Thirty-One Short Lives

In Śrāvastī there lived a wealthy elder of immeasurable fortune, yet without any child, and his heart was constantly troubled by this; he prayed and made offerings with the utmost sincerity. In time his wife bore a son, of rare and fine appearance. The parents and their whole extended family, gathering once for a festival, went together to the bank of a great river to eat and enjoy themselves. The parents brought their child to the gathering, cherishing him, carrying him on their shoulders in turn as they danced; once the father had finished dancing, the mother carried him in turn, both delighting in their own joy — but, drawing near the river's edge, her attention scattered for a moment, and her own grip failed, and the child fell into the water. They reached for him at once but could not recover him. The parents, grieving and heartbroken, searched in vain — yet the child's own store of merit kept him from death even then: carried along by the current, he was swallowed whole by a fish, and, though within its belly, still did not die.

Downstream, in a village, there lived a wealthy household likewise without a child, who had sought one everywhere without success, and who kept a servant whose own trade was catching fish. This servant happened to catch the very fish that had swallowed the boy, and, cutting open its belly, found the child within, and presented him to his own master. The master, examining him, rejoiced, saying: my own household has long prayed to the spirits for a child, and heaven has now, in its own sincere response, granted me one — and, cherishing him, raised him as his own.

The boy's own upstream parents, hearing that a downstream elder had found a child within a fish's belly, went there and claimed him as their own, saying: this is our own son, lost in the river at such a time — we beg you to return him. The elder answered: my own household has long prayed for a child, and the spirits have now granted me one in response — where, then, is your own lost son? Neither side able to settle the matter, they brought their dispute before the king. Each family stated its own claim — the true parents insisting they had lost their child in the river at such a time, the elder insisting he had found the boy within a fish's own belly, and that the child was truly his own, not theirs. The king, unable to determine the truth, judged the matter as follows: you two elders may each give the child your own name — it would not be right to award him to one family alone; instead, you shall both provide for him jointly until he is grown, and each arrange a marriage for him in turn, settling him in two separate households — whatever children are born to the wife in one household shall belong to that family, and whatever children are born to the wife in the other shall belong to that family in turn. Both elders accepted the king's own judgment.

As the boy grew, both households arranged marriages for him in turn, providing for his every need without lack. The boy then told his two sets of parents: since my own birth, I have endured great hardship and peril, falling into the water and swallowed by a fish, brought to the very edge of death before being saved — I now wish to go forth myself; I beg you, my parents, to grant me leave. Both sets of parents, though cherishing him dearly, could not bring themselves to refuse, and consented. He went to the Buddha and asked to enter the path. The Buddha said: welcome — and his hair fell away of itself, and he became a monk at once, given the name Dvija-nāma, "Twice-Named." The Buddha taught him the Dharma, and he exhausted every suffering and attained arhatship.

The Buddha explained: long ago, in the far distant past, there arose a buddha named Vipaśyin, who gathered a great assembly to teach the wondrous Dharma. An elder, coming to that assembly and hearing the teaching of the merit of giving and upholding the precepts, gave rise to a faithful, reverent heart, and took the threefold refuge and the precept against killing, further offering a single coin to that buddha — and, life after life since, has enjoyed blessing and wealth without lack. That elder's son is now the monk Dvija-nāma himself. Through his own offering of a single coin to the Buddha, across ninety-one kalpas he has remained constantly wealthy in coin; and it is through his own upholding of the precept against killing, in this present life, that both households' parents provided for his every need, and, though swallowed by a fish, he could not be made to die. And it is through his own threefold refuge that he has now attained arhatship (Source: Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish, fascicle 5).

The Buddha dwelt beside Thunder-Sound Pool in the kingdom of Campā. The venerable Śroṇa-Koṭikarṇa, in a quiet place, cultivated the fundamentals of the Dharma without ever abandoning his own ascetic practices, walking in meditation day and night until the very ground where he walked ran red with blood from his own worn feet, ever pushing himself harder — yet his own mind, still subject to outflows, could not attain liberation. Śroṇa-Koṭikarṇa reflected: in ascetic diligence, I am surely foremost among all — yet my own mind remains unliberated. My own family, moreover, is wealthy and possessed of great treasure — perhaps I should simply give up these robes, return to lay life, and instead give my own wealth away freely. The Buddha, knowing his heart, came to him at once, and said: when you were still a layman, you played the lute skillfully — if the strings were strung too tight, was the sound pleasant to hear? He answered: no, World-Honored One. The Buddha asked: and if the strings were too loose? He answered: no, World-Honored One. The Buddha asked: and if neither too tight nor too loose? He answered: yes, World-Honored One. The Buddha said: excessive diligence is akin to restlessness; excessive laxity falls into wrong view — only the middle way between the two is the true, higher practice. Following this, before long, you shall attain freedom from outflows. Śroṇa-Koṭikarṇa, hearing these words, returned to Thunder-Sound Pool, reflected on the Buddha's own teaching, and attained arhatship (Source: Ekottarika Āgama, fascicle 8).

The brahmin Rāṣṭrapāla asked the Buddha to let him go forth. The Buddha told him: first take leave of your own parents. His parents refused their consent, and Rāṣṭrapāla lay on the ground for many days without eating. His parents tried to console him, but he remained silent throughout — and, moved at last by his own resolve, they consented. He went forth, received the full precepts, and attained arhatship.

Ten years later, he returned to his own home village, begging in his own turn from house to house. His own father, seeing him, did not recognize him, and, rebuking him, refused to give him anything; a servant girl took his bowl and filled it instead with spoiled, rotten food, then reported this to her own master. Rāṣṭrapāla's father then went out to look for himself, and asked: why, on your own return, did you not come to my own gate? He answered: I did come, and was rebuked for it. His father then drew him inside, prepared every kind of fine food, and had elephants bring gold and silver, piled higher than a man's own height, in the courtyard — countless coins and treasures — saying: you may now return to lay life. His mother summoned his own new bride, adorned in her finest, to come before Rāṣṭrapāla, and his own relatives all joined together to urge him back to lay life. Rāṣṭrapāla told them: I came only to receive food as alms — why trouble me with all of this instead? (Source: Madhyama Āgama, fascicle 28).

In Śrāvastī there lived a great elder whose wife bore a son, named Suvarṇadhana, "Golden Wealth," of extraordinary and fine appearance, born with his own two hands clenched shut. His parents, startled, pried his hands open, and found two gold coins within them. Delighted, they took the coins — yet more appeared in their place, again and again, so that, however much was taken, his own hands never emptied. As the boy grew, he asked his own parents for permission to go forth, which was granted. He went to the Buddha, shaved his head, and donned the monastic robe; once of proper age, he received the precepts — and, as the assembled sangha came forward in turn to bow before him at the ordination platform, wherever his own two hands pressed the ground, two gold coins appeared there each time. Once ordained, he applied himself diligently and attained arhatship.

Ānanda asked the Buddha: what merit did this monk Suvarṇadhana cultivate in the past, that he should grasp gold coins in this way? The Buddha answered: ninety-one kalpas ago, a buddha named Vipaśyin appeared in the world, traveling with his own assembled sangha throughout the land, and the elders there prepared offerings for the Buddha and his disciples. At that time a poor man, gathering firewood to sell, had earned two coins, and, seeing the Buddha, rejoiced, and offered both coins to the Buddha and the sangha at once. Through the merit of this poor man's own gift of two coins to the Buddha and sangha, across ninety-one kalpas he has grasped gold coins constantly, his own wealth arising spontaneously. That poor man of the past is now the monk Suvarṇadhana himself (Source: Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish, fascicle 2).

In Śrāvastī there lived a wealthy elder whose wife bore a son of fine appearance, at whose birth heavenly flowers rained down, filling the entire household — and so the child was named Puṣpadeva, "Flower Heaven" (in the Liang language). As the boy grew, he went to the Buddha, reflecting to himself: born into this world, I have now had the good fortune to encounter the honored sage himself — and, approaching the Buddha, said: I beg the World-Honored One and the assembled sangha to condescend, tomorrow, to visit my own humble household and accept a simple vegetarian meal. The Buddha accepted the invitation. Puṣpadeva returned home and conjured jeweled couches throughout the entire household, arranging every fine adornment; the Buddha and the assembled sangha, once seated, found the meal already prepared of its own accord, through Puṣpadeva's own merit. Once the Buddha and the sangha had eaten, the Buddha taught Puṣpadeva the essentials of the Dharma at length, and his entire household attained the fruit of stream-entry. Puṣpadeva then took leave of his own parents, asking to go forth, which they granted. The Buddha said: welcome — and his hair fell away of itself, a monastic robe appearing on his body; following the Buddha's own teaching, he in time attained arhatship.

Ānanda asked the Buddha: what merit did Puṣpadeva possess, to attain such things? The Buddha answered: long ago, a buddha named Vipaśyin appeared in the world, delivering beings everywhere, and every wealthy and eminent household there made offerings to him. A poor man, seeing the assembled sangha, rejoiced, and, gathering wildflowers from an open field, scattered them over the whole assembly. The Buddha told Ānanda: that poor man of the past is now the monk Puṣpadeva. Through the merit of scattering those flowers, across ninety-one kalpas his own body has remained of fine appearance, and whatever he wishes for arrives the very instant he thinks of it (Source: Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish, fascicle 2).

In Śrāvastī there lived an elder whose wife bore a son, at whose very birth the seven treasures rained down from the sky, filling the entire household. A physiognomist, examining this, told the elder: this child bears an extraordinary sign, and an auspicious omen accompanied his own birth — he should be named Ratnadeva, "Jewel Heaven" (in the Liang language). As the boy grew, his own talents proved broad and accomplished; hearing of the Buddha's own sagely, divine nature, his heart filled with reverent devotion, and, taking leave of his own parents, he went to the Buddha and said: I wish to go forth. The Buddha said: welcome — and his hair fell away of itself, a monastic robe appearing on his body. The Buddha taught him the Dharma, and he attained arhatship at once.

When the buddha Vipaśyin appeared in the world, various householders together invited the assembled sangha and made every kind of offering. A poor man there, though his own heart was filled with joy, had nothing to offer, and so took a handful of white pebbles, treating them as pearls, and scattered them over the assembled sangha, making a great vow as he did. That poor man is now the monk Ratnadeva himself — and, across ninety-one kalpas since, he has enjoyed boundless blessing, abundant wealth and treasure, clothing and food arising spontaneously — and, meeting my own present age, has now attained the fruit of the path (Source: Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish, fascicle 2).

In South India there lived a man who went forth under the true Dharma, of few desires and easy contentment, never delighting in glory or display, never anointing his own body with oil, never bathing in warm water, never eating rich food — always fearing birth and death, and that his own body's four elements lacked the strength to attain the noble path. He reflected: only Upagupta can truly teach me the Dharma — and went to the kingdom of Mathurā, bowing before him with joined palms. Upagupta, perceiving that this man's own coming life still held fear of birth and death, and that he was constantly averse to coarseness and unwilling to accept any comfort, told him: only follow my own instruction, and I shall teach you. He agreed. Upagupta then had various lay donors prepare fine food and bathing for the assembled sangha, and told the younger monks to bathe this same monk in warm water, anoint his body with oil, and give him every kind of fine food. After several days of eating well, the monk's own strength returned — and, hearing Upagupta's own wondrous teaching just once, he applied himself diligently in reflection and attained arhatship (Source: Sūtra of King Aśoka, fascicle 9).

There was a man who went forth under the Buddha's own teaching, skilled in craftsmanship, and, wherever he went, the assembled sangha there had him build monastery buildings without rest, until he grew utterly exhausted. He reflected: I ought instead to sit in meditation — the Buddha himself, while in the world, taught that every monk should meditate and cultivate the path, not indulge himself without restraint — and went to Upagupta, bowing with joined palms, and said: the Buddha has already entered nirvāṇa; great one, you now carry out the Buddha's own work — please teach me the Dharma. Upagupta, perceiving that this man's own coming life still held fear of the suffering of birth and death, its causes not yet fully exhausted, saw that he would once again simply be put to craftsmanship and grow weary of it once more, and told him: only follow my own instruction, and I shall teach you. He agreed. Upagupta said: wherever no monastery has yet been built, you should build one there — the Buddha himself once taught that this brings the merit of Brahmā. He answered: great one, I do not know who in the kingdom of Mathurā is diligent and who is not. Upagupta asked: can you rise early, robe yourself, and take up your bowl to enter the kingdom? He answered that he could. Rising early and entering the kingdom, he happened to meet an elder coming out, whom he had never seen before, and, this monk now recognized, the elder bowed and asked: great one, have you come from near or far? The monk answered: from an eastern land. The elder said: great one, you need not trouble yourself over this any further — I myself shall provide everything you need. As the monk and the elder together stretched out a measuring cord to mark the ground, before the cord had even fully touched the earth, he reflected on the very merit of this act and, every affliction dissolving, attained arhatship (Source: Sūtra of King Aśoka, fascicle 9).

The Buddha dwelt in Śrāvastī. King Prasenajit of Kosala ordered his own prison warden that any bandit condemned under the law be taken to the marketplace and executed. One such bandit, among a group condemned, managed to slip away and escape, and, disguising himself in monastic robes, secretly passed himself off as a monk — yet, inwardly, gave no thought to genuine practice, believing only that he had permanently escaped his own peril, no longer fearing harm. Dwelling in quiet solitude, he cultivated no true virtue, studied neither scripture nor precept, neither monastic discipline nor meditation nor recitation, and, having attained no fruit of the path, made no effort to seek one.

The Buddha told this man: you have indeed escaped the peril of the executioner's own blade — yet you still have cause for fear, for this very body of the five aggregates continues to turn through the five realms of rebirth, never yet liberated, still subject to the very fetters that will harm it, and destined otherwise to fall into the realm of hungry ghosts or animals. The monk, dwelling in quiet solitude, reflected and calculated within himself, reproaching himself inwardly, and came to understand that all things are impermanent, that life itself does not last long, and returns in the end to extinction — that the very pattern of rise and fall has always been so. Right there before the Buddha, he repented and reproached himself, and attained the arhat's own path (Source: Sūtra of Secretly Passing Oneself Off as a Monk).

In the kingdom of Mathurā there lived a man who, renouncing the household life, went forth under Upagupta — yet, given to gluttony, could not attain the path. Upagupta told him: tomorrow I shall give you food. At the appointed time, he set before him a bowl filled with milk-gruel, and an empty vessel beside it, and told him: eat until this bowl is empty — but wait until it has cooled, eating it little by little. This monk, his own greed running deep, blew on it to cool it faster, and told his teacher: it is already cool — and ate it all at once. Upagupta said: though the milk-gruel has cooled, your own mind remains hot — you must cool that as well; use the contemplation of impurity as your own water to remove this heat of mind, and regard food, when you see it, as though it were medicine taken out of necessity alone. Once the monk had finished eating, Upagupta had him vomit it back up, filling the empty vessel entirely. Upagupta said: eat it again. The monk said: how could I eat this again, now unclean? Upagupta answered: observe, then, that all things are just like this very vomit — and, teaching him the Dharma accordingly, the monk applied himself diligently in reflection and observation, and attained arhatship (Source: Sūtra of King Aśoka, fascicle 9).

Prince Jeta sent word inviting the Buddha and the sangha to a meal the next day — but did not invite the beggar-monks among them. The beggar-monks, "welcomed" all the same, nonetheless followed the Buddha and the sangha into the palace to eat, using their own supernormal power to travel north to Uttarakuru and gather naturally-growing rice there, then, each maintaining proper dignity, descended through the air and entered the prince's own palace, taking their seats in due order. The prince, seeing this, marveled at what he had never witnessed before, and asked the Buddha: where have these sages and worthies come from? The Buddha answered: these are simply the five hundred beggars who became monks. The prince, deeply ashamed, said nothing further (Source: Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish, fascicle 5).

The Buddha dwelt at the monastery in Śrāvastī. Four monks, sitting together beneath a tree, asked one another: of everything in this world, what is the greatest suffering? One said: no suffering in the world exceeds lust and desire. Another said: no suffering in the world exceeds hunger and thirst. Another said: no suffering in the world exceeds anger and hatred. Another said: no suffering in the world exceeds terror and fear. They debated this question without resolution. The Buddha, knowing of their debate, came to them and asked what they discussed, and, told the matter fully, said: what you have discussed does not reach the true root of suffering at all. No suffering in this world exceeds having a body — for hunger, thirst, cold, heat, anger, fear, desire, and misfortune all arise from the body itself. The body is the very root of every suffering, the very vessel of every calamity, exhausting the mind and troubling the thoughts with countless worries and fears; throughout the three realms, every crawling creature preys upon another in turn, bound by the very notion of self, unable to escape the cycle of birth and death — all of this arises from the body. To escape the world's own suffering, one must seek instead its cessation, gathering the mind and holding to what is right, calm and free of every thought — only then may nirvāṇa be attained, the truest joy of all.

The Buddha then spoke a verse and told the monks: long ago, in the far distant past, there lived a monk of the five supernormal powers, named Vīryabala, who dwelt in quiet solitude beneath a mountain tree, seeking the path. Four birds and beasts kept close by him and found safety there — a dove, a crow, a venomous snake, and a deer. These four creatures foraged by day and returned to shelter each night; one night, they asked one another: of everything in this world, what suffering is greatest? The crow said: when hungry and thirsty, the body grows weak, the eyes dim, the spirit unsettled, casting itself into nets and snares without regard for the blade — it is by this very cause that we lose our own lives; hunger and thirst, then, are the greatest suffering. The dove said: the fire of desire, once ablaze, gives no thought to anything else — it is by this very cause that bodies are endangered and lives destroyed. The venomous snake said: once anger arises, it spares neither kin nor stranger, capable of killing others and destroying oneself alike. The deer said: dwelling in the forest, my own heart is ever fearful, dreading hunters, tigers, and wolves — at the faintest sound, I flee headlong toward some cliff's edge, mother and child abandoning one another in their own terror, liver and gall trembling within; terror and fear, then, are the greatest suffering.

Vīryabala then answered them: what you have each said does not yet reach the true root of suffering. No suffering in this world exceeds the very condition of conditioned existence — this is the vessel of suffering, its worry and fear beyond measure. It is for this very reason that I myself gave up the household life to study the path, extinguishing thought and cutting off notion, coveting none of the four elements, seeking to sever suffering at its very source, my resolve fixed on nirvāṇa — for the path of nirvāṇa is itself still and formless, its worry and grief forever ended; only then comes true peace. The four creatures, hearing this, understood at once.

The Buddha told the monks: that monk of the five supernormal powers was myself; those four creatures are you four monks now before me. Having already heard the true root of suffering in that former life, why do you still debate it now, as though for the first time? The monks, hearing this, felt deep shame and reproached themselves, and, right there before the Buddha, attained the arhat's own path (Source: Dharmapada, Sūtra of Similes, fascicle 4).

The Buddha dwelt at the monastery in Śrāvastī. Four newly ordained monks, sitting in meditation beneath a crabapple tree, its blossoms flourishing, fragrant and fine, asked one another: of everything in this world, what brings the greatest joy? One said: in the second month of spring, when every flower blooms, wandering freely through the open fields — this is the greatest joy. Another said: when kinsmen gather for an auspicious occasion, cups passing freely, music and dance filling the air — this is the greatest joy. Another said: amassing great wealth and treasure, obtaining whatever one desires, carriages and horses, clothing and ornaments unlike anyone else's, one's own arrival everywhere drawing every eye — this is the greatest joy. Another said: a beautiful wife and consorts, dressed in bright, fine silks, fragrant and perfumed, indulging one's every whim — this is the greatest joy.

The Buddha, knowing they were ripe for teaching, went to them and declared: all of this is instead the greatest suffering. Long ago, he said, there was a king named Universal Peace, who, together with four neighboring kings, his own close friends, held a month-long banquet of food, drink, and entertainment. On the day of their parting, King Universal Peace asked them: what, in this world, do people consider true joy? The four kings' own answers were no different from what you yourselves have just said. King Universal Peace then embodied the very same teaching himself, and the four kings, hearing it, rejoiced and understood.

I was that King Universal Peace; you four are those same four kings. Having already discussed this once before, why do you still fail to understand it now? Life and death stretch on without end — by what means shall they ever be brought to rest? The four monks, hearing this teaching once more, felt shame and repented, their minds opening in realization, and attained the arhat's own path (Source: Dharmapada, Sūtra of Similes, fascicle 4).

Long ago, a man took leave of his own parents to study the path, and attained the state of the truly accomplished. Having repaid every debt of kindness owed to those still living, he observed that his own mother had fallen into hell, and sought by every means to free her from this suffering. He learned of a king in a neighboring land who had murdered his own father and seized the throne, with only seven days left to live before his own death, destined for the very same place of retribution as his mother. The monk went by night to this king's own palace, manifesting the upper half of his own body upon the wall. The king, terrified at the sight, drew his sword and struck at the apparition's neck, severing the head, which fell to the ground — yet the monk himself remained unmoved. The king, only then understanding, bowed his head in apology.

The monk said to the king: did you not murder your own father and seize his throne? The king answered: it is true. The monk said: you have but seven days left to live, and shall then enter hell — I have come specifically to tell you this. The king, terrified, begged for mercy. The monk told him: great acts of merit now would surely come too late — but if you simply invoke the name of the Buddha without pause for these seven remaining days, you may yet be spared this fate. The king, with a single-minded heart, invoked the Buddha's own name unceasingly for seven days; when his own life ended, his spirit still remembered, even as he entered hell's own gate, to invoke the Buddha's name — and hell itself grew cool at once, every person within that same city delivered from it entirely. The monk then taught the Dharma there, and his own mother, the king, and everyone else within hell were all delivered together (Source: Sūtra of Similes and Parables, in ten fascicles, fascicle 2).

In South India there lived a man who went forth under the Buddha's own teaching, yet remained bound by attachment to his own body, anointing it with oil, bathing it in warm water, providing it every kind of fine food — and, bound by this same attachment, could not attain the noble path. He went to Upagupta in the kingdom of Mathurā, bowed at his feet, and asked to hear the essentials of the Dharma. Upagupta, perceiving that this man's own coming life still held bondage through attachment, told him: good son, if you can follow my own instruction, I shall teach you. He agreed. Upagupta took him into the mountains and, through his own supernormal power, conjured a great tree, telling him: climb to the top of this tree. The monk climbed up at once. Upagupta then conjured, beneath the tree, a great pit, a thousand cubits deep and wide, and told him: release your own two feet. He did so. Release one hand as well. He did so. Release your other hand too. The monk answered: if I release my other hand, I shall fall into the pit and die. Upagupta said: I made clear from the start that you would follow every instruction I gave — why do you now refuse? At that moment his own attachment to his body dissolved entirely, and he released his hand and fell — only to find neither tree nor pit had ever truly existed at all. Upagupta then taught him the Dharma, and, applying himself diligently in reflection, he attained arhatship (Source: Sūtra of King Aśoka, fascicle 10).

In the kingdom of Mathurā there lived a man who went forth under Upagupta, and, hearing him teach the contemplation of impurity, subdued his own afflictions through this very practice, and believed he had already accomplished all that needed to be done. Upagupta told him: you must continue in diligence, and give rise to no thought of complacency. He answered: but I have already attained arhatship. Upagupta told him: do you know of the wine-selling woman in the kingdom of Gandhāra? This woman likewise claims to have attained the path, no differently than you now claim — yet her own afflictions remain entirely unexhausted, and her own claim is nothing but overweening pride. Go now and observe for yourself whether she has truly attained the path or not. He answered that he could not yet see this for himself, and asked to travel to that same kingdom to find out. His teacher permitted him to go.

The monk traveled to the kingdom of Gandhāra, and, settling for a while at a stone monastery there, rose early one morning, robed himself, took up his bowl, and entered the village to beg. The wine-selling woman, taking up food to give him, was seen by the monk — and, at the sight of her, a lustful, desirous thought arose within him, and he himself took hold of the roasted grain and cream in his own bowl, offering it to this woman instead. The woman, seeing this, likewise felt her own heart shift toward desire, and, baring her teeth, smiled at him. The monk, at that very moment, entered the contemplation of impurity, observing his own body down to a vision of bare bones — and, through this same contemplation, attained arhatship at last (Source: Sūtra of King Aśoka, fascicle 10).

The Buddha dwelt in Śrāvastī, observing the rains retreat for three months until the new year arrived. He told Ānanda: strike the gong. The sound of the gong reached throughout the entire buddha-land, and every being suffering in hell, among the hungry ghosts, or among the animals, hearing this same sound, found their own suffering entirely removed, and gained peace. The Buddha then said: monks, you should now rise and carry out the formal proceeding of the tally-sticks, each facing another in turn, repenting and reproaching yourselves, and apologizing to one another for whatever faults or improper conduct you have committed — bearing with one another in harmony, purifying your own body, speech, and mind, leaving nothing unclean behind. The assembled monks, receiving the Buddha's own instruction, carried this out, and, once finished, returned to their own seats. The Buddha, in his own compassion, then rose from his own seat, and, with joined palms, addressed the assembled monks: though the Unsurpassed, Honored One, the truly accomplished, is himself entirely without fault, I too shall carry out this same practice, as an example and teaching for you all — and the Buddha then likewise made his own confession and apology before the noble assembly, out of compassion for all, before returning to his own simple seat. Once the Buddha had resumed his seat, the noble assembly did likewise, each returning to their own former place. At that time ten thousand monks attained a glimpse of the path, and eight thousand monks attained arhatship (this account of the pravāraṇā ceremony and the acceptance of a further year's seniority is drawn from the Sūtra of the New Year).

The Buddha dwelt at the Jetavana monastery, where the assembled monks diligently cultivated the path, casting off the hindrances. One monk, however, having eaten his fill, shut himself in his own room and slept quietly, indulging his own body's comfort, giving no thought to impermanence, losing all track of day and night — and, seven days later, his own life was about to end. The Buddha, taking pity on him, entered his own room and snapped his fingers to wake him, then taught him a wondrous verse. Startled awake, the monk bowed in reverence. The Buddha told him: in a past life, in the time of the buddha Vipaśyin, you once went forth as a monk, but, coveting your own body's comfort, gave no thought to the scriptures or precepts, eating your fill and sleeping without ever considering impermanence — and, at the end of that life, your own spirit was reborn among dung-beetles, remaining there for fifty thousand years; when that life ended, you were reborn in turn as a snail, then as a wood-boring insect in a tree, each for another fifty thousand years. These four kinds of creature are born and grow in darkness, coveting their own bodies and cherishing their own lives, delighting in hidden, secluded places as their own home, disliking the light — sleeping so deeply that a hundred years might pass before waking, entangled endlessly in their own net, never seeking release. Only now has this same sin finally been exhausted, and you have become a monk once more — how, then, can you still sleep without ever knowing when enough is enough? The monk, hearing this, felt shame and fear, and reproached himself — and the five hindrances dissolved at once, and he attained arhatship (Source: Dharmapada, Sūtra of Similes, fascicle 3).

In the kingdom of Mathurā there lived a man who went forth under Upagupta, constantly given to sleep — whenever the Dharma was taught, he slept through it and heard nothing; even when instructed to meditate beneath a tree, he still fell asleep there as well. Upagupta, through his own supernormal power, conjured a deep pit on every side of him, a full thousand cubits deep. When the monk woke from his own sleep, he was seized with terror — at which Upagupta then conjured a path, allowing him to walk free. The monk followed this path out and went to Upagupta, who told him to go back again. The monk answered: there is a deep pit there. Upagupta said: this deep pit is but a small matter compared to the true deep pit — namely, birth, old age, sickness, death, grief, and suffering; whoever does not know the four noble truths falls into that very pit instead. The monk, hearing this, returned once more beneath the tree and sat cross-legged, his mind ever mindful, fearing he might fall into that deep pit — and, no longer sleeping, applying himself diligently through this very fear, extinguished every affliction and attained arhatship (Source: Sūtra of King Aśoka, fascicle 9).

There was once a female elephant named Mudgā, who carried the Buddha's own relics to the kingdom of Kaśmīra; through this same root of goodness, she died and was reborn as a human, went forth, and attained arhatship. Because she had once, in a single meal, eaten a full bushel of rice, she then entered final nirvāṇa, and told the assembled nuns: gather together, for I wish to speak of the excellent teaching I myself have attained. The nuns did not believe her at first — but she told them further: do not doubt this. In a past life I was a female elephant; giving up that elephant's body, I gained this present one, capable of eating a bushel and five pecks of rice at a single meal, though I ate only one bushel — and she explained this at length. Though such an amount is indeed a great deal, she said, it is still easily digested. I have also heard that King Prasenajit himself once ate two full bushels at a single meal — for it was through the very same merit and causes that, from a single grain of rice or a single stalk of sugarcane, his own body grew larger with each passing day, until, having eaten so much food, his own body grew heavy and swollen, and he went in this state to see the Buddha. The Buddha asked him: great king, is your own body's swelling not a source of fatigue for you? King Prasenajit, filled with shame, explained the whole matter to the Buddha, and the World-Honored One spoke this verse:

"One should always keep right mindfulness, knowing when to stop in eating — then one suffers no affliction from it, digesting easily and gaining longer life."

King Prasenajit, hearing the Buddha's own teaching, gradually reduced his own eating, until, in time, he ate only a single measure at each meal (Source: Abhidharma-mahāvibhāṣā-śāstra, fascicle 22).

The Buddha dwelt in Śrāvastī. An elder invited the Buddha and the sangha to a meal; the monks went, but the Tathāgata himself did not, sending instead for his own portion to be brought to him, for two reasons: first, he wished to teach the devas the Dharma; second, he wished to attend to a sick monk. The World-Honored One, surveying the assembled monks, found that all had already been accounted for in the invitation, and so took up the key himself and opened the door of one particular room, where he found a monk lying gravely ill, unable even to turn himself, soiled with his own waste. The World-Honored One asked him: what ails you? The monk answered: I am by nature dull and given to laziness, and have never once encouraged others to attend to the sick in turn — it is for this very reason that no one now attends to me; I am truly alone and destitute, with nowhere left to turn.

The World-Honored One, moved by compassion, embraced him with his own arms, cleared away the soiled bedding, washed his own body with water, dressed him in fresh clothing, laid out a new mat, and returned him to his own room, personally massaging his limbs. The Buddha told him: because you did not diligently seek the higher Dharma, you will, after death, suffer even more severe pain than this. He then gradually taught him the Dharma, urging him toward courage and diligence, and told the assembled sangha: you monks have no father, mother, brothers, or sisters, no family of your own here — to fail to attend to one another in illness is simply improper. My own Dharma holds all equal, high and low alike, in mutual harmony — from this day forward, let disciples attend upon their own teachers as they would their own parents, never abandoning them even unto death; let teachers regard their own disciples as their own children, tending to them as the season requires, never abandoning them even unto death — teacher and disciple showing one another such compassion across every age to come. Whatever provisions exist should be shared equally among all; and, should none exist, then all should go out together to beg for more. Whoever attends to the sick attends, in effect, to my own body — and the merit gained is no less for it. The sick monk, hearing this, reflected within himself, and, at that very moment, gave up his own body and life, and attained nirvāṇa without remainder (Source: Sūtra of the Buddha Attending a Sick Monk Rather Than Accepting an Elder's Invitation).

In the kingdom of Mathurā there lived a man who went forth under Upagupta, much given to sleep. Upagupta conjured a seven-headed demon, gripping a tree branch, its body suspended in midair. The monk, seeing this, woke with a start, seized with great terror, and fled back to his own former place. Upagupta told him: return to your own seat for meditation. The monk answered: master, there is a demon in that grove, seven heads before me, gripping a tree branch, suspended in the air — it is truly terrifying. Upagupta said: this demon is not worth fearing at all — sleep itself is the truly fearsome thing. Should a monk be killed by such a demon, he would not thereby remain bound to birth and death; but should he be destroyed by sleep instead, birth and death continue for him without end. The monk returned to his own seat for meditation, and, seeing the demon there once more, feared it enough that he no longer dared to sleep — and, applying himself diligently in reflection from that time on, attained arhatship (Source: Sūtra of King Aśoka, fascicle 10).

The Buddha dwelt in Śrāvastī. A certain monk, dwelling in a forest among the people of Kosala, was rumored to have played about improperly with an elder's own wife, and an evil reputation arose from it. The monk reflected: I shall now kill myself. A tree spirit in that same forest, transforming into the very form of the elder's wife, told the monk: the people of this world, for both your sake and mine, have spread this evil rumor for nothing — that we have grown intimate and done something improper together; since the rumor already exists regardless, you might as well draw near and return to lay life, that we might truly enjoy each other's company. The monk answered: it is precisely because of this rumor that I now intend to kill myself. The spirit then resumed her own heavenly form, and spoke this verse:

"However great the evil rumor, one who practices the path should simply bear it — never should he harm himself for it, nor give rise to further vexation over it."

The monk, awakened by this, applied himself single-mindedly in diligent reflection, extinguished every affliction, and attained arhatship (Source: Sūtra of the Monk Who Fled a Woman's Evil Reputation and Nearly Killed Himself).

Along a road there lived a man who had killed his own mother, and now dwelt beneath a tree, weeping and grieving in torment, crying out again and again in self-reproach for having committed so monstrous a crime, certain that killing his own mother would send him straight to hell. Though this was so, he was nonetheless still fit to be guided toward proper practice — and the bodhisattva Mañjuśrī, seeing that he was ripe for deliverance, transformed himself into another man, leading a conjured father and mother along the road, and, drawing near the matricide, stopped not far away.

The conjured parents told their own son: this is the proper road. The son answered: it is not — and the two fell into a dispute over it. The son, in a sudden fury, killed his own conjured parents on the spot, then wept in bitter, unbearable anguish, and went to the very man who had killed his own mother, saying: I have now killed both my own father and mother — I shall surely fall into hell for it. Weeping, he cried out: what am I to do, and what plan can I devise?

The matricide, reflecting to himself, thought: this man who has just arrived has killed both his own parents, while I myself have endangered only my own mother — his own foolish blindness makes his sin far graver than mine; knowing that his own retribution will be heavier, my own now feels somehow lighter by comparison. Grieving and bitter, the newly arrived man declared aloud: I shall go now to the Able and Benevolent Buddha himself — for those without any other refuge, the Buddha provides refuge; for those seized with terror, the Buddha alone can offer comfort. Whatever the Buddha teaches me, I shall faithfully follow. The transformed man then set out on the road ahead, weeping as he went, and the matricide followed close behind him, thinking: as this man now repents, so too shall I — my own sin is surely lighter than his, which is so very grave.

The transformed man reached the Buddha, bowed his head to the ground, and said: World-Honored One, I have committed the gravest of crimes, killing both my own parents — I have transgressed this most serious of sins. The Buddha told the transformed man: excellent, excellent — you have spoken with utmost sincerity, without any deception, your own words matching your own deeds; you have come before the Tathāgata and spoken with complete honesty, without duplicity, and without harming yourself through denial either. You should now examine for yourself, through the Dharma, with what mind you actually harmed your own parents — was it with a past mind, a future mind, or a present mind? Your own past mind has already ceased; your present mind, too, has already passed on elsewhere, with no fixed location, no direction, unknowable in its own whereabouts; and your future mind has not yet arrived at all, having no place yet gathered, not yet turned back, having neither gone nor returned. Know, then, that mind itself does not stand fixed within the body, nor does it arise from outside it, nor does it exist within any external object; it dwells neither between the two, nor does it come to rest in either (such teaching continues at much greater length than can be recorded here).

The transformed man exclaimed: never before have I heard such a thing! The Tathāgata has become the truly, perfectly awakened one, fully understanding that the Dharma-realm itself has no doer, no receiver, no one born, and no one who attains extinction, dependent on nothing at all — I now wish to go forth myself. Through the Buddha's own power, he became a monk on the spot, receiving the full precepts. The Buddha said: welcome, monk — and the transformed man, now a monk, said to the Buddha: World-Honored One, I have now attained supernormal power, and wish to enter final nirvāṇa. Through the Buddha's own majestic power, this transformed monk rose four zhang nine chi above the ground, and, in the very sky, entered his own extinction, fire streaming from his own body, consuming it entirely.

The one who had truly killed his own mother, witnessing this, reflected: this man became a monk and thereby attained extinction — I shall follow his own example — and went to the Buddha, bowed at his sacred feet, and said: I too have committed this very crime, endangering my own mother's life. The Buddha said: excellent — spoken with utmost sincerity, without deception, your own words matching your own deeds. At this, the very fire of hell itself began to emerge from every pore of this man's own body, his pain extreme, with no one to save him. He cried out to the Buddha: I am now being burned — only you, heaven of heavens, can save me. The World-Honored One extended his own golden-colored arm and placed it upon the man's own head, and the fire went out at once; seeing the Tathāgata's own body, adorned with every mark of excellence, his pain ceased and he found peace.

He then asked to become a monk himself, and the Buddha granted this at once, teaching him the four noble truths. Hearing this teaching, he dissolved every defilement and attained the pure Dharma-eye, practicing the Dharma's own teaching until he attained the fruit of non-returning, and, in time, arhatship as well. He then asked the Buddha's leave to enter final nirvāṇa, and the Buddha consented. The monk rose into the sky, four zhang nine chi above the ground, and, his own body bursting into flame, consumed himself entirely — while hundreds of thousands of devas and humans gathered in the sky above to make offerings.

Śāriputra then said to the Buddha: through the Tathāgata's own compassionate grace and the Vinaya he has taught, even a matricide has now been delivered — only the Tathāgata, and the great bodhisattvas, can perceive the very root of every being's own capacity and deliver them accordingly; this lies beyond the reach of any śrāvaka or pratyekabuddha. The Buddha said: it is exactly so (Source: Sūtra of the Mind's Own Original Purity).

In Śrāvastī there lived a poor old man, over two hundred years old, his eyebrows grown long and fine, his ears reaching past the top of his own head, his teeth even as a row of shells, his hands hanging past his own knees — an appearance that, on close inspection, seemed to bear some auspicious mark, though he lived in the most abject poverty and hardship, his clothing failing to cover his own body, his whole frame exposed, his own belly constantly empty, able only barely to move, showing the faintest signs of life. He wished to go and see the Buddha, but Śakra and Brahmā, guarding the gate, had been instructed not to admit him. The old man cried out loudly: though I am poor, the very lowest among the people, I have had, after a thousand years, this rare fortune of finally encountering a buddha — I wish to ask about sin and merit, and to seek release from every suffering; I have heard that the World-Honored One's own compassion reaches everyone equally, that none fail to receive his own grace — why, then, am I alone turned away? This surely slanders the sage's own true intent.

The Buddha called for him to be admitted. Crawling forward inch by inch, he bowed before the Buddha, grief and joy mingling within him, describing his own extreme poverty and suffering, and his own long-held wish, ten years in the making, to see the Buddha even once — yet, his own strength now so failing that he could barely move forward or back, he feared only that his own life might end and defile the sacred gate itself before he could arrive, adding further to his own sin. He begged the honored one, in his own compassion, not to deny his original wish — for even should he die having achieved this much, he would have no further regret; he asked only to be allowed to die swiftly, and begged the Buddha's own gracious favor in this.

The Buddha said: a person's own present birth arises through many conditions — let me explain this to you. In a past life, you were born into a great and powerful kingdom, in the household of King Mingzhi, "Wise and Brilliant," where you were the crown prince, arrogant and noble beyond the ordinary, cherished above by your own parents and served below by your own ministers and people — and, relying on this, you grew careless and contemptuous of others, your gaze haughty and your bearing overbearing and remote. Your own treasure, in the hundreds of millions, was in truth all drawn from your own people, whom you taxed and burdened while they themselves grew poor and destitute, and you thought only of accumulating wealth, never once giving any of it away.

At that time there lived a poor, humble monk named Jingzhi, "Quiet Resolve," who came from a distant land seeking not much at all — only a monastic robe. Yet you would not even receive him, treating him with contempt; you neither gave him the robe he sought, nor offered him any food, and simply let him sit before you, refusing even to let him leave, for seven days and nights, deprived entirely of water and food, until, showing only the faintest signs of life remaining, you were delighted at this, and gathered a crowd to come and watch, taking it as the greatest amusement. Your own attendant ministers warned you: this monk is compassionate and reverent, his own virtue and the path complete within him — cold cannot chill him, hunger cannot starve him; he came here begging only to make merit for you. Since you will not give him anything, why persist in tormenting him so? We beg you to release him, lest you incur sin from it. The crown prince answered: who is this man, falsely claiming such virtue? Let us test him a little further — only enough to keep him from actually dying — then release him; there is nothing to worry about. He was sent away, driven out of the kingdom entirely.

Once past the border, ten-odd li out, he encountered starving bandits, who wished to kill and eat him. The monk told them: I am but a starving, freezing monk, my body wasted to bone, my flesh foul and unfit to eat — you would only kill me for nothing, gaining no benefit from it at all. The bandits answered: we ourselves have gone hungry for days, eating nothing but dirt — though you are thin, you are still flesh; we shall not release you, but you must simply die. This standoff continued for some time, until the crown prince, learning of it, rushed there himself and said: because I myself could not even give him a robe and food, must he now be killed by bandits instead? The bandits, seeing the crown prince, bowed their heads in apology and released the monk.

That monk was Maitreya himself — and it is for this very reason that you now suffer this present poverty, the fruit of your own past stinginess; and it is likewise because you once saved that same monk's own life that you have been granted so long a lifespan. Sin and merit each answer as surely as an echo answers a sound.

The old man said: what is past is past — I ask only that my present wish now be fulfilled; grant me, even as my own life hangs by a thread, to become a monk, that in future lives I might always attend upon the Buddha's own side. The Buddha said: excellent. At once the old man's hair and beard fell to the ground, a monastic robe appeared upon his body, his own vital strength returning at once, his ears and eyes growing sharp and clear; he attained realization on the spot, entering the very gate of samādhi, and, with a verse in praise of the Buddha, bowed and withdrew.

"Long ago I was a pampered son, ignorant of humaneness and righteousness — proud and privileged, indulging my own whims, then a great kingdom's own king.
I believed there was no sin or merit at all, thinking this could last forever — vainly failing to grasp what birth and death truly hold in store, and so, even now, I bear its own retribution.
Yet from that very sin I have now received this blessing, and come to behold the heaven of heavens — freed at last from my own past crime, on the very edge of death I have entered the gate of the Dharma.
Forever free of a stingy, covetous heart, I shall long carry instead the very root of wisdom — life after life, never far from the Buddha, sustained through ten thousand kalpas to come" (Source: Sūtra of the Poor, Old Man).

In the kingdom of Mathurā there lived a man who went forth under Upagupta. Upagupta taught him the Dharma, and, applying himself diligently in reflection, he attained the fruit of stream-entry, and, through his own freedom from heedlessness, escaped fear of the evil paths of rebirth, destined to be reborn seven times in heaven and seven times among humans, enjoying the pleasures of both realms before finally entering nirvāṇa. Upagupta, perceiving his own state of mind, went together with him into the kingdom of Mathurā, begging from house to house in turn, until they came to the household of a caṇḍāla family, where a caṇḍāla child, who had himself attained the fruit of stream-entry, suffered from a grave illness, his whole body devoured by worms, his own breath foul beyond bearing. Upagupta told his disciple: observe this child — though he has attained the fruit of stream-entry, he still suffers so, and spoke this verse:

"Born into the caṇḍāla caste, delighting still in the pleasures of but three months, ravaging worms devouring his own body — all because craving still holds its own sway.
Birth and death hold nothing truly real within them, no more substantial than a plantain tree's own trunk."

The monk asked what karmic cause had led this child, though he had attained stream-entry, to suffer such affliction. Upagupta answered: in a past life, this child was a monk himself, and, when the assembled sangha sat in meditation, served as their own overseer. An arhat among them, suffering this very same grave illness, scratched at his own body, making a sound as he did — and the overseer told him: worms are eating your own flesh, and this is the sound it makes! — and, seizing his own arm, dragged him bodily out, saying: go to the caṇḍāla quarter! The arhat told the overseer: you should apply yourself diligently, and not go on to suffer such rebirth and such pain yourself. The overseer, hearing this, repented at once, and, through this repentance, attained the fruit of stream-entry — yet, having failed to apply himself further in diligence after that, he is now this very child, born into the caṇḍāla caste for having once dragged that same arhat out by force, and now suffers this present retribution for it.

The monk, filled with fear, applied himself with redoubled diligence, and attained arhatship at once (Source: Sūtra of King Aśoka, fascicle 10).

Long ago there were two monks, equal in their own upholding of the precepts and in wisdom, both having attained the fruit of stream-entry. One monk devoted himself entirely to begging, using what he received to feed the assembled sangha and the poor alike; the other monk simply sat in meditation, keeping to himself. The one who begged and gave asked the other: why do you not go begging as well, keeping only to yourself and toiling for nothing? The other answered: worthy one, the Buddha has indeed taught that a monk, too, should practice giving — otherwise, in a future life, he will be reborn poor. Later, both monks attained arhatship. The one who had begged in his own former life was reborn as the son of a caravan-leader and became a monk; in this present life, he keeps entirely to himself, yet the assembled community provides for him daily with clothing and food of their own accord. The other monk, who had kept only to himself in his own former life, was reborn instead as a servant-woman's son, and, becoming a monk in turn, must beg for his own food, receiving nothing from anyone, constantly hungry and thirsty. One should therefore uphold the precepts and practice giving both together, rather than keeping only to oneself alone (Source: Sūtra of Similes and Parables, in ten fascicles, fascicle 3).

While the Buddha still lived, there was an ascetic dwelling beneath a tree by a riverbank, studying the path, yet unable to rid himself of his own covetous thoughts, his mind scattered and wandering, dwelling constantly on the six desires — his body kept still, yet his own mind wandering freely, never truly at rest — and, after twelve years of this, he still could not attain the path. The Buddha, knowing he was ripe for deliverance, transformed himself into a fellow monk and came to lodge with him beneath that same tree. Before long, the moon rose bright, and a turtle emerged from the river, coming to rest beneath the tree; a hungry otter, foraging for food, came upon the turtle and sought to devour it — but the turtle withdrew its head, tail, and all four limbs entirely into its own shell, and the otter could not reach it at all. The otter, moving a short distance off, and the turtle, extending its own head and limbs once more to move as before, thereby escaped harm entirely.

The transformed monk then said to the ascetic: I reflect that people of this world are not even the equal of this very turtle, which possesses armor to protect its own life, keeping the otter from finding any opening at all. People of the world, lacking such wisdom, indulge their own six senses without restraint, and the heavenly Māra finds his own opening there, destroying their form and ruining their own spirit — and so birth and death continue without end, turning endlessly through the five realms, suffering in the hundreds of thousands. He then spoke a verse in further exhortation. The ascetic, hearing the verse, cut off his own craving and let go his own longing, and attained arhatship — only then recognizing that this transformed monk had been the World-Honored One himself, and, with reverent, proper bearing, bowed at the Buddha's own feet (Source: Dharmapada, Sūtra of Similes, fascicle 2).

There was a monk who, serving as the meal-distributor for the sangha, apportioned cream and ghee, and, his own hand soiled with it, wiped it upon a pillar — and the pillar split apart at once (Source: Sūtra of Similes and Parables).

There was a monk who, urinating without first snapping his fingers as custom required, splashed his own urine into a latrine pit, striking a spirit's own face there. The malevolent spirit, enraged, wished to kill the monk — but the monk, upholding the precepts firmly, could not be caught off guard however closely the spirit pursued and watched for any opening. The monk later became the sangha's own meal-distributor; whoever partook of this same sangha's own provisions, seated there, attained arhatship on the spot (Source: Miscellaneous Similes Sūtra, in one fascicle).

There were once fellow students of the path who dwelt together in a single hall. One of them said: this particular fellow monk has too difficult a temperament to live alongside — and left for another kingdom. Returning later to see whether he had attained the path, he arrived at night at his dwelling; the monk, unlocking the door, called him in to sit — and, as he did, fire streamed forth from the tips of his own five fingers. The visiting monk, astonished, praised him for having attained the path (Source: Miscellaneous Similes Sūtra, in one fascicle).