The Patriarchal Line

The arhat Madhyāntika, entrusted by Ānanda with the Dharma-treasury, was sent to the kingdom of Kaśmīra, where he first had to subdue its own resident dragon. He entered samādhi, causing the whole land to shake six ways, so that the dragon, unsettled, came before him. Madhyāntika entered the samādhi of loving-kindness; the dragon king raised a fierce wind against him, yet not even the corner of his own robe stirred. The dragon then unleashed thunder, lightning, and weapons of every kind, and lifted a great mountain to crush him — but Madhyāntika, through his own supernormal power, transformed it all into heavenly flowers. A voice then spoke from the sky in verse:

"As the snow mountain melts entirely away before the fierce sun, leaving nothing behind,
so, entering the samādhi of loving-kindness, even a mountain's own fire becomes a heavenly flower" (Source: Sūtra of King Aśoka, fascicle 7).

Having received Ānanda's own entrustment of the Dharma-treasury, Śāṇakavāsin traveled toward the kingdom of Mathurā. Along the way stood a monastery named Pindavana ("Forest Grove"). Śāṇakavāsin lodged there one night; two elderly monks in the monastery, discussing the Dharma, recited this verse:

"Foremost is to transgress no precept at all; foremost is to discern the Dharma through careful study."

These monks took Śāṇakavāsin for an ordinary visitor, but he told them: what you have just recited is not what I myself would say, elders. Long ago, in Vārāṇasī, a caravan-leader, setting out with five hundred merchants for the sea, came upon a pratyekabuddha who had fallen ill; the caravan-leader personally nursed him, and, as he slowly recovered, took his own soft, freshly washed robe and offered it to him. The pratyekabuddha, receiving the robe, displayed eighteen transformations and entered nirvāṇa on the spot. That caravan-leader was myself — and it is for this very reason that I have now encountered my own most excellent teacher, and thereby attained the path.

Śāṇakavāsin then traveled on to Mount Urumuṇḍa near Mathurā, where two brother dragon kings dwelt with five hundred lesser dragons of their own. Śāṇakavāsin reflected: unless I subdue them, I cannot teach here — and, through his own supernormal power, shook the mountain. The two dragon kings, enraged, raised a violent storm and breathed forth fire. Śāṇakavāsin entered the samādhi of loving-kindness, and neither storm nor fire could come near his own body, transforming instead into flowers — blue lotuses among them — which fell to the ground. The dragons then raised thunder and lightning and every kind of weapon, which Śāṇakavāsin, through his own power, likewise transformed into heavenly flowers. A voice then spoke from the sky in verse:

"Violent storms and fierce rain cannot bring harm; thunder, lightning, and every weapon
transform instead into heavenly flowers — just as the snow mountain, beneath the sun's own light,
melts away entirely, leaving nothing behind. Entering the samādhi of loving-kindness,
fire cannot burn, and weapons and poison cannot come near the body."

The two dragon kings then came before Śāṇakavāsin and asked: sage, what do you intend to do here? He answered: I wish to build a monastery on this very spot — you must allow me to do so. The dragons answered: this cannot be permitted. The elder said: the World-Honored One himself has already foretold that, a hundred years after his own nirvāṇa, a monastery would be built at the finest site upon this great Ghee Mountain, to be named Nadi-Bhadra. The dragon king asked: did the World-Honored One truly say this? The elder answered: he did. The dragon king said: if the World-Honored One himself said so, then I shall consent (Source: Sūtra of King Aśoka, fascicle 7).

Śāṇakavāsin, having built a monastery on the great Ghee Mountain, converted an incense merchant there named Gupta through skillful means, urging him to diligent practice. One day, Śāṇakavāsin visited his own household alone; Gupta asked him: sage, why do you have no disciples of your own? For myself, I delight in the household life and its five sensory pleasures, and cannot go forth — but should I have a son, I will let him follow you, elder. In time, Gupta indeed had a son, named Aśvagupta (in the Liang language, "Ungoverned Protector"). When the boy grew up, Śāṇakavāsin came again to Gupta and reminded him of his own earlier vow — that, should he have a son, that son would be given to the elder — and now, having had one, asked that he be permitted to go forth with him. Gupta answered: I now have only this one son; should a second son be born, I shall give that one to you instead. In time a second son was indeed born, named Dhanagupta ("Treasure Protector"), and Śāṇakavāsin asked for him in turn — but again was refused. A third son, Upagupta, was likewise asked for — and Gupta answered: I shall make a vow instead, that Upagupta be tested in trade; should he prove either too skilled or too unskilled a merchant, he may not go forth, but should he prove neither, then I shall permit it.

At that time Māra caused every person in the kingdom of Mathurā to buy Upagupta's own wares and profit thereby, while Upagupta himself sold incense as usual. Śāṇakavāsin, the elder, then asked him: do you know what makes a state of mind wholesome, and what makes it unwholesome? Upagupta answered that he did not know. The elder told him: a state of mind associated with greed, hatred, or delusion is called unwholesome; one associated with their absence is called wholesome. The elder then took clay of black and white, forming each into small balls, and told him: whenever an unwholesome thought arises in you, take up a black ball; whenever a wholesome thought arises, take up a white one. Upagupta followed this instruction — and, at first, his own mind produced no wholesome thought at all, gathering only a single white ball at first; gradually, over time, he came to take two black balls for every one white; then, reflecting further, an equal number of black and white; and, continuing to reflect on wholesome states, at last ceased producing unwholesome thoughts altogether, taking only white balls.

At that time in Mathurā there lived a courtesan named Vāsavadattā, who kept a serving-girl. This girl, buying a great quantity of incense from Upagupta, was asked by her own mistress where she had obtained so much, and whether she had perhaps stolen it. The girl answered: there is a merchant named Upagupta, of fine and complete appearance, gentle and refined in speech, who sells his wares fairly. Hearing this, the mistress's own heart filled with desire, and she sent the girl back to Upagupta with the message that she wished to enjoy his company — but Upagupta answered only: the time is not yet right. This happened repeatedly, yet each time he refused.

She then sent for an elder's son to visit instead. A caravan-leader from northern India, arriving in Mathurā with five hundred horses and various goods, asked the local people where the city's finest woman might be found, and was told: there is a woman of unmatched beauty, named Vāsavadattā. The caravan-leader declared he would bring five hundred silver coins and various goods to visit her. The courtesan, coveting his wealth, murdered the elder's son, placing his body in a filthy place, and continued her own pleasures with her own lover regardless. The dead man's own close friends, searching, found his remains in that filthy place and reported it to the king, who ordered: seize this Vāsavadattā, and cut off her hands, feet, ears, and nose, and cast her out into the wilderness. This was done exactly as the king commanded.

Upagupta, reflecting on this, thought: though I once had no wish to see her, when we might have enjoyed the five pleasures together, I wish now to see her — her hands, feet, ears, and nose all cut away — and went to look upon her, speaking a verse to her as he did. Vāsavadattā, hearing his words, grew deeply fearful of birth and death, and, hearing of the Buddha's own virtues, her own heart turned toward nirvāṇa instead, answering Upagupta with a verse of her own. Upagupta then taught her the four noble truths, and, observing her own body further, she grew disenchanted with the desire realm and attained the fruit of non-returning; Vāsavadattā herself attained the fruit of stream-entry. Not long after Upagupta departed, Vāsavadattā's own life ended, and she was reborn in heaven.

The elder Śāṇakavāsin then went again to Gupta and said: you should now permit Upagupta to go forth with me. Gupta answered: I made an earlier vow that he be neither too skilled nor too unskilled in trade before he might go forth. Śāṇakavāsin, through his own supernormal power, then caused Upagupta's trading to become exactly neither skilled nor unskilled — and Upagupta himself, reflecting and calculating his own accounts, found them indeed neither one nor the other. Śāṇakavāsin then went once more to Gupta and told him: this very son of yours has been foretold by the Buddha himself — a hundred years after my own nirvāṇa, he shall carry out the Buddha's own work; you should now permit him to go forth with me. Gupta at last consented.

Śāṇakavāsin took Upagupta to the Nadi-Bhadra monastery and had him go forth there, conferring the full precepts upon him; by the fourth formal proceeding, every one of his own fetters was exhausted, and he attained arhatship. Śāṇakavāsin then told Upagupta: good son, as the Buddha himself foretold, a hundred years after my own nirvāṇa there will be a monk named Upagupta who shall carry out the Buddha's own work, teaching the Dharma as though a buddha himself, though without the Buddha's own physical marks.

At this, Māra, in the midst of the assembled multitude, rained down pearls to confuse their minds, so that not a single person there was able to perceive the truth being taught. Upagupta, reflecting, knew this was Māra's own doing. The next day, twice as many people came, and Māra rained down gold, again confusing the assembly's own minds; the third day, still more people came, and Māra rained down pearls and gold together, and conjured heavenly music besides — and the assembly, not yet free of desire, seeing such forms and hearing such sounds, found their own minds disturbed and unable to attend to the teaching any longer.

Māra then hung a garland around Upagupta's own neck. Upagupta, reflecting on who had done this, knew it was Māra, and thought: why does the World-Honored One himself not convert such a being? — and reflected further that this very task now fell to himself, for the Buddha had foretold that he would be called the buddha Aniketa (Without-a-Mark), and would teach and convert the people. Upagupta then took up three corpses — a dead snake, a dead dog, and a dead human — and, through his own supernormal power, transformed them into a garland, which he hung around Māra's own neck in turn.

Māra, terrified, went first to Maheśvara, then to Śakra and the Trāyastriṃśa devas, then to the Four Heavenly Kings, seeking to be freed of the corpse-garland, but none could remove it. He went finally to Mahābrahmā, who told him: good son, this is the work of the ten-powered one's own disciple's spiritual might — none can undo it, no more than the great ocean's own waters could ever be split apart. Māra asked: what, then, am I to do — to whom should I now take refuge? Mahābrahmā answered: go quickly and take refuge in Upagupta himself — just as a man who has fallen upon this very ground must rise from that same ground. Māra, only then understanding the true greatness of the Buddha's own disciple's power, spoke a verse in praise of the Buddha and reproach of himself — and Māra, lord of the desire realm, at once abandoned his own arrogance, confessing his past sins aloud (Source: Sūtra of King Aśoka, fascicle 8).

In South India there lived a man who, having an affair with another man's wife, went repeatedly to her house; when his own mother forbade this, he killed her. Fleeing to another country, unable there to indulge his own desires, he fell into deep despair, and went forth as a monk under the Buddha's own teaching, mastering the Three Baskets and becoming widely learned. Surrounded by his own disciples, he came to the Nadi-Bhadra monastery in Mathurā, to Upagupta himself — but Upagupta, knowing he had killed his own mother, would not converse with him or ask after his own well-being, since he had not attained the fruit of the path.

The monk, filled with shame, withdrew still further away. Upagupta's own disciples, not yet having attained the path themselves, reflected: our own preceptor lacks true wisdom — he teaches the Dharma even to dull, aged monks, yet this monk, intelligent and wise, thoroughly versed in the Three Baskets, with his own following of disciples, he refuses to teach at all. Upagupta, perceiving his own disciples' resentment, and perceiving also that the moment had come, arranged for his own teacher Śāṇakavāsin to come and subdue their pride.

Śāṇakavāsin, then dwelling in the kingdom of Kaśmīra, observed what work Upagupta was carrying out, and, seeing his own disciples' resentful doubt, and perceiving they were ripe for his own teaching, came at once through his own supernormal power into that same monastery — his hair and beard grown long, his robes coarse and worn. His five hundred disciples all said to one another: what ignorant old man is this, coming from who knows where? — and, finding him seated upon Upagupta's own bed, tried to pull him off it, but could not move him at all, as immovable as Mount Sumeru itself; wishing to rebuke him, they found their own voices would not come, and could only report the matter to Upagupta.

Upagupta answered: none but my own teacher could ever sit upon my bed. Upagupta then returned to the monastery and, with the utmost reverence, made offerings to his own teacher, taking a small seat for himself beside him. His disciples reflected: even if this is truly our preceptor's own teacher, his wisdom surely cannot match our own preceptor's. Śāṇakavāsin, perceiving their thoughts, raised his own right arm, and milk flowed from it, and he asked Upagupta: what is this samādhi called? Upagupta answered that he did not recognize it, and asked to be told its name. The teacher said: it is called the samādhi of the dragon's roar. He then entered various further samādhis in turn, and each time Upagupta said he did not recognize them, and the teacher told him: once I enter my own final nirvāṇa, every one of these very samādhis will be lost from the world entirely.

Upagupta's own disciples, hearing this exchange, reflected: this monk's own wisdom truly does surpass our preceptor's — and their own arrogance dissolved at once. Śāṇakavāsin then taught the Dharma, and all of Upagupta's own disciples attained arhatship (Source: Sūtra of King Aśoka, fascicle 9).

As Upagupta approached his own final nirvāṇa, he entrusted the Dharma-treasury to the last disciple he had converted, Dhītika, saying: good son, the World-Honored One entrusted the Dharma-treasury to Mahākāśyapa, Kāśyapa entrusted it to Ānanda, Ānanda entrusted it to Madhyāntika, Madhyāntika entrusted it to my own teacher Śāṇakavāsin, Śāṇakavāsin entrusted it to me — and I now, at my own nirvāṇa, entrust it to you.

He then proclaimed throughout Jambudvīpa, and a hundred thousand arhats gathered together at once, along with countless ordinary monks, before whom he displayed his own supernormal power in full, the eighteen transformations — and, this accomplished, entered final nirvāṇa. Among the disciples he had converted who attained one of the four fruits of the path, each took up a tally stick and placed it within a stone chamber; his own body was then cremated with these very tallies, and a stūpa raised in his honor. A further thousand arhats entered nirvāṇa together with him at that same time. Dhītika, upholding the Dharma-treasury thereafter, brought twenty-eight of Upagupta's own disciples to the fourth fruit of arhatship (Source: Sūtra of King Aśoka, fascicle 10).

There once lived an arhat named Upagupta, dwelling at the Nadi-Bhadra monastery on the great Ghee Mountain in Mathurā. Not far from the monastery, a tigress had given birth to cubs, but, unable yet to find their own food, they grew weak with hunger and near death. Upagupta, through his own compassionate power, gave them food himself. His own five hundred disciples, not yet having attained the path, asked: why do you give food to such lowly creatures? He answered: for the sake of their own future liberation.

In time, these tiger cubs, their own lives naturally short, drew near to death — and Upagupta spoke to them: all conditioned things are impermanent; all dharmas are without self; nirvāṇa alone is truly still. Give rise to faith in me, and feel disenchanted with your own animal rebirth. The cubs, hearing this, gave rise to faith and reverence toward Upagupta, and, their own lives ending there, were reborn as human beings within the kingdom of Mathurā. By the age of seven, Upagupta had converted and brought them to go forth as monks, and, within that same seventh year, they attained arhatship, gathering flowers of every kind through their own supernormal power to make offerings to Upagupta, surrounding him on every side.

His own five hundred disciples, not yet having attained the path, said: these fellow students of ours are still so young — how have they already attained such supernormal power and merit? Upagupta answered: they were, in their own former lives, those very tiger cubs. Upagupta then taught the Dharma, and his five hundred disciples, filled with deep shame, extinguished their own remaining afflictions and attained arhatship (Source: Sūtra of King Aśoka, fascicle 9).

Lośaka's Life That Could Never Be Fed

The Buddha dwelt at Gṛdhrakūṭa Mountain. A brahmin's wife bore a son, and, asking a physiognomist to examine him, was told: this child bears no auspicious signs at all — he should be named Abo (Without Fortune). His parents, hearing this, though they raised him, felt no true affection for him, and, once he reached twelve years old and could support himself, drove him from the household, forbidding him ever to return. The boy, not daring to remain, went out to beg, eventually reaching Jetavana. The Buddha, moved by great compassion for his own hardship, sent Ānanda to ask him whether he wished to go forth. The boy, overjoyed, asked to become a monk. The Buddha stroked his own head with his hand, and his hair fell away of itself, a monastic robe appearing upon his body. The Buddha gave him the name Lośaka.

At that time the sangha was divided into five groups, each going out separately to beg; yet whichever group Lośaka belonged to always returned with an empty bowl. The Buddha instructed the other monks to share their own food with him, and this happened not just once. Maudgalyāyana reflected: it is not that this monk himself cannot obtain food elsewhere — why do the others in his own group return empty-handed as well? If I myself go begging together with him, surely something will be obtained. The Buddha, perceiving his intent, had Śāriputra accompany him instead, and sent Maudgalyāyana to accompany Lośaka, each forming his own separate group. The Buddha told Maudgalyāyana: wherever I myself happen to be, you must not go there. Maudgalyāyana and Lośaka set out together — but wherever they arrived, they found the Buddha, together with Śāriputra, already there ahead of them at the very gate. This happened across more than a hundred million kingdoms, and still they obtained nothing at all.

Maudgalyāyana reflected: today I am truly destined to get no food at all. Lośaka, by then desperately hungry, stopped to rest by the banks of the Ganges. Maudgalyāyana returned alone to the Buddha, whose own bowl still held some remaining food, and the Buddha gave it to him. Maudgalyāyana thought: I am now so famished that even swallowing Mount Sumeru itself would not satisfy me — how could this little rice possibly be enough? The Buddha told him: just eat this food, and do not worry that it will be insufficient. Maudgalyāyana ate, and, though full, found the bowl still not empty.

Only Śāriputra remembered that Lośaka had still not eaten, and, worried he must be suffering great hunger, said to the Buddha: I beg to take the remaining food to give to Lośaka. The Buddha told him: I do not begrudge the food — but Lośaka's own past karmic retribution makes it impossible for him to receive it; if you do not believe this, you may try. Śāriputra took the food to give to him — but the moment Lośaka reached to accept it, the bowl sank straight down into the earth, a hundred zhang deep. Śāriputra, through his own power of the path, reached down and retrieved the bowl, returning it to Lośaka — but, just as he was about to eat, he accidentally overturned the bowl, and the food spilled entirely into the water.

Lośaka then sat back down and composed his mind, reflecting to himself: every time I go begging together with other monks, I always return with an empty bowl; now Śāriputra has offered me the Buddha's own remaining food, and even this has been overturned and lost — all of this must surely be the fruit of my own past sin, which I alone must bear. Reflecting in this way, his own fetters dissolved, his own defilements cleared away, and he attained arhatship on the spot — and, at that very moment, ate a mouthful of earth, and entered final nirvāṇa.

If you wish to know who Lośaka truly was: in the time of the buddha Vipaśyin, he was an ordinary man, ever stingy and unwilling to give. Once, about to eat, he spread a cloth on the ground beneath him and removed his own outer garment, for fear that grains of rice might fall and be wasted — when a monk passed by to beg from him. Lośaka, seeing him, said: what shall I give you? — and, taking up a handful of dirt with his own hand, gave that to the monk instead. The monk, accepting it, pronounced a blessing over him: it is only your own foolishness that has led you to this — may this very act, in time, bring you swift liberation instead. From that time forward, across ages beyond counting, wandering through birth and death, he found himself, wherever he went, unable ever to obtain food — until now, at last, attaining the path by eating dirt and entering nirvāṇa. At that time, the monk who received Lośaka's own gift of dirt was Śāriputra himself. Such is the working of karmic retribution for both good and evil — though he has now attained the path, he could not escape the fruit of that same past deed. The people of this world, foolish and ignorant, imagine that unwholesome conduct brings no consequence — Lośaka's own story stands as proof against this (Source: Sūtra of Lośaka).

Why the Vinaya Split into Five Schools

While the Buddha lived, the assembled sangha wore only plain, coarse cloth taken from the dead, of mixed and worn quality. Later, once the monk Lośaka had joined the sangha, he returned empty and hungry from begging every single time. The Buddha, knowing the karmic cause behind this, had the assembled sangha divide the Vinaya into five schools, each with its own robe color, and had Lośaka go begging with a different school each day, establishing a fixed system accordingly, each school named for its own particular strength and given its own robe color: the Sarvāstivāda school, broadly learned and quick of understanding, guiding others through the Dharma, was to wear a black robe; the Kāśyapīya school, diligent and resolute, protecting and sheltering beings, was to wear a mulberry-bark-colored robe; the Mahīśāsaka school, deeply absorbed in meditation, penetrating the most subtle and profound matters, was to wear a blue robe; the Mahāsāṃghika school, diligently studying the many scriptures and expounding their meaning, was to wear a yellow robe. From that time onward, Lośaka was able to obtain food in abundance.

Why was this so? Because Lośaka's own former lack of merit had caused his earlier hardship. Ānanda asked the Buddha: if Lośaka lacked merit in his own past life, how did he come to become a monk at all? The Buddha answered: this same Lośaka, in a past life, was born the son of a worthy family, but, given to jealousy, would see monks coming to beg and shut the door against them, saying the master of the house was not home; the monk would then go to another household, only to find the door there likewise shut against him, with the same excuse given. It is for this very reason that he could not obtain alms in this present life. Yet, seeing others give food and rejoice in doing so, he thought to himself: I too wish to become a monk myself — and it is for this reason that, despite his own former poverty of merit, he is now reduced to such hardship (Source: Sūtra of the Samādhi of the Bequeathed Teaching, lower fascicle).

The Buddha dwelt in Śrāvastī. In that city there lived two sisters, one of whom, already pregnant, went forth to become a nun before giving birth. The other nuns, seeing the signs of her pregnancy, expelled her from the order. Because of this, the matter was reported to the World-Honored One, who answered: if she conceived while still a laywoman, she has committed no offense at all. This nun later bore a son, named Kumāra-Kāśyapa ("Child Kāśyapa"). By the age of eight, he had gone forth and attained arhatship.

Together with a group of sixteen fellow monks, he went once to the bank of the Ajitavatī River, each carrying a water vessel; there they bathed, entered the water, floated on their backs, and played, splashing and swimming across the river together. At that time King Prasenajit, looking out from a high tower in every direction, happened to see this — and the king, not yet a believer in the Buddha's own teaching, grew only more doubtful upon witnessing it, and said to Queen Mallikā: this is the very field of merit your own household so deeply and unwaveringly reveres — why do you not look for yourself? She answered the king: perhaps these are young monks, only recently ordained, not yet familiar with the precepts — or perhaps the World-Honored One simply has not yet established a rule forbidding this.

Kumāra-Kāśyapa, hearing the king's own words through his own heavenly ear, said to his companions: the king doubts us all the more, and Queen Mallikā's own heart is troubled by it — we ought now to give rise to joy in her heart instead. All agreed. Each took up his own water vessel, filled it with water, and set it before himself; then, seated cross-legged in a row, they rose into the air together and flew directly over the king's own palace. Queen Mallikā, sitting in an open area, saw their shadows pass overhead and looked up — and saw the monks, seated cross-legged in orderly rows, their water vessels floating before them, passing through the sky like a flock of wild geese. Seeing this, she was filled with great joy, and said to the king: behold the spiritual power of our own field of merit! The king, seeing it too, was filled with great joy himself, and declared: excellent, excellent — I have gained true benefit indeed. May the Buddha, the World-Honored One, and the assembled sangha remain in this kingdom for the rest of their lives, our true and lasting field of merit. The Buddha, hearing of this event, established a precept thereafter forbidding monks from doing so again (Source: Mahāsāṃghika Vinaya, fascicle 19; the same also in the Sarvāstivāda Vinaya).

In the kingdom of Kaśmīra, when the rice had just begun to form its own heads of grain, the dragon king Aravāla sent down a great flood that drowned the crop entirely. At that time the venerable Madhyāntika, together with four other monks, flew through the air from Pāṭaliputra to the edge of the Himalayas, to Aravāla's own pool, and there walked, stood, sat, and lay upon the very surface of the water. The dragon king's own retinue, entering to report this to him, provoked the dragon king to fury, and he unleashed his own full spiritual power — violent storms, thunder and lightning, mountains crumbling, trees uprooted, smoke and fire pouring from his own body, hailstones raining down — hoping to terrify the venerable Madhyāntika, and summoning his own army of followers besides, yet still could not subdue him.

Madhyāntika said: though you summon every deva and every person in the world to terrify me, not a single hair on my body would stir — and were you to seize Mount Sumeru itself, together with every lesser mountain, and hurl them upon me, still I would not move — and, gradually, taught him the Dharma's own true flavor, until the dragon king rejoiced and submitted. Hearing the Dharma, the dragon king took the refuges and precepts at once, together with his own entire retinue, becoming disciples. The mountain spirits, yakṣas, gandharvas, kumbhāṇḍas, and other spirits of the Himalayas, hearing of this, likewise came to faith and submission, becoming disciples themselves, and all attained a glimpse of the path.

Madhyāntika told the assembled dragons and spirits: from this day forward, give rise to no more anger, harm no more people, and destroy no more crops — cultivate instead a compassionate heart, that all may find peace and happiness. They all bowed their heads and accepted this teaching, offering Madhyāntika a jeweled couch to sit upon, the dragon king himself standing in attendance, fanning him. The people of Kaśmīra and Gandhāra, witnessing all this, were filled with deep reverence, and came in great numbers to hear the Dharma, many attaining the fruit of the path (Source: Samantapāsādikā Vinaya Commentary, fascicle 2).

In the time of King Aśoka, the Buddha had already entered nirvāṇa over two hundred years before. The monk Mahinda came to the island of Siṃhala. The king there, wishing to go hunting, was led by a tree spirit — who wished the king to encounter Mahinda — to see a deer, conjured by that same spirit, grazing not far from him and walking slowly away. Seeing this conjured deer, the king drew his bow, nocked an arrow, and prepared to shoot — but, reflecting that he ought to aim carefully, the deer turned and fled toward the road to Jāvadāra, and the king pursued it. Reaching Jāvadāra, the deer vanished, no longer far from where Mahinda himself was.

Mahinda, seeing the king draw near, reflected: I shall now use my own spiritual power to let the king see only myself, and no one else. The venerable Mahinda then called out the king's own name: "Tissa, come here." The king, hearing himself addressed by name, wondered: who in this kingdom would dare call me by my own personal name? Who could this be? — seeing a man dressed in red robes, cut and sewn in an unfamiliar fashion, calling out to him so — and, uncertain whether this was a man or some spirit, grew suspicious. Mahinda answered: I am a son of the Dharma, of the Śākya clan's own śramaṇa lineage, and, moved by compassion for the king, have come here from the land of Jambudvīpa for this very purpose.

At that time King Devānampiya Tissa had already exchanged letters and tribute with King Aśoka, sending treasures back and forth as tokens of friendship. The Dharma-teacher then said: I have three jewels to offer the king, treasures beyond even what that heaven-beloved friend of yours in the world could give — and taught him the threefold refuge. The king received the three refuges and became a lay follower. Mahinda then further explained the Śākya teaching to King Devānampiya Tissa in the hunting grounds itself, and, recalling that Aśoka's own letter had mentioned a son of the Śākya clan, the king cast aside his bow and arrow and earnestly asked to be taught further. The Dharma-teacher expounded the sūtras and conferred the threefold refuge upon him.

Mahinda then sent for the novice Sumana and said: it is now time to teach — you should proclaim the turning of the Dharma-wheel. Sumana asked: how loudly should my own voice now proclaim it? Mahinda answered: let your voice fill the whole island of Siṃhala. Sumana then entered the fourth dhyāna, and, rising from that same samādhi, proclaimed the turning of the Dharma-wheel — and the people of the whole island heard it at once, while every deva and spirit of the sky gathered together as well. After this threefold proclamation was complete, Mahinda then taught the Dharma at length, and countless devas and humans attained a glimpse of the path (Source: Samantapāsādikā Vinaya Commentary, fascicle 2).

Near the southern sea, in the kingdom of Nālika, the people made their living gathering pearls and sandalwood. In that kingdom there lived a household with two brothers who, upon their parents' death, wished to divide the estate. The household owned a young slave named Pūrṇa, clever and capable, skilled in trade, knowing everything there was to know about seafaring commerce; the family's own property was divided into equal shares, with the slave Pūrṇa counted as one whole share by himself. The brothers drew lots, and the younger brother received Pūrṇa as his own portion, taking his own wife and children out of the household with nothing else in hand.

It happened to be a year of famine, and, though he had gained Pūrṇa, the younger brother worried they might not even be able to survive, and fell into deep anxiety. The slave Pūrṇa told his master: do not worry — within a matter of days, I shall make you surpass even your own elder brother. His master answered: if you can truly accomplish this, I shall free you as a commoner. The master's own wife had some pearls of her own, which she gave to Pūrṇa as capital.

At that time the tide came in, and the people of the city went down to the water's edge to gather firewood. Pūrṇa took the pearls and went outside the city, where he saw a beggar carrying firewood — and within that firewood was a piece of gaśīrṣa sandalwood, capable of curing grave illness, worth a thousand taels of gold for even a mere two ounces, a substance not always to be found in this world. Pūrṇa recognized it for what it was, and bought it for two gold coins, bringing it home and breaking it into several dozen pieces. At that time a certain elder had fallen gravely ill, and it was said that only two ounces of this very gaśīrṣa sandalwood, compounded into medicine, could cure him — yet none could be found anywhere. Pūrṇa brought his own piece, and received two thousand taels of gold for it. Selling the rest in this same way, he gained wealth beyond counting, becoming ten times wealthier than his own former master's elder brother, and his own master, deeply moved, kept his word and freed him as promised, letting him go wherever he pleased.

Pūrṇa then took his leave and went to seek the path, arriving in Śrāvastī, where he bowed before the Buddha, and, kneeling, said: though I come from lowly birth, my own heart delights in the path and its virtue — I beg only that the World-Honored One, in his own compassion, deliver me. The Buddha said: welcome. Pūrṇa's hair fell away of itself, a monastic robe appearing on his body, and he became a monk at once. The Buddha taught him the Dharma, and he soon attained arhatship. Sitting in reflection, he thought: I have now attained the six supernormal powers, free to live or die as I wish — all of this owed entirely to my own former master's kindness. I should now go and deliver him, and convert the people of my own former country as well.

The venerable Pūrṇa then traveled to his own homeland, arriving at his former master's household. His master, overjoyed, invited him to sit and prepared a meal; once the meal was finished and his hands washed, Pūrṇa rose into the air, dividing his own body, his body emitting water and fire, radiant light streaming down from above, and told his master: this very spiritual virtue is entirely the fruit of your own act of releasing me — I learned it all upon reaching the Buddha's own presence. His master answered: such wondrous transformation — I beg to see the World-Honored One myself, and receive his own teaching. Pūrṇa answered: only prepare a feast with a sincere heart, and the Buddha, possessed of the three insights, will surely come of his own accord.

His master prepared the offering that same night, and, facing toward Śrāvastī, bowed with joined palms, burned incense, and invoked the Buddha, asking that he condescend to come and deliver everyone there widely. The Buddha, knowing his intent, arrived at once, together with five hundred arhats, each through his own supernormal power, at his household — and the whole kingdom's own king and people, astonished, hurried there, prostrating themselves before the Buddha. Once the meal was finished and hands washed, the Buddha, for the master's household and the assembled officials of the king, expounded the clear teaching at length, and all of them received the five precepts, becoming disciples of the Buddha. Rising and standing before the Buddha, they praised Pūrṇa, saying: diligent in the household life, he attained the path upon going forth, his own spiritual virtue reaching so far that his own household and country alike have now been delivered by it — how, then, might I repay such a debt of kindness?

The World-Honored One then praised Pūrṇa, speaking this verse:

"The mind already at rest, speech and conduct likewise stilled — from stillness comes liberation, quiescent, one returns to cessation.
Abandoning desire, without attachment, breaking through the three realms' own obstruction —
hope itself extinguished, this is called a superior person, whether dwelling in wilderness or open field,
level ground or high cliff — wherever a true one passes, none fail to receive his blessing.
He delights in solitude, where ordinary people cannot bear to remain — how joyful, free of all desire,
seeking nothing at all."

His master and the king, ever more delighted, made offerings for seven days, and attained the fruit of stream-entry (Source: Dharmapada, fascicle 1).

The Buddha dwelt in the Āmra grove of the village of Āmra, together with the assembled monks. At that time the elder Citra said to the senior monks: I beg all you honored ones to accept my own invitation to a meal in this very grove. The senior monks consented in silence. Robing themselves and taking up their bowls, they went to the elder's own house and sat; the elder personally served every kind of fine food with his own hands, and, once the meal was finished and hands washed, listened to the Dharma being taught. The senior monks then taught the elder the Dharma at length, showing him its own benefit and delight.

Having eaten their fill of ghee and honey, the senior monks, in the late spring heat, found the walk back exhausting. A junior monk among them, named Mahākāla, said to the senior monks: today is very hot — I wish to raise clouds and rain, and stir a gentle breeze for us. The senior monks answered: if you can indeed do this, excellent. Mahākāla then entered samādhi, and, from within that very absorption, clouds gathered and a fine rain began to fall, a cool breeze blowing gently from all four directions, reaching all the way to the monastery gate — and, this accomplished, he withdrew his own supernormal power and returned to his own quarters.

The elder reflected: even the most junior monk among them possesses such great supernormal power — how much more, then, must the middle and senior monks possess! He bowed to the assembled monks, and, following after Mahākāla, went to his own dwelling, bowed at his feet, and said: venerable one, I wish to witness your own supernormal transformation directly. Mahākāla answered: elder, there is no need to witness this. Three times the elder asked, and three times Mahākāla refused — yet the elder pressed him still further. Mahākāla then told him: go outside and gather dry grass, and cover it with a length of cloth. The elder did as instructed, gathering the grass into a pile, and returned to tell the venerable one. Mahākāla then entered the samādhi of fire-radiance, and, through the very keyhole of the door, sent forth a flame that burned the entire pile of grass to nothing — yet the white cloth covering it remained entirely untouched by fire. He told the elder: do you see this now? The elder answered: I have indeed seen it — truly extraordinary. Mahākāla told the elder: know that all of this is rooted in nothing but diligence free of heedlessness — for it is through such diligence alone that one attains unsurpassed, perfect awakening, and every other quality of the path besides.

The elder said: venerable Mahākāla, I beg you to dwell always in this very grove — I shall provide the four requisites for the rest of my own life. Mahākāla, bound by other karmic conditions, did not accept his invitation. The elder, having heard the teaching, bowed and departed (Source: Sūtra of the Monk Citra the Elder).

The arhat Praṇidhānapūra constantly taught and converted hungry ghosts. He came upon one hungry ghost of such hideous form that all who saw it felt their own hair stand on end in terror — its body ablaze like a great heap of fire, maggots and pus flowing from its own mouth, a stench reaching far and wide, impossible to approach. Flames, tens of zhang long, poured from its mouth, or from its ears, nose, eyes, and every joint of its body; its lips hung inverted like a wild boar's own snout, its body spanning a full yojana in breadth. It clawed at its own flesh, wailing and shrieking, running wildly in every direction.

Praṇidhānapūra asked the hungry ghost: what past sin has brought you to such suffering? The hungry ghost answered: long ago I was a monk myself, attached to my own dwelling, stingy and unwilling to give, outwardly maintaining proper deportment yet speaking always with a foul mouth — whenever I saw a monk of true precept and diligent practice, I would revile and insult him, glaring at him with contempt. Relying on my own powerful family connections, I believed myself beyond consequence, and committed countless unwholesome deeds of every kind. I would sooner have cut out my own tongue with a sharp blade, kalpa after kalpa, willingly enduring such suffering, than spend even a single day slandering a diligent, practicing monk. Should I ever return to Jambudvīpa, let my own present form serve as a warning to every monk there — to guard their own speech carefully, never speaking carelessly, and, on seeing a monk of pure conduct and upheld precepts, to reflect instead on proclaiming his own virtues. Since first taking this hungry-ghost form, I have already endured this suffering for many hundreds of thousands of years, and, when this present life ends, I shall fall into hell besides.

Having spoken these words, the hungry ghost wailed aloud and threw itself to the ground, as though a great mountain had collapsed and heaven and earth turned upside down — all of it caused by the fault of speech alone. Whoever guards against this same fault of speech reaps boundless blessing in return.

Furthermore: when the Tathāgata Kāśyapa appeared in the world, having fully expounded his own teaching and completed his own work of conversion, he entered the realm of nirvāṇa without remainder. After his nirvāṇa, there lived a monk versed in the Three Baskets, named Yellow Face, whom the assembled sangha instructed: you need not trouble yourself with any ordinary duties — only expound the wondrous Dharma for those who come after you to learn. This monk, inwardly contemptuous, though unable to refuse the sangha's own charge, taught the meaning of the scriptures to the younger students regardless — but, calling on the first to recite what he had learned, addressed him as "elephant-head, come forward"; calling the second, "horse-head"; then "camel-head," "donkey-head," "pig-head," "goat-head," "ram-head," "lion-head," "tiger-head," "bird-head," "bear-head" — and so on through every manner of beast, beyond counting. This Tripiṭaka-master Yellow Face, having uttered such boundless abusive words, could not escape his own fault despite having faithfully transmitted the scriptures' own meaning, and, at the end of his own life, fell into hell, enduring immeasurable suffering across many thousands of kalpas. When his remaining sin was still not exhausted, he emerged from hell and was reborn in the great ocean, taking the form of a water creature with a hundred heads upon a single, monstrously large body, so that every other creature, seeing it, fled in terror (Source: Sūtra of Guarding the Mouth).

The Buddha dwelt in Śrāvastī. In the kingdom of Sudāna there lived a poor man, hired to shave children's heads, to be paid a bushel of grain once the wheat ripened. Meeting an old friend along the road who wished to drink with him, he later found, on returning to collect his own wages, that he could get nothing at all despite searching everywhere — and, in his own fury, made a malicious vow: may I, at the end of my own life, become a great and powerful dragon, and destroy this entire kingdom. And, at the end of his life, he did indeed become a great dragon.

For years thereafter, that kingdom suffered rain and wind out of season. The Buddha, grieving over the resulting famine, sent the monk Sāgata to convert this dragon. The dragon, seeing the monk, was seized with malicious intent, wishing to kill both the kingdom's own people and Sāgata himself — but Sāgata conjured a bowl vast enough to cover the entire kingdom. The dragon then sent down rain, believing the whole kingdom already drowned beneath it — but Sāgata, through the Buddha's own majestic power, let the people see that they remained entirely safe and unharmed, exactly as before. The dragon, growing angrier still, sent down a great snowfall instead — and Sāgata simply caught it in his own bowl and swept it away into a single pile with his hand, then entered the dragon's own dwelling. The dragon came out; Sāgata went in. The dragon went in; Sāgata came out. This continued back and forth until the dragon, utterly exhausted, finally stopped, and, kneeling, asked: what manner of spirit are you, to trouble me so? Sāgata answered: I am a disciple of the Buddha. The dragon said: I wish now to take refuge myself — and followed him away.

Sāgata then placed this dragon inside a small basket, and the people, seeing the monk carrying off the very dragon that had plagued them, rejoiced greatly, and asked him: what manner of spirit are you, to have subdued this calamity threatening our whole kingdom? He answered: I am a disciple of the Buddha. The people asked whether the Buddha himself might be seen, and he answered that he could — he would return by midday. Along the way, passing through the town to beg, some gave him rice, others gave him wine; Sāgata, accepting these offerings, lay down drunk beneath a tree, the dragon's basket and his own outer robe set aside separately.

The Buddha, at that moment, smiled quietly, and five-colored light streamed from him. Ānanda asked why, and the Buddha explained, and further named four things: first, that an arhat, unless he enters samādhi, cannot know something for himself; second, that he cannot always directly witness a display of supernormal power; third, that he might, out of politeness, accept when strongly urged to go begging; and fourth, that even an arhat's own body may still harbor certain minor imperfections — in these four respects, an arhat does not equal the Buddha himself. At that time there was a bodhisattva inclined toward the śrāvaka path, who, witnessing this very scene, had his own resolve strengthened all the more by it. The Buddha sent Maudgalyāyana to Sāgata, instructing him to bring the dragon before him, and taught it of its own past lives — and the dragon's own heart was released at once, receiving the five precepts, practicing the ten good deeds, and attaining the fruit of stream-entry.

Ānanda asked the Buddha to explain the whole affair, and the Buddha told him: an arhat no longer feels hunger or thirst at all — Sāgata appeared drunk and asleep only for three reasons: first, the Buddha wished to open the mind of that same bodhisattva; second, he did not wish to disappoint the household that had offered him the wine; and third, he feared that other disciples, not yet having attained the path themselves, might otherwise drink to excess and lose themselves entirely — and so, to guard against this very outcome, he allowed this scene to be witnessed. Though Sāgata appeared to have drunk wine, he was not, in fact, truly intoxicated at all (Source: Merit of the Monk Sāgata Sūtra).