Unfathomable Depth

Long ago there lived a man of the vaiśya caste, named Elīśa, whose wealth was beyond counting, yet who begrudged even his own clothing and food. Nearby lived a poor old man who, day after day, freely indulged himself in meat and fish, entertaining an endless stream of guests. Elīśa reflected: my own wealth is beyond counting, yet I live worse than this poor old man! — and, resolving to indulge himself for once, killed a chicken and cooked a measure of white rice, loading it onto a cart and driving to a deserted place, where he got down, intending to eat alone.

Śakra, transforming into a dog, appeared and looked him up and down, then said to the dog: if you hang yourself upside-down in midair, I shall give you some. The dog at once hung upside-down in the air. Elīśa, terrified at this sight, said: if your own eyes fall out onto the ground, I shall give you some. The dog's own two eyes fell to the ground. Elīśa, fleeing in terror, abandoned the place entirely.

Śakra then transformed himself into Elīśa's own likeness, rode the cart home, and ordered the household: should anyone outside falsely claim to be the master, drive him off and beat him. When the real Elīśa returned that evening, the gatekeeper reviled him and drove him away. Śakra, in Elīśa's own form, then took his entire fortune and gave it away in vast charity. Elīśa himself, unable even to return home, and his own wealth now entirely exhausted, went half mad with grief.

Śakra, transforming into an ordinary man, asked him: why do you grieve so? He answered: my own wealth has been entirely exhausted. Śakra told him: to possess treasure at all is itself a source of great worry — for wealth hoarded rather than given away is subject to five kinds of loss without warning, and, at death, one who hoards is reborn a hungry ghost, forever lacking food and clothing; and, should one escape even that fate to be reborn human, one falls always into the lowest station. Do you not see that all is impermanent? Wealthy, yet stingy, coveting even the food you will not eat — what could you possibly hope to gain from this? Śakra then taught him the four noble truths, and Elīśa's mind opened in understanding. Śakra then vanished, and Elīśa, returning home, repented his own former ways, and, giving away everything with a full and sincere heart, in time, once his wealth was exhausted, attained the path (Source: Miscellaneous Similes Sūtra, fascicle 5).

Long ago, near Jetavana, there lived a poor household who wished to make offerings to the World-Honored One and his disciples, but, being utterly destitute, had nothing at all to offer — and so, with a sincere and tireless heart, simply swept the Buddha's own monastery grounds instead.

An elder, traveling and observing the countryside, came upon a vast open field where several dozen buildings of the seven treasures stood, and, seeing this from a distance, went and asked someone: who has built such fine palace halls here? He was told: there is a poor, worthy person who sweeps the Buddha's own monastery grounds, and it is his own merit that has prepared these very halls, awaiting him here in a future life. The elder, delighted, thought: I shall claim this for myself — and went to the poor man's household, saying: you have something fine that I desire; I shall give you five hundred taels of gold for it. The poor man answered: I have always been destitute — how could I possibly own anything fine? The elder said: only agree to my terms. He consented, and received the five hundred taels of gold. The worthy man, now with this wealth, made offerings widely; the Buddha taught him the Dharma, and he attained a glimpse of the path at once (Source: Essential Matters from the Various Sūtras).

The Buddha dwelt in Vaiśālī. At mealtime, robing himself and taking up his bowl, he entered the city to beg, together with Ānanda. In Vaiśālī there lived a householder named Vīraseṇa, who had dismissed all outside guests, indulging himself in the five sensory pleasures for seven days straight, and had told his own gatekeeper to admit no one from outside. The Buddha, begging in his own turn, gradually approached Vīraseṇa's own household, and, hearing the sound of music within, told his attendant Ānanda of this. Ānanda reported the matter as it was, and the Buddha said: this very elder, seven days from now, shall die, and, dying, shall be reborn weeping in hell — for the roots of goodness he once cultivated have now been cut off entirely, and he has cultivated nothing new since. It is for this very reason that, at death, he will be reborn in hell.

Ānanda asked: is there any means by which this householder might be spared from dying within these seven days? The Buddha told Ānanda: there is no means to prevent his own death — but there is a means to spare him from hell. Should this elder shave his own hair and beard, don the three monastic robes, and, with firm faith, go forth to study the path, he might yet avoid falling into hell. Ānanda said: I shall go now and urge him to go forth.

At that time, the Śākya clan of Vaiśālī had a standing agreement with Ānanda that, wherever he went, even into a household where people slept or were otherwise occupied, he should be admitted directly, without hindrance — for his own words were always gentle and harmed no one. Ānanda told the gatekeeper to announce him, and the gatekeeper went in and reported the whole matter. The elder at once set aside his own pleasures and hurried out to bow at Ānanda's feet, saying: Ānanda, please enter my household and bless both my sons and daughters. Ānanda answered: the Tathāgata knows the proper time and never speaks falsely — he has foretold that you, elder, shall die within seven days, and, dying, shall be reborn weeping in hell. The elder, hearing this, was seized with terror and wept, and asked Ānanda: is there any means to prevent my own death? Ānanda answered: there is no means to prevent your death — but there is a means to spare you from hell. The elder asked what this meant, and Ānanda told him: should you go forth yourself, you would be spared from hell.

The elder, reflecting on how to settle his own household affairs first, then intended to go later to the Buddha to go forth, but said to himself: seven days is still far off — today I shall still indulge myself in the five pleasures, and set out at dawn. When Ānanda came at the appointed hour, robed and bowl in hand, entering the city to beg, he went to the householder's own home and told him: one day has already passed, and six days remain — you should go forth now. The elder answered: I shall go later. And so it continued, the elder each time wishing to indulge himself once more and saying he would go the next day, delaying again and again, unable to bring himself to act, while Ānanda came daily to urge him on. When the sixth day was complete, on the morning of the seventh day, Ānanda urged him once more — and only then did the elder settle his own household affairs, take leave of his family both great and small, and go to the Buddha. The World-Honored One had Ānanda confer the full precepts upon him. Once ordained, in the latter part of that same seventh day's night, his own life ended, and he was reborn in the heaven of the Four Heavenly Kings.

Ānanda asked the Buddha where he had been reborn. The Buddha told Ānanda: the monk Vīraseṇa, his life having ended, was reborn in the heaven of the Four Heavenly Kings; and, that life ending in turn, he was reborn in Trāyastriṃśa heaven — and so he continued, transmigrating between the heavens and the human world across nine kalpas, until, in his own final birth, he was reborn once more among humans, where he shaved his own hair and beard, and, with firm faith, went forth to study the path, and attained the fruit of a pratyekabuddha, under the very same name, Vīraseṇa. And why was this so? Because this same monk Vīraseṇa, having received the full precepts, applied himself with diligence right up to his own death — and it is Ānanda's own pure conduct and its fruit that brought about the blessing he then received (Source: Sūtra of the Householder Vīraseṇa's Five-Fold Pleasure).

The Buddha dwelt in the Wilderness Monastery of Rājagṛha, where five hundred monks were each begging materials to build their own huts. A merchant, seeing monks approaching, shut his shop and fled home to avoid them. The monks caught up with him another way, and taught him of karmic fruit, guiding him toward faith — even taking hold of his own head to press generosity upon him, saying: this will grant you vigor, strength, and long life, and increase the merit that reaches the fruit of ambrosia. The merchant, hearing this, came to faith, and gave a small offering. Later he met Śāriputra and told him the whole matter; Śāriputra, hearing it, taught him the Dharma and brought him joy, then reported the whole affair fully to the Buddha.

The Buddha told the monks in charge of the building work: in a past life there was a monk named Bachu, dwelling in a forest, where a great many birds of the Śakra-host also roosted, crying out in confusion morning and evening and troubling him greatly. Bachu went to the World-Honored One, bowed at his feet, and stood to one side. The World-Honored One asked him: are you free of illness and trouble, dwelling at ease in the forest? The monk answered: I am free of illness and trouble, and dwell there happily — but for the birds of the Śakra-host, whose crying disturbs my thought entirely. The Buddha asked the monk: do you wish these birds never to come again at all? He answered: I do wish it. The Buddha said: monk, when these birds next come, beg one feather from each of them. The monk did as instructed, and each bird let fall one feather. Each morning as they departed he begged again, and the birds moved for one night to another place — but, finding no peace there either, soon returned. The monk again begged feathers from them, and again each gave one. The birds said among themselves: this monk begs feathers from us without end; before long, I fear, our feathers will be entirely gone, and we shall no longer be able to fly. They resolved together: since this monk dwells here permanently, we ourselves should leave, and seek another roost.

The monks reported this fully to the Buddha, saying: the monk in the forest is timid, easily unsettled, fearful of the mere cries of birds. The Buddha said: it is not only today that he is timid. In a past life, there was a dragon-elephant dwelling in a forest. A great wind suddenly arose, blowing down the trees; hearing the crashing sound, the elephant, terrified, fled — and, its fear only just subsiding, it sheltered beneath another tree, which then also broke, so that it fled once more. A deva, seeing the elephant, thought: this elephant flees wildly for no true cause — and spoke a verse:

"The wind is fierce, the forest trees break — / the dragon-elephant, terrified, flees. / Yet were the whole world beneath heaven its refuge, / where could a dragon-elephant escape to?"

The Buddha said: the elephant of that time is this same forest-dwelling monk now. The Buddha further told the monks: in a past life, there dwelt five hundred sages in the Himalayan mountains. One sage lived apart, where there was a fine spring and flourishing flowers and fruit, and, not far off, a lake called Sarovāra, in which lived a dragon. The dragon, seeing the sage's dignified and composed bearing, felt affection for him and came to him — arriving just as the sage sat in full lotus posture — and coiled around the sage seven times, resting its own head upon the crown of his head. Day after day it did this, absent only at mealtimes. Because of the dragon's coils, the sage sat upright day and night without any rest at all, until his body wasted away and broke out in sores and scabies.

A man living nearby who supported the sage came to him, and, seeing him so wasted and afflicted, asked why. The sage told him the whole matter. The man asked further: do you wish the dragon to come no more? He answered: yes. The man told the sage: this dragon wears a jeweled pearl at its own throat as a necklace — ask the dragon for that pearl. By its very nature a dragon is stingy and will never part with such a thing; when it comes, ask it for the pearl. Hearing this request, the dragon's heart was displeased, and it withdrew slowly. The next day, the dragon came, and, from a distance, spoke a verse:

"A shining maṇi jewel, / a necklace adorning my own body — / could the dragon give this to me, / that would make a true and worthy friend."

The dragon answered in verse:

"Fearing to lose my maṇi pearl, / like a man who grips his stick to call off his own dog. / The jeweled pearl cannot be had — / I shall come to see you no more. / Fine food and every treasure alike / rest upon this maṇi's own honor; / it can never, in the end, be given — / why do you beg for it so earnestly? / Too much asking drives even love away; / for this very reason, I come no more."

At that time a deva, in the open sky, spoke this verse:

"Weariness and estrangement both arise / entirely from excessive demand. / Once a brahmacārin's own greed shows itself, / the dragon retreats into the depths."

The Buddha told the monks in charge of the building work: even a dragon-elephant, a mere animal, despises excessive demand — how much more should this hold true for human beings! You monks: do not busy yourselves in excessive undertakings, seeking without limit, causing faithful brahmins and householders to suffer as they give up their own wealth (Source: Sāṃghika Vinaya, fascicle 7; also found, with variations, in the Mahīśāsaka Vinaya, fascicle 3).

At that time the Buddha, together with five hundred monks, arrived in the country of Vṛji and dwelt in the city of Vaiśālī. The people were suffering famine, the five grains had failed to ripen, the dead lay scattered everywhere, and alms were hard to come by. In that city lived an elder named Yaśas. Yaśas had gone forth as a monk, but, alms being so hard to obtain, often returned to his own family home in search of food. His mother told him: you suffer so greatly, yet our own household's wealth is not small — use it freely. Your wife still lives; you two could yet live together, and you would still be free to give in offering to the Three Jewels. She said this three times over, but Yaśas would not agree. His mother told him again: if you have no wish for the five sensory pleasures, then simply give me your own seed, to continue our family line — so that, after I die, our property will not pass into the crown's own hands. Yaśas answered: if it is only to leave a line of descent that you ask, I shall now submit to this command. His mother hurried inside and told his former wife to dress and adorn herself well; after a single meeting between them, the wife conceived, and later bore a son, who was for this reason named "Continuing the Line" — and, from then on, people called even the family's own property by that same name.

Yaśas, hearing himself spoken of in this way, felt great shame, and reported the matter to Śāriputra, who in turn reported it to the World-Honored One. Yaśas and Śāriputra together went before the Buddha and told him the whole matter fully. The Buddha said: monk Yaśas, such a thing has never before occurred within the Saṅgha. You foolish man — you have opened a gate to grave transgression.

The Buddha said: it is not only today, within my own teaching, that this flaw has appeared. In a past age, in the heaven of Light and Sound, when this world had only just come into being, there was a being who, restless and covetous, was the first to taste the very savor of the earth; the other beings, following his example in turn, grew attached to it in their own hearts, and their bodies grew heavy — and from this, desire first arose, their spiritual powers receded, and their own inner radiance went out. It was from this time onward that sun and moon first came to be. That restless being was Yaśas himself. And it is not only today that his mother has led her own son astray — she did so once before as well, as the Buddha once told the monks.

At that time the country was called Kāśī, its city Vārāṇasī, and its crown prince was named Great Renown, who governed the world through giving and through upholding the precepts. His chief consort, observing the stars, saw a golden deer-king passing overhead from the south, crossing the sky toward the north. The consort thought to herself: could I obtain that hide to make into a cushion, I should die with no regret left at all — and, failing to obtain it, resolved to make it a condition of remaining the king's own consort. She removed her own jeweled ornaments, put on soiled and worn-out clothing, and shut herself in a chamber of grief. The king, coming to look for her, asked his attendants, who told him she had gone into the chamber of grief. He went himself and asked who had wronged her; she remained silent and did not answer. He sent others to ask, and still she did not answer. He then summoned an old and trusted attendant, skilled in many methods of persuasion, who coaxed her by various means, until she answered: no one has wronged me — I am simply troubled by a memory, and so have said nothing — and told of having seen the golden deer, and of wishing to obtain its hide for a cushion.

The attendant reported this to the king, who asked his ministers who could obtain it; he then gathered all the hunters and ordered them to search urgently. The hunters all said: we have never even heard of such a creature, still less seen it — and the king had them confined to prison. Among them was one hunter named Nāḍa, brave, strong, and swift enough to outrun any beast, who could bring down a flying bird with a single upward shot, no arrow ever falling in vain; reflecting that he himself was innocent yet imprisoned, he pressed his case and asked: has anyone at all seen or heard of this deer? The king said: you may ask the consort yourself. The consort answered: I saw it from my own tower, coming from the south, crossing the sky toward the north. The hunter, being skilled in reading the habits of birds and beasts, understood at once that the deer must rest in the south and feed in the north, and resolved to seek it at its feeding ground.

The hunter, bow and arrows in hand, traveled gradually northward, until he came to the Himalayan mountains, where a sage dwelt. He set aside his hunting gear, went to the sage, bowed, and greeted him; the sage bade him sit, and offered him drink and fruit. The hunter asked how long he had dwelt there; the sage answered, many years. The hunter asked whether he had ever witnessed anything extraordinary. The sage answered: south of this mountain there is a tree called the nyagrodha; a golden deer-king comes flying there constantly to feed on its leaves. The sage showed him the way; arriving beneath the tree, he saw it spreading wide, its leaves covering a broad canopy, and soon after saw the deer itself, coming like the king of wild geese, crossing the sky, to alight in the tree and feed on its leaves — and, once sated, fly off again.

He returned and reported to the king that no net or arrow could reach such a creature, and that there was no way to capture it; he suggested the king himself consult the consort. The consort told the hunter: smear honey upon the leaves near the peak of the tree, then set a snare below, in the deer's own path; drawn by the scent, it will eat the leaves and gradually descend, until it reaches the snare and is caught, and can then be driven away captive. The sage, seeing this from afar, said: alas, what a bitter misfortune — though able to ride the very air, it cannot escape the hands of wicked men. The sage spoke this verse:

"Among all evils in this world, / none surpasses fragrance and flavor. / They deceive ordinary men, / and every creature of forest and field alike. / Drawn by the wind toward scent and taste, / one suffers this very affliction."

The hunter smeared honey upon the leaves, caught the deer, and led it back. When the king heard of the deer's arrival, he burned incense to welcome it. The consort, seeing it, ran forward and embraced the deer-king — and, through this very contact, so heavy was her own defiled attachment, that the deer-king's golden color at once faded away. The king asked the consort: this deer's golden color has suddenly vanished — what shall we do now? The consort answered: this gold was never a thing that could be truly given — release it, and let it go. That golden deer was Yaśas himself; that consort was Yaśas's own mother — both still bound, even now, by the very attachment they suffered then (Source: Sāṃghika Vinaya, fascicle 1).

The Buddha dwelt in Śrāvastī. There was a monk named Nandin, whose mind remained fixed in meditative absorption whether walking, standing, sitting, or lying down. After seven years, he lost his own concentration, and returned to sit beneath a tree, seeking once more to regain his former absorption. Māra, watching for an opening, transformed himself into a woman of unmatched beauty, who stood before him and said: monk, come and lie with me. Nandin said: evil thing, be gone at once! Evil thing, be gone at once! — yet, though his mouth spoke thus, his eyes did not turn away; and this repeated itself a second and a third time. The heavenly woman then removed her own clothing, standing bare before him, and Nandin, seeing her form, felt desire take hold of his own heart. As she then slowly stepped backward, Nandin called out: wait a little! — and she fled swiftly to a ditch by Jetavana, where lay a dead horse, and there vanished from sight entirely. Nandin, his own desire now inflamed, coupled with the dead horse; and once his desire had subsided, he saw for himself the wrongness of what he had done, and, removing his monastic robe, went to Jetavana and told the other monks: I have committed a grave transgression.

The monks asked him the circumstances, and Nandin told the whole matter; they reported it to the Buddha, who had him expelled. The monks asked the Buddha: Nandin had long cultivated pure practice — how could he be deceived by a mere woman? The Buddha said: it is not only now that Nandin has been deceived by a woman — it was so in a past life as well.

In a past age, in the southern country of Avanti, there lived a man of the Kāśyapa clan who had gone forth as a non-Buddhist ascetic, learned and widely read, and who assisted the king in governing the realm. The king, upholding the law of the land, would have criminals tortured and punished; the ascetic thought to himself: having already gone forth from household life, how can I still assist the king in judging such matters? — and told the king: I wish to go forth as a renunciant. The king said: but you have already gone forth — why do you now say you wish to go forth? He answered: while I still take part in these various punishments, how can this be called true renunciation? I now wish to go forth according to the way of the sages. The king consented, and the ascetic built a hermitage on Mount Baiyan, where, through the practice of the sages' own methods, he attained the five supernormal powers.

One day, through an involuntary bodily discharge, his own impure fluid fell to the ground; a doe drank this and licked the place, and thereby conceived, later giving birth to a small human child. The sage, coming upon the doe and finding she had borne a child, wondered greatly: how can an animal give birth to a human being? — and, entering meditative absorption to examine the matter, understood the child to be his own, and took it in to raise. Because of its birth from a doe, its body was dappled like a deer's, and so it was named Deer-Dapple. The sage reflected: nothing corrupts what is right and destroys virtue so thoroughly as women — and so taught the boy meditative absorption, guiding him to the five supernormal powers, and spoke this verse for him:

"Among all classes of living beings, / none escape their return to death. / Each follows where its own karma leads, / and receives its own fruit in turn. / Those who do good are reborn in heaven; / those of evil conduct fall into hell. / One who practices the path, cultivating pure conduct, / exhausts all outflows and attains nirvāṇa."

The sage then passed away, and the boy, cultivating pure conduct on his own, attained the five supernormal powers in turn. Śakra, riding his own white dragon-elephant, surveyed the world to see who among beings was filial to their parents, who made offerings to śramaṇas and brahmins, and who practiced giving, upheld the precepts, and cultivated pure conduct — and, in his survey, came upon this sage-boy. Śakra thought: should this boy set his own mind upon becoming Śakra or a Brahmā-king, he could well attain it — he ought to be undone at once. He then devised a means, striking the Dharma-drum, and a hundred thousand devas all gathered together. Śakra announced: in Jambudvīpa there is a sage-boy named Deer-Dapple, of great merit, whom I intend to undo.

The assembled devas, hearing this, were displeased, and thought to themselves: to undo this person will only diminish the ranks of the devas and strengthen the asuras. One deva then spoke up, asking who should go to carry this out; another answered that a heavenly woman should go. She was summoned at once, and, in that same moment, a hundred thousand heavenly women all gathered together. Among them was one named Ālànfú, whose own hair held four colors — blue, yellow, red, and white — and was for this reason called "many-colored." This heavenly woman was chosen to go to Jambudvīpa and undo the boy Deer-Dapple. She told Śakra: I myself have, in the past, already undone the pure conduct of many, causing them to lose their own spiritual powers — I ask that another heavenly woman be sent instead, one whose beauty and grace bring men greater delight. Śakra then spoke various verses to the assembly, urging and persuading her — and so the heavenly woman went, and undid the sage-boy after all.

The Buddha told the monks: could that sage-boy of that time be anyone other than the very monk Nandin, absorbed in meditation, before you now? And that heavenly woman, Ālànfú, is this same heavenly woman here today (Source: Sāṃghika Vinaya, fascicle 1).

The Buddha dwelt in Kauśāmbī. At that time the elder monk Chandaka was ill-tempered and difficult to counsel; the other monks, even after formally admonishing him three times before the Saṅgha, found him still unchanged, and reported this to the Buddha.

The Buddha said: in a past age there was an elder's son who had a servant named Āmóyóu, vicious by nature. Once, when the elder's son was traveling with several brahmin youths in a pleasure garden, their attendants all waited outside the garden gate; Āmóyóu, there among them, began beating the other attendants, who each reported this to their own masters. The brahmin youths all came out to reprimand him, but Āmóyóu would not listen, telling them: I will not obey your words — only should my own master's son come to reprimand me would I obey — and continued his beating without stop. Word was brought to Āmóyóu's own master, who, having attained the divine eye, perceived that beneath the very spot of the brawl lay a buried hoard of gold and silver, and that it was the ill fortune of that ground itself that had provoked the fight. He went and reprimanded the servant, who then stopped at once.

The Buddha told the monks: could that elder's son of that time be anyone other than myself? And that servant, Āmóyóu, is this same monk Chandaka now.

And in a further past age, there was a great brahmin scholar named Fúlúxī, teacher to the king, who regularly instructed young students. In that brahmin's household was born a servant named Jiāluóhē, who was constantly made to wait upon the students. This servant was sharp-witted, and could remember in full anything he heard taught. Once, having some small grievance with the other students, he fled to another country, and, falsely claiming to be the brahmin Fúlúxī's own son, under the name Yajñadatta, told the royal teacher-brahmin of that country: I am the son of Fúlúxī, teacher to the king of Vārāṇasī, and have come here wishing to become your own student and learn the brahmanical teachings. The teacher agreed. The servant, being clever, had already once heard these teachings, and now, hearing them again, retained them entirely; his teacher, greatly delighted, had him instruct all five hundred students in his own place, saying: you shall teach in my stead, while I attend to affairs at the royal court.

This teacher-brahmin had no son of his own, only a single daughter, and thought to himself: I might give my own daughter in marriage to Yajñadatta, and he would then be as good as my own son in this household — and told him: Yajñadatta, do not return to your own country; I shall give you my daughter in marriage. He answered: as you instruct — and, taking the daughter, lived on in the household as though he were truly the teacher's own son, and the family's fortunes gradually prospered. Yet this Yajñadatta, whenever the food displeased him, would fly into a great rage, though his wife still held him in high regard, and searched in vain to learn who he truly was.

Meanwhile the brahmin Fúlúxī, hearing in full that his own servant was living in that place, thought: my servant Jiāluóhē has fled to another country — I shall go and seize him; perhaps I may recover him — and traveled directly to that country. At that time Yajñadatta was traveling with his own students to a pleasure garden, and, on the road, encountered his former master; terrified, he secretly told his students: you may all go back now, and continue your studies on your own. Once the students had departed, he went before his master, bowed at his feet, and said: since coming to this country, my own teacher here has treated me as a father; I took refuge with this country's own royal teacher, the great scholar-brahmin, as my master, and, because of my mastery of the great scriptures, this teacher-brahmin gave me his own daughter in marriage. I beg you, honored one, not to reveal my true circumstances today — I shall pay you the servant's own worth in full.

The household's true master, being a brahmin well versed in worldly affairs, answered at once: you are indeed my own son — what more is there to say? — and, devising a pretext, soon took his leave and returned to the household, telling those within: one of my own kin has come to visit. The wife, delighted, prepared every kind of food and drink and served the guest; once the meal was finished, in a quiet moment, she bowed at the visiting brahmin's feet and asked him: I have served my husband Yajñadatta, yet my food and care never seem to please him — please instruct me in what he ate in his own household before, that I might prepare food in the old manner.

The visiting brahmin, hearing this, grew angry, and thought to himself: such a son, such a son — bringing suffering upon another man's own daughter! — and told the young woman: only see me off quickly. As I am about to leave, I shall teach you a single verse; when you recite it, it shall silence your husband entirely. Having taken his leave, and just as he was about to depart, he taught her this verse:

"Without kin, wandering in a foreign land, / deceiving all the people under heaven — / coarse food is his own accustomed fare; / for mere food, what cause is there for complaint?"

I give you this verse now: whenever he grows angry and finds fault with the food, stand near him, turn your face away, and recite it softly, so that he alone may hear it. Having taught her this, he returned to his own country.

After seeing his master off, Yajñadatta, at the next mealtime, again grew angry as before; his wife, standing near him, tried reciting the verse. Hearing it, his heart sank at once, and he thought to himself: ah — that old fellow has exposed my own shameful secret! From that day on, he always spoke to her gently, fearing she might tell others of his hidden past.

The Buddha told the monks: could the brahmin Fúlúxī of Vārāṇasī, at that time, be anyone other than myself? And that servant Jiāluóhē is this same monk Chandaka now. Just as he once, in that life, relied on his master's own authority to bully others, so he does again today, relying on my own authority to bully others in turn (Source: Sāṃghika Vinaya, fascicle 8).

In Śrāvastī there lived two elderly monks, each of whom had left wife and children to go forth as monks. After long years traveling from place to place, both returned together to Śrāvastī, and shared a single room. Each, in his own private thoughts, wished to visit his own former home for a while, to see his wife and children. One went to his own former household; his wife, seeing him, said angrily: you abandoned your own home for the path with no thought of virtue at all — our daughter is now grown, yet unmarried — what use is it that you come now? I ought to break your legs! The younger of the two monks returned to their room, sorrowful and unhappy. The elder monk, too, had been driven off from his own home, and returned to the room. He asked his younger companion: why do you look so troubled? He answered: what need is there to ask? The elder said: the two of us share this one room — good and ill alike ought not to go unshared between us; if you will not tell me, who else is there to tell? And so the younger monk told him everything.

The elder monk said: what cause is there for grief in this? My own household is just the same — your son and my daughter could well be matched as husband and wife. The younger agreed, and, going back, told his wife: I have found a husband for our daughter. His wife answered: excellent. The elder monk, too, returned to his own wife, and told her: I have found a wife for our son. She asked who it was, and he told her. And so the two elderly monks' own families were joined in marriage, each rejoicing as though a poor man had found treasure, and grew ever closer in mutual affection.

The Buddha told the monks: it is not only today that these two elderly monks have acted in such a way. In a past age, in the country of Kāśī, there lived a brahmin who had kept a stock of black beans so long that, however he boiled them, they would never soften, and no one would buy them from him. Another household, nearby, kept a stubborn, vicious donkey which likewise no one would buy. The bean-seller thought: I shall trade these beans for that donkey — and went and proposed it; the donkey's owner, in turn, thought: I shall trade this vicious donkey for those beans — and agreed. Each was delighted. The bean-seller spoke this verse:

"The brahmin's own art is cunning trade — / these frost-worn beans, sixteen years stored, / for all your firewood, will never soften; / they'll break the teeth of your whole household, young and old alike!"

The donkey's owner then spoke this verse in turn:

"Brahmin, what is it that pleases you so? / Though it has four legs and a fine coat of hair, / carry a heavy load down a long road, and you shall learn — / neither awl's prick nor fire's burn will ever move it."

The bean-seller spoke again:

"A single staff of a thousand autumns, / tipped with a four-inch awl — / that can tame this wretched, vicious donkey; / why worry that it cannot be managed?"

The donkey then spoke to its own master in verse:

"I shall plant my own two forelegs firm, / and fling both hind hooves out together — / break your own front teeth first, / and only then shall you understand."

The bean-seller spoke again to the donkey:

"When mosquitoes and biting insects sting you, / you can only raise your tail to guard yourself — / I shall cut that very tail off, / and let you learn true suffering then."

The donkey answered:

"Since the days of my own ancestors, / this stubborn, willful way has been our own — / and I, now carrying it on in turn, / shall never give it up, not even in death."

The bean-seller, seeing that the donkey was too vicious to be reasoned with through harsh words, then spoke flatteringly, in verse:

"Your voice rings out so fine and clear, / your face as white as mother-of-pearl — / I shall find you a wife of your own, / to roam the forests and meadows together."

The donkey, hearing these gentle, loving words, spoke this verse in reply:

"I can carry eight full bushels, / and travel six hundred li in a single day — / brahmin, know this well: / at the mere mention of a wife, my heart already rejoices."

The Buddha said: those two men of that time are these same two elderly monks today; and that donkey is the very son of one of these elderly monks now — having once already deceived each other's hearts, causing faithful brahmins and householders to suffer as they gave up their own wealth, they do so again (Source: Sāṃghika Vinaya, fascicle 7).

The Buddha told Śāriputra: long ago there was a Buddha named Full Victory. Under him were two monks, one named Nitya-muditā and the other named Anuttara. The monk Anuttara had attained the six supernormal powers, while the monk Nitya-muditā had not yet removed his own fetters. There lived an elder named Great Love, whose wife, Sugoodmaya, was of unmatched beauty; both monks depended on this household for support. The wife, Sugoodmaya, made offerings to Anuttara, attending to his every need without lack, while Nitya-muditā received only meager support. Nitya-muditā, in his jealousy, spread this slander: the monk Anuttara has relations with Sugoodmaya, and it is only through this affection that he receives such support.

The Buddha said to Śāriputra: do you know who Nitya-muditā was? He was myself. And that wife, Sugoodmaya, was the very brahmin woman Ciñcā. Because I once slandered the arhat Anuttara in that life, I remained in hell for countless thousands of years — and even now, though I have attained buddhahood, the residue of that deed remains. The sharp-tongued young woman, dancing before me with a bowl tied to swell her own belly, came before me and said: śramaṇa, why do you speak of others' affairs, and not of your own household's? You alone enjoy your ease, knowing nothing of my own suffering — you once had relations with me, and I am now with child; when my time comes, I shall need ghee and oil to nourish the infant — you must provide it all.

The whole assembly, hearing this, bowed their heads in silence. Śakra, who stood behind fanning the Buddha, transformed himself into a mouse, entered beneath her clothing, and gnawed through the cord, so that the bowl fell to the ground. The four assemblies of disciples and the six heterodox teachers alike raised their voices in delighted laughter beyond measure, all reviling her together: you creature deserving death — to slander the Unsurpassed, Truly Awakened One! How could this very earth, unknowing as it is, bear to hold such an evil creature? — and the earth itself split open, flames leaping up fiercely, and the woman fell at once into the great hell.

The assembly, witnessing this, was struck with terror; King Ajātaśatru, his own hair standing on end, rose and asked: where has this woman now fallen? The Buddha answered: great king, this woman has fallen into the Avīci hell. The king asked further: this woman committed no killing, no theft — only false speech — must she truly fall into Avīci for this alone? The Buddha told the king: in the teaching I proclaim, action of body, speech, and mind each carry their own grades of weight, upper, middle, and lower. The king asked further: which is heaviest, which middling, which lightest? The Buddha told King Ajātaśatru: mental action is heaviest of all; verbal action is of middling weight; and bodily action is the lightest (Source: Sūtra of the Arising of Past Karmic Actions, latter fascicle).

In the country of Kośala there were two monks, one who broke the precepts and one who kept them faithfully, who wished to travel together to see the Buddha. On the road they came upon water filled with insects. The precept-breaking monk said to his companion: let us drink this water together. The precept-keeping monk said: the water is full of insects — how could it be drunk? The other answered: if I do not drink, I shall die, and never see the Buddha, hear the Dharma, or meet the Saṅgha. The precept-keeping monk would not drink even at the cost of his own life; the precept-breaking monk drank, while his companion, refusing, died on the spot, and was reborn at once in Trāyastriṃśa heaven, his heavenly body complete.

He arrived at the Buddha's own place first, bowed at his feet, and stood to one side; the Buddha taught him the Dharma in various ways, and he attained the pure Dharma-eye. At once he bowed at the Buddha's feet and said: I take refuge in the Buddha, I take refuge in the Dharma, I take refuge in the Saṅgha — for the rest of my life I shall be a lay follower. The Buddha taught him further, and he fell silent; the deva, having paid homage to the Buddha, then vanished from sight.

The monk who had drunk the water arrived later. The Buddha was at that time teaching the Dharma, surrounded by a boundless assembly; seeing the monk arrive, the Buddha drew back his own upper robe and showed his golden-hued arm. You foolish man — you wished to see my own physical body, yet were outdone by the one who kept the precepts, who saw my Dharma-body first. The Buddha spoke this verse:

"A mind that does not observe rightly / sees, yet without true discernment — / foolish as a moth flying into flame, / craving only the sight of my own body. / This form is nothing but impurity — / what is it you truly wish to see? / Within, only fat, blood, and flesh; / without, only a thin skin's cover. / He who, though burning with thirst, / still walked in reverence for the precept, / guarding my teaching even unto death — / it is he who has truly seen me, not you."

Having spoken this verse, the Buddha told the monks: from this day forward, none shall travel without carrying a water-strainer; to go without one is itself a transgression. It is no transgression where the water runs clear — a great river or a spring — nor within twenty li between one monastery and another (Source: Sarvāstivāda Vinaya, Miscellaneous Recitations, fascicle 3).

In the land of Kāla there was once a hungry ghost, standing leaning against the city gate. The monk Pūrṇa asked the ghost: what is it you seek here now? The ghost answered: do you truly see me? The monk said: I see you. The ghost said: my husband entered the city and has not yet returned; I stand here waiting for him to come out.

The monk asked: what has your husband gone into the city to seek? The ghost answered: in this city there is a great elder, long afflicted with a boil, which today shall finally burst, its pus and blood overflowing; my husband has gone to bring some back, that the two of us might eat together and so sustain our own lives. The monk asked further: how long has your husband now been in the city? The city walls stood close by a great river; the ghost raised her hand, pointed to the city, and told the monk: since this city was first built and destroyed, upon this bank and that, this is now its seventh such cycle — and my husband has already been in the city that entire span of time. The lifespan of a hungry ghost cannot be reckoned, and knows no fixed limit (Source: Sūtra of a Thousand Oxen in a Herd).

Long ago, five hundred monks, traveling through a great marshland, were set upon by bandits, who stripped them of their robes, bound them, and made them all sit upon the ground — tying their hands together with nothing more than gathered blades of living grass — before leaving them there. These renunciants, though they might easily have risen simply by tearing the grass, understood that to kill even a blade of grass in doing so would violate the Buddha's own precept, and each resolved in his own heart: better to let this body perish than ever to break the precept. And so they remained, bound, for four full days, until the king of that land, out hunting, came upon these renunciants sitting in the open wilderness, dismounted, bowed to them, and asked the reason for their state. They told him everything in full, and he freed them all himself, and brought them back to receive his own offerings (Source: Sūtra of Similes, fascicle 6).

In the mountains there was a monastery with a separate chamber, in which dwelt a malicious ghost that delighted in troubling anyone who entered, so that the resident monks had all abandoned it. A visiting monk arrived, and the monastery's own overseer assigned him to that very room, warning him: this room has a ghost that comes to torment its occupant. The visiting monk, confident in the strength of his own precept-keeping, answered: what could a mere small ghost possibly do? I can subdue it myself — and went in to stay there.

As evening drew near, another monk arrived seeking lodging, and the overseer likewise assigned him to that same room, warning him too of the ghost; this monk likewise said: I shall subdue it myself. The first monk, having shut the door, sat upright within, waiting — but no ghost came. The second monk, arriving at night, knocked at the door seeking entry; the first, believing this to be the ghost itself, would not open it. The one outside pounded at the door with all his strength, while the one within pushed back against it with equal force; the one outside at last prevailed, forced the door open, and entered — whereupon the one within struck at him, and the one outside struck back just as hard in turn. Only at dawn, seeing each other's faces, did they realize they were in fact old fellow-students from long before. The two renunciants, mutually embarrassed, apologized to one another, while the gathered crowd looked on, laughing at the strange affair (Source: Mahāprajñāpāramitā-śāstra, fascicle 91).

The Buddha dwelt in Śrāvastī. There was a monk who dwelt in an earthen dwelling among the rocks of a certain country, his hair, beard, and nails long unkempt, his robes worn and tattered. King Udayana, wishing to go out and survey the roads under repair, traveled with his consorts to the foot of a mountain. One of his consorts, glancing toward the earthen dwelling, saw the monk — his hair, beard, and nails so long, his robes so torn, that he appeared like a ghost — and cried out loudly: my lord, there is a ghost in there! The king, from a distance, asked where; the consort answered: nearby, in that earthen dwelling among the rocks.

The king at once drew his sword and went to see, and, finding the monk in this state, asked him: what manner of being are you? He answered: I am a śramaṇa. The king asked: what kind of śramaṇa? He answered: I am a śramaṇa of the Śākya. The king asked: are you then an arhat? He said, no. Have you then attained the fourth dhyāna? Again he said, no. The third or second dhyāna? Again, no. Have you at least attained the first dhyāna? He answered: truly, I have attained only the first dhyāna's practice.

The king, his heart filled with displeasure he could not shake off, turned to his attendant and said: this is nothing but lustful intent — this śramaṇa is an ordinary, common man with no true attainment at all — how dare he look upon my own consort! — and ordered his attendant to put him to death at once. The attendant set off to do so.

A mountain spirit, seeing that the monk was entirely without fault, thought: he is now in mortal danger — I shall protect him and free him from this calamity — and transformed itself into the body of a great boar, which came ambling slowly near the king. The attendant at once reported to the king: a great boar is near, my lord! The king abandoned the monk, drew his sword, and gave chase to the boar; and the monk, seeing the king now far off, fled from that place at once (Source: Arthapada Sūtra, first fascicle).

There was a monk who recited the Amitābha Sūtra together with the great Prajñāpāramitā throughout his life. As he was dying, he told his disciples: the Buddha Amitābha has come, together with his great assembly — and, moving his own body in a gesture of homage, passed away within a short while after. His disciples cremated him after his death; the next day, gathering the ashes, they found his tongue alone unburned (Source: Mahāprajñāpāramitā-śāstra, fascicle 9).

In the country of Kośala there was a monk who dwelt alone in the deep mountains. In that forest lived a non-human woman, who told the monk: let us lie together. The monk said: do not speak such words — I am one who has cut off desire entirely. The woman said: if you will not come to me, I shall ruin your own livelihood and bring you nothing but misfortune. The monk said: do as you will.

In the middle of the night, as the monk lay sleeping, the ghost-woman wrapped him in his own cloak and carried him into the royal palace, laying him beside the king's own consort. The king, waking, asked: who are you? The monk said: I am a śramaṇa. What kind of śramaṇa? He answered: I am a śramaṇa of the Śākya. The king said: why then have you come here? The monk told him the whole matter in full. The king said: why do you dwell in the deep mountain forest at all, only to be tormented by malicious ghosts in this way? Leave now — it is only because I know something of the Buddha's own teaching that I do not question you further. The monk, thus freed, told the whole matter fully afterward, and it was for this reason that the Buddha established a rule that monks should not dwell in the deep mountains.

And again, in the country of Kośala, there was a monk who dwelt in a forest retreat. A piśāca demoness came and told him: let us lie together. The monk said: do not speak such words — I am one who has cut off desire. The demoness said: if you will not do this, I shall ruin your own livelihood and bring you misfortune. The monk said: do as you will. That night, as the monk lay sleeping, the demoness wrapped him in his cloak and carried him into a wine-shop, placing him inside a great wine-jar. The next day, the wine-shop's own people found the monk inside the jar, and asked: who are you? He answered: I am a śramaṇa. What kind of śramaṇa? He answered: a śramaṇa of the Śākya. They asked: why are you in here? The monk told the whole matter. The wine-shop people said: be gone from here.

It was because of this that the Buddha said: monks must not dwell in the deep mountain forests, in empty and fearsome places, or in places without other people (Source: Sarvāstivāda Vinaya, Well-Recited Portion, fascicle 2).

There was a monk who, going about begging alms widely, happened once to enter a house of prostitution. The courtesan there, seeing him enter, was overjoyed, and came forward to welcome him, bowing at his feet, inviting him to sit. She asked him: where have you come from, honored one? The monk answered: I have come begging for alms, as my own practice requires. She at once prepared for him a fine meal of many delicacies, filling his bowl to the brim and offering it to him; the monk accepted it and withdrew. Having received such fine food, his heart filled with a joy he could not restrain, and he returned to her again and again.

The woman, for her own part, thought to herself: this monk is hard to win over through mere observance of the Dharma — and so, again and again, prepared for him sweet, rich, and delicious food, offering it to him each time he came; and so his visits continued without ceasing. Not yet firm in his own learning, his practice unaccomplished, his senses not yet subdued, he saw her fine beauty and felt desire stir within him; she, for her part, spoke to him in soft and affectionate words, and he came to feel himself drawn close to her, and, hearing and seeing all this, fell into confusion and delusion without recognizing it in himself.

At that time the World-Honored One had taught: though you look upon a woman, regard an elder one as your own mother, a middling one as your elder sister, a younger one as your younger sister, or as your own child or daughter; and you should look within your own body, reflecting that it is all foul and unlovely, and, without, like a painted vessel filled with impurity — observe how this body, a mere temporary union of the four elements, has no true substance of its own at all. But this monk, not understanding the contemplation of emptiness, practiced only the contemplation of outward form, and, his mind confused by desire, spoke this verse to the woman:

"Fine woman, young in years, pure in form, / your face and bearing so lovely and rare — / I hope that you might bend your own worth to follow me; / my heart inclines toward you, and I wish to hold you always."

The courtesan answered in verse:

"Suppose your own body held no wealth at all — / why then set your heart on what is so hard to win? / What you have done here has no shame in it at all — / run, hurry, get out, and leave my house at once!"

She then drove the monk out; he was chased all the way to the Jetavana grove, where he asked the other monks, and together they came before the Buddha and told the World-Honored One the whole matter from beginning to end. The Buddha said: this monk, in a past life, was once a soft-shelled turtle, and this woman a macaque; they too took a liking to one another then, yet their intention came to nothing, and each in turn deceived the other, failing to enter the true teaching, only increasing their own affliction — and now it is the same again: what he wished for did not follow his own heart, and he met with rejection and humiliation instead, and left in shame.

The Buddha said: in a past age there was a turtle, by a river where the trees grew thick; among that grove of trees was a macaque, who dwelt there. The turtle, coming out of the water, saw the macaque in the tree from a distance, and began speaking with it, drawing gradually nearer and growing familiar, day after day, tirelessly — until a defiled longing arose in its own heart. They exchanged verses back and forth, reviling one another, and then parted (the fuller text is not recorded here). That macaque of that time is this same courtesan now; that turtle is this very alms-begging monk (Source: Sūtra on a Monk's Alms-Round).

Long ago there was a devout layman named Uttara, who revered the Buddha, delighted in the Dharma, and held the noble Saṅgha dear, keeping the six fast-days of each month and upholding the eight precepts, cutting himself off from wrongdoing and practicing benevolence, protecting the lives of all beings — and so he was known as Gurudatta. Neither glory nor honor could turn his own heart aside; neither beautiful women nor the treasures of a kingdom could disturb his resolve. His faith and sincerity were unshakable — wine never touched his lips — and he devoted himself to filial duty, never eating past the appointed hour, emptying his own heart to receive the teaching, never adorning his body with incense, flowers, or cosmetics, never letting weapons or instruments of harm corrupt his own virtue, keeping distance from the foolish and closeness with the wise, and using the Buddha's own transformative power to try to guide his mother's own heart. Yet his mother held to false and inverted views, stingy and never generous, and, when her own life ended, was reborn accordingly.

Afterward, the son went forth as a monk, his heart purified and still, and sat in meditation beneath a tree, surveying the ten directions, often reflecting to himself: my mother has now been dead more than twenty years — let me try to discover where she has gone, that I might repay the debt of having been born of her and raised by her.

In that very moment, there appeared a hungry ghost, hideous and black, repulsive to behold, her hair long and wrapped about her own body, trailing to the ground about her feet, stumbling forward and back, crying out in anguish with no one to save her. She came before the monk and said: I once kept company with a crowd of foolish, wicked people, gave no faith to the Buddha's teaching, and indulged every craving of my own mouth — and now I am a hungry ghost. For twenty-five years I have not seen a single monk; today at last I have met one. I am dying of hunger and thirst — I beg you, by heaven's own mercy, grant me water and grain, and save this feeble life of mine.

The monk answered: is not the clear water of the great ocean itself enough to drink? The ghost said: the very moment I go to drink it, the water turns to pus, its stench beyond all measure; should I manage even a single mouthful of rice, it turns to burning coals, scorching my mouth and throat straight through. Malicious ghosts, moreover, bind my own neck with iron chains, and beat my body without end with red-hot iron rods — how can my own transgression be so grave as to bring me to this?

The monk said: when you were once a human being, you turned your back on the Buddha's own teaching, kept company with the deaf and blind in understanding, followed your own foolish delusions, took disaster for good fortune, held fast to stinginess and never gave, and coveted what was not rightfully yours. The ghost wept and said: it is truly just as you say. And in that life, I had a son, who revered the Buddha's five precepts, held firmly to the ten wholesome actions, was a devout layman never once failing in the six fast-days and the eight precepts, served his parents with filial devotion and the wise with true understanding, and followed closely the lofty, pure example of the monks, as a shadow follows its own form — he urged me again and again to give in charity and make offerings to the noble Saṅgha, but I, lacking any true and correct wisdom, believed instead the mad and foolish words of others, and now I suffer this calamity, its bitter suffering beyond all telling. Weeping, she said: monk, have pity on me, and save me.

The monk said: since you have fallen into such a state, by what merit might this calamity be turned aside? The ghost answered: fill a vessel with water, place a willow-branch within it, and cover it with a monastic robe; offer this, together with a meal, to the assembly of monks, and, in my own name, have them dedicate the merit and make a vow of blessing for me, so that I might obtain food and clothing — and this shall not be long delayed. For any being who has died and fallen among the hungry ghosts, a monk's own dedication of merit takes effect at once.

The monk did exactly as she had said: he set the vessel of water with the willow-branch within it, offered a meal to the assembly of monks, presented a monastic robe to the Saṅgha, and, in her own name, dedicated the merit with a vow of blessing. At once, a great pool appeared, in which lotus flowers bloomed, their fragrance filling the air, with fruit trees offering cool shade all around — and every wish she held was fulfilled according to her own heart's desire. His five hundred fellow monks, marveling at this, said: how has this one disciple alone obtained such a blessing, freeing his mother so swiftly from so grave a fault, her every wish fulfilled just as her own heart desired? (Source: Sūtra of Uttara's Mother).

Long ago there was a monk who traveled by sea together with a company of merchants. Partway through the voyage, the ship turned back and could go no further; the whole company said: there must be someone impure aboard this ship — and they drew lots to find who it was. The monk drew the marked lot three times in a row, and, accepting this, threw himself into the sea. The dragon king at once caught him upon a lotus of the seven treasures and carried him down into the sea, to the dragon palace itself, where the monk saw towers, jeweled halls, and great chambers. The dragon king welcomed him in, bowed at his feet, and said: I have suffered a headache, and for more than six hundred years have sought a renunciant to cure it — now at last I have found one; you must heal my illness. The monk said: I know nothing of medicine — how could I possibly heal you? The dragon king said: within this very sea I have no lack of divine medicines, yet none of them have cured my illness — only the medicine of the Dharma remains untried.

The monk taught the Dharma for only a short while, and the dragon king felt his own illness lift and vanish entirely. Overjoyed, the dragon made offerings to the monk for ninety days, then told him: you have been troubled and confined here so long, and I imagine you long to return — your former ship has just now arrived, and I shall send you back. The dragon king then chose three maṇi pearls: one to be offered to the Buddha, one to be given to the assembly of monks, and one for the monk himself, and sent a spirit to escort him — and in an instant he found himself back upon the ship. His fellow travelers, astonished and delighted, returned together to their own land, and all of them followed the monk to see the Buddha; the Buddha taught them the Dharma, and every one of them awakened the aspiration for the path — those he delivered were beyond counting (Source: Sūtra of Similes, fascicle 9).

Long ago, as Ānanda once related, there was a monk who had attained the fruit of non-returner, and who, upon a mountain, boiled grass to dye his own robes. At that time a man who had lost his cow was searching everywhere for it; seeing the smoke, he went to look, and found that the grass in the pot had all become cattle bones, the monk's bowl transformed into a cow's head, and his robe into cowhide. The man then bound the bones about the monk's neck, and paraded him through the whole kingdom, for all the people to see.

His novice attendant, seeing the sun already at midday and his own master not yet returned from the customary beating and delay, went within and gave the matter careful thought, and, perceiving that his master had been humiliated by this man, went at once and bowed his head at the man's own feet: how could you do such a thing? — this offense shall bring long and lasting consequence. The novice said: let my master return for a meal now — and the man released them both, and the two departed together by their own spiritual power.

The novice, not yet having attained the path himself, still harbored unremoved anger, and, reflecting on the faithful layman and the people of that kingdom who had treated his own master in such a way, caused a dragon to rain sand and stone down upon the entire kingdom, shaking it and filling its people with terror; and the very moment he had formed this thought, sand rained down from every direction, and the city's walls, fortifications, and dwellings were all destroyed. The master said: in a past life of my own, I once made my living slaughtering cattle — it is for this reason that I met with this very calamity. What cause of your own led you to commit this offense? Go now, and you need not follow after me any further. The master said: such is the working of transgression and merit alike — how could one fail to be careful of it? (Source: Sūtra of Similes, first fascicle).

In a foreign land there was a monk who, begging for alms, came to the house of a pearl merchant. The host prepared a meal for him. There was, in that household, a great pearl worth countless millions, which a man had just brought home and set down near the monk. At that moment a parrot came out and swallowed it, unseen by the master of the house, who then asked the monk about the pearl. The monk answered: I have not taken it. The master asked further: was anyone else here? He answered: no one else was here. The master, growing angry, said: I only just brought the pearl in — if no one else was here but you alone, and yet you say you have not taken it, then where is it now? — and beat the monk, so that blood flowed onto the ground. The monk still only said: I have not hidden the pearl.

A moment later, the parrot came out to drink the blood on the ground, and, in doing so, was struck by the very stick and died at once. The master again raised his hand to strike the monk, who said: stop — hear me out. The parrot swallowed the pearl. The bird was cut open at once, and the pearl found within. The master said to the monk: why did you not say so earlier, and spare yourself all this? The monk answered: I hold to the Buddha's precept against taking life — had I spoken sooner, I feared it would have led to the parrot's own death. Now that the parrot has already died, I may speak of it at last. Had the parrot still lived, you might have beaten me to death, and still I would never have spoken.

The master, hearing this, reproached himself deeply, repented, and apologized to the monk, who bore him no anger at all, his own countenance unchanged throughout (Source: Miscellaneous Similes Sūtra, single fascicle).

There was a monk practicing meditation in the mountains. A ghost transformed itself into a headless man and walked before him. The monk said: how fine — with no head, you'll never suffer a headache; and with no eyes or ears, you'll never be troubled by any sound either. The ghost then transformed itself into a man without a torso. The monk said: how fine — with no torso, you'll feel no pain or itch at all, and with no internal organs, you'll never fall ill. The ghost then transformed itself into a man without hands or feet. The monk said: how fine — with no hands or feet, you cannot walk, and you cannot take anything from anyone either. The ghost, seeing that the monk's own resolve could not be shaken, vanished at once (Source: Miscellaneous Similes Sūtra, single fascicle).

In a foreign land there was a monk practicing the path who encountered a man-eating ghost. The ghost seized him tightly in its own grip. The monk said: now that we have truly met one another, know this — your own heart and mine are as far apart as heaven from earth. Your heart delights in killing; my heart delights in preserving life. You and the path stand in direct opposition to one another. The ghost, hearing this, released the monk at once, no longer daring to hold him, and, withdrawing, apologized: I was foolish, and did not see this myself (Source: Miscellaneous Similes Sūtra, single fascicle).

Long ago there was a renunciant who practiced the path day and night without ever growing slack — yet, having still the ordinary needs of body and speech to attend to, he required food and drink, and so went out to beg. He happened to come, in his begging, upon a hunter, who, being without regard for the path, flew into a great rage and raised his bow to shoot him. The renunciant said: wait, wait — do not shoot me elsewhere; shoot me squarely in the belly — and, opening his own robe, bared his belly, calling on the hunter to shoot there.

The hunter at once lowered his bow and released his arrow's tension, and came forward to ask the renunciant: among all people living in this world, there is none who does not fear death — why then does the renunciant ask me to shoot him in the belly? The renunciant answered: it is this very belly that craves food — and it is for this reason alone that I do not avoid danger, and so I offer it to your arrow. The hunter, hearing this, awakened to his own truth: I too, roaming these mountain ridges, never avoiding tiger or wolf, do all this only for this same belly of my own — and, his past karmic conditions and merit now coming to fruition, his heart suddenly opened in understanding.

The renunciant then taught him of the sufferings of the three lower realms and the bliss of nirvāṇa; the hunter, recognizing for himself the gravity of the offense of killing in the hunt, took the precepts from him at once, and awakened the resolve for enlightenment (Source: Sūtra of Similes, fascicle 10).