Trainees on the Path

A human being carries seven inner reservoirs: first, the reservoir of wind; second, of raw matter; third, of digested matter; fourth, of cold; fifth, of heat; sixth, of view; seventh, of desire. Among all these, the reservoir of desire is the most obstinate — resting, as it does, upon spittle and phlegm, pus and blood, sinew and bone, skin and flesh, heart, liver, and the other organs, intestines, stomach, urine, and excrement.

At that time, in the assembly, there was a householder named Xuǎnzé, whose wife, named Wondrous-Form, was of dignified and graceful countenance, her bearing exceptional. The householder's own attachment and affliction burned fiercely; hearing the Buddha teach this, he spoke up at once: World-Honored One, do not speak in this way — how could desire ever truly arise from mere excrement and urine? My own wife is dignified and pure, entirely without any foulness.

The Buddha then conjured a woman, dignified and lovely in form exactly like Wondrous-Form, who walked with measured steps into the midst of the assembly. The householder asked her: why have you come? She answered: I wish to hear the Dharma taught. The householder drew her to sit upon the edge of his own robe. Through the Buddha's own spiritual power, this woman then soiled his robe with excrement, and the stench became unbearable to the householder, who covered his own nose with his hand and, turning, asked those nearby: who has done this? Upananda, unable to bear it either, said to the householder: why do you cover your nose and stare at me? He answered: the stench is overwhelming. Through the Buddha's own power, Upananda and the whole assembly were made to see this woman soiling the householder's robe.

Upananda then said to the householder: just look at what your own wife has done, how foul it is! The householder answered: my wife is pure and clean, her body free of any such foulness — if you doubt this, go look for yourself — and said to Upananda: I had rather thought it was you who caused this filth. Upananda, greatly angered, rose from his seat and said: you should now be called "Householder Filth" yourself! Your own wife, as she sat, let excrement spill onto your robe, smeared with dung, and, feeling no shame at all, you would instead slander another! — and further called out: let this Householder Filth be driven from the assembly! — and dragged him bodily out.

The householder then said to his wife: it was out of respect for you that I let you sit upon the edge of my robe — is this how a person of standing ought to behave? The wife answered: you yourself are but a sack of filth by nature — it is only fitting that this should happen to you. The householder, at this, felt disgust rise within him, wishing to remove the soiled robe, which had further fouled his own body, and asked Upananda: by what means might I be free of this filth? Upananda said: it is not only this excrement that defiles your body — there are yet further afflictions that are your own portion as well; if you truly wish to be free of them, you must distance yourself from their cause entirely. It is because of your wife's own filth that this whole assembly now suffers headache and confusion. The householder answered: the Śākya disciples are all said to be full of compassion — how can your speech be so vicious? Upananda answered: as pitiable as you are now, how could it be otherwise? Look at yourself now, and ask whether you are truly pure — and still you would slander me?

The householder then told his wife: you may go home now — and, having sent her away, said to Upananda: I now see clearly how women flatter and deceive, how full of fault they are, how entirely filled with impurity — my heart turns away from them in disgust, and I wish to go forth in the Buddha's own teaching to seek the path. Upananda said: your own body is foul as it is now — perhaps, were you to anoint yourself with perfume for a year or more, you might then be fit to go forth. The householder answered: were I to spend a year or more anointing myself with perfume, my own body might already have met impermanence, or the Buddha himself might already have entered final nirvāṇa, ruining my own chance to go forth and seek the path. If I am permitted to go forth now, I shall no longer dwell in cities, towns, monastery halls, or fine temples at all, but shall become a wilderness-dweller, begging my food and wearing patched robes, in open and solitary places — who there would smell my own foulness?

The Buddha, hearing this, called out to him: welcome! You shall be a śramaṇa, and cultivate pure conduct. The householder's own hair and beard fell away of themselves, a monastic robe appeared upon his body, and he took up the almsbowl, appearing at once in the very form of a monk. The Buddha taught him the Dharma — suffering, its origin, its cessation, and the path — and, far from all dust and defilement, he attained the pure Dharma-eye, becoming a stream-enterer; taught further still, he attained even the fruit of non-returner.

That very night passed, and, robe and bowl in hand, he went to Rājagṛha, begging for alms in turn, until he arrived at his own former home, and stood outside the gate. His wife, Wondrous-Form, seeing for herself that her husband had shaved his head, donned monastic robes, and gone forth as a renunciant, said to him: is it truly proper, by the Dharma, that you should abandon me and become a śramaṇa? Xuǎnzé answered: was it not you who, only yesterday, cast filth upon my own robe and defiled my own body? Wondrous-Form answered: you are now a monk — is it fitting that you should slander me so? I have come here directly from my own father's house — I have not so much as seen your outer gate before now, let alone the Bamboo Grove.

At that moment an evil Māra spoke to the householder, saying: what you saw yesterday was never truly Wondrous-Form at all — it was a mere conjured illusion, meant to deceive your own heart. You should return now to indulge yourself once more in the five sensory pleasures — the śramaṇa Gautama has simply deceived you. You are no true monk at all, only an illusion yourself; the śramaṇa Gautama constantly uses such tricks to delude many people into going forth, just as he has now deceived you.

But the monk Xuǎnzé, having already realized the true Dharma for himself, recognized this at once as Māra, and said: wicked one — you have transformed me once already, and now you would transform this very Wondrous-Form before me as well; both alike are mere transformation, and everything the Buddha teaches shows all such things to be empty, like illusion itself. At that very moment, Wondrous-Form, hearing this teaching, became far from all dust and defilement, and attained the pure Dharma-eye herself, casting off all doubt and regret, no longer following the words of others, and attained fearlessness within the Buddha's own teaching. She said to Xuǎnzé: what you have done is truly excellent — that you could, within the Buddha's teaching, delight in cultivating pure conduct. I too shall go forth within this same Dharma, and seek the path (Source: Flower-Head Sūtra, fascicle 8).

Long ago there was a man given entirely to lust, his mind fixed on women, unable to free himself even in thought, wishing to speak with and unite with them even in his own dreams. At that time his wife fell ill, wasting away to skin and bone. A renunciant, an acquaintance of the family, came and went from their home; the wife said to him: I am now so weak, day and night, from my own affliction — because of this I wish to confide something to you. Might I? The renunciant said: speak freely, there is no harm in it; should there be anything you wish kept hidden, I shall conceal it and let nothing be revealed. The wife said: my husband's desire is excessive — day and night he presses himself upon me, allowing me neither rest nor food — and it is from this that my illness has arisen; I fear I shall not survive it.

The renunciant said: the next time your husband approaches you, say this to him — is this truly the conduct proper to a follower of the stream-enterer's own way? The wife, in time, said this to her husband, who was struck with deep shame, and reflected inwardly: I am indeed a stream-enterer! — and at once ceased his desire, and, in solitude, contemplating the fruit of non-returner, realized for himself that he had already attained the path, and no longer sought union with women.

His wife asked him: why have you now ceased your desire forever? He answered: I have truly seen you as you are — how could I return to such relations again? His wife said: you say you have "truly seen" — what fault is there in me? I have always remained chaste, never once violating a woman's proper conduct — why then do you insult me to this degree?

The wife then gathered together her five closest relatives, and told them: my own husband now regards me with cold indifference, has ceased all intimacy with me forever, and insults me besides, claiming to have "seen" something of me — let him say now, before this whole assembly, what it is. The husband said: wait — let me first bring proof, to make this clear for myself.

The husband then returned home, and had a fine vase painted and decorated, filled it entirely with filth, sealed its mouth securely, and scented it with fragrant flowers; returning to the gathered assembly, he said to his wife: do you truly love me? If you love me, then embrace and hold this vase, exactly as you would love my own body. The wife did as he said, embracing the vase and playing with it, unwilling to set it down. Seeing his wife's own affection for the vase, the husband then struck it and broke it open — foul filth spilled out everywhere, and maggots appeared. He then asked his wife: can you still now embrace this broken vase? She answered: I would rather die than go near it — I would rather leap into a pit of fire, or throw myself into deep water, or fall from a high mountain, my head and feet torn apart, than ever go near it again.

The husband said: now you see for yourself what I truly saw — I observed that your own body is worse, even, than this vase. From head to foot, examined and considered carefully, these thirty-six impure substances — what is there in them to crave? — and spoke once more this verse:

"The brave one enters meditation, observing / how body and mind are bound up with dust. / Having seen this, disgust and revulsion arise — / just as with that painted, filth-filled vase."

(Source: Sūtra of Illustrative Parables [Chūyào jīng], fascicle 11).

There was a monk who had attained the cessation-absorption. At the time for begging alms, he had already robed himself and was on his way to the dining hall when, that very day, the monastery's own gong was struck late. The monk, ever diligent, thought to himself: why should I let this time pass idly, without looking to what comes next? — and resolved: when next the gong is struck, I shall rise — and, having made this vow, entered the cessation-absorption, intending to remain until the gong sounded.

At that time, however, the monastery met with some grave difficulty, and all the other monks abandoned it and departed. Three months passed before the trouble was finally resolved, and the monks gathered together once more and struck the gong. The monk, rising from his absorption at the sound, died at that very instant.

Later, there was another monk, a mendicant who had likewise attained the cessation-absorption. At the start of one day, wishing to go out begging, he found a great rain falling, and thought to himself: if I go into the village now, my own robes will be ruined by the rain; yet if I do not go, why should I let this time pass idly, without looking to what comes next? — and, having made this vow, entered absorption, intending to rise only once the rain had stopped. Some accounts say the rain continued for half a month; others say a full month. When the rain at last stopped, the monk rose from his absorption, and died at that very instant (Source: Vibhāṣā, fascicle 44).

In the country of Mathurā, in the Nyagrodha Grove, there was a monk who sat in meditation in a quiet place. Beneath his own seat, a venomous serpent lay coiled. As the monk drifted in and out of sleep, sometimes leaning forward, sometimes back, the serpent thought to itself: this man, waking to see me, will surely wish to kill me — and struck at him with its whole body. The monk's life ended, and he was reborn at once in Trāyastriṃśa heaven.

Heavenly maidens came at once to attend and guard him. The young deva told them: sisters, do not approach my own body — should you do so, you would surely cause me to break my precept. The maidens thought to themselves: this deva, in his former life, must surely have been a śramaṇa — it is for this reason that he has been reborn here to enjoy this heavenly blessing.

The heavenly maidens then each held up a mirror before the young deva's own face; seeing his heavenly robes and crown reflected there, he realized for the first time that he had been reborn in heaven. He rose at once from his seat, and, together with his attendants, walked into a garden, where he sat beneath a tree, composing himself in thought, seeking meditative absorption. In the pool nearby, strange birds called mournfully to one another, their sorrowful cries echoing back and forth; he wished to attain the path there, but could not accomplish it.

The young deva then descended from Trāyastriṃśa heaven to Jambudvīpa, and came before the World-Honored One, saying: once my own heavenly blessing is exhausted, I shall fall down into Mount Tai Hell, and continue transmigrating in this way without end — I beg you, in your compassion, to save me, and grant me liberation. The Buddha taught him the Dharma, and, in that very seat, far from all dust and defilement, he attained the pure Dharma-eye (Source: Sūtra of the Monk Who Died in Meditation and Was Reborn in Heaven).

By the standing custom of the inner teaching, anyone entering a monastery to hear the Dharma or pay homage to the Buddha ought to remove any head-covering or hat. At that time there was a king whose own head had thin hair to begin with, and, worse, was afflicted with sores; he also wore leather shoes. Relying on his own high station, he wrapped his head in a fine cloth and entered the hall wearing his shoes, to hear the sūtra taught. The king said to the monk: teach me the Dharma. The monk answered: the Tathāgata has taught that the Dharma is not to be taught to one who wears leather shoes. The king, hearing this, grew angry, and removed his shoes, saying to the monk: teach the Dharma quickly, and satisfy my own wish — should you go against my own intent, I shall have your head struck off.

The monk told the king: the Tathāgata's own precept further forbids teaching the Dharma to one whose head remains covered. The king, in a fury, summoning his own royal authority, said: do you mean to humiliate me? — and, at once, bared his own head, saying: now hear me, and teach the Dharma; should you fail to resolve my own confusion, I shall have your body cut into three pieces.

The monk then spoke this verse:

"One does not, with an impure mind, / reveal the teaching to an angry man. / Whoever wishes truly to know the Dharma / must hear it as the Fully and Perfectly Awakened One himself proclaimed it. / Only one who has cast off arrogance, / whose own heart and mind are utterly pure, / who can let go of every wish to harm — / such a one may truly hear the correct Dharma."

The king, struck with shame, his own face and shadow alike abashed, rose at once from his seat and threw all five limbs to the ground, taking refuge and seeking to extinguish his own faults of body, speech, and mind. Kneeling with palms joined, he said to the monk: I wonder — did this verse come forth from the Tathāgata's own sacred mouth, or did you, honored one, know my own heart's intent, and speak it only for that reason? The monk told the king: this verse is indeed what the Tathāgata himself spoke, and has come down from long ago.

The king reflected to himself: how excellent — the great sage's threefold penetrating wisdom leaves nothing unknown; he must already have known that, in a future time, there would be one such as myself, harboring anger and the wish to harm — and now, deeply repenting, I shall never again commit such an offense. The monk then taught him the Dharma, and, in that very seat, the king, far from all dust and defilement, attained the pure Dharma-eye (Source: Sūtra of the Beggar Who Gave Rise to a Malicious Heart).

The Buddha dwelt in Śrāvastī. There was a certain monk who each day walked a path through the open wilderness beyond the city, past the charnel ground, and had to cross another man's field to reach it. The field's owner, seeing this, grew angry: what manner of renunciant is this, coming and going each day, cultivating no virtue at all? — and asked the monk: what kind of beggar-mendicant are you, wandering back and forth across my own field, until your own footprints have worn a path? The monk answered: I have a dispute, and have come seeking a witness.

The field's owner, bound to the monk by some past karmic connection destined to bring him liberation, followed the monk secretly, and came to the charnel ground, where he saw corpses scattered in disarray, bloated and foul, torn at by birds and beasts, strewn about the place — some eaten entirely, some only partly, some resembling ashen doves, crawling with maggots, their stench unbearable to approach; crows, magpies, foxes, dogs, aged vultures, kites, and owls all fed upon the dead.

The monk raised his hand and said to the man: these very birds and beasts are my own witnesses. The man asked: how can these birds and beasts serve as witnesses? Monk, with whom is it that you truly dispute? The monk answered: it is the mind itself that is diseased, riddled with countless afflictions and outflows. I come here to observe these remains, to discern their foulness clearly, and then return to my own room, and observe my own body in turn — from head to foot, no different at all from what lies here. And yet this mind of mine still races in ten thousand directions, chasing after illusion and falsehood, after forms, sounds, scents, tastes, and pleasing textures. I wish now to know the mind's own true origin — you, mind, should give rise to this very thought: let nothing carry me down into the hells or among the hungry ghosts. I am still an ordinary being, not yet free of every bond, and yet this thieving mind of mine will not obey my own will — it is for this very reason that I come daily to this wilderness, to contemplate the foulness of what lies here, again and again rousing the mind to examine itself, since it is a mind so easily thrown into sudden disorder and confusion; I must now correct it, and give rise to no further cause for wrongdoing.

The field's owner, hearing the renunciant's own teaching, wiped away his tears, his throat too choked to speak. This same man, it happened, had once, in the ten-thousand years of Kāśyapa Buddha's own dispensation, cultivated the contemplation of impurity, and now, in that very moment, discerned once more the thirty-six impure substances of the body, and its foulness. And so, in that same wilderness, in that great and fearsome charnel ground, both the monk and the field's owner together attained the fruit of stream-entry (Source: Sūtra of the Monk Who Sought a Witness).

There was a blind monk, his eyes seeing nothing at all, who mended his own robe by touch alone. At one point the needle slipped from the cloth, and he called out: whoever loves merit, come thread this needle for me! At that moment the Buddha himself came to his side, and said to the monk: I am one who loves merit — I have come to thread it for you. The monk, recognizing the Buddha's own voice, rose at once and bowed, saying: the Buddha's own merit is already complete — how can you say you love merit still? The Buddha answered: though my own merit is indeed complete, I understand most deeply of all beings the very cause and fruit of merit itself — it is for this reason that I still delight in it.

The monk, praising this teaching on merit, was then taught the Dharma further, and attained the pure Dharma-eye, his own fleshly eyes growing brighter still (Source: Mahāprajñāpāramitā-śāstra, fascicle 10).

A Tripiṭaka master monk of Kaśmīra, who practiced the wilderness-dwelling discipline, came once to a royal monastery where a great assembly was being held. The gatekeeper, seeing his robes coarse and worn, barred him at the gate, and this happened again and again — each time turned away only because of his own worn robes.

He then devised a simple solution: borrowing a fine robe, he came again, and this time the gatekeeper did not stop him. Once seated in the assembly, he received all manner of fine food — and offered it first to the robe itself. The assembly, seeing this, asked him why. He answered: I, this same monk, have come here many times and was never once let in — it is only because of this robe that I am permitted to sit here now, and receive all this fine food; it is for this reason that I offer it first to the robe (Source: Mahāprajñāpāramitā-śāstra, fascicle 4).

At that time there was a son of a good family who abandoned his own household, wife, and every relation, to become a śramaṇa. His wife, of dignified and lovely appearance, seeing her husband had abandoned their home, remarried in turn. The son of good family, hearing of this, felt a thought arise in his own heart, longing to share pleasure with his wife once more, and, overcome with sorrow and vexation, could no longer take joy in cultivating pure conduct together with the others, and rose to return home.

The monks, hearing of this, went and reported it to the Buddha, who summoned him and spoke, dispelling the very defilement of his own foolish craving and the dust of worldly toil, and stilling every confused thought. The son of good family, in that very moment, realized directly the noble and clear Dharma for himself.

The monks then said to the World-Honored One: were it not for the Tathāgata himself, who else could have accomplished this? The Buddha told the monks: this monk's heart has not only, in this present life, remained fixed on desire — in a past age, long ago, there was a king named Fāngjī, whose inner palace held consorts and attendants beyond counting, given to lustful indulgence and endless quarreling among themselves, unwilling ever to live in harmony. Once, after a particular quarrel, one consort left the palace entirely; King Fāngjī sought her everywhere, not knowing where she had gone, and fell into such sorrow and displeasure that he could not free himself from it.

At that time there was a sage, possessed of the five supernormal powers, able to fly through the air with boundless spiritual might, named Joyless, who, flying through the sky, suddenly descended, and spoke to the king of how difficult desire and longing are to escape, and of the virtue found in freedom from desire, urging him to go forth and practice the path, and cultivate the four pure abodes — and, when his own life at last ended, he was reborn in the Brahmā heaven.

The Buddha told the monks: could King Fāngjī of that time be anyone other than this very monk now? And the sage Joyless was myself (Source: Nàlài Sūtra).

Long ago, in a caṇḍāla household, seven sons were born. The six elder brothers had all attained the fruit of stream-entry; the youngest alone remained an ordinary being. Their mother, a caṇḍālī woman, had attained the fruit of non-returner. All seven brothers, together, had received the five precepts.

In that kingdom it was the standing custom that the caṇḍāla caste alone carried out executions; whenever any man or woman in the realm committed killing, theft, sexual misconduct, or any other grave offense, it was always a caṇḍāla who was made to put them to death. The king summoned the eldest son and told him: there is a criminal condemned to die — go and execute him. The son bowed and pleaded for himself: I beg your great mercy — I have received the five precepts, and guard my own conduct with the utmost care; I would not dare kill even an ant, still less commit such a wrong. I would rather take my own life than dare to violate the precept.

The king, in a rage, ordered him executed in the marketplace instead. The son said further to the king: this body of mine belongs to you, my sovereign, but this heart is my own — if you wish to kill me, then kill me; I cannot obey your command against my own conscience. The king had him beheaded at once.

He then summoned the other brothers in turn; all six said alike: having received the precepts, we dare not commit killing. The king, his fury only mounting, had them all put to death as well.

He then summoned the youngest brother; both mother and son came together before him. The king, seeing the mother arrive, grew angrier still: when I had the first six sons killed, their mother did not come to see them off — now that I summon the youngest, why does she come? The mother said: I beg leave to speak a few words, to explain myself. My first six sons had all attained the fruit of stream-entry; even had you, great king, ground those six bodies into dust, they would never have raised the slightest ill will, not so much as a single hair's worth. But this youngest son remains an ordinary being — though he cultivates goodness in body, he has not yet attained the fruit of the path. It is for this very reason that I am anxious for him: not yet having attained the path, he might lose his own resolve, and, fearing your royal command, cling to his own life, break the precept, and carry out the killing — and, his body destroyed, his life ended, fall down into Mount Tai Hell. It is out of love and concern for this son that I have come to see him now.

The king asked the mother further: did all six of your sons who died truly attain the fruit of stream-entry? She answered: all of them did. The king asked again: and you yourself, what fruit have you attained? The mother answered: I have attained the fruit of non-returner.

Hearing this, the king threw himself to the ground, crying out in anguish and self-reproach: I have planted the very root of grave transgression — with deliberate intent I have killed six stream-enterers! His own body and mind so afflicted that he could not sit still, he at once had incense, oil, and fragrant wood prepared, took up the six bodies, and cremated them, and raised six stūpas over their remains, offering worship there as recompense for their killing. Three times each day he performed repentance, wishing with his whole heart to dissolve his own transgression, and, as it gradually grew lighter, he further gave out his own wealth and provisions to support their aged mother. On each fast-day, he repeated his repentance again and again, hoping thereby to lessen his own offense, and be spared from hell (Source: Sūtra of Compassion and Non-Killing).