maudgalyāyana, accepting this charge, rose from his seat and went to the summit of Mount Sumeru, placing one foot upon its peak and raising the other to rest upon the Brahmā heaven, then shook the mountain with his own foot so that the earth trembled six ways — and, in the very voice of Brahmā, spoke this verse:

"Seek quickly for skillful means, within this assembly of the Buddha's own Dharma; cast off the affliction of birth and death, as an elephant tramples through bamboo leaves.
Within this very Dharma of the Buddha, cultivate deeds free of desire; having already cast off every worldly defilement, exhaust also the very root of suffering."

The assembled monks, astonished, declared they had never witnessed such a thing before. As Mahāmaudgalyāyana spoke this verse, sixty monks, hearing it, had their own outflows exhausted and their minds liberated on the spot (Source: Ekottarika Āgama, fascicle 27).

The people of Śrāvastī, organizing a great charitable assembly, prepared to feed ninety-six varieties of renunciants, and further invited King Prasenajit, the crown prince, the assembled ministers, village elders, senior householders, and caravan-leaders alike. The day before, they gathered on the bank of the Ajitavatī River — the seat of honor reserved for whoever arrived first — Maudgalyāyana among them, when the river's own water suddenly rose in flood, foam covering its banks. The various heterodox ascetics there competed to bind together rafts of bamboo, eager to cross first and claim the seat of honor — but the current, swift and violent, capsized and swept their rafts back again and again, until, through a whole night of exhausting struggle, their rafts were smashed apart, and they themselves, soaked and frozen, crouched shivering on the bank facing the sun for warmth.

At Jetavana Monastery, meanwhile, people had come to invite the sangha to a meal, and the Buddha waited for the proper hour. A young monk, worried, said: the World-Honored One delays so long — I fear the heterodox ascetics will claim the seat of honor first. The Buddha, knowing the time had come, set out with the whole assembly, dignified and unhurried, to the riverbank. The heterodox ascetics called out: we ourselves cannot cross this river — what plan could these mere śramaṇas possibly have?

Maudgalyāyana then conjured a jeweled bridge, adorned splendidly with flowers, fragrance, and music. Seeing this, the heterodox ascetics said to one another: the śramaṇas have arrived too slowly — let us cross first! — and, stepping onto the bridge, fell straight into the water, their own bodies soaked through, swept along helplessly by the current. The Buddha, through his own spiritual power, ensured that not a single one of them died. The Buddha and his monks then advanced calmly, in proper order — and, as each footstep passed over it, the jeweled bridge behind them simply vanished. Once Maudgalyāyana withdrew his own power, the ground returned to its ordinary state, allowing the heterodox ascetics, too, to cross at last. The Buddha then spoke this verse:

"Those who reach this farther shore first have already crossed the ocean of birth and death; the swiftest current cannot sweep them away — these are called the truly wise" (Source: Mahāsāṃghika Vinaya, fascicle 6).

Maudgalyāyana, having just attained the path, wished to deliver his own parents in repayment for their kindness in nursing and raising him. Seeing his own deceased mother reborn among the hungry ghosts, unable to find food or drink, her skin clinging directly to her bones, Maudgalyāyana, grieving, filled a bowl with rice and brought it to her at once. His mother, receiving the bowl, took up the rice — but, before it even reached her mouth, it transformed into burning coals. Maudgalyāyana rushed back and reported this whole matter to the Buddha, who told him: your own mother's karmic root of sin runs too deep to be undone by your own strength alone — you will need the majestic power of the assembled sangha to free her.

You should, on the fifteenth day of the seventh month, on behalf of your parents and ancestors across seven generations who now suffer in distress, prepare rice, the five fruits, water-jars, basins, incense oil, candles, bedding, and every fine delicacy the world affords, and offer them to the assembled sangha. On that day, every sage — arhats of the six supernormal powers, pratyekabuddhas, and bodhisattva-monks manifesting among the ordinary assembly — will be present together, all receiving their bowls and pravāraṇā offerings with a single, unified mind, upholding the pure precepts. Whoever makes offerings to such a sangha shall see their own parents across seven generations, and their five kinds of kin, delivered at once from the three lower realms, their clothing and food arising spontaneously. The Buddha instructed the assembled sangha that all should, on behalf of the donor's own household and their ancestors across seven generations, first enter meditative concentration before receiving the offered food (Source: Ullambana Sūtra).

Maudgalyāyana, traveling by night, found that the wicked Māra had transformed himself into a translucent phantom and entered his own belly. Maudgalyāyana, reflecting to himself, wondered why his stomach rumbled like thunder, as though he carried some heavy burden while starving — and, entering samādhi, perceived the cause at once, and said: "Wicked Māra, come out now — do not trouble the Tathāgata or his disciples." Māra, terrified, let the translucent phantom he had conjured emerge and stand before Maudgalyāyana's own body (Source: Sūtra of Māra's Testing of Maudgalyāyana).

Maudgalyāyana had a brother born of the same parents, wealthy beyond counting, his storehouses filled to overflowing, his servants and attendants beyond number. Maudgalyāyana told him: I have heard you are stingy and jealous, unwilling to give — yet the Buddha has always taught that whoever gives generously reaps reward beyond measure. His brother, hearing this teaching, opened his own storehouses and gave freely, then built a new storehouse, hoping to receive its promised reward in turn. Within ten days, however, his old storehouse was entirely emptied while the new one showed no reward at all — and, distressed, he went to his brother and said: you once told me giving would bring great reward, so, not daring to disobey your own teaching, I emptied my storehouse in giving — every poor person, past and present, has been provided for — yet my wealth is now exhausted and the new storehouse holds nothing. Have you perhaps misled me, brother?

Maudgalyāyana answered: enough — do not speak such words where heterodox teachers of false views might overhear this careless talk. If merit and virtue had any visible form, the whole of empty space itself could not contain it — let me now show you, through my own expedient means, a small glimpse of your own reward; come with me, if you wish to see it. Maudgalyāyana then, through his own supernormal power, took his brother by the hand and carried him up to the sixth heaven, where there stood a palace built entirely of the seven treasures, bathing pools before and behind, fragrant winds carried far and wide, storehouses filled beyond counting, attended by thousands upon thousands of celestial maidens — women alone, with no man and no husband among them.

His brother asked Maudgalyāyana: what magnificent palace is this, that I see no men here at all, only women? Maudgalyāyana told him to ask them himself, and, asking what palace this was, was told by a heavenly maiden: in Jambudvīpa, in the kingdom of Kapilavastu, there lives a disciple of Śākyamuni Buddha's own spiritual power, named Maudgalyāyana, whose brother is a man of great wealth who delights in giving, relieving the poor and destitute — when his own life ends, he shall be reborn here, to become our own husband. Hearing this, the brother's heart filled with joy, and, returning to Maudgalyāyana, felt deep shame, bowing his head in repentance — and, returning to the world below, gave freely thereafter without ever tiring (Source: Sūtra of Maudgalyāyana's Brother, Whose Giving Was Rewarded).

Maudgalyāyana, receiving the Buddha's own sacred instruction, learned of a world to the west named Prabhāsadhvaja, whose buddha, Prabhāsarāja, was then presently teaching the Dharma. Maudgalyāyana went there to hear the Buddha's own words — his body four thousand li tall, while the bodhisattvas of that world stood two thousand li tall, and the bowls from which those bodhisattvas ate stood a full li high themselves; Maudgalyāyana walked along the very rim of one such bowl. The bodhisattvas there asked their own World-Honored One: great sage, where has this insect come from, wearing a monastic robe and walking along the rim of a bowl? That buddha answered: sons of good family, do not give rise to any thought of contempt for this worthy one — for this young man is named Mahāmaudgalyāyana, foremost in supernormal power among the śrāvaka disciples of Śākyamuni Buddha.

That Buddha Prabhāsarāja then told Mahāmaudgalyāyana: the bodhisattvas and śrāvakas of my own land, seeing your small stature, have all given rise to some contempt — you should now display your own supernormal power, relying upon Śākyamuni's own majestic virtue. Maudgalyāyana bowed at the Buddha's feet, circled him seven times in reverence, and, standing again before him, asked: might I now sit cross-legged upon this very ground? The Buddha answered: as you please. Maudgalyāyana then leapt into the sky, rising a hundred million fathoms, and, in that jeweled city, fashioned a seat, sitting cross-legged upon it — and from that very seat hung countless jeweled strands, each bead radiating hundreds of thousands of lights, each light bearing a lotus flower, and upon every lotus appeared Śākyamuni Buddha's own form, seated, teaching the Dharma in that same voice, clear and pure, expounding the very same sūtras without the slightest difference. Having displayed this power, Maudgalyāyana returned to stand once more before the Buddha.

The assembled bodhisattvas there, marveling at what they had never seen before, asked the Buddha why Maudgalyāyana had come to this world at all. The World-Honored One answered: he wished to test how far Śākyamuni Buddha's own voice could reach, and so came here. That Buddha Prabhāsarāja then told Mahāmaudgalyāyana: you ought not to test the Tathāgata's own voice in this way — a buddha's own voice knows no near or far, its reach vast and boundless, beyond any comparison. Mahāmaudgalyāyana threw himself down at once in repentance, confessing: World-Honored One, I acted rashly and did not truly understand — the Buddha's own voice is indeed boundless, and I foolishly sought to measure its limit. Prabhāsarāja Buddha told him: though you have come this great distance to this buddha-land, you will find it — and, when he further asked how far he had actually traveled, was told: exceedingly far, O heaven among heavens; your body is now too weary to return to your own land. The World-Honored One told him: it is only through Śākyamuni Buddha's own majestic power that you were able to come here at all — bow, then, in the direction of the east, toward Śākyamuni Buddha, and take refuge with joined palms, and you shall find yourself there at once; for should you attempt, through your own supernormal power alone, to return to your own land, a full kalpa would not suffice. Maudgalyāyana knelt on his right knee, faced east toward Śākyamuni Buddha, and took refuge with joined palms — and, in the time it takes to bend and stretch an arm, found himself there at once (Source: Sūtra of the Secret Trace Vajra-Wielder, fascicle 3).

The Buddha told Maudgalyāyana: there is a great kingdom, eight thousand leagues from here on the frontier, which has not yet seen the Three Jewels and remains sunk in confusion; its king and people all serve brahmacārin ascetics instead. Five hundred of these ascetics have attained the five supernormal powers, able to move mountains, redirect rivers, divide their own bodies, and transform at will. A great mountain in that kingdom blocked the people's own roads, troubling the entire land, and the king appealed to the ascetics for help; they surrounded the mountain, sitting in a circle, and, focusing their minds through the power of their own concentration, began to lift it and move it aside.

The Buddha told Maudgalyāyana: go to that kingdom and display the power of the true path, that you might deliver the ascetics and the whole country's own king and people, freeing them from the three lower realms and bringing them at last to the hall of blessing. Maudgalyāyana went, and, emitting light that blotted out the sun and moon, hovered suspended directly above the mountain's own summit — so that the mountain remained fixed, unable to move. The ascetics, astonished, wondered who had halted it, and why the sun's own light had failed — and, among them, one of clearer insight examined his own fellow disciples, wondering which of them, defiled, had caused the mountain to stop moving; looking up, he saw instead a monk positioned directly above it. The ascetics all declared: this must surely be the work of Gautama's own disciple! — and called out: our king ordered us to relieve the people of this affliction — why do you obstruct us? Maudgalyāyana answered: I merely hover here in the sky — who is obstructing your own mountain?

The ascetics exerted the full power of their own concentration three times over, trying to move the mountain, but three times it only sank back down, until it became entirely level ground. The ascetics, turning to one another, said: whoever possesses such profound, penetrating virtue must truly be our own teacher — and, all together, put on proper dress, bowed their heads, and asked to become his disciples, that he might reveal to them his own utmost spiritual power. Maudgalyāyana told them: that you wish to leave darkness for light is well done — yet I myself have an even greater teacher, called the Unsurpassed, True, and Perfect One, heaven among heavens, possessed of all wisdom; you should all go instead to the Buddha. The ascetics asked: does the Buddha's own teaching and transformative power truly exceed your own teacher's? Maudgalyāyana answered: the Buddha's own virtue is like Mount Sumeru; we ourselves are like a single mustard seed by comparison.

Following after him, they reached the Buddha and explained their situation fully, both within and without now purified, and asked the World-Honored One to cleanse away their own remaining subtle defilements and bring them to true purity. Upon seeing the Buddha, their minds opened and understood at once, and all of them became monks (Source: Sūtra Spoken by the Buddha on Sincerity of Mind).

Long ago, Maudgalyāyana went into the Himalayan mountains to convert the various spirits, dragons, yakṣas, asuras, and gandharvas dwelling there. Among them was a gandharva spirit dwelling in a palace of the seven treasures, its own form and radiance surpassing that of every other spirit there, of fine bearing and rare intelligence — yet possessed of a dog's own head upon a human body. Maudgalyāyana, puzzled, asked why this was so, and the spirit answered: I was, in the time of the buddha Vipaśyin, a wealthy elder, who delighted in feeding monks and brahmacārins and providing for the poor — but my own temper was impatient and harsh, given to coarse abuse, speaking rudely without regard for age, and, whenever a guest's own appetite displeased me even slightly, I would say: "You might as well feed this to a dog instead." It is for this very reason that I now bear a dog's head upon a human body — while my own delight in giving and providing for others has earned me this palace of blessing in turn (Source: Essential Matters from the Various Sūtras).

The Buddha commanded the elder Anāthapiṇḍada to undertake an act of giving; Anāthapiṇḍada rose at once, knelt with joined palms, and said to the Buddha: may the Buddha and the assembled sangha descend tomorrow to my own house, where I wish to prepare a simple meal. The Buddha silently consented. The Buddha then told the monks: tomorrow morning we shall ascend to the heavens, then descend at midday to Anāthapiṇḍada's own house for the meal. The next morning, the Buddha and the monks, in the time it takes to snap one's fingers, rose into the sky.

At that time there was an arhat named Vidura, who, straightening his own robes in midair, said to the Buddha: I have ascended to the heavens many times before, yet never has it grown as dark as it is now. The Buddha answered: two great dragon kings, enraged, are breathing out mist — that is why it has grown dark. Another arhat, named Śubhakāra, said to the Buddha: I wish to go and stop them. The Buddha answered: these dragons possess great and majestic power — should you go, you would surely provoke them further, causing them to spew forth water, perhaps even killing people and every crawling creature besides. Maudgalyāyana then said to the Buddha: I wish to go and admonish them. The Buddha said: very well.

Maudgalyāyana went at once to where the dragons were; the dragons, seeing him, breathed out smoke, then fire, surrounding Maudgalyāyana in a single ring of flame. Maudgalyāyana, through his own power of the path, likewise breathed out fire, surrounding the dragons in three rings of flame instead, then transformed his own body and entered the dragons' own eyes, passing in through the left and out through the right, then in through the right and out through the left, and, in this same manner, passing in and out through their ears and nose, or flying directly into their mouths — until the dragons believed Maudgalyāyana was now inside their own bellies. Maudgalyāyana then transformed his body once more, surrounding the two dragons in fourteen rings, and, in his own true form, commanded them both — and the dragons, utterly terrified, lashed their tails against the sea, shaking Mount Sumeru itself.

The Buddha, from afar, called out to Maudgalyāyana: these dragons are still capable of drowning the whole world in their own spewed water — be careful. Maudgalyāyana answered the Buddha: I possess the supernormal power of the four dhyānas, and constantly rely upon it in full confidence — I could take up this very Mount Sumeru, together with both dragons, in the palm of my own hand, and cast them into another world entirely; I could, with my own hand alone, grind Mount Sumeru itself to dust, without a single deva or human anywhere even noticing. Hearing this, the two dragons at once submitted. Maudgalyāyana returned to his own monastic form, and the dragons transformed into human shape, bowing their heads in repentance before him: foolish, deluded, and confused, we failed to recognize your own venerable spirit, and offended you with our own mist and clouds — we beg forgiveness for our fault. The two dragons then repented and received the five precepts, bowed at the Buddha's own feet, and departed (Source: Sūtra of Subduing the Dragons).

The dragon king Anavatapta, together with his own retinue, invited the Buddha for three months, that he might enter the great Lake Anavatapta itself to receive offerings, together with every accomplished bodhisattva and disciple, granting them half a month's stay. The dragon, overjoyed, raised clouds and lightning, sending rain across the whole world — then, in an instant, returned to his own palace and summoned his five hundred eldest sons, named Sunakṣatra, Sudāna, and others, telling them: I have now invited the Perfectly Awakened One and the assembled bodhisattvas and disciples for a full half-month — you must all, with one mind, encourage one another to show the World-Honored One the utmost reverence, mindful always of impermanence, each remaining tranquil and composed, humble, respectful, solemn, and attentive in your own service to the Tathāgata. Set aside all worldly desire and every dragon-pleasure; abandon greed, anger, and harm; keep apart from form, sound, scent, taste, and touch — for the World-Honored One is himself free of desire, composed and refined, gentle and elegant, perfectly disciplined and obedient to the Buddha's own essential teaching. For this half-month, you are not to enter the palace at all, but must set aside lust, anger, and delusion entirely — for when the Tathāgata expounds the Dharma, other-world bodhisattvas of great spiritual accomplishment, Śakra, Brahmā, the guardians of the world, and devas of pure abode will surely all come together to this same assembly. You must all apply yourselves diligently to this great giving, and never grow slack halfway through, that everyone gathered here might witness this transformation and rejoice.

Beneath the Himalayas, within Lake Anavatapta, he then conjured a stainless lapis-lazuli throne, seven hundred yojanas in breadth and length, surrounded on every side by eighty-four thousand jeweled trees of every kind, each hall above set with lion-thrones eighty-four thousand in number, every one vast and lofty. Two thousand dragon-maidens of surpassing, incomparable beauty and grace attended there, their mouths exhaling fragrant perfume, holding flowers and powdered and paste incense, playing every kind of music in praise of the Buddha's own virtue, delighting the whole assembly. In the sky above, banners and silks hung interspersed, jeweled bells ringing in harmony, their tones surpassing every other sound. A feast of a hundred delicacies was prepared for the whole retinue, and word was respectfully sent to the World-Honored One.

The Buddha, together with eighty-four thousand bodhisattvas, all of great spiritual accomplishment, and two thousand disciples likewise possessed of supernormal power, arrived at the dragon king's own palace. Maudgalyāyana, receiving the Buddha's own sacred command, moved to Lake Anavatapta and manifested in the sky, seven zhang above the ground, his own form transformed into that of a golden-winged garuḍa king, hovering above the dragon palace, and announced to the king: the Tathāgata has arrived. The assembled dragons, terrified, their fur standing on end, scattered and fled to hide — until the dragon king calmed them: be at ease, everyone, and do not be afraid — this is merely the worthy Maudgalyāyana's own doing. Music and dance rose together in welcome, greeting the Perfectly Awakened One and his disciples as they arrived at Lake Anavatapta, where a broad, spacious platform with a lion's throne had already been prepared. The dragons and their retinue personally served the prepared feast with their own hands, its flavor surpassing the world's own finest delicacies, offered as though bearing the very taste of heaven itself. Once the meal was finished and the vessels cleared away, the Buddha taught the Dharma, and everyone present was filled with joy (Source: Sūtra of the Vast Manifestation of Broad Illumination Samādhi, fascicle 3).

Three Observations, All True

The Buddha dwelt in Śrāvastī. A group of monks, gathered together, fell into debate over whether the Hall of Good Dharma had pillars supporting its beams or not. Maudgalyāyana said it had pillars; another monk, of no particular seniority, said it did not. A monk of supernormal power was sent to go and look, and, returning, reported that it indeed had no pillars. The other monks then told Maudgalyāyana: you did not actually know, yet claimed it had pillars — this is a false, unfounded statement, and you ought to be formally expelled for it. They assembled the sangha accordingly.

The Buddha, through his own supernormal power, arrived there from the sky, and, though already knowing the matter, asked the monks what they were doing. They answered: Maudgalyāyana claimed the hall had pillars when in fact it does not — an untrue, false statement — and we intend to hold a formal proceeding against him. The Buddha asked the monk of no seniority how he knew it had no pillars, and he answered: World-Honored One, I myself once sat in meditation in that very Hall of Good Dharma. The Buddha said to Maudgalyāyana: why did you not go and look for yourself, to be certain? Maudgalyāyana's own heart had been sincere throughout, though he had not himself verified the fact — and so he had not truly broken any precept (Source: Mahāsāṃghika Vinaya, fascicle 29).

A True Heart, a Mistaken Fact

Someone asked Maudgalyāyana where the water of a certain overflowing pond came from, and he answered: this water comes from Lake Anavatapta. The other monks objected: the water of Lake Anavatapta is sweet and possesses the eight virtues — yet this water is scalding hot, salty, and bitter — how could this possibly be so? They said: Maudgalyāyana has spoken idly, falsely claiming a power beyond ordinary human reach, and ought to be formally expelled for it, and brought the matter before the Buddha. The Buddha told the monks: do not speak of Maudgalyāyana's own fault in this — for though the dragon king Anavatapta's own dwelling lies exceedingly far from here, and its water there does indeed possess the eight virtues, sweet and pure at its source, it passes along its course through five hundred small hells before reaching here, and, having passed through them, becomes salty and hot. Had you simply asked Maudgalyāyana why the water was salty and hot, he could have explained the very same thing in return.

On another occasion, during a great drought with no rain at all, Maudgalyāyana entered samādhi and foresaw that, seven days hence, heaven would send a great rain, filling every ditch and pond. The whole city, hearing this, rejoiced greatly, and the people of the kingdom set aside their ordinary work to cover and store away their own belongings in preparation. When the seventh day came, the other monks said to Maudgalyāyana: you said heaven would send a great rain in seven days to fill every ditch and pond — yet there is not even wind today, let alone rain! You have spoken idly, falsely claiming a power beyond ordinary human reach, and ought to be formally expelled for it.

The Buddha, hearing of this, told the monks: Maudgalyāyana sees only what is immediately before him, not what lies beyond it — but the Tathāgata sees both equally. On the seventh day, a great rain did indeed fall — but the asura king Rāhu, reaching out his own hand, gathered it up and cast it into the great ocean instead. Maudgalyāyana had spoken only according to what his own mind had truly perceived — he was, for this reason, without fault (Source: Sarvāstivāda Vinaya, fascicle 4).