Lesser-Known Arhats

In Śrāvastī there lived a man named Li, whose household was extremely wealthy, yet who, having grown old, remained entirely without an heir. He prayed to the sun, the moon, and every heavenly spirit, omitting no rite — yet never obtained a son. Reflecting that such prayers brought no benefit, that his own treasured wealth dwindled and his estate went untended, that illness followed illness and calamity after calamity struck him, that his servants died and his livestock failed to breed, he realized he had been misled by shamans and false spirit-mediums, who told him that blessing was coming even as disaster only deepened — like a blind man swallowing poison, mistaking it for medicine, hoping for relief only to lose his own life. Having killed living things in sacrifice, he reflected, he was surely destined for hell himself — how deluded, then, to still hope for heaven's own favor!

He reflected further: the world holds a sage of the Buddha's own lofty path, and those who study and attain this same path are called the truly accomplished — pure as lapis lazuli, visible only to one who diligently holds them in mind. Those who follow this path alone keep to quiet stillness, desiring and seeking nothing, finding their own joy in this alone, gaining peace in this present life and, at its end, rebirth in heaven. He resolved thereafter to make constant offerings to the Buddha and the Three Jewels instead.

A year later, his wife bore a son, named Buddhabala ("Buddha-Strength"); later still, a second son was born, named Saṃghabala ("Sangha-Strength"). Li instructed both sons, showing them the sagely path. Saṃghabala, by his own nature compassionate, filial, and loving toward all beings, upheld the Buddha's own teaching and precepts, drew close to monks, and, pure and content, was cherished by both his parents.

When Li lay dying on his sickbed, he called his elder son to him and, weeping, gave him this charge: all who are born must die; one who upholds the precepts finds safety, one who violates them finds peril. Saṃghabala is still young, yet compassionate, filial, and pure — I now entrust him to your own care — and, having spoken this, he died.

Afterward, Saṃghabala repeatedly told his elder brother of his own wish to become a monk. In their kingdom, the law required a man first to take a wife before becoming one — so, hearing his brother speak of monkhood, Buddhabala at once arranged a marriage for him, seeking out a worthy household's own daughter, named Kuaijian ("Fair to See"), radiant and of unmatched beauty. Once the bride had come to the household and ascended the hall, the brother gathered guests from all nine branches of the family, everyone rejoicing. Before the assembled company, the elder brother said to his own younger brother: "Now, on this very day, will you still consent to become a monk?" Saṃghabala answered: "This has truly long been my own wish." The brother, as though in jest, said: "Then follow your own resolve." The younger brother, his heart filled with joy, bowed to his own brother and went at once into the mountains.

There he found a monk, young and of fine bearing, dwelling alone beneath a tree, and asked him: "Worthy one, for what reason have you become a monk?" This man had already attained the path of the truly accomplished, and knew events across countless past and future kalpas. He told Saṃghabala: the Buddha teaches that one who delights in lust and excess is like a man carrying a torch against the wind — as its flame bends back toward him, if he does not release the torch, the fire will burn his own hand; or like a crow carrying flesh in its beak, pursued by hawks wishing to seize it — if the crow will not release the flesh, disaster reaches even its own body and life. It is for this very reason that I myself became a monk. Or again, it is like honey smeared on a sharp blade — a child, craving its sweetness, licks it with his own tongue, and suffers the cutting of that very tongue for it. One who indulges in lust and excess satisfies only a foolish heart in the moment, giving no thought to what follows, and suffers in the end the very burning of his own body — like a moth, craving the fire's own color, throwing itself into a flame, its body consumed, gaining nothing at all. One deluded by lust cannot distinguish good from evil, growing ever more distant from the wise and closer to the foolish, sinking daily into darkness, until his very kingdom is destroyed and his own people perish, and he himself dies into hell — and once evil has taken root and sin has ripened, what remorse could then avail him? (Such comparisons are too numerous to record in full.)

Hearing such teachings, Saṃghabala bowed his head at the monk's own feet, and said: I wish to leave this defiled world and walk the pure path, upholding the monastic precepts as my own glory and blessing. The teacher said: wait a little. Saṃghabala said: my own intent is to enter the mountains for quiet meditation. The teacher told him: one who dwells in mountains and marshes must learn to read the stars, know clearly the changing seasons, and always keep in store water, fire, roasted grain, and honey — for bandits, too, come seeking water, fire, grain, and honey, in the deep hours of the night toward dawn; you must understand this, and give bandits what they seek, for should you refuse their own demands, they will kill without hesitation. Saṃghabala agreed, reverently receiving this compassionate instruction, and withdrew into the mountains.

His own elder brother, meanwhile, reflected: my brother, having become a monk, will never now take a wife — and, finding Kuaijian's own beauty deeply pleasing to him, rose, took up her own lute, and played it, singing a song of seduction: "Bright and glowing, the turmeric flower grows wild in the field — pass its season unpicked, and the flower is simply cast away; yet luxuriant and abundant, its color still fresh — share this joy with me." Kuaijian, perceiving his intent to commit this wrong, answered him in song: "Towering and lofty, my own teacher, honored among devas and humans; his disciples, pure and clean, are called śramaṇas. He who sees the truth is a sage; lust is the way of beasts. I have received the strict precepts, and shall serve no second lord — I would sooner die than commit such an act, even by a single inch." Buddhabala then composed a mournful, languishing tune of his own: "My own heart's desire for you has long been fixed — it is for this very reason I sought a proper matchmaker, inquired your name, consulted the teacher for an auspicious hour — anxious, fearful you would not come; but now, having seen your own face, my heart is at ease. Should we not now share this joy together, would it not all be wasted? This vow is now fixed — what virtuous woman could doubt it?" Kuaijian, alarmed, answered in song: "The Buddha established proper ceremony, ranking high and low in due order — an uncle's wife is as a mother to her nephew; a husband's own elder brother is as a father to his wife. I myself have received the precepts and grow daily more devoted to them; the true and the sagely stand equal, while lust belongs to beasts and vermin alone — ah, elder brother, why do you speak such words?" Yet the brother's own heart remained lost in desire, and Kuaijian, seeing his intent could not be shaken, sang again: "A person living in this world ought to keep far from two things — unfiliality, and licentious conduct that violates the Buddha's own precepts; may heaven, and every worthy person, bear witness to how different my own conduct shall remain." Buddhabala sang once more: "Your own countenance is radiant and glowing — where in all the world could such beauty as yours be found? My heart delights in you so greatly that I would cross even a great mountain for your sake." Kuaijian, reflecting that this man wished to draw her into ruinous, reckless wrong, and fearing great calamity might follow, resolved to describe her own body's inner foulness and impurity instead, hoping this might turn him away — and told him plainly: you covet my own body — yet what is truly good in it? My head alone holds nine bones, together forming but a skull — and so she described, in full, every impurity of the body.

Buddhabala, reflecting to himself, thought: she thinks only of her own husband, and will never heed me — only by killing my own brother will she then follow me. He went out and sought among men known to have served as bandits, and told one such man: do you know that a household slave of mine — one of six registered servants — has fled and become a monk, now dwelling in the mountains? The bandit said he knew of him. Buddhabala then brought out gold and silver and gave it to him, saying: kill this slave, and bring back his head quickly, along with the clothing on his body, his own monastic robes, and the sandals on his feet — and I shall reward you further still with gold and silver besides. The bandit, delighted, said: give me what I need — and set out at once into the mountains.

Reaching his brother's own dwelling, he called out: monk, come out quickly! The younger brother came out and said: gentlemen, what do you seek? I have water, fire, roasted grain, and honey to offer you — for it was already deep in the night. The bandit answered: we seek neither water nor fire, neither grain nor honey — we have come now only for your own head, to carry it away. Hearing this, the younger brother, filled with terror, wept and said: I am no elder's son, no nobleman's child — I have given up the household life for the path, and hold no quarrel with anyone in this world; my own study of the path is still young, and I have not yet even attained the fruit of stream-entry — what benefit could my own death possibly bring you? The bandit said: come, give me your head. The younger brother told the bandit: if it is treasure you want, I shall write to my own elder brother, that he might reward you with treasure instead. The bandit answered: it is your own elder brother who sent me here to kill you. The younger brother said: then I am indeed to die today — and it is because of that woman. My own teacher warned me before: to dwell together with lust is like carrying a torch against the wind — if one does not release it in time, the fire will burn one's own hand.

As dusk fell, remembering his teacher's own warning, he wept, and begged the bandit for a single year's reprieve. The bandit answered: give me your head at once. The younger brother said further: please, do not kill me outright — first cut off one of my own thighs, and set it before me. The bandit cut off one thigh and set it before him. Enduring this pain, a deva came to his side and told him: fear nothing — hold your own mind firm. In a past life, you were reborn among the animals, your own flesh butchered and sold, not merely once; you have likewise passed through hell and the realm of hungry ghosts — this suffering did not begin only today. Saṃghabala asked the deva to carry word to his own teacher. The deva at once told the teacher: bandits mean to kill your disciple; weeping in his own suffering, he wishes to see you once more. The teacher flew at once to him, and taught him: heaven and earth, even Mount Sumeru itself, must one day perish; the sea itself will one day run dry; even the sun will one day fail. Throughout the world there blows a wind named Vairambhaka — and, once it rises, mountain grinds against mountain until this same wind itself subsides — how much less, then, does your own small body matter at all? Only hold the Buddha in mind. The Buddha has always said: whatever flourishes must decline; whatever comes together must part; even glory and rank cannot be kept forever — and the body is no different.

Saṃghabala thereupon attained the fruit of stream-entry. The bandit cut off his second thigh; remembering his teacher's own instruction once more, he attained the fruit of once-returning. The bandit cut off his left hand; remembering his teacher's instruction again, he attained the fruit of non-returning. The bandit cut off his right hand; remembering his teacher's instruction once more, he attained the fruit of the truly accomplished — and, from that moment, feared none of the three lower realms at all, entirely at ease before both life and death, fearing nothing further.

Saṃghabala said: bring me some tree bark. The bandits stripped bark from a tree and gave it to him. Taking a branch as his own pen, he pierced his own body and, with his own blood, wrote upon the bark: "Elder brother, may you always remain well and at peace. When our parents were alive, they entrusted me to your own care — you have not honored that charge, but instead violated our parents' own teaching; for the sake of a woman's beauty, you have turned against your own flesh and blood. To violate our parents' own loving teaching is unfiliality; to destroy another's life is inhumanity; killing even a single animal is no small sin — how much more, then, killing one of the truly accomplished, a wrong that cannot be undone by five such deaths. I now go gladly into stillness, and take my leave of you forever. Strive on, strive on — may you yet come to honor the true path." He then stretched out his own neck, a full two chi in length, and told the assembled bandits: cut off my head now — it is no different than cutting through mud. I fear only that you yourselves will fall into hell for this deed. The bandits then cut off his head, and, taking his robe, his staff, his sandals, and his bowl, carried them back to his own elder brother, who rewarded them richly with gold and silver.

The elder brother then fashioned a false body for his own brother's head, dressing it in his own robe, setting his staff and bowl and sandals beside it, and told Kuaijian: your own husband has returned — go and greet him. Kuaijian, overjoyed, ran to him, and, seeing him seated with lowered eyes, thought he was simply absorbed in meditation, and, not daring to call out to him, prepared fine food instead, waiting for him to finish his own reflection before serving him. Midday came and he still had not stirred; she thought that, since the day before, it was now already noon, and feared the proper time had passed — puzzled at his silence, she pulled at his robe, and his head fell away, his whole body coming apart. Kuaijian, throwing herself down and crying out, wailed: it is I who have caused you to be so cruelly destroyed! — and, in her own grief and rage, crying out to heaven, her very liver and heart broke apart, blood pouring from her mouth, and she died on the spot.

His own precept-conduct, pure and unstained, was as difficult to defile as empty space itself; his own resolve, firm as a rooted tree, was as unmovable as the earth; his own true, pure, lofty conduct was as unreachable as the heavens. Before his own life had even fully ended, the devas themselves had already sighed in wonder, welcoming his own spirit into Trāyastriṃśa heaven — enduring but a brief moment of suffering, he gained heaven's own inexhaustible glory in return.

The elder brother, entering his own meditation chamber and finding his brother's own head and body come apart, and his wife dead of her own spilled blood, cried out: alas, alas — it is I who, defying heaven itself, have brought about this cruel and terrible ruin! He went at once to the bandits and asked whether his own brother had left any final words before dying. The bandits showed him the letter, its words so sorrowful and moving that, having read it through, his own five organs seized with grief, tears and weeping overtaking him entirely: I have betrayed our own parents' final, loving instruction, turned against my own flesh and blood, and murdered one of the truly accomplished besides — overwhelmed with this realization, he died on the spot, and fell into hell.

The king and all his ministers and people, hearing of this, wept without exception, praising the younger brother's own pure virtue, and gave him a proper burial; the fourfold assembly raised a stūpa in his honor. Devas, dragons, and spirits filled the very sky, scattering flowers and burning incense, all choked with grief. And, at the parting from the great Kuaijian herself, the people of that whole kingdom mourned together, singing in praise of her own virtue (Source: Sūtra of Buddhabala and Saṃghabala).

In Śrāvastī there lived a wealthy elder whose household bore a son with a body of golden color. A physiognomist, examining this extraordinary sign, named him Suvarṇadeva ("Golden Deva," rendered in the Liang language as "Golden Heaven"). On the very day of his birth, a well appeared spontaneously within the household, eight chi wide, whose water, drawn for any need, granted whatever one wished for. As the boy grew, his own talents proved broad and accomplished, and his father, cherishing him, dared not cross his own wishes, reflecting: my son's own fine appearance is beyond compare — I must seek out and choose for him a woman of matching name and beauty, golden in form like my own son — and sent merchants everywhere in search of such a bride.

In the kingdom of Campā there lived a great elder whose own newborn daughter, named Suvarṇaprabhāvatī (rendered in the Liang language as "Light"), was likewise of extraordinary beauty, her body golden in color, and, on the very day of her birth, an identical eight-chi well had likewise appeared spontaneously, its water granting whatever one wished for as well. Her own father reflected in turn: my daughter's own beauty demands a worthy husband — only one to match her own excellence will I give her to. In time, this girl's own renown spread as far as Śrāvastī, just as Suvarṇadeva's own name reached her own family in turn, and the two households, each delighted, sought the marriage. Once wed, the couple returned to Śrāvastī, where Suvarṇadeva's own household prepared a magnificent offering, inviting the Buddha and the assembled sangha. The Buddha accepted their invitation, and, for the elder and the couple, expounded the wondrous Dharma at length, and all of them attained the fruit of stream-entry. When the Buddha returned to his own monastery, Suvarṇadeva and his wife asked their own parents for permission to go forth, which was granted, and the couple went together to the Buddha. The Buddha said: welcome, monks — and their hair fell away of itself, monastic robes appearing on their bodies, and they became monks and nuns at once, gradually taught and converted until both attained arhatship.

The Buddha explained: long ago, after the buddha Vipaśyin's own nirvāṇa, his teaching still remained in the world, and monks, traveling and teaching, came once to a certain village, where the wealthy and eminent elders there competed to make offerings to them. Among the villagers, a poor husband and wife, destitute and hungry, reflected to themselves: when my own father was alive, our household's wealth overflowed — now I find myself in such extreme poverty; how bitter this is! Even in our former wealth, we never once encountered so noble an assembly as this — and now, having finally encountered it, we have no money to make any offering at all — and, grieving, they wept. The wife, seeing her husband weep, told him: go now to our own former storeroom, and search there for whatever coin or treasure might remain. The husband did as she said, and found a single gold coin in the old storeroom. His wife, who owned a single bright mirror, resolved together with him to offer both in giving: they bought a new jar, filled it with clean water, placed the gold coin within the water, and set the mirror atop it, bringing this offering with a sincere heart to the assembled sangha. The monks accepted it, some taking the water to wash their own bowls, others drinking from it directly. The husband and wife, filled with joy, soon after fell ill and died, and were reborn in Trāyastriṃśa heaven. That poor couple were none other than Suvarṇadeva and his own wife (Source: Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish, fascicle 5).

A caravan-leader named Devarakṣita traveled to the kingdom of Roruka, ever delighting in giving and possessed of deep faith in the Buddha. Before setting out to sea, he vowed: should I return safely, I shall hold a five-year great assembly within the Buddha's own teaching — a vow known throughout the kingdom, among devas and humans alike. An arhat nun, traveling to that same kingdom, reflected and observed, and, knowing that Devarakṣita had indeed returned safely and would hold his five-year assembly, inviting eighteen thousand monks, all arhats, with twice that number of trainees and countless ordinary monks besides, went to see the senior monk there, named Asāḍha — an ordinary monk of great diligence. Entering the monastery, she bowed in her turn, and said to him: great one, you are not properly dignified in bearing. The senior monk, reflecting to himself, wondered why he should be called undignified, and, examining his own body, found his hair and beard grown long, and had a young monk shave them at once. The nun again declared him undignified, and he had his own robes washed and dyed as well. The nun returned to the monastery once more and still said the same. The senior monk, now angered, said: I have already shaved my hair and beard, and washed and dyed my own robes — why do you still call me undignified? The nun answered: within the Buddha's own teaching, it is the attainment of the fourth fruit that constitutes true dignity. Great one, have you heard that the caravan-leader Devarakṣita has proclaimed, with a lion's own roar, his five-year great assembly? He answered that he had. She asked: great one, you are an ordinary man, yet the very foremost senior monk here, receiving offerings before even the arhats in this assembly — is this itself not a form of adornment you lack? Only then did the senior monk understand, and wept in his own distress. The nun asked why he wept, and he answered: sister, I am now old, and no longer capable of anything. The nun told him: the Tathāgata's own Dharma may be realized at any time, without regard for age — great one, you should go to the Nadi-Bhadra monastery, to the monk Upagupta, foretold by the Buddha himself as foremost in teaching and converting others among his disciples.

The elder monk went there, and Upagupta came out to greet him, saying: great one, wash your feet and rest. He answered: I have not yet washed my feet — I wish first to see Upagupta himself. Upagupta's own disciples said: great one, this very man before you is Upagupta, come out to greet you — and, greatly delighted, he washed his feet at once. Upagupta then taught and converted him, sought out a lay donor for him, and provided him with bathing, food, and every kind of offering, telling the monastery's own overseer: there is now a monk here who has attained the two liberations — have him enter the meditation hall — and all eighteen thousand arhats entered the meditation hall together. The monk sat in the seat of the first dhyāna; Upagupta then entered the samādhi of fire-radiance, and all eighteen thousand arhats likewise entered that same samādhi together. The monk, witnessing this, felt joy arise in his own heart, and, through Upagupta's own teaching, applied himself diligently in reflection and attained arhatship, then returned to his own homeland. The arhat nun, going to the monastery, bowed and said: today, great one, you are truly adorned. He answered: sister, this is entirely your own doing.

At the five-year assembly, Devarakṣita asked the senior monk: the World-Honored One taught the Dharma in countless ways — is what you yourself now teach the same, or different? The senior monk answered: ninety-one kalpas ago, we ourselves were caravan-leaders who went to sea for treasure, vowing to fill our ship entirely before returning to Jambudvīpa — but, meeting a great storm, our ship was driven onto a sea of sand. There, we built a stūpa of sand in honor of the buddha Vipaśyin and made offerings to it. Certain devas then showed us the way, telling us that in seven days a great flood would come and lift our ship free, carrying it back to Jambudvīpa — and, when the seventh day came, it happened exactly as the devas had said. Through the merit of that very sand stūpa, across ninety-one kalpas, we never once fell into an evil rebirth, and have now attained arhatship. You yourself have now made offerings to so vast an assembly, gathered within the Three Jewels — I now pronounce this very blessing upon you: may the suffering of birth and death, boundless as it is, soon come to its end for you as well; you should now go forth yourself. Devarakṣita, accepting this instruction, became a monk at once, and attained the arhat's own path (Source: Sūtra of King Aśoka, fascicle 9).

In the kingdom of Pāṭaliputra there lived a caravan-leader named Sudāna. When the intermediate-state being destined to become his son entered his own mother's womb, it caused her, from that moment, to become honest, upright, and gentle, free of every wicked thought. Her husband, puzzled, asked a seer about this, who answered: you are carrying a truly good child. In time a son was born, named Surata. As he grew, he asked to go forth, and his parents consented; through diligent practice, he attained the fruit of arhatship (Source: Āgama Sūtra, fascicle 25).

The monk Kṣema fell gravely ill, suffering great pain. The monk Dāsaka attended him as his own caretaker. The senior monks instructed Dāsaka to teach Kṣema the Dharma of the five aggregates of clinging, sending him back and forth twice to do so. Kṣema then told Dāsaka: why trouble you with such running back and forth? Bring me a staff, and I shall support myself and go to the senior monks directly. The senior monks, seeing Kṣema approach, leaning on his staff from a distance, arranged a seat for him themselves and had him sit, then continued their earlier discussion together — at which Kṣema himself began to teach the Dharma. The senior monks, hearing it, had every defilement dissolve and attained the pure Dharma-eye; Kṣema himself, though his own outflows had not yet arisen fully exhausted, found his own mind liberated (Source: Sūtra of the Simile of the Monk Kṣema's Grave Illness).

Long ago, the Buddha dwelt in Śrāvastī. His disciple Koṭi fell back from the fruit of arhatship six times in succession. Reaching the seventh attempt, he felt himself on the verge of true realization, yet, fearing he might fall back once more, took up a sharp blade and killed himself. At that time the wicked Māra sought to know into what realm this monk's own spirit had passed, but could not discover it, and went to ask the Buddha. The World-Honored One told him: the monk Koṭi has already attained liberation — his own consciousness has merged with emptiness itself, becoming one with it. The wicked Māra, hearing this, was filled with bitter distress, and threw his own whole body into a pool of blue lotuses to bathe — but the pool's own water boiled up and vanished entirely. Because of this event, the assembled monks all applied themselves ever more diligently, fearing they too might otherwise fall back (Source: Sūtra of the Monk Koṭi).

Long ago, in a kingdom named Tāmraliptī, seven li from the city stood a monastery where five hundred monks constantly recited the sūtras and practiced the path. Among them lived an elder monk, Mahallaka, dull and slow of understanding, whom the five hundred fellow monks together tried repeatedly to teach — yet, across several years, he could not master even a single verse, and the others, holding him in contempt, no longer included him in their own gatherings, but kept him always at the monastery, assigned only to sweeping.

Later, the king invited the assembled monks into his own palace for an offering. Mahallaka, reflecting to himself, thought: I have lived in this world so dull and slow that I cannot even master a single verse, and am held in contempt by everyone — what use is it to go on living like this? — and, taking up a rope, went to a great tree in the rear garden, intending to hang himself. The Buddha, seeing this from afar with his own eye of the path, transformed himself into a tree spirit, manifesting only the upper half of a human body, and rebuked him: monk, why do you do this? Mahallaka then explained his own bitter hardship in full. The transformed spirit rebuked him further: do not do this — listen first to what I have to say. Long ago, in the time of the buddha Kāśyapa, you were a monk versed in the Three Baskets, with five hundred disciples of your own — but, considering yourself learned, you grew contemptuous of others, begrudging the true meaning of the scriptures and never properly instructing them. It is for this very reason that, life after life since, your own faculties have remained dull and slow — you ought to blame only yourself for this, not despise your own life because of it.

At this the World-Honored One manifested his own radiant form and taught him a wondrous verse. Mahallaka bowed at the Buddha's own feet, and, reflecting on the verse's own meaning, entered samādhi at once, and, still there before the Buddha, attained arhatship — recalling in that same instant his own countless past lives, the entire Three Baskets of scripture now held clearly within his own mind.

The Buddha told Mahallaka: put on your robe, take up your bowl, and go to the royal palace to eat, seated above the five hundred monks there — for these very monks were, in your own past life, your own five hundred disciples; teach them the Dharma once more, that they too may attain a glimpse of the path, and let the king besides come to a clear understanding of merit and sin. Mahallaka, receiving this instruction, entered the palace and took the highest seat. The assembled monks, resentful and puzzled at this, held back only out of deference to the king's own wishes, not daring to have him removed, believing him simply too foolish and dull even to know the proper blessing-verse for a meal, and grew weary at the thought. Once the king had personally served the food with his own hands, Mahallaka then pronounced the blessing himself, his voice resounding like thunder, his own eloquent words falling like rain — and the assembled monks, astonished, repented at once, and all attained arhatship. Teaching the Dharma further to the king, none who heard it failed to understand, and the assembled ministers and officials all attained the fruit of stream-entry (Source: Dharmapada, Sūtra of Similes, fascicle 1).

Panthaka Recites "Sweep," Forgets "Broom"

Cūḍapanthaka's own elder brother told him: if you cannot even keep the precepts properly, you should return to lay life instead. Panthaka went to the gate of Jetavana and wept. The Buddha asked him why he grieved, and, told his brother's own words, said: do not be afraid — my own attainment of unsurpassed, perfect awakening did not depend on your brother at all. Taking Panthaka by the hand, the Buddha led him to a quiet room, and taught him to hold a broom and recite the word "sweep" as he used it. Panthaka, reciting "sweep," forgot "broom"; reciting "broom," forgot "sweep." After several days of this, he came at last to understand that "broom" also means "to remove defilement." Panthaka reflected: just as dust, dirt, and gravel are removed to leave a place clean, so too are the bonds of affliction a kind of defilement, removable only through wisdom — I shall now use the very broom of wisdom to sweep away every one of my own bonds and fetters (Source: Ekottarika Āgama, fascicle 1).

Cūḍapanthaka Recites a Single Verse and Understands Its Meaning

The Buddha dwelt in Śrāvastī. There lived a monk named Panthaka, newly ordained, by nature dull and slow of understanding. The Buddha had five hundred arhats teach him daily, yet across three full years he could not master even a single verse, and the fourfold assembly throughout the kingdom knew him for his own foolishness. The Buddha, taking pity on him, called him forward and gave him a single verse to learn: guard your own mouth, gather your own mind, and let your own body commit no wrong — one who practices thus is delivered from the world. Panthaka, moved by the Buddha's own compassionate grace, rejoiced, and his mind opened at once, the verse now readily upon his own lips.

The Buddha told him: you are now old, and have only just mastered a single verse — everyone already knows of this, and it is nothing remarkable in itself; I shall now explain its own meaning for you. One mind; three of body, four of speech, three of mind — observe their own arising, and observe their own cessation; the three realms and five paths turn without rest — through this same turning, one ascends to heaven, or falls into the abyss, or attains the path; nirvāṇa itself follows naturally. Explaining this teaching point by point, boundless and wondrous in its own implications, Panthaka's mind opened in a flash of insight, and he attained arhatship.

At that time there were five hundred nuns dwelling in a separate monastery of their own. The Buddha would send a monk each day to teach them the sūtras and the Dharma; the next day it was to be Panthaka's own turn. The nuns, hearing this, all smiled among themselves in advance, saying: when he comes tomorrow, we shall recite his own verse back to him first, and leave him too ashamed to say a single word. The next day, Panthaka arrived, and the nuns, young and old, all came out to bow, glancing at one another and smiling. Once seated, the meal was served; once finished and hands washed, they asked him to teach the Dharma. Panthaka ascended the high seat and, humbly, said: my own virtue is slight, my own talent poor, unworthy even to be called a monk — dull and slow by nature, I have learned little, knowing only a single verse, though I grasp its own meaning roughly — I shall now expound it for you; please listen quietly, each of you. The young nuns, intending to recite the verse back to him first, found their own mouths simply would not open, and, startled and ashamed, bowed in repentance. Panthaka then, exactly as the Buddha had taught him, explained point by point the causes rooted in body and mind, sin and merit, within and without, ascent to heaven and attainment of the path, the stilling of the spirit and cutting off of thought in the very method of meditative absorption. The nuns, hearing this exposition, marveled greatly at its own wonder, and, filled with a single-minded joy, all attained arhatship.

Later, King Prasenajit invited the Buddha and the sangha to a gathering in the main hall of the palace. The Buddha, wishing to display Panthaka's own majestic spiritual power, gave him a bowl to carry and had him follow behind — but the gatekeeper, recognizing him, barred his entry, saying: you are a monk who could not even master a single verse — what use will you be at this very gathering? Even I, a layman, know that verse — how much more should a monk know it, with wisdom to spare! You have nothing to offer here — there is no need for you to enter. Panthaka simply stood outside the gate.

The Buddha, seated in the hall, had already had the water passed round for the meal to begin — and Panthaka, lifting the bowl, extended his own arm from afar, offering it to the Buddha across the distance. The king, his ministers, his queen, the crown prince, and the whole fourfold assembly there, seeing only an arm appear without a body attached, were astonished, and asked the Buddha whose arm this was. The Buddha answered: this is the worthy monk Panthaka's own arm. The king said: has he then attained the path? I had sent for him to bring the bowl, but the gatekeeper would not let him enter — and so he has extended his own arm to pass me the bowl instead. The king then had him invited in, his own majestic spirit now redoubled. The king said to the Buddha: I have heard that the venerable Panthaka was by nature foolish and dull, and only recently mastered a single verse — how, then, did he come to attain the path at all? The Buddha told the king: learning need not be extensive — conduct is what matters most. The worthy Panthaka, having understood the meaning of but a single verse, penetrated it to its very essence, his own body, speech, and mind now still and pure as heavenly gold — whereas one who has learned much yet does not practice it accordingly gains nothing from his own memory at all; what benefit is there in that? At this the World-Honored One spoke this verse:

"Though one recites a thousand chapters, if their own meaning is not grasped rightly, this avails nothing — better a single essential teaching, heard once, that can dissolve confusion.
Though one recites a thousand words, without their own true meaning, what benefit is there? Better a single true meaning, heard and practiced, that can bring one across.
Though one recites many sūtras, without understanding, what benefit is there? Understanding a single verse and practicing it — this alone brings one to the path."

Hearing this same verse together, two hundred monks attained arhatship on the spot; the king, his ministers, his queen, and the crown prince all rejoiced without exception (Source: Dharmapada, fascicle 1).

The Blessed One dwelt at Jetavana, in Anāthapiṇḍada's Park in Śrāvastī. At that time a group of monks, robed and bowl in hand, entered the city to beg, and heard, outside King Prasenajit's own palace gate, a great crowd of people weeping and calling out to one another, saying: in this land there is a great and wicked bandit, named Aṅgulimāla, who kills the people without mercy, giving no rest to any village — killing each victim and taking a single finger to string into a garland, and it is for this reason he is called "Finger-Garland." May the king now subdue this man. The monks, once they had eaten, reported this fully to the Buddha, who at once went there himself.

Woodcutters, herders, farmers, and travelers along the road all warned the World-Honored One: śramaṇa, do not take this road — for Aṅgulimāla dwells along it, killing the people without mercy, every town and village there already ravaged by him, taking a finger from each victim for his own garland — we fear he may harm you, World-Honored One. Yet the Buddha continued onward regardless. Aṅgulimāla, seeing the World-Honored One approach from a distance, thought: this śramaṇa comes alone, with no companion — I shall kill him — and, drawing his own sword, went toward the Buddha. The World-Honored One, seeing this, turned and walked away — and Aṅgulimāla pursued him, exerting his own full strength, yet could never catch up. Aṅgulimāla reflected: I can outrun even an elephant, a horse, a chariot, a raging bull, or any man — yet this śramaṇa walks no faster than usual, and still I cannot catch him however hard I try. Aṅgulimāla called out from a distance: stop, stop, śramaṇa! The World-Honored One answered: I have long since stopped — it is you who have not stopped. Aṅgulimāla, reflecting on his own evil conduct, at once cast aside his sword, prostrated himself, and asked to become a monk and receive the full precepts. The Buddha said: welcome, monk — and his hair fell away of itself, as though freshly shaved, his own clothing transforming into a monastic robe. The Buddha taught him the Dharma, and he attained arhatship.

King Prasenajit then gathered his own fourfold army and set out from Śrāvastī, intending to go and kill this same bandit Aṅgulimāla — but, passing the World-Honored One first, he told him of his own intent. The World-Honored One said: were the king now to see Aṅgulimāla with his own hair and beard shaved, wearing the three monastic robes, his faith firm as he studies the path, what would the king then do? The king answered: were that truly so, I would only greet him with respect, harboring no wish to harm him at all — yet how could such a violent, merciless man ever truly practice a monk's own conduct? At that moment Aṅgulimāla sat not far from the Buddha, cross-legged, his body upright, his mind fixed in mindfulness. The Buddha raised his own hand and pointed him out to the king — who, seeing Aṅgulimāla, was seized with terror, every hair on his body standing on end. The Buddha told him not to fear, and to go speak with him himself.

King Prasenajit then went to Aṅgulimāla, bowed his head at his feet, and stood to one side, asking: venerable one, what is your own name now? Aṅgulimāla answered: great king, my name is Gagga; my mother's name is Mantānī. The king said: strive on well — for the rest of my own life, I shall provide for the venerable Gagga's every need, robes, food, medicine for illness, and bedding, sparing nothing, and shall always protect him according to the Dharma. King Prasenajit then bowed at his feet, circled him three times in reverence, and, going to the World-Honored One, said: World-Honored One, what you yourself could not subdue by other means, you have subdued after all (Source: Ekottarika Āgama, fascicle 19).

There are those who, though they have cut off every affliction entirely, still retain certain traces of affliction in their own body and speech — traces that, seen or heard by ordinary people, still give rise to impure thoughts in them. The arhat Mṛgabandhaka, for five hundred lifetimes reborn as a monkey, though he has now attained the path, still leaps and bounds through the trees exactly as before — and foolish people, seeing this, feel only contempt toward him. Likewise, the arhat Pilindavatsa, for five hundred lifetimes reborn as a brahmin, grew accustomed across those same lifetimes to a habit of contempt toward others — and now, though he has attained the path, still addresses the spirit of the Ganges as "little slave girl, stop your flow." The river spirit, offended, brought her complaint before the Buddha, who told her to accept his apology — yet he still addressed her as "little slave girl" even then, for the Buddha himself is entirely free of such habitual traces, and so shows no difference at all between what pleases and what offends him. When a certain brahmin once reviled the Buddha with five hundred separate insults, the Buddha showed not the slightest anger; and when that same brahmin, his heart then turned to delight, later praised the Buddha with five hundred separate compliments in turn, the Buddha showed not the slightest pleasure either. Know, then, that the Buddha's own habitual traces of affliction are entirely exhausted — this is why good and ill make no difference to him at all (Source: Mahāprajñāpāramitā-śāstra, fascicle 84).

The Buddha dwelt in the Bamboo Grove at Rājagṛha. Four brothers of a great family, their parents having died young, quarreled over the division of the household estate. Seeing Śāriputra, they asked him, delighted, to settle the matter for them, that they might quarrel no further. Śāriputra said: excellent — I have a great teacher, the Buddha, most honored throughout the three realms; follow me, and we shall go to him together, and the matter will surely be resolved. The four brothers followed Śāriputra to the Buddha, who, seeing them from a distance, smiled, and five-colored light streamed from him. The four brothers bowed to the Buddha and said: we are foolish and confused — we beg the Buddha to explain this matter for us, that we might quarrel no longer.

The Buddha said: long ago there was a king named Vairocana, who fell ill in his own body, and summoned a physician to attend him — the prescribed medicine required a lion's own milk. The king proclaimed throughout the land that whoever obtained it would receive a portion of land and his own youngest daughter in marriage. A poor man came forward and declared he could obtain it, and the king consented. This man, being clever, first sought out the lion's own dwelling, then killed a sheep and prepared several bushels of grape wine, bringing these to the mountain and waiting for the lion to emerge. Once it did, he set out the meat and wine in its place; the lion, seeing them, ate and drank until entirely drunk, and lay down — whereupon the man came forward, took the milk he needed, and returned rejoicing.

Before reaching his own kingdom, he stopped for the night in a village, where an arhat also happened to be lodging, having likewise pursued the lion along that same difficult road, and, utterly exhausted, fell asleep without awareness of anything around him. The monk, observing this man's own six sense-faculties, saw them each quarreling among themselves over their own credit. The foot-spirit said: it was through my own walking that we reached this place and obtained the milk. The hand-spirit said: it was through my own grasping that it was taken. The eye-spirit said: it was through my own seeing that it was found. The ear-spirit said: it was through my own hearing of the king's own request that we were brought here at all. The tongue-spirit then said: you are all quarreling over this for nothing — the true credit belongs to me alone; whether this man now lives or dies rests entirely with me.

The man carried the milk to the king and reported: I have now obtained the lion's own milk, and it awaits outside. The king said: bring it in at once. But the moment the king saw the milk, the tongue-spirit spoke through the man's own mouth: this is not lion's milk at all — it is merely donkey's milk. The king, hearing this, grew furious: I sent you to obtain lion's milk, yet you bring me donkey's milk instead! — and moved to have him killed at once. The monk who had lodged with him that same night then arrived through his own supernormal power before the king and reported: this is truly lion's milk — I myself lodged together with this man in that same village, and saw his own six bodily faculties quarreling over their own credit; the tongue said, "I shall contradict you all" — and now, indeed, it has done exactly this. The king, if he simply compounds this milk into medicine, will surely be cured by it.

The king, believing the arhat's own word, used the milk to compound his medicine, married his own daughter to the man exactly as promised, and granted him land as well. The monk then told the king: even a single person's own body can turn against itself in this way — how much more, then, might one person turn against another? The man who had obtained the milk, moved by the monk's own kindness, asked to become a monk himself, and, his mind opening, attained arhatship. The king too, rejoicing, received the five precepts and attained the fruit of stream-entry.

The four brothers, hearing this story, understood its own meaning at once, and asked the Buddha's leave to become monks themselves. The Buddha consented in silence, and, stroking each of their heads with his own hand, their hair fell away and monastic robes appeared upon their bodies, every fetter dissolving, every defilement cleared away. Ānanda asked: what merit did these four brothers possess in the past, that, hearing this teaching, their own understanding came so quickly, and arhatship followed so soon after? The Buddha answered: long ago, in the time of the buddha Mahāpitṛ, Śāriputra was then a monk, and these four brothers were merchants, who together offered him a single monastic robe. Śāriputra pronounced a blessing over them, that they might attain swift liberation in a future life — and it is through Śāriputra's own blessing that they have now attained this very liberation (Source: Sūtra of the Simile of King Vairocana and the Lion's Milk).

There was a man who, going forth under the true Dharma, proved capable of useful service, and, wherever he stayed, the monks there had him serve in this way. In time, growing exhausted by it, he reflected: who might teach and guide me properly? Hearing of Upagupta in the kingdom of Mathurā, foretold by the Buddha as foremost among later disciples in teaching others, he went and bowed before him with joined palms, saying: great one, please carry out the Buddha's own great work and teach me the Dharma. Upagupta answered: if you can follow my own instruction, I shall teach you. He agreed. Upagupta asked: at the Nadi-Bhadra monastery, how many monks are there, that you might serve them further? He answered: eighteen thousand arhats, twice that number of trainees, and countless diligent ordinary monks besides. The monk then served this entire assembly, that all of them might devote themselves single-mindedly to their own cultivation.

One morning, this serving monk rose early, robed himself, and took up his bowl to enter the kingdom of Mathurā; an elder, going out that same morning, happened to meet him, and, reflecting that he had never seen this monk before, bowed at his feet and asked: great one, where have you come from, and for what purpose? He answered: I have come from an eastern land to Upagupta's own place, wishing to hear the Dharma — but Upagupta has instead set me to serving the sangha, and I do not even know who among the people of Mathurā is diligent in practice and who is not. The elder said: you need not trouble yourself over this matter any further — I myself shall take on the serving of the sangha in your place, providing all their food, clothing, and medicine. And so it was that this elder, together with the monk, together provided food and offerings for the entire assembly. Through the merit of this same offering, sustained throughout the three months of the rains retreat, the monk in time attained the fruit of the path.

In the kingdom of Mathurā there lived a man who asked his own parents for permission to go forth, and went to Upagupta, bowing reverently and asking: great one, may I become a monk? Upagupta, seeing that this man's own body was still bound by attachment, told him: welcome — I shall let you go forth. Delighted, the man bowed at his feet, but asked leave first to return briefly to his own home. Along the road, he reflected: should I go home now, some obstacle might well arise to prevent my return — and so, that evening, he lodged instead at a spirit-shrine along the way (the Mahāprajñāpāramitā-śāstra calls it an empty house).

Upagupta then transformed himself into two rākṣasas — one carrying a corpse, the other empty-handed — who entered the shrine together, each claiming the corpse as his own prize, quarreling without resolution, and asked this man to settle the matter: who had brought the corpse here? The man, reflecting that he must not lie, answered truthfully. The empty-handed demon then seized his own arm and made to devour it; the other, the one who had brought the corpse, helped tear it apart in turn — and, in this way, the man barely escaped with his own life, badly mauled, the ordeal continuing a long while until daybreak finally came.

Two days later, he returned to Upagupta's own place and went forth as a monk, practicing diligently, and attained arhatship (Source: Sūtra of King Aśoka, fascicle 9; also found in the Mahāprajñāpāramitā-śāstra, fascicle 12).

Long ago, a great many people, gathered along a riverbank, were swept away and killed by the flooding waters, their numbers beyond counting — of these, only one in ten thousand escaped alive. One man who survived the deep waters went to the Buddha and asked to become a monk. The Buddha consented, and let him take his place at the very end of the assembly's own ranks — though inwardly this man still believed himself merely to have escaped hardship, nothing more. The Buddha taught the Dharma and urged him to practice the path, and, in his own heart, this monk grew ashamed at his own shallow understanding, and, coming to understand that all things are impermanent, his mind opened and settled, calm and free of every thought — and, right there before the Buddha, he attained arhatship (Source: Sūtra of Becoming a Śramaṇa).

In the time of the buddha Kāśyapa, two brothers both became monks — the elder kept the precepts and sat in meditation, single-mindedly seeking the path, yet never gave in charity; the younger practiced giving and cultivated merit, yet delighted in breaking the precepts. The elder brother, going forth again under Śākyamuni, attained arhatship, yet his own robes never sufficed and his own food never satisfied him; the younger brother was reborn as an elephant, of such great strength that it could repel any enemy, cherished by the king himself, adorned with gold, silver, jewels, and necklaces, its own upkeep supported by several hundred households granted for that very purpose, provided with whatever it needed.

At a time of great famine in the world, the elder brother, now a monk, traveled begging for seven days without obtaining anything at all, and, at last, received only a little coarse food, barely enough to sustain his own life. Knowing that this elephant had once been his own younger brother in a former life, he went to it, took hold of its own ear with his hand, and said: long ago, you and I together bore the same fault. The elephant, hearing the monk's own words, recognized its own past life at once, seeing clearly the karmic causes of its former existence, and, grieving, refused to eat. The elephant's own keeper, alarmed, reported to the king that the elephant would not eat, and did not know why. The king asked the keeper whether anyone had approached or offended the elephant recently, and the keeper answered: no one unusual — only a single monk, who came to the elephant's side briefly and then left. The king sent men to find this monk, and asked him: what did you say to my elephant? The monk answered: I only told it, "You and I together bear the same fault." The monk then explained the whole matter to the king as above. The king, understanding at once, released the monk to return to his own dwelling (Source: Miscellaneous Similes Sūtra, fascicle 4).

In the kingdom of Vaiśālī there lived five hundred blind people, who supported themselves by begging. Hearing that the Buddha had appeared in the world, and that all who encountered him, whatever their own affliction or illness, found relief, and that the poor received clothing and food, their own grief and hardship entirely dissolved, the blind people conferred together: our own sins have accumulated and our own suffering is especially severe — should we truly encounter the Buddha, we would surely find deliverance. They resolved to beg together until each had gathered a single gold coin, to be used in hiring someone to guide them to Śrāvastī. Having begged for some time, each had gathered his own coin, and they called out: who among you will lead us there? We shall pay five hundred coins in all for the trouble.

A man came forward and, agreeing to the price, told the blind people to hold onto one another in a chain, while he himself led the way at the front. He led them instead to the kingdom of Magadha, and, abandoning them there in a deserted wilderness, took the money and left. The blind people, not even knowing what kingdom they were now in, groped and held onto one another, trampling through a farmer's own fields and damaging his crops. The field's own owner, discovering this, grew furious, striking and beating them; the beggars, crying out in distress, explained the whole affair — and the elder, taking pity, sent a guide to lead them onward to Śrāvastī. But, on reaching that kingdom, they learned the World-Honored One had already gone on to Magadha — and so their own guide led them there instead. The blind people, their hearts fixed devotedly on the Buddha, longing to see him, found that though their own physical eyes remained shut, the eye of their own mind had already, in a sense, seen him — and, rejoicing, gave no thought to their own weariness. Reaching Magadha, they learned the World-Honored One had already returned to Śrāvastī — and so this pursuit continued back and forth some seven times in all.

The Tathāgata, observing that these blind people's own roots of goodness had at last fully ripened, halted and waited for them. As the Buddha's own light touched their bodies, their eyes opened at once, and they saw the Tathāgata himself, surrounded by the fourfold assembly, his body radiant like a mountain of pure gold. They came before the Buddha, threw themselves to the ground, and bowed, crying out together with one voice: we beg only that you take pity on us, and let us follow in your own train. The Buddha said: welcome, monks — and their hair fell away of itself, monastic robes appearing upon their bodies. The Buddha taught them the Dharma further, and all of them attained arhatship (Source: Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish, fascicle 6).

In the streets of Śrāvastī there lived a caṇḍāla boy (the Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish calls him Nīti) who made his own living removing others' waste. One day the World-Honored One, entering the city to beg, happened to come to his own household's street; the boy, carrying his own load of waste, moved to avoid the Tathāgata by turning down another lane, but the Buddha came toward him regardless. The boy thought to himself: I carry this unclean burden — how could I possibly presume to approach the World-Honored One today? — and fled instead toward an open marsh. The Buddha called out to him from a distance: I have come here for your own sake. The boy answered: I dare not draw near you — I do not understand why the World-Honored One should trouble himself to speak so kindly with a sinner such as myself. The World-Honored One told him: I wish to deliver you — will you become a monk? The boy asked the Buddha: can even one destined for hell or the animal realms attain the path? The Buddha answered: I have come into this world for the very purpose of delivering beings such as you, mired in suffering and sin.

The Buddha then took the boy by the hand and rose with him into the sky, carrying him to the bank of the Ganges, where he bathed his own body, then brought him on to Jetavana and instructed the assembled monks to receive him as a fellow monk. The boy applied himself with diligence, growing daily in his own practice, and within ten days attained the fruit of stream-entry; before long, he attained arhatship as well, his own six supernormal powers now clear and unhindered, moving freely between rising and vanishing at will. He would go to a great flat rock and sit at its very center, mending his own worn-out robes.

King Prasenajit, hearing that the Buddha had delivered a caṇḍāla boy, reflected that the Buddha himself came from the noble Śākya clan, and that his attendant disciples too all came from the four noble castes — coming to receive offerings within his own palace, they bowed and were received with the utmost reverence — yet now, hearing that the Tathāgata had gone forth and delivered a caṇḍāla, the king wondered how he could possibly show him the same reverence, and resolved to go and rebuke the Buddha himself for this. But, before he even arrived, the king saw ahead of him a monk seated on the great flat rock, surrounded and venerated by five hundred devas of the pure abodes. The king approached and said: please tell the World-Honored One that King Prasenajit wishes to see him. The monk, hearing this, sank at once into the very rock and vanished, emerging instead at the monastery to report to the Buddha, who said he already knew the time had come. The monk then rose up again out of the rock and told the king: the Tathāgata has instructed that you first ask this very monk himself how he came to enter such solid rock, rising and sinking through it freely at will.

The king went before the Buddha, bowed at his feet, and sat to one side, then asked: who was that monk just now, that he possessed such supernormal power? The Buddha told the king: this was the very man who once removed others' own waste for a living. The World-Honored One, on this occasion, spoke two verses, likening this to a filthy, foul field, a deep ditch, or a low pit, from which nonetheless grows a fragrant, pure lotus flower — and asked: great king, would not a clear-sighted man of wisdom still gather such a flower, wherever it grew? The king answered: World-Honored One, so fragrant and pure a flower, wherever found, ought surely to be gathered and used to adorn even something otherwise filthy — for even the womb itself, in which we are all conceived, produces the very flower of merit within it. The king then said to the Buddha: that man has truly gained a benefit beyond ordinary reckoning — from this day forward, I shall myself provide the four requisites in support of this very monk (Source: Sūtra of the Caṇḍāla Boy).

Long ago, the Buddha dwelt in the kingdom of Magadha, in the Āmra grove, within a stone cave north of the city. A great many hunters, entering the mountains to hunt, set out nets and snares everywhere, killing countless deer, and climbed back up the mountain afterward. One deer, caught in one such snare, cried out loudly in distress. The hunters, hearing this, rushed toward the sound — and, in their own haste, fell one after another into their own snares, injuring a great many of their own number. Though none died from it, their wounds were extremely severe, the pain beyond words; supporting one another, they barely made it home, seeking ointments and medicine to treat their own injuries, while their own families and relatives went out to retrieve the bodies of those who had died, mourning them at length.

Among those who had been wounded, once their own injuries had healed, a deep disgust arose within them for the hunt itself — for their own past karmic conditions had ripened, the seeds of goodness within them now ready to bear fruit — and they gave up their own households to study the path, becoming monks. At that time the World-Honored One, surrounded by a great multitude of beings numbering in the hundreds of thousands, taught them the Dharma, wishing to root out their own past conduct entirely and establish true merit in its place, revealing and teaching them to forsake birth and death forever and dwell always in the hall of blessing. Before the whole assembly, he spoke this verse:

"Just as one who crafts his own arrow may wound himself with it in turn, so too the inward arrow — the arrow of craving wounds all beings alike."

These same hunters, though now monks, had not yet fully understood this themselves, until the Tathāgata that very day bore witness that they had indeed once been hunters — and, filled with their own inward shame, reflecting on their own past faults, dwelt in quiet solitude, applying themselves to calm and insight, their minds fixed and undistracted. It was for this very reason that these sons of good family shaved their own hair and beard, donned the three monastic robes, and went forth to study the path, cultivating the unsurpassed pure conduct, bearing witness to it in their own person and finding their own joy in it — birth and death now exhausted, the pure conduct now established, their own task now complete, never again to undergo birth and death, knowing this truly as it is. At that time, all these monks attained arhatship, their own six supernormal powers clear and unhindered, free of every obstruction — and it was for this reason that this verse was spoken:

"One who can awaken to this truth — that craving and suffering arise together — free of desire, free of any such notion, the monk applies himself single-mindedly to his own deliverance" (Source: Sūtra of the Hunters Who Gave Up Their Households to Study the Path).