Ānanda and Companions

The Buddha dwelt in Rājagṛha, where no one dared to shave his own hair. Only a boy, Upāli, was willing to shave the Buddha's hair. The boy's own parents, standing before the Buddha with joined palms, said: he shaves very well, but his body leans too far forward. The parents told the boy to straighten himself slightly — but not so straight that his breathing grew too coarse. Again they said: he shaves very well, but now his body is too straight. The parents told him: not so straight. The Buddha said: he shaves very well, but his in-breath is too coarse. The parents told him: do not breathe in so coarsely, lest it disturb the Buddha. Again they said: he shaves very well, but his out-breath is too coarse. The parents told him: do not breathe out so coarsely, lest it disturb the Buddha. At this, Upāli's own in- and out-breath grew so refined that he entered the fourth dhyāna entirely.

The Buddha told Ānanda: Upāli has now entered the fourth dhyāna — take up the razor yourself. Ānanda, receiving this instruction, took an old container and gathered the World-Honored One's own hair into it. The Buddha said: it is not fitting to use an old container for this. At that time Prince Gopāla, setting out on a military campaign, asked for the Buddha's own hair and beard, and the Buddha gave them to him. The prince, not knowing where to keep them safely, was told by the Buddha: place them in a golden stūpa, a silver stūpa, a jeweled stūpa, or a stūpa of mixed treasures, wrapped in fine silk, bowl-cloth, or woolen and linen cloth. Still uncertain how to carry them, he was told: by elephant, horse, carriage, palanquin, or litter, or carried on the head or shoulder. The prince then took the World-Honored One's own hair with him, and, wherever he campaigned, was victorious. Returning to his own kingdom, the prince raised a stūpa for the Buddha's hair — this being a stūpa built during the Buddha's own lifetime. Monks thereafter also used such containers to carry relics. The Buddha said: one should not carry such a stūpa upon one's own head, nor bring it to a place of relieving oneself. Out of reverence, monks did not wish to sleep in the same room as the stūpa, and so kept it in a separate chamber. The Buddha said: it may be set upon a tall post, or placed near one's own pillow (Source: Dharmaguptaka Vinaya, fourth division, fascicle 3).

In the kingdom of Avantī there lived a wealthy elder, stingy, cruel, and without compassion. He owned a servant woman who ran his errands day and night without rest, and who, at the slightest fault, was beaten with a whip — her clothing barely covering her body, her food never enough, so that, aged and worn out, she longed for death yet could not attain it. One day, carrying a jar to the river to fetch water, she reflected on her own suffering and wept aloud. The venerable Kātyāyana, passing by, asked her what troubled her, and she answered: venerable one, I am now old, worked without rest, and, worse, so poor that my food and clothing never suffice — I long for death yet cannot find it. Kātyāyana said: if you are poor, why not sell your own poverty? The woman answered: how can poverty be sold — who would ever buy it? Kātyāyana insisted three times that poverty could indeed be sold, and she finally agreed.

Kātyāyana told her: if you truly wish to sell it, follow my instructions exactly. She agreed. He told her first to bathe herself, and, once she had done so, told her she must now make an offering. She answered: venerable one, I am so utterly poor that I own not even a single thread to call my own — only this water jar, which belongs to my own master; what could I possibly give? He told her to take up the bowl and fetch a little clean water in it. She did so and offered it to Kātyāyana, who accepted it and pronounced a blessing over it, then taught her to keep a fast, and further taught her to reflect on the Buddha's own countless virtues. He then asked whether she had any place of her own to dwell. She answered she had none — when it was time to grind grain, she slept beneath the millstone; when pounding or cooking, she slept there instead; and, when there was no work at all, she sometimes slept upon a heap of refuse. Kātyāyana told her: keep your heart devoted and reverent in your own labor, and harbor no resentment — and, watching for the moment when the whole household had gone to sleep, he quietly opened her own door, spread clean grass in the corner of the doorway for her to sit upon, and had her reflect upon the Buddha, giving rise to no unwholesome thought. The old woman took refuge and practiced exactly as instructed.

In the latter part of that same night, her life ended, and she was reborn at once in Trāyastriṃśa heaven. Her master's own household, sending someone to bind her body's feet with straw rope and drag it to the charnel grove, knew nothing of this. In that heaven dwelt a certain deva-son, together with five hundred attendant devas of his own, whose own merit was then exhausted and his life ending — and this old woman took his very place there. In the way rebirth in heaven ordinarily works, one of sharp faculties knows at once the causes of their own arising there, while one of duller faculties knows only to enjoy the pleasures found there, without understanding how they came to be. This woman, now reborn in heaven with her own five hundred heavenly attendants, delighted in these pleasures without knowing their cause.

Śāriputra, then in Trāyastriṃśa heaven, perceived the karmic cause behind this deva-son's own rebirth, and asked: deva-son, through what merit were you reborn in heaven? She answered that she did not know. Śāriputra then lent her his own divine eye, that she might see her own former body — and she saw that it was through Kātyāyana's own teaching that she had attained this rebirth in heaven. Śāriputra then led five hundred devas to the charnel grove, where they scattered flowers, burned incense, and made offerings to the very corpse there, its own radiance shining brilliantly. Her former master, seeing this, was astonished, and summoned people from near and far to come and witness it — seeing these devas making offerings to a corpse. He asked the devas: this servant woman was filthy and wretched — even in life, people despised the sight of her — why, then, do you devas now make offerings to her? The deva-son then explained the whole matter from beginning to end (Source: Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish, fascicle 7).

The Buddha dwelt in Vaiśālī. The courtesan Āmrapālī, riding in a jeweled carriage adorned with feathers, came to pay her respects to the Tathāgata, descending from her carriage to approach him. At that time Nanda, walking in meditation not far from the Buddha, was approached by Āmrapālī, who reached out and touched his own foot with her hand, saying: "Nanda, I am Āmrapālī." At this, Nanda, startled, had an involuntary emission that soiled his own hand. Āmrapālī, holding this up on her own head in reverence, went to the World-Honored One and said: "World-Honored One, may such a man still be permitted his own place in the assembly?" The Buddha told Āmrapālī: such a man should indeed remain in his own place, for Nanda shall, before long, attain the state free of outflows. Āmrapālī, saying nothing further, departed.

Not long after Āmrapālī had gone, the Buddha told Ānanda to gather every monk into the lecture hall. Once assembled, the Buddha told the monks: I have observed you all closely, and each of you should wear an undergarment to properly cover the body — this is a practice all monks should now learn. The Buddha then said to Nanda: Nanda, why did you let yourself fall into such a state? Nanda, filled with inner shame, said: it is well, World-Honored One — please teach me the Dharma quickly, that, hearing it, I might dwell in quiet solitude and truly observe things as they are, finding my own delight there instead. The Buddha told Nanda: observe this very body, in whatever it does, from the crown of the head to the soles of the feet — the hair, the nails, the teeth, every manner of impurity filling the body throughout. Observe it truly: is it pure, or impure? Consider, too, where its own outflows arise, and from what source they come.

Nanda, receiving this teaching from the Buddha, bowed at his feet and departed, observing his own body from head to foot, finding impurity everywhere within it, and understanding that all of it arises only through the coming-together of conditions — resolving: I shall now separate myself from this, and desire itself will then have nothing left to hold to. He then spoke this verse:

"Desire, I now know your very root — you arise only from thought and imagination;
if I no longer think or imagine you, then you yourself will cease to exist at all."

Nanda then dwelt alone in a quiet place, and attained arhatship (Source: Ekottarika Āgama, fascicle 39).

When the Buddha first attained the path, the radiance of his own body illuminated the whole trichiliocosm, and people, devas, nāgas, and bodhisattvas of the ten directions all came to hear him teach, rejoicing greatly and, each according to their own past conduct, attaining the path in turn. The Buddha's own younger brother, Nanda, alone did not receive this same teaching, but, defying the Buddha's own instruction, sought instead to practice the path on his own terms — for he too bore thirty of the Buddha's own thirty-two marks, and, leading a number of disciples of his own, wearing a bowl and robes of fine cloth, his own face resembling the Buddha's, was mistaken for him by monks who had not yet attained the eye of the path, who, seeing Nanda from a distance, bowed before him as though he were the Buddha himself.

The Buddha told Nanda: from this day forward, you are no longer to wear fine cloth robes, but must wear only the dark, dyed robe of an ordinary monk. And why is this? Because you have defied my own precept and accepted the reverence due a monk under false pretenses — for this you would otherwise fall into hell (Source: Sūtra of Similes and Parables, in ten fascicles, fascicle 4).

Pilindavatsa dwelt in Rājagṛha. When the hour for begging arrived, he went to beg at a herder's household, where he found the family's own daughter weeping, and asked her why. She answered: "Venerable one, today is a festival day, and everyone has gathered for the celebration — but I have no fine clothes, and cannot go with them." The venerable one then conjured, on the spot, garments of every kind, pearls, jewels, and ornaments of gold and silver, and, having given them to her, departed.

The people there, seeing this, asked how she had come by such things, and, told the whole story, word reached the king. The king summoned the herder's daughter and the monk himself, and asked the venerable one where he had obtained such fine gold, unlike anything found in this world. The monk simply took up a staff and struck the wall, then the bed, and everything he touched turned to gold on the spot, saying: "Where indeed could a mere śūdra have obtained gold — this is where it truly comes from." The king said: "Venerable one, you possess such great supernormal power — you may all return home now" (Source: Mahāsāṃghika Vinaya, fascicle 29).

The Buddha dwelt in the kingdom of Kosala, spending the rains retreat there with a great many monks. The lay householders, seeing so large an assembly, built dwellings and provided robes for them. The following year, the Buddha returned instead to Jetavana for the retreat, leaving only two elder monks behind in that former place. The householders there, reflecting that they wished to continue their own giving just as the year before, so that the monks might receive robes and their own merit continue unbroken, brought a great quantity of robes and cloth to offer to the two elders — but, realizing the goods were far too many for just the two of them, and fearing what fault they might incur by dividing it up themselves, they dared not distribute it at all.

Upananda, traveling from place to place and observing how much had been offered everywhere, happened by; the two elders, seeing him from a distance, rose from their seats to greet him and asked after his own well-being. Upananda asked whether the monks in retreat there had received any offerings, and, told yes, asked whether it had already been divided. Told it had not, he asked why, and the elders answered: the goods are too many and we are too few — we feared what fault we might incur in dividing it ourselves. Upananda said: it is well that you have not yet divided it. The two elders asked whether he himself could divide it properly, and, told he could, said: this matter requires a formal proceeding — it cannot simply be divided outright.

The two elders then brought out all the cloth and set it before Upananda, who divided it into three portions, and told them: you two sit together on one side of the piles; I shall sit between the other two myself. He then said: elders, listen with one mind to this formal declaration — the pile before you two together I now call three; the two piles before me alone I likewise call three. Is this proceeding proper? They answered that it was. Upananda then began wrapping up the cloth as though to carry it all away — at which the two elders protested: this cloth belongs to all three of us, undivided — how can you simply take it and go? Upananda answered: if I am to divide it fairly with you, then the single finest robe among it all ought first to go to whoever best understands the Dharma, and only then should the rest be divided. They agreed — and Upananda set aside the single finest jeweled robe for himself, then divided the remaining cloth into two portions for the two elders. Upananda then bundled up the greater share of goods and carried it back to Jetavana.

The monks there, walking in meditation, saw Upananda approaching from a distance and said to one another: here comes a man without shame or conscience, given to greed beyond satisfaction, courting suspicion and blame wherever he goes. As he drew near, they asked him: Upananda, where did you get all this cloth? Upananda recounted the whole affair in full. Among them was a monk of few desires and easy contentment, given to ascetic practice, who, hearing this, was displeased and rebuked him severely: how can one who calls himself a monk seize goods from two elders in this way? — and reported the matter to the Buddha, who likewise rebuked him at length, telling the monks: it is not only in this present life that Upananda has seized goods from these same two elder monks.

Long ago, in a river's bend, there dwelt two otters, who caught a carp in the river but could not divide it between themselves, and so simply guarded it there together. A jackal, coming to drink, saw this and asked: uncle, what are you doing? The otters answered: nephew, we have caught this large fish but cannot divide it — can you divide it for us? The jackal agreed, saying that such a division required proper scriptural procedure, not simply splitting it at random. The jackal then divided the fish into three parts — the head as one portion, the tail as another, and the fatty middle section as the third — then asked: which of you prefers to stay near the shore? One answered that he did. Which of you prefers to swim in the deep water? The other answered that he did. The jackal then declared: listen with one mind — the scriptures say that the one who stays near the shore receives the tail, and the one who swims in deep water receives the head, while the fatty middle portion goes to the one who understands the proper procedure. The jackal then carried off the fish's own body in its mouth. Its mate, seeing this, asked where it had gotten such a fish, and the jackal answered: I found it between two fools who did not know how to settle a dispute themselves. Monks, know that those two otters are now these same two elder monks; that jackal is now Upananda himself (Source: Sarvāstivāda Vinaya, Good Recitation, fascicle 3; the same also in the Mahāsāṃghika Vinaya).

The Buddha dwelt in Śrāvastī. The elder monk Kālodāyin, having attained arhatship, reflected that, while formerly among the group of six troublesome monks, he had brought disgrace upon many households throughout Śrāvastī, and now wished to return and set this right, converting them to purity. He entered the city and converted nine hundred ninety-nine households — for if a husband attained the path while his wife did not, or the wife attained it while the husband did not, this did not count toward his tally. In Śrāvastī there remained one brahmin household still destined to be delivered through hearing the Dharma, and Kālodāyin reflected: should I convert this household too, I shall have completed a full thousand households throughout the city.

Early one morning, he took his bowl and entered the city to beg, arriving at this brahmin household to find the master away and his wife alone inside, door shut, frying cakes. Kālodāyin entered meditative absorption and then snapped his fingers; the wife, turning to look, found the door still shut as before, and thought: how could this monk have entered at all? He must surely be here only for my cakes — I will not give him any. Should my eyes even fall out, I still will not give him any — and, through his own supernormal power, her eyes did indeed fall out. She thought further: even should my eyes come out the size of bowls, I still will not give him any — and, through his power, they became the size of bowls. She thought: even should he stand upside-down before me, I still will not give him any — and, through his power, he appeared upside-down before her. She thought: even should he die, I still will not give him any — and Kālodāyin, through his own power, entered the attainment of cessation of perception and feeling, his mind entirely still, aware of nothing.

The brahmin's wife, tugging at him, found he would not budge at all, and, greatly alarmed, reflected that this monk was known to frequent King Prasenajit's own palace, teacher to Queen Mallikā herself — should he be found dead in my own house, we would surely suffer for it; if he revives, I shall give him a single cake. Kālodāyin then rose from his own attainment. The wife looked at her cakes — the first, well-fried one she still begrudged giving him, and instead scraped the pan's edge to fry a smaller one, which, once cooked, turned out even better than the first, and she gave him that one instead — but the moment she lifted a single cake, all the others stuck to it as well. Kālodāyin said: sister, give me as much as your own heart wishes. She lifted up four cakes, intending to give him these — but Kālodāyin declined, saying: I have no need of these cakes; if you truly wish to give, you might instead offer them to the sangha at Jetavana.

This woman, having already planted good roots in a past life, reflected to herself: this monk truly does not covet my cakes at all — he came only out of compassion for me, to beg. She then took up the whole basket of cakes and went to Jetavana, offering them to the assembled sangha there. Once the offering was made, she sat before Kālodāyin, who, perceiving the karmic causes at work in her, taught her the wondrous Dharma, and, seated there, every defilement dissolved and she attained the pure Dharma-eye, taking refuge in the Three Jewels as a lay follower — and only then returned home.

When her husband later returned, she told him everything, saying: I have now attained the fruit of stream-entry — you should go to him yourself. The brahmin went at once to Kālodāyin, who taught him the wondrous Dharma as well, and he too attained the pure Dharma-eye and became a lay follower, thereafter exhausting his own wealth in support of his teacher — and, even after his own death, instructed his son to continue this same support exactly as before. The son obeyed his father's own wish faithfully.

Later, the son's own wife, weaving at her loom, happened to see a young and handsome bandit chief passing by, and called out to him, inviting him to join her in pleasure. At that time Kālodāyin, coming to this same household to eat, spoke to the brahmin's wife — for it was in fact the brahmin's own son's wife — warning her against the fault of lust and the sin of breaking the precepts. The woman, alarmed that he might have somehow learned of her own secret and would tell her husband, devised a scheme, feigning illness and inviting him in on that pretext. Kālodāyin stayed and taught her the Dharma at length, lingering in earnest conversation until the sun had already set. As Kālodāyin then rose and went toward the refuse heap outside, the bandit chief, waiting there, struck off his own head with a sharp knife and buried it in the very heap of refuse.

On the day of the precept recitation, when the tally sticks were counted, one monk was found missing, and, upon inquiry, the Buddha revealed: Kālodāyin has already entered nirvāṇa. As the night passed into dawn, the Buddha, together with the assembled sangha, entered Śrāvastī and went to the very refuse heap — and, through the Buddha's own spiritual power, the corpse rose up into the air of itself. The monks took it up and laid it upon a bier, carried it out of the city, cremated it, and raised a stūpa in his honor.

King Prasenajit, hearing that Kālodāyin had died at a certain brahmin household, at once wiped out that family across seven generations, seizing the property of ten neighboring households as well, and captured five hundred bandits, cutting off the hands and feet of every one and casting them into the moat surrounding Jetavana. The monks, hearing of all this while out begging, reported the whole matter to the Buddha, who said: this entire calamity arose only because he entered a village household at an improper hour (Source: Sarvāstivāda Vinaya, third recitation, fascicle 4).

The Buddha, wandering in Vārāṇasī, sat beneath a tree and smiled with delight, five-colored light streaming from him. Ānanda knelt and asked why. The Buddha said: long ago, in the time of the buddha Kāśyapa, there stood a monastery on this very spot, home to twenty thousand śramaṇas, where the buddha Kāśyapa constantly taught the true Dharma. Ānanda at once set out a rope-seat and knelt, urging: please, take this honored seat — this very ground's own merit has now brought two buddhas to it. Once the Buddha had taken his seat, he raised his hand and pointed, saying: over there lies a great district named Verañjā.

In that district there once lived a potter named Huānyù, "Delight," devoted and loving toward his own parents, who frequently visited the buddha Kāśyapa to receive his pure teaching. Though a potter by trade, he never once dug into the earth itself, for fear of harming the small creatures within it, taking instead only the loose soil from collapsed riverbanks and rat-burrowed ground to fashion his vessels, which he traded for grain — accepting whatever amount was offered without ever haggling over price — in order to support his own aged parents, who, weakened by age, had by then lost their sight entirely. Huānyù's own filial devotion and humaneness were unmatched by any of his peers.

One morning, the buddha Kāśyapa, gathering his robes and taking up his bowl, entered the city and came to Huānyù's own household, asking his parents: where is your filial son? They answered: the Buddha's own disciple has gone out briefly — but there is good rice and bean soup in the house. The Buddha took up the bowl, sat, ate his fill, and departed. When the son returned and saw the food diminished, he asked who had taken it, and his parents answered: the heaven of heavens himself came to visit you, and helped himself to the soup and rice before leaving. Filled with mingled grief and joy, Huānyù exclaimed: the Buddha, the Tathāgata, free of all attachment, truly and perfectly awakened, the guide of the path, teacher of devas and humans — the very kings and emperors among the devas themselves reverently prepare offerings for him, ever fearful of failing to satisfy the World-Honored One — yet I, dwelling in such lowly circumstances, with food so meager, have only been visited because he took pity on my own low station, and helped himself without waiting. Overcome with grief and joy, he bowed to the ground, reflecting on the Buddha's own vast and universal kindness reaching even him — and, in his own joy, forgot his hunger for fifteen days straight; his parents, sharing in that same joy, likewise forgot their hunger for seven days.

Over a month later, the Buddha came again to his household; the son was again away, and the Buddha again took the offered soup and rice before departing. When the son returned, his parents told him the same thing had happened again — and Huānyù and his parents once more rejoiced, forgetting their hunger for the same number of days as before.

At that time, heavy rains fell without pause day or night, and the monastery itself grew damaged and began to leak. The Buddha told the assembled śramaṇas: Huānyù has just built himself a new house — go and take tiles from its roof to repair the monastery. The monks went; the son was again not at home, and his father asked who was removing tiles from their own roof. The monks answered: the Buddha's own monastery is leaking, and we have been sent to take tiles from your roof to repair it. The father said: excellent — that my own son's virtue should reach even this far! and, rejoicing, declared: please take as many as you need — my own blessing is boundless. The monks had only just left when the son returned and asked who had been removing the roof tiles. His father told him the Buddha's own monastery had been leaking, and monks had come to take tiles to repair it. Huānyù, wherever he stood, bowed toward the Buddha, reflecting: the Buddha's own wisdom is boundless — kings and lords build him palaces of the seven treasures and offer them freely, yet he does not dwell in them, and instead takes these coarse tiles of mine, wishing only to bless me thereby. Overjoyed, he again forgot his hunger as before.

The Buddha, together with five hundred śramaṇas, then traveled onward into a certain kingdom, whose king, named Zhīwéi, came out to greet him personally. The king descended from his own carriage, set aside the five marks of royal ceremony, bowed, inquired after the Buddha's own well-being, and, once seated, listened to his teaching to its end, then said: heaven of heavens, I beg you and your monks to condescend to accept a humble meal from me. The Buddha silently consented. Once the meal was fully prepared, the king sent envoys to receive him, personally washing his own hands to serve the food, and, once the offering was complete, sat before the Buddha.

The Buddha told the king: you, O king, have long served the Three Jewels in past lives, and now receive the fruit of that same past merit — reborn from a woman's body into a man's, attaining the world's own highest rank. The very law of true kingship requires that a sage-king govern his own mind by the teaching of the sages, treating others as he treats himself and nurturing his own people — for wicked words are the very fire that burns down a kingdom; O king, be ever mindful of this. The king bowed and received this teaching, and further begged the Buddha to remain three more months, exhausting his own kingdom's treasures to provide jeweled beds, curtains, bedding, and medicine throughout — yet the Buddha did not consent.

The king, reflecting to himself, wondered who could possibly offer greater support than he himself now did — and the Buddha, perceiving this prideful thought, told him: there is one whose own giving surpasses yours, and whose merit is boundless. The king asked to hear this person's name, and the Buddha answered: in the district of Verañjā there lives a most filial son named Huānyù, who serves the Three Jewels and upholds my own clear teaching, treating others as himself and nurturing all beings equally, pure and true, never once handling even a single treasure or sharp blade of his own, selling only his own crafted vessels to support his parents, never haggling over price, ever patient and compassionate, his heart fixed always on the true path, his own joy found only in the sacred teachings — he has not even taken a wife, fearing this might make him proud before his own parents and thereby unfilial. Whenever he comes to hear me teach, he listens with his whole heart, and, describing his own parents' blindness with such grief that he weeps openly before me, unable even to properly see the Buddha himself. I took his own food, and removed tiles from his own roof, and he bore no resentment at all, but rejoiced so greatly that he forgot his hunger for fifteen days at a stretch. His utmost humaneness and filial devotion could not possibly be fully described — I myself must continue traveling and teaching throughout the world, and so cannot accept your own invitation to remain.

The king, displeased at first, was told by the Buddha: weighed against such virtue, his own pure and faithful filial conduct is simply without equal — nothing in his conduct or reflection has ever failed to be filial, his humane devotion to his own parents a standard beyond what you yourself could match. The king said: very well — Huānyù's own extreme filial piety, so praised by the Buddha himself, truly deserves such renown; I shall now send him support to help provide for his parents.

Once the buddha Kāśyapa had finished his own teaching there and continued on his travels, the king sent messengers with five hundred cartloads of rice, sesame oil, ghee, honey, and various treasures, delivered with the utmost humility and respect. The messenger said, on arrival: heaven of heavens, our great king, deeply moved by the worthy one's own filial piety and universal compassion, has sent me in reverence — please accept this tribute, to support your own parents and to make offerings to the Buddha as well. Huānyù answered: the great king's own kindness assists me greatly — please return to the palace and convey my own gratitude fully.

In the same district there lived a brahmacārin's son named Huājié, "Flower-Knot," who, since childhood, had been Huānyù's own closest friend, their bond deepened across many kalpas of shared cultivation, growing only stronger with time. Bathing together one day in a deep river, they saw a great tree in the distance, and Huānyù pointed and said: the Tathāgata Kāśyapa, a true sage, dwells there — we ought to pay our respects to him first; the Buddha's own path is not to be forgotten, and I myself dare hope for it. Huājié, moved, said: a buddha is rarely encountered in this world, rare as the udumbara flower, blooming perhaps once in many kalpas — how could we let such a chance pass? — and, taking hold of his friend's own robe, pulled him along to the Buddha together.

Huānyù bowed at once, but Huājié did not bow, merely exchanging a polite greeting before sitting. Huānyù said to the Buddha: this is Huājié, my own closest friend since childhood, still confused and unawakened — I beg you to dispel his own delusion. The Tathāgata Kāśyapa, responding to his own particular affliction, taught the Dharma accordingly, and Huājié's own heart opened at once, taking faithful refuge in the Three Jewels. The two of them, rejoicing, bowed together and withdrew.

On the road home, Huājié said: how fortunate the world is to have a buddha at all — yet our own household remains a filthy den regardless; why do you not become a monk yourself? Huānyù answered: my own parents are advanced in years, and, both now blind, depend on me alone for their very survival — I cannot leave the household for this reason. Huājié then declared: then I myself shall become a monk instead. Huānyù, learning of this, reported it fully to the Buddha, who at once conferred the precepts upon him. A hundred million years later, Huājié was reborn in the fourth heaven, Tuṣita, and, descending from that very heaven, in time attained buddhahood himself.

The Buddha told the monks: that Huājié of the story was myself; that Huānyù is now Ānanda. Ānanda has ever been my own good friend, pulling me by force to the Buddha to hear the Dharma, and thereby causing me to attain buddhahood myself — for the parable of a worthy friend is truly the very foundation of boundless blessing, sparing one, in this present life, from a king's own prison, and, at death, sealing shut the very gates of the three lower realms — ascension to heaven and attainment of the path alike are owed entirely to the help of such a friend (Source: Sūtra of Huānyù).

The Buddha told Mañjuśrī: it has now been over thirty years since I attained buddhahood — who among this assembly can now uphold the twelve divisions of scripture on my behalf, and attend to my own needs, without letting either duty slip, to their own great benefit? Five hundred arhats all declared: I am able. The Buddha said this would not do. Maudgalyāyana, perceiving that the Tathāgata's own heart was set on Ānanda, repeatedly urged Ānanda to accept — and Ānanda said: I am weak and unworthy of such service; but should the Buddha grant me three requests, I shall accept the sangha's own charge. First, should the Tathāgata ever wish to give me his own old robes, let me be permitted to decline them; second, should I ever be invited separately by some individual donor, let me be permitted to decline such invitations; third, let me be permitted to come and go without any fixed schedule. Mañjuśrī said: excellent — he has thought ahead to avoid any occasion for suspicion.

Ānanda served me for over twenty years, accomplishing eight inconceivable things: first, he never accepted a separate invitation to a meal; second, he never accepted an old, worn robe; third, he never came at an improper time; fourth, though still possessed of the beginnings of affliction himself, he followed me in and out of every royal and noble household without ever giving rise to desire at the sight of any woman there; fifth, hearing any of the twelve divisions of scripture just once, he never needed to ask again, retaining it as perfectly as water poured from one vessel into another; sixth, he knew the minds of others through wisdom as the Buddha himself does in samādhi; seventh, though not yet possessed of the wisdom of foreknowledge, he could nonetheless discern clearly whether someone present had already attained one of the four fruits or would attain a further one later; eighth, he could fully understand even the most secret, hidden words. It is for this reason that I have always praised him as foremost in learning.

Ānanda possesses eight qualities that make him capable of upholding the twelve divisions of scripture: first, firm roots of faith; second, a courageous, advancing mind; third, a body free of sickness; fourth, constant, diligent effort; fifth, a mind fully endowed with mindfulness; sixth, a mind free of arrogance; seventh, accomplished concentration; eighth, wisdom born from what he has heard (Source: Sūtra of the Bodhisattva's Descent from Tuṣita Heaven. The Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish says: Ānanda was once, in a past life, a wealthy elder, and Śākyamuni his own novice-teacher's pupil, reciting scripture without pause purely to earn his own alms; the elder, taking pity on him, provided him clothing and food — and it is for this reason that Ānanda now attends and serves him).

The Buddha dwelt at Jetavana. Ānanda, in another place, dreamed of seven things, and woke with a start, his own hair standing on end. Last night, he said, I dreamed of seven things: first, that every river, stream, and sea was ablaze with fire; second, that the sun was about to set, Jambudvīpa growing dark, and I saw my own self bearing Mount Sumeru upon my own head; third, that a monk lay writhing in a cesspit, while another man climbed upon his own head to escape onto clean ground; fourth, that a monk, his monastic robe incomplete, wearing only a knotted patch of it, held a torch in hand and delighted in wandering into crooked paths, tearing his own clothes on thorns as he went; fifth, that a great, flourishing sandalwood tree was defiled by pigs emerging from filth to rub themselves against it; sixth, that three classes of elephant calves butted, bit, and jostled a great elephant, trampling fine grass and muddying clear water, so that the great elephant, troubled, fled to a place of clean water and good grass instead — where the calves, playing there without any awareness of what they had done, remained where they were until the grass and water ran out, and, starved and desperate, gnawed on trees until they all died of hunger; and seventh, that a dead lion-king, named Kesin, its head grown white fur like a decorative garland, lay untouched by any bird or beast, none daring to approach it — until worms emerged from within its own body and devoured its flesh.

Because of these dreams, Ānanda went to the Buddha that very morning. The Buddha explained: to dream of the waters ablaze with fire means that future monks will violate the Buddha's own teaching — not through breaking the precepts to gain offerings, but through their own resulting disputes and strife. To dream of the sun about to set, and of bearing Mount Sumeru on one's own head, means that the World-Honored One himself has but ninety days left before entering final nirvāṇa, after which the assembled monks, devas, nāgas, and people will all come to receive the scriptural teaching from Ānanda's own hands.

To dream of a monk wearing his robe improperly, only a knotted patch of it, writhing in a cesspit, with another man climbing upon his own head to reach clean ground, means that, after the Buddha's own nirvāṇa, as the Dharma nears its end, there will be a great assembly of monks expounding the sūtras, at which time the Buddha's own profound teaching will go unpracticed, monks growing close to laypeople and chasing after wealth and desire; householders will admonish them, yet they will not heed such counsel — the monks themselves incurring misfortune while the householders instead gain merit.

To dream of a monk with a knotted patch of robe, torch in hand, delighting in crooked paths, tearing his clothes on thorns, means that, after the Buddha's own nirvāṇa, there will be monks without proper monastic robes at all, dressed instead as laypeople, wearing only a single knotted patch tied under the arm, abandoning the precepts to delight in worldly life, raising wives and children — rejoicing when given alms, and grieving when refused.

To dream of the flourishing sandalwood tree defiled by pigs rubbing against it means that, after the Buddha's own nirvāṇa, there will be monks who no longer uphold the Dharma, given instead to drunken confusion, eating without restraint — and when wise, well-intentioned people try gently to counsel them, they will respond only with slander, even reviling arhats.

To dream of the three classes of elephant calves butting the great elephant, trampling fine grass and muddying clear water, driving it away, only for the calves themselves to starve once the water and grass ran dry where they remained, means that, after the Buddha's own nirvāṇa, there will be senior monks well-versed in the scriptures who instruct the young in what brings misfortune and what brings merit — yet those who refuse to heed such teaching will, at death, fall into hell.

To dream of the dead lion-king Kesin, its head crowned with white fur like a garland, untouched by any bird or beast, its own body devoured only by worms born within it, means: while the Buddha dwells in this world, he expounds the Dharma widely, and after his own nirvāṇa, no outside heterodox teaching will ever be capable of destroying it — only his own disciples, from within, will bring about its ruin. These dreams of yours, then, are simply a foreshadowing of things yet to come (Source: Sūtra of the Seven Dreams and the Ten Virtues).

Ānanda, traveling along a road, grew parched with thirst midway. A caṇḍāla girl named Prakṛti was drawing water there, and Ānanda approached to beg some. The girl told him: I am of the Mātaṅga caste. Ānanda answered: I am not asking about that — only give me water. She said: you are of a pure and accomplished lineage, the Śramaṇa Gautama's own foremost disciple, honored by King Prasenajit, teacher to Queen Mallikā — I am of the lowest caste, and dare not offer you water with my own hands. Ānanda repeated: I am not asking about that — only give me the water. She consented, and, scooping water, first poured it over Ānanda's own feet, then over his hands — and, in doing so, desire arose within her. Ānanda, having drunk, departed.

Prakṛti returned and told her mother: Mother, I wish to have the monk Ānanda as my own husband. Her mother answered: he is the son of a wheel-turning king's own lineage, a kṣatriya of the Śākya clan, honored by sages, revered by devas and humans alike — how could our own humble family ever produce him as a husband? The girl said: if I cannot have him, I shall drink poison, stab myself with a knife, or hang myself instead. Her mother said: the Mātaṅga spirits know powerful mantras, capable of pulling down the sun and moon themselves, or summoning even Indra and Brahmā to descend — how much less difficult, then, to obtain a mere śramaṇa? Whether Ānanda is already dead, or alive but incapable of desire, or under the Buddha's own protection, then indeed I cannot obtain him — but otherwise, he can surely be had. The girl then rose, bathed, and adorned her own body, dressing in white and preparing a bed, watching from a distance.

Her mother smeared the ground with cow dung, tied five-colored thread into knots, filled four jars and four bowls with water and gruel, planted four great knives upright in the dung with an arrow at each of the four corners, lit eight bright lamps, took four skulls of the dead, anointed them with various fragrances, scattered flowers upon the ground, and, holding a heated iron, burning incense, circled the arrangement three times, then knelt facing east and recited the Mātaṅga incantation.

At that moment, Ānanda, in the Jetavana grove, felt his own mind grow dazed and confused, bound by the spell as a fish or elephant is caught by a hook, and, drawn by its power, arrived at the caṇḍāla household. The mother told her daughter: Ānanda has arrived. The girl came forward and embraced him, sat him upon the bed, pulled at his own robes, and pressed against him — as a strong man might grip a small lamb by its own long fur in his hand. Ānanda saw the ten directions plunged into darkness, as though the sun and moon themselves had been swallowed by Rāhu. Though possessing the strength of ten great men himself, he found he could not move at all.

Ānanda, through the power of the noble truths of the path, brought his own mind back to clarity, reflecting: I am now in such distress — will the World-Honored One's own great compassion not take pity on me? The Buddha, knowing this at once, recited these verses on his behalf:

"The Buddha is the most exalted in all the world — truly, none can surpass what stands before the Buddha;
the Buddha is the most exalted among devas and humans — truly, the king of all dharmas, the field beyond compare.
The Dharma is the most exalted in all the world — truly, none can surpass what stands before the Dharma;
the Dharma is the most exalted among devas and humans — truly, that which forever severs every bond and brings all to rest.
The Sangha is the most exalted in all the world — truly, none can surpass wherever the Sangha stands;
the Sangha is the most exalted among devas and humans — truly, the field of merit finest and beyond compare."

Through the true power of these very words, Ānanda found release even within the caṇḍāla household. The moment the verse was complete, every implement of the spell within that house — knives, arrows, jars, bowls — shattered and broke; the lamps went out, the skulls burst apart, and a black wind arose, so that no one there could see another, and the Mātaṅga incantation lost all its power. The mother told her daughter: this must surely be the spiritual power of the Śramaṇa Gautama himself — everything has shattered and scattered, and the spell no longer works. Ānanda reflected: this is truly the power of the World-Honored One's own grace — and, released, was like a great elephant king in the prime of life at sixty years, wild and fierce, its body vast, its tusks long, breaking free of its own iron tether and fleeing the city for open, empty land. Just so did Ānanda, through the Buddha's own recited words, win his release from the caṇḍāla household and return toward Jetavana.

The girl, however, pursued Ānanda all the way to the very gate of Jetavana, calling out repeatedly: Ānanda is my husband! Ānanda is my husband! — following close behind him without pause. Ānanda reported the whole matter fully to the Buddha, who said: among all dharmas, I have seen nothing so bewitching as this — a woman bound entirely by her own lustful mind. The next morning, as Ānanda, robed and bowl in hand, entered Śrāvastī to beg, the woman again followed behind him, telling every elder she passed: Ānanda is my husband! Ānanda is my husband! Ānanda returned once more to the Buddha and reported this, and the Buddha told him: go and speak with her yourself, as an elder brother speaks to a younger sister — and why? Because this woman is destined to become a nun herself. The woman then said to the Buddha: I beg only that the World-Honored One return my own husband to me. The Buddha answered: if you truly wish to have Ānanda, become a nun within my own teaching, and he shall be given to you. The woman, overjoyed, agreed at once.

Her parents, likewise rejoicing — for they too had planted good roots in past lives, destined now to attain the path — went together with their daughter to the Buddha, who taught the Dharma extensively to them all, through countless skillful means revealing the meaning of every teaching: the meaning of gentleness, the meaning of giving, the meaning of moral discipline, the meaning of desire's impurity, the meaning of how craving only deepens the root of further bondage, the meaning of renunciation, and the various branches of the path — and further taught the four noble truths. The woman, seated there, understood the four noble truths on the spot; her parents attained the fruit of non-returning, and she herself attained the fruit of stream-entry — as easily as plain white cloth takes up dye. Her parents then took refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha, and were granted lay-follower status before the Buddha.

Ānanda, repenting his own foolish fault, asked to become a nun's own preceptor's charge himself — no, rather, asked to be permitted to guide her, that she might practice pure conduct under the World-Honored One's own guidance. The Buddha told Ānanda to take the two senior nuns, together with this woman, to Mahāprajāpatī Gautamī, that she might, on this woman's behalf, confer the going-forth and full precepts. Mahāprajāpatī Gautamī asked Ānanda: is it truly so, Ānanda, that the World-Honored One permits a caṇḍāla woman to go forth? Ānanda answered Gautamī that it was indeed so — and she was accordingly given the tonsure and the precepts, and, in time, attained arhatship (Source: Sūtra of the Precepts' Causes and Conditions, fascicle 3; also found in the Sūtra of the Mātaṅga Woman).

The Buddha dwelt in Śrāvastī, suffering at that time from an internal wind ailment. He called Ānanda and sent him to a brahmin's household to beg cow's milk. Ānanda went as instructed, and the brahmin told him: the cow is over there — go and milk it yourself. Ānanda went to where the cow stood, but the cow, given to butting and kicking anyone who came near, could not be approached — and Ānanda reflected: it is not fitting, by the rule of the teacher I serve, for me to milk the cow myself.

At this, Śakra, lord of Trāyastriṃśa heaven, descended and transformed into a brahmin, standing beside the cow. Ānanda asked this brahmin to milk it for him, and he agreed, reaching out his right hand to stroke the cow's own udder, saying: the Buddha suffers slightly from a wind ailment — give me your milk, that the Buddha may drink it and be healed; the merit you gain from this will be beyond measure. The cow answered: what good does merely stroking my udder do — take my milk properly instead, from both sides, and set some aside also for my own calf, who has had nothing to eat since morning.

The calf, standing beside its mother and hearing the Buddha's own name spoken, said: give my own share entirely to the Buddha as well. The Buddha is the great teacher of all beings in heaven and on earth, exceedingly rare to encounter — as for myself, I merely eat grass and drink water; when I was once a human being, I fell into bad company and did not believe in the Buddha's own teaching, and, as a result, have been reborn as cattle and horses for sixteen kalpas — only now, at last, do I hear the Buddha's own name. Take, then, all the milk that would otherwise be mine, and give it entirely to the Buddha — that in a future life, I too might gain wisdom and attain the buddha's own path.

Ānanda carried the milk back. The Buddha asked what the cow and her calf had said, and Ānanda recounted it exactly. The Buddha said: this cow, in the time of the future buddha Maitreya, shall become a monk and attain arhatship. As for the calf, once it dies and is reborn as a human, it shall hang silk banners, scatter flowers, and burn incense in my own honor, uphold the scriptures and precepts for twenty kalpas, and thereafter attain arhatship, delivering countless beings throughout the world (Source: Sūtra of the Calf).

Śrāvastī suffered a year of famine, and the monks each wished to disperse to other lands to observe the yearly retreat elsewhere. Ānanda said: should the monks all go to other kingdoms to hold their retreat, countless people here would lose the very root of virtue they might otherwise have gained — better that the Tathāgata remain here in Śrāvastī, where much good may yet come of it. King Prasenajit, hearing of this, invited the Buddha and the sangha to accept his own support for the full three months.

The Buddha said: long ago, the king of Vārāṇasī, named Brahmadatta, possessed of great and majestic virtue, his renown spreading far and wide, ruled during a time of famine, when beggars grew numerous. The king, delighting in giving, drew crowds from every direction, like gathering clouds — but heaven withheld its rain for so long that grain grew ever more costly and the people suffered hunger, while beggars only multiplied further, until the royal granaries themselves stood empty. His ministers begged him to stop the giving, but the king answered: to do so would betray my own original resolve — how could I bear to turn against it? The magistrates then proclaimed throughout the land that any further beggar would be executed in the marketplace.

The beggars, distressed, brought their case before the king, who asked his ministers about it, and was told that one beggar in particular had come from very far away. A brahmin was then admitted before the king, who asked who had sent him. The brahmin answered: my own hunger sent me. The king, moved to pity, answered in verse, giving him a thousand red calves along with their own young. That brahmin was Ānanda himself (Source: Jātaka Sūtra, fascicle 3; largely the same, with minor variations, in the Sūtra of the Belly's Own Errand).

Ānanda, together with two other monks, arrived in King Aśoka's own kingdom, at a monastery on a mountainside. A monk there, called Mountain-Facing, sat among the pines, where fragrant flowers came of themselves and bells rang out as though speaking. Not knowing the cause, Mountain-Facing bowed toward the four directions, then returned to the refectory hall to recite scripture. Ānanda and his two companions then transformed themselves into beggar children, and, bringing along three hundred more such beggar children, went to beg for food. Once Mountain-Facing had finished preparing the meal, they asked also for clothing, which he lent them — but the three hundred beggar children then refused to leave at all, and he provided for them morning and evening from then on. In time, all three hundred fell ill, and Mountain-Facing tended them morning and night, burning incense, praying for their recovery, and preparing medicine — yet all three hundred died regardless, and he himself begged for shrouds and coffins and bathed and buried each one. King Aśoka, hearing of this, sent people to help with the burials.

Some days later, Ānanda and his two companions transformed themselves instead into three scholars, dressed in clean, fine robes, and came again to the pine grove. Mountain-Facing descended from the lecture hall to welcome them, set out seats, and had them sit. The three scholars asked Mountain-Facing: in serving the Buddha, what is it you seek? Mountain-Facing answered: the Buddha's own path is the very path of the spirit — throughout heaven and earth, only the Buddha's path is truly divine. In serving the Buddha, I seek only that the Buddha's own path might deliver both humans and non-humans alike — I seek nothing else for myself. The three scholars said: the Buddha's own path is not truly divine at all — it is merely empty and void; few indeed are those who actually accomplish anything through it. How foolish you are, to pursue such a thing in service to the Buddha. Mountain-Facing answered: what you gentlemen say is not the true Dharma — the Buddha's own path is the most divine of all things, not something ordinary people can perceive; its transformations, boundless and constant, lie beyond what ordinary understanding can grasp. Common people, foolish and ignorant, simply do not understand it themselves — to speak so carelessly as you have only adds to your own fault.

The three scholars, angered, said: since you serve the Buddha without contradicting others' own wishes, are you willing to serve as our own servant instead? Mountain-Facing said: very well. They told him: you are unfit to be a good servant — we shall instead have you carry dung; you must gather a full hundred piculs of dung, or else we shall cut off your head. Mountain-Facing went at once to carry dung, but could not gather nearly so much, and, returning, apologized to the scholars that his own strength was simply insufficient, begging forgiveness for failing to meet their demand. The three scholars, furious, seized and bound him, and whipped him three hundred times — then suddenly vanished.

Ānanda then transformed himself into a lay Buddhist, and, approaching Mountain-Facing, said: what these three scholars did was utterly without principle — should you not report this to the king, that he might punish them? Mountain-Facing answered: this is simply my own fault, the natural consequence of it — one who truly serves the Buddha holds nothing back for himself, giving up his own head when a head is asked for, his own body when a body is asked for; carrying dung and being whipped for it is no true hardship at all by comparison.

Ānanda and his two companions then transformed themselves once more, this time into King Aśoka himself, and came again to tell Mountain-Facing: to serve the Buddha truly brings no benefit at all — it is only wasted toil. A person's own life in this world is fleeting, and death comes regardless — why toil so hard alone in upholding this scripture? I wish now to propose something to you: follow my own counsel, and all will be well; refuse me, and you, monk, shall surely die. Mountain-Facing asked: what matter does the great king wish to propose? The king said: I have a beloved daughter, of talent surpassing others, of fine and beautiful countenance, hands as delicate as a honeybee's — and, coveting your own gentle and kind nature, I wish to give her to you in marriage; this is why I have come to tell you my own intent — surely you, monk, will consent. Mountain-Facing answered: I understand the great king's own generous intent, yet, having devoted myself to the Buddha's own teaching for so many years now, my own merit still unaccomplished, to instead covet the king's own daughter would be a shameful betrayal of the Buddha's own path, no small transgression — should the king wish to kill me for refusing, I shall accept it as my own due.

The king then had his men take Mountain-Facing to the marketplace to be executed. Mountain-Facing bowed toward the Buddha and set out, turning to thank the king as he went — and, at that very moment, recognized that this king was in fact Ānanda himself. Mountain-Facing at once bowed before him, his head touching the ground. Ānanda raised him up and had him sit again, and each recognized the other fully. Ānanda told Mountain-Facing: your own merit is now accomplished — you shall surely attain the path. I tested you deliberately, only to observe your own resolve. Mountain-Facing, prostrate, said: in my own ignorance, I have received the Buddha's own grace, and, dwelling within the Dharma, have accomplished nothing worthy of it — yet you, a troubled spirit, still came to look after me with such concern. Ānanda then transmitted the path to Mountain-Facing, and the two of them ascended together to the upper story of the hall, reciting scripture and discussing its meaning, delighting together in music. King Aśoka himself then came and bowed, kneeling with joined palms.

Ānanda asked the king: how many fascicles does the Buddha's own scripture comprise? The king answered: the Buddha's own scriptures are so vast they cannot be reckoned — at present there exist the twelve divisions, comprising eighty-four thousand fascicles in all. Ānanda asked the king how many fascicles he himself had already mastered. The king answered: I have already recited the Sūtra of Samādhi, twelve thousand fascicles, and the Prajñāpāramitā Sūtra, likewise twelve thousand fascicles. Ānanda asked the king, since he had already mastered so many scriptures, whether he knew how far heaven lies from earth. The king answered: the Great Chapter Samādhi Sūtra says that heaven and earth are separated by eight hundred ten thousand li. Ānanda asked how many regions the earth itself comprises. The king answered: the Prajñāpāramitā Sūtra says the earth has eighty-one cities, each inhabited by its own people — in the northern cities, people stand ten zhang tall; in the central cities, eight chi tall; in the southern cities, only three chi tall.

Ānanda asked the king whether he himself knew what he had originally been. The king answered: I do not know what is distant, only what is near — I know I have once entered hell, once ascended to heaven, once endured great hardship, once served as a slave, once been born among the six kinds of animals, once entered fire itself, and once been a virtuous person — and, from having once been virtuous, I came to be reborn as a king. Having witnessed such hardship myself, I no longer dare do evil.

Ānanda said: you, O king, were once, in a former life, a monk under the buddha Dīpaṃkara, named Pradyota; this Mountain-Facing monk here was, in that same life, the monk Subhadra. Since that buddha's own departure, we ourselves have wandered on, alone and impoverished, unable to hold firmly to the Dharma, and so incurred fault, across so many intervening years that we no longer recognized one another. I myself, together with Mountain-Facing, were once born together into a poor family, I as the elder brother, he as the younger — always caring for one another, coming and going together, yet never once, at that time, recognizing our own true natures. I was later to become a king; when Mountain-Facing was reborn as my own brother in that life, I did not recognize him either. Throughout the world, beings turn over and over, entrusted to one another's rebirth again and again, beyond all counting — but now, at last, each of us knows we are freed from birth and death. Ānanda then conferred upon King Aśoka the arhat's own path (Source: Sūtra of Ānanda's Manifested Transformations).