Devadatta and the Broken Saṅgha

At that time Devadatta's heart was fixed on malice, slandering the Tathāgata, while claiming for himself possession of the path. The assembly rebuked him; the devas, dragons, spirits, Śakra, Brahmā, and the Four Heavenly Kings all together tried to reason with him: your wish to destroy the Buddha is like raising your own hand to hurl down the sun and moon. Devadatta, hearing this, would not change his heart.

The monks reported the whole matter fully to the Buddha: what grave grievance could Devadatta hold, that his resentment runs so deep? The Buddha told the monks: it is not only in this present life that Devadatta has been so — he has been thus in life after life. In a past age, there was a brahmin's daughter, of matchless beauty and form. Among the brahmins it was the custom that, should an unmarried daughter be promised to whichever scholar proved most learned in the scriptures, all his fellow students, five hundred in number, would be invited, and given three months' support, so that their own knowledge might be observed and compared.

Among these five hundred men, one was indeed deeply learned, but old and withered, his face ugly, his eyes a strange pale color; her parents grieved, and the daughter herself was troubled — how could she become the wife of such a man, one so like a resentful ghost to look upon? What was to be done?

At that time, from a distant land, there came a young brahmin, still youthful, of fine appearance, clever and wise. Hearing that this brahmin had invited his fellow students to compete for his daughter's hand, he went there at once, and posed questions the assembled brahmins could not answer — questions beyond the wisdom of the whole five hundred. The girl's parents and the girl herself, seeing him, rejoiced greatly: we sought a son-in-law, and now our wish is granted at last.

The elder brahmin said: I am already old, and was long ago promised this daughter as my own wife; whatever I might otherwise have given you, I shall give you now instead — but do not wound my own dignity, so advanced in years, by shaming me before all. The younger brahmin answered: I cannot overstep what is proper merely to satisfy another's feelings — I am bound to accept her as promised. When the three months had passed, the unmarried daughter was given to the younger man.

The elder, his heart now filled with venomous malice, said: you have shamed and humiliated me, and stolen my own promised wife — in every life to come, wherever you are born, I shall be your enemy, and never let this rest. The younger brahmin, for his own part, always acted with a heart of loving-kindness; only the elder alone harbored this wish to harm.

The Buddha told the monks: could that elder brahmin of that time be anyone other than Devadatta now? And that younger brahmin was myself. And that daughter was Gopī (Source: Sūtra of Past Lives, fascicle 1).

Devadatta conspired together with King Ajātaśatru to destroy the Buddha and his disciples; the king commanded the people of his own realm not to honor the Buddha. At this, Śāriputra and the others, together with the nun Bōhétí and her own disciples, each departed for other lands, and only the Buddha, with five hundred arhats, remained dwelling on Vulture Peak.

Devadatta went to the king and said: the Buddha's own disciples have now scattered, but five hundred still remain at his side. I ask you, tomorrow, to invite the Buddha into the city — I shall have five hundred great elephants made drunk, and let them trample him to death; I myself shall then become the Buddha, and teach the world in his place. The king, delighted to hear this, went at once to invite the Buddha. The Buddha, knowing the whole plot already, answered simply: very good. The king withdrew, and reported this back to Devadatta.

The next day, at mealtime, the Buddha entered the city gate together with the arhats. The drunken elephants came roaring forward, trunks raised, crashing recklessly against walls, snapping trees, the whole city trembling in fear. The five hundred arhats rose into the sky and flew away, leaving only the venerable Ānanda at the Buddha's own side. The drunken elephants, heads lowered together, charged straight for the Buddha. The Buddha raised his own five fingers, and they became five lions, roaring together in a single voice that shook heaven and earth; the drunken elephants fell prostrate to the ground, not daring to raise their heads, their drunkenness dispelled, weeping in repentance. The king, his ministers, and all the people were struck with reverence and awe.

The World-Honored One walked calmly forward to the king's own palace hall, and, having eaten together with the arhats, spoke a dedication of blessing. The king said to the Buddha: my own nature is unclear and confused; I believed slanderous words, and gave rise to rebellious wrongdoing — I beg your great compassion to forgive my own delusion and folly.

The Buddha told Ajātaśatru and the whole assembly: there are eight things in this world that give rise to lasting slander, all stemming from the pursuit of reputation, and leading to grave transgression. What are these eight? Gain and loss, disgrace and honor, praise and blame, suffering and pleasure — from ancient times to the present, few indeed are those untouched by their confusion. The Buddha then spoke a verse (the fuller text is not recorded here).

The Buddha said: long ago there was a king who loved to eat the flesh of wild geese, and constantly sent hunters to spread nets and catch them, delivering one goose each day to supply the royal table. There was, at that time, a goose king, who led five hundred geese flying down to seek food; the goose king fell into the net, and was caught by the hunter. The other geese, startled, flew up in alarm, but would not leave, circling about; one goose in particular followed close behind, again and again, undeterred by bow or arrow, crying out in grief until it wept blood, ceaseless day and night. The hunter, seeing this, was moved by such devotion, and released the goose king to rejoin his companions; the flock, overjoyed to have their king restored, circled about him in celebration. The hunter reported this fully to the king, who, moved likewise by such devotion, forbade the capture of geese from that day on.

The Buddha said: that goose king of that time was myself; that one devoted goose was Ānanda; the flock of five hundred geese are these five hundred arhats now; the goose-eating king is this present great king; and that hunter is Devadatta — who, since past lives without number, has constantly wished to harm me, yet, through the power of my own great compassion, has again and again been saved instead, bearing no thought of enmity or hatred, until I myself attained buddhahood. The king and all his ministers were filled with joy at this (Source: Dharmapada, fascicle 4).

Long ago there was a monk named Devadatta, clever and widely learned. For twelve years he sat in meditation, his mind unmoved from absorption; he never once fell short in the twelve ascetic practices, cultivated the contemplation of impurity, mastered the counting of the breath, achieved the highest worldly dharma, and, one by one, distinguished even the summit dharmas. The Buddhist scriptures he had memorized numbered sixty thousand — more than an elephant could carry. Yet, in time, his own resolve turned and weakened, and a malicious thought gradually took root: a longing for others' offerings, an attachment to worldly gain.

He went before the World-Honored One, bowed at his feet, and, standing to one side, said: World-Honored One, I beg you to teach me the way of supernormal power — having heard it, I shall practice it diligently, and, once I have attained such power, travel to other lands, teaching in every place. The World-Honored One told him: set aside supernormal power for now — why not instead study the four truths of impermanence, suffering, emptiness, and non-self? Devadatta then thought to himself: the reason the Tathāgata will not teach me this must be that he fears I might surpass him, and feels shame at being outdone.

Devadatta then abandoned the Tathāgata, and went to Śāriputra, seeking the way of supernormal power. Śāriputra told him likewise: set that aside for now — why not cultivate the four truths of impermanence instead? Devadatta reflected: this Śāriputra, said to be foremost in wisdom — yet, as I see it, he is no more than a firefly set against the sun and moon; what I myself have already memorized has no equal, and even I do not yet understand the way of supernormal power — how much less could Śāriputra understand it? — and left him as well, going to Maudgalyāyana, seeking the same. Maudgalyāyana told him: stop, stop, Devadatta — one just beginning the practice must first study the four truths of impermanence, and further cultivate the four dhyānas with diligence; only then can the way of supernormal power be attained.

Devadatta, enraged, thought: this Maudgalyāyana boasts that his own supernormal power has no equal — the reason he will not teach me must be his fear that I would surpass him, leaving him without renown of his own. I have sought the way of supernormal power everywhere now, and none will teach me — but my own younger brother Ānanda is learned and possessed of every virtue; I shall go and ask him instead. He said to Ānanda: I have heard that you understand well the way of supernormal power — teach it to me; once I have attained it, I shall travel to other lands, teaching in every place. Ānanda then taught it to him in full.

Devadatta, having learned this, went to a quiet place, and, with his mind entirely focused, moved from the coarse into the subtle, and from the subtle back to the coarse again, raising his own body through his mind and his mind through his body, until body and mind together were unified, and he rose gradually from the ground — at first no higher than a sesame seed, then a walnut, gradually further from the earth, from the ground to the height of a bed, from a bed to the height of a house, from a house into open sky, and, in the open sky, performed the eighteen transformations, rising and vanishing freely at will.

He then transformed himself into a small infant, of fine and lovely form, its head marked in five places, its face like a peach blossom, and appeared upon the knee of Prince Ajātaśatru, laughing or crying, showing every trait of a true infant — though the prince knew all the while that this was Devadatta's own body, he played with it all day long without ever tiring, sometimes kissing and cooing at it, sometimes lifting it, passing it from one hand to the other. The prince thought to himself: Devadatta's own supernormal power surpasses even that of Gautama himself, able to work countless transformations — and gave him five hundred pots of food each day, offering support continually, never letting him want for anything.

At that time, many monks, seeing Ajātaśatru's own offerings to Devadatta, reported this fully to the World-Honored One. The Buddha told the monks: do not covet Devadatta's own offerings. Devadatta destroys himself, and destroys others besides — both alike fall into transgression through this.

It is like the plantain tree: a foolish man seeking true fruit within it can never obtain it; the bamboo reed is just the same. It is like the mule that conceives — both mother and offspring alike perish. Long ago there was a flock of vultures, each raising its own young; a mother vulture told her chick: should you learn to fly, suspended in the open sky, and see the earth below no larger than a plate, take great care never to fly beyond that point — there is a fierce wind there, called Vairambha, that will surely harm you, scattering your own head and limbs to different places. The chick did not heed its father's warning, flew beyond that measure, and was blown apart by the wind, its own life lost, its body scattered.

You monks should give rise to no such wish as this. Know too, monks, that it is like a group of turtles, whose mother told her own children: guard yourselves well, and do not go to a certain place — there are hunters there, who will catch you and divide your own bodies into five parts. The young turtles did not heed her words, went to that place regardless, and enjoyed themselves together there, and were indeed caught by the hunters; yet some managed to return safely. Their mother asked them: where have you come from? The children answered: we went together to look at that place; we saw no hunter at all — only a long cord that trailed behind, pursuing us. The mother told her children: that cord has pursued your own kind since long ago — your own grandparents, before you, all met their deaths through that very cord.

Monks, know too that it is like a fox-demon that, day and night, searches out excrement — feeding on the dung of beasts, and, having eaten its fill, producing its own excrement in turn. Devadatta's own greed for offerings is just the same.

Long ago, in the kingdom of the Great Yuezhi, it was the local custom always to fatten pigs on wheat cooked in butter before slaughtering them. At that time a royal foal said to its own mother: we serve the king with all our strength, regardless of distance, answering every one of his commands — yet we are fed nothing but hay, and given only stagnant water to drink. The mother horse told her foal: take care never to give rise to envy of that buttered wheat — before long, you shall see the proof of this for yourself.

As the New Year's festival drew near, every household bound its own pig and cast it into a cauldron of boiling water, its cries rising in the air. The mother horse told her foal: do you remember that buttered wheat now? If you wish to know the proof of what I said, go and see for yourself. The young horses, seeing this, understood the truth of it at once, and knew thereafter the true difference between being fattened for slaughter and being kept for service; and when, afterward, they were fed hay mixed with wheat, they guarded themselves and would not eat it.

The Buddha spoke this verse:

"The plantain tree dies once it bears its own fruit; / the bamboo reed is just the same. / The mule, once it conceives, / and the man, through his own greed, alike bring about their own ruin."

(Source: Sūtra of Illustrative Parables [Chūyào jīng], fascicle 10).

The Buddha told the monks: Devadatta is malicious and dangerous, praising others without any true cause. The monk Kokālika praises Devadatta, and Devadatta in turn praises Kokālika — the two of them are alike without principle or reason. The monks, hearing this, said: indeed, great sage — we have observed that Kokālika, though he went forth in faith, long relying on the true scriptures and the discipline's own teaching, nevertheless praises Devadatta without cause, just as Devadatta praises him in turn, each taking what is wrong for right, and right for wrong.

The Buddha said: these two are simply foolish — they were the same in a past life as well. In a past age, a eunuch died, and his body was cast aside among the trees; a fox-demon and a crow came together to feed on the flesh, praising each other in turn. The crow said:

"Your body is like a lion's own, / your head like a very sage's — / your fat surpasses the king of deer himself; / how fine, like a beautiful flower."

The fox-demon praised in reply:

"You alone, honored one, perch in the tree, / your wisdom foremost of all — / your brightness illumines the ten directions, / like a heap of finest refined gold."

And so it continued, back and forth. At that time a great sage said: such praise, given without true cause, is empty and without substance. That fox-demon was Devadatta; that crow was Kokālika; and that sage was the bodhisattva himself (Source: Buddha's Discourse on the Fox-Demon and the Crow).

Devadatta went before the World-Honored One, bowed at his feet, and, standing to one side, said: I observe that the Tathāgata's own countenance has begun to change, his faculties fully matured, his years now past their prime, drawing toward old age and decline — I beg the World-Honored One to shut himself in a quiet chamber, and take his own ease in meditation, entrusting the four assemblies to me instead. I shall teach and guide them exactly as the Buddha himself would, and continue offering the four requisites without fail.

The Buddha said: enough, foolish man — you give no thought to what disaster shall follow! Even Śāriputra and Maudgalyāyana have never been entrusted with such a charge — how much less could it be entrusted to one as indolent and depraved as you, that the noble assembly should be handed over to you?

Devadatta, jealousy rising within him, grew doubly furious at these words, and thought: the Tathāgata today praises Śāriputra and Maudgalyāyana, while holding this lesser disciple in contempt — I shall surely find a means to destroy both teacher and disciples alike, so that the beings of this whole land shall neither see his form nor hear his voice again. Devadatta then rose from his seat, bowed, and withdrew, going about everywhere with cunning and deceitful words, beguiling ordinary people, and won over several dozen of them, urging them on from place to place.

In brief: while the Buddha sat teaching, surrounded by the great assembly, Devadatta told his own followers: do not heed what Gautama teaches — it does not accord with the true Dharma. I myself hold, one by one, profound scriptures of excellent meaning, and shall teach you these instead — seeking only some means to destroy the noble assembly. The Buddha said: stop, stop, Devadatta — take care never to give rise to such a wish to destroy the harmony of the assembly; the retribution that follows shall be difficult indeed to bear. But Devadatta held fast, and would not change, his intent fixed. The Buddha, observing the past causes and old enmity behind this, knew it could not be turned aside.

Devadatta led five hundred followers of his own, just as the Tathāgata too kept company with five hundred disciples, both groups traveling near Ratnakūṭa mountain. The bodhisattva's own followers were broad-minded, benevolent, and gentle, taught the true Dharma, and upheld the precepts, their every movement, in and out, never overstepping proper order. Devadatta's own followers, by contrast, spoke coarsely and harshly, quick to anger in every exchange, quarreling with their own teacher as though with an enemy at law. His disciples, wearied and troubled by this, all abandoned him together, and went instead to the bodhisattva's own side.

Devadatta, for his part, boasted: I have a thousand disciples, every virtue complete among them, unmatched and incomparable in this world — who could possibly equal me? Enraged when they left him, he swore this vow: this man has today lured away my own disciples and destroyed my following — even were he to attain buddhahood himself, I would destroy his own followers just the same, without exception, even then.

The Tathāgata, observing this, knew with certainty that Devadatta would indeed try to destroy the harmony of the noble assembly, and so, rising from his seat, withdrew and left the gathering. There are five reasons the assembly could never truly be destroyed: first, so long as the Tathāgata is present, his own majestic spiritual power never abandons his original vow; second, after the Tathāgata's final nirvāṇa, should anyone then claim, "I have now attained buddhahood, the highest true awakening," he ought to be asked: where were you when Śākyamuni Buddha himself still lived? — third, there has never yet been such an evil time; fourth, monks do not compete over material offerings; and fifth, the disciples of wisdom and supernormal power remain in harmony together. The Tathāgata, through his own knowledge of past lives, saw with certainty that Devadatta would attempt to disrupt the assembly, and so withdrew and departed.

Devadatta, remaining behind, taught the assembly: whoever among you regards me as your own honored teacher, and receives my own instruction, should practice these five methods (the full text of the five methods is not recorded here) — any monk who cultivates these five methods shall swiftly attain liberation, exhausting every outflow and attaining the undefiled state; what need is there of Gautama's own eightfold noble path?

He then said to Śāriputra and Maudgalyāyana: I have gained great benefit, becoming honored throughout the three realms, in the very image of the Tathāgata himself. He told them further: my own back aches, and I wish to rest a while and sleep — you two shall teach the noble assembly in my place. Devadatta then lay down upon his right side, wishing to sleep; a deva, urging him further, made him turn instead to lie upon his left side, and that same deva, mocking him still further, caused him to speak aloud in his sleep, snoring loudly, a foul odor reaching far beyond him.

Maudgalyāyana, through the power of his own supernormal ability, rose into the open sky and performed the eighteen transformations, sitting, lying down, walking, rising and vanishing freely at will. Śāriputra told the assembled crowd: the Tathāgata's own body and spiritual virtue are boundless, complete in every wisdom, reaching forward without limit and back without end. The Tathāgata's own Dharma brings, in this very life, the fruit of true and effortless joy, studied by the wise, not practiced by the foolish. The Tathāgata's own noble assembly, its five-part Dharma-body entirely accomplished, is worthy of reverence and honor, worthy of service and offering, a true field of blessing and support for all beings.

The monks, hearing this, each thought to themselves: we ourselves have been foolish and deluded, unable to recognize what is truly correct, abandoning substance for mere flowering ornament, forsaking the root to chase after the branch — now, seeing what these two worthy ones have taught, so rare in this world, would it not be far better for us to abandon Devadatta, and return instead to the Tathāgata's own assembly? Śāriputra, knowing their own thoughts, rose at once from his seat, and all five hundred monks followed him together; Maudgalyāyana followed close behind.

The monk Kokālika, kicking Devadatta with his own right foot, said: wretched Devadatta, why do you lie there sleeping so soundly? Śāriputra and Maudgalyāyana have led every one of your own disciples away! Devadatta, waking, was overcome with grief (Source: Sūtra of Devadatta Questioning the Buddha's Countenance; substantially the same account also appears in the Mahīśāsaka Vinaya).

Long ago in ancient times, there was a sage dwelling in a mountain cave, reciting texts of statecraft. A wild fox came near, and, listening closely to the recitation, understood something of what he heard, and thought to himself: if I truly understand what these texts say, I am fit to become king of all the beasts.

He set out at once, wandering, and came upon a thin, wretched fox, whom he intended to kill. The other said: why would you kill me? He answered: I am king of the beasts, and you have not yet submitted to me. The other said: please do not kill me — I shall follow and serve you instead. The two foxes then traveled on together, and met yet another fox, with the same exchange as before, and so, one after another, the fox brought every fox under his own submission. Using this pack of foxes, he then subdued every elephant; using the elephants, he subdued every tiger; using the tigers, he subdued every lion — and so, by these successive means, he came to be king of all the beasts.

He then thought further: I am king of the beasts — it is not fitting that I should take a mere beast as my own wife. He mounted a white elephant, and had his whole host of beasts surround the kingdom of Kāśī, encircling it hundreds and thousands of times over. The king sent a messenger to ask the reason. The fox answered: I am king of the beasts, and it is fitting that I should marry your own daughter — should you refuse me, I shall destroy your kingdom entirely. The messenger returned and reported this to the king.

The king gathered his ministers to deliberate; all but one said the daughter should be given to him — our kingdom relies for its own defense on elephants and horses alone; though we too have elephants and horses, he has lions, and our own elephants and horses, catching their scent, will surely fall prostrate to the ground in terror — we cannot win this battle; why begrudge a single daughter, and lose an entire kingdom instead?

But one minister, sharp-witted and far-sighted, said to the king: I have observed, from ancient times to the present, that no human king's own daughter has ever been given to a lowly beast. Though I myself am but of limited understanding, I shall see to it that this fox is killed, and his whole host of beasts scattered. The king asked him how. The minister answered: my king need only send a messenger to fix the day of battle, and request one single condition — that the lions roar only after the fighting has begun, not before. He will think this a sign of our own fear, and insist that the lions roar first, before the fighting starts. On the day of battle, my king should order everyone within the city to stop up their own ears.

The king followed his minister's counsel, and only then sent out his army. As the two forces were about to meet, the fox did indeed insist that the lions roar first — and, hearing that roar himself, his own heart burst into seven pieces, and he fell from the elephant's back to the ground; his whole host of beasts scattered and fled.

The Buddha spoke this verse:

"The wild fox, swollen with arrogance, / sought followers of his own; / he marched to the city of Kāśī, / and proclaimed himself king of beasts. / Human arrogance is just the same — / one who now leads a following of his own, / in the land of Magadha, / proclaims himself a master of the Dharma."

The Buddha told the monks: could that king of Kāśī, at that time, be anyone other than myself? That sharp-witted minister was Śāriputra. And that fox-king was Devadatta (Source: The Wild Fox Who Sought to Be King, from the Mahīśāsaka Vinaya, fascicle 4).

Devadatta, dwelling in Rājagṛha, harbored murderous schemes, which in time came to light. King Ajātaśatru told him: you should leave this kingdom, and not remain here — all sixteen great kingdoms have already heard of the evil you have done against the Tathāgata. Devadatta, hearing this, was filled with grief and resentment, and, returning to his own home country, still bound by rage, forced his way into the bodhisattva's own palace, and said to Gopī: I intend to take you as my own chief consort — I wonder, noble lady, whether you might consent to this.

Gopī answered: come forward, then, and I shall take your own right hand. Devadatta extended his hand, and she gripped it so fiercely that the bones of his wrist were crushed and blood flowed from all five fingers; he fainted from the pain, and only after a long while did he recover.

Devadatta then pressed further into the palace, and seated himself upon the bodhisattva's own bed; the palace attendants, seeing this, seized him and threw him down from the bed, injuring his own left hip so badly that he could no longer walk, and had to be carried back to his own home on a litter. The whole Śākya clan, disgusted by this, came and told him: you ought now to go before the Buddha, and repent.

Devadatta, hearing this, secretly devised a cunning deception: he had iron claws made in private, coated with deadly poison, outwardly gentle in appearance while inwardly harboring rage. He recalled that the Buddha himself had often said: one whose body bears no wound cannot be harmed by poison — poison alone can do nothing without an open wound to enter through. He thought: I shall now go, feigning repentance, and, with these claws, tear open a wound upon his own foot — the poison will then spread through his body, and he will surely die of it.

He was carried on a litter toward the World-Honored One; when still some twenty-one paces away, he told his attendants: set me down upon the ground — I wish to walk the rest of the way myself. He was set down at once — and, in that very moment, a raging fire burst forth and wrapped itself entirely around his own body, and he was carried, still living, down into hell (Source: Sūtra of Devadatta's Living Body Falling into Hell).

The Buddha dwelt in Rājagṛha. At that time Devadatta wished to break the harmony of the Saṅgha; the monks admonished him three times, yet still he would not stop. The Buddha said: in a past age, in the country of Vārāṇasī, there lived a brahmin who built a public well in the open wilderness, to supply travelers with water.

As evening drew near one day, a pack of jackals came to drink the water left over. Their king, however, scorned to drink water from the ground, and instead put his own head into the pottery jar to drink; having drunk his fill, he would then raise the jar high and smash it. The other jackals, meaning well, spoke to him against this habit, but he would not listen — and so, not once but many times, he broke fourteen jars in this way.

The brahmin, watching for the jackal, then made a wooden jar instead, sturdy and hard to break, easy to put one's head into but hard to withdraw it from, and set it by the well, waiting nearby with a club in hand. The jackal pack gathered as before; their king, having drunk from this jar as he always did, tried to smash it against the ground, but could not break it. The brahmin then came forward with his club, and struck the jackal dead.

That jackal king of that time is Devadatta now; and that pack of jackals are these very monks who now admonish Devadatta (Source: Sāṃghika Vinaya, fascicle 8).

The Buddha dwelt in Rājagṛha. At that time the monks carried out a formal act of censure against Devadatta; the "group of six" monks aligned themselves entirely with Devadatta, sharing his own words and views. The Buddha told the monks: in a past age, in a secluded place, five hundred monkeys were traveling through a forest, and came to a nyagrodha tree, beneath which was a well, and in the well the reflection of the moon.

The monkey king, seeing this reflection, said to his companions: the moon has died and fallen, and now lies here in the well — we must together bring it out, lest the whole world be left in unending night's darkness. They discussed together how this might be done. The monkey king said: I know a way — I shall hold fast to a branch, and you hold my tail, and, each linking to the next in turn, we shall be able to draw it out.

The monkeys did exactly as their king instructed, each grasping the tail of the one before, but, before they had yet reached the water, the combined weight of the whole chain of monkeys proved too much for the branch, which was weak, and it broke — and every one of the monkeys fell into the well's own water. That monkey king of that time is Devadatta now; and those other monkeys are these very "group of six" monks now (Source: Sāṃghika Vinaya, fascicle 8).

The Buddha told Ānanda: should any being give rise to even a single malicious thought toward the buddhas of the three times, or toward a pratyekabuddha, an arhat, or any śramaṇa clothed in the ochre robe, they incur boundless transgression. And why is this so? Because the ochre-dyed robe is itself the very emblem of the noble and the wise — and one who can, for this reason, arouse a heart of reverence toward those who wear it obtains blessing beyond all measure. It is through just such faithful reverence that I myself came, in time, to attain buddhahood.

Ānanda asked: what was this past reverence, and how did it come about? The Buddha told Ānanda: in ages past, beyond all counting, in this Jambudvīpa there was a great kingdom (the Sūtra of Repaying Kindness calls it Vārāṇasī), whose king, named Devī, ruled over eighty-four thousand lesser kings. In that age the world had no Buddhist teaching, yet a pratyekabuddha dwelt in the mountains, sitting in meditation and practicing the path, and all the wild creatures there came to feel affection for him.

Among them was a lion, named Firm-Vow, his body golden and radiant, who ate only fruit and grass, and harmed no living creature. A hunter, having shaved his own head and put on an ochre robe, carrying a bow and arrows hidden beneath it, walked through the wilderness, and, finding the lion asleep (the Sūtra of Repaying Kindness says he was licking a monk's own feet), shot him with a poisoned arrow.

The lion, startled awake, at first meant to rush at his attacker and kill him — but, seeing the ochre robe, thought to himself: this dyed robe is the very emblem of a good and virtuous man; were I to harm him, I would be turning a malicious heart against the noble and wise themselves. Restraining himself, he let his own anger subside; yet the poison, already spreading within him, meant his life could not last much longer. He then spoke this verse: yerā vaśā sabhāhā.

As he spoke these words, heaven and earth shook greatly, and blood rained down from a clear sky; the devas themselves were struck with terror, and, looking with their own divine eyes, saw that the hunter had killed the lion, and rained down heavenly flowers in offering upon his body.

The hunter then skinned the lion, and presented the hide to King Devī. The king, reflecting that the scriptures teach that any golden-colored beast must surely be a bodhisattva, asked the hunter: what auspicious signs appeared when the lion died? The hunter told him all that had happened. The king, hearing this, was overcome with mingled sorrow and joy, his own faith growing only stronger, and summoned his ministers, elders, and wise men, to have them explain the meaning of what the lion had spoken.

At that time, in a solitary forest, there lived a sage named Śama, who explained the verse's meaning to the king: "yerā" means that only by shaving the head and donning the dyed robe can one swiftly attain liberation from birth and death; "vaśā sabhā" means that this is itself the very mark of the noble and wise, drawing near to nirvāṇa; and "hā" means that one shall thereby come to be revered and honored by every deva and every person in the world alike.

When the sage had finished explaining this, King Devī, filled with joy, summoned all the lesser kings to gather in that very place, made a carriage of the seven treasures, and spread the lion's hide upon it, that all might together honor and revere it, burning incense and scattering flowers in offering. Afterward, he had a golden coffin made, placed the lion's hide within it, and raised a stūpa over it.

That lion, through the wholesome thought he gave rise to toward one clothed in the dyed robe, became a wheel-turning sage king across ten billion kalpas that followed. The Buddha told Ānanda: that lion of that time was myself; that king was Maitreya, as he is now; that sage was Śāriputra, as he is now; and that hunter was Devadatta, as he is now (Source: Sūtra of the Wise and the Foolish, fascicle 13).

The Blessed One dwelt in Śrāvastī, in the Jetavana, in Anāthapiṇḍada's park, and told the monks: there are four great hells. The first is Tiṣya's great hell, where flames rise twenty cubits from the body. The second is Kokālika's great hell, where flames rise thirty cubits. The third is Devadatta's great hell, where flames rise forty cubits. The fourth is Mahākhari's great hell, where flames rise sixty cubits.

Should any person wish for relief, and be exposed to even the mere heat given off there, twenty oceans' worth of water poured over that body would be entirely consumed, and still the fire would not go out — just as with molten copper: were one to pour twenty ocean-drops of water into molten copper, the water would vanish at once, yet the copper's own heat remains. So it is with the monk Tiṣya's flame — it does not go out. Should someone wish to bring him relief by the same measure, twenty great oceans of water poured upon his body would be consumed at once, and still not extinguish it — for the foolish monk Tiṣya, out of malice, once prevented the assembled Saṅgha from eating for an entire day; it is for this that he has entered the great hell.

As for the monk Kokālika: should someone wish him relief in the same way, a great ocean of water poured upon his body would be consumed at once — comparable to copper melted by a second sun. Or again, should one pour thirty ocean-drops into molten copper, it too would vanish entirely. So it is with the foolish monk Kokālika: should anyone wish to bring him relief, thirty great oceans of water poured upon his body would be consumed at once, and still his fire would not go out — for the foolish monk Kokālika slandered the monks Śāriputra and Maudgalyāyana, and, his body destroyed and his life ended, was reborn in the three lower realms, falling into the Padma hell; the monk Kokālika has entered the great hell.

As for Devadatta's own great hell: should someone wish to bring him relief, forty great oceans of water poured upon his body would be consumed at once, and still the fire would not go out — comparable to copper melted by a third sun; were one to pour forty ocean-drops into molten copper, it would vanish entirely, without remainder, just the same. So it is with the foolish Devadatta: should anyone wish to bring him relief, forty great oceans of water poured upon his body would be consumed at once, and still the fire would not go out. And why is this so? Because the foolish Devadatta sought to harm the Tathāgata himself, killed an arhat nun, and destroyed the harmony of the monastic assembly; his body destroyed, his life ended, he was reborn in the three lower realms, falling into the Avīci hell. The monk Devadatta has entered the great hell, flames rising forty cubits from his own body.

As for Mahākhari's own great hell: should someone wish to bring him relief, sixty great oceans of water poured upon his body would be consumed at once, and still the fire would not go out — comparable to copper melted by a fourth sun; were one to pour sixty ocean-drops into molten copper, it would vanish at once, just the same. So it is with Mahākhari: sixty great oceans of water poured upon his body would be consumed at once, and still this fire would not go out — for this foolish Mahākhari taught and led a hundred koṭis of people, an entire multitude beyond counting, into wrong views (Source: Sūtra of the Four Hells).

The Buddha said: once, dwelling in Rājagṛha, the monk Sunakṣatra served as my own attendant. One night, in the first watch, I taught the essentials of the Dharma to Śakra; and, as is proper for a disciple, he was to sleep only after his own teacher had done so. Sunakṣatra, resentful at how long I remained sitting, gave rise to a malicious thought.

At that time, in Rājagṛha, when small children would not stop crying, their parents would tell them: if you do not stop, we shall hand you over to the ghost Vakkula. Sunakṣatra, seized himself by this same fear, said to me: hurry into your meditation chamber — Vakkula is coming! Śakra said: World-Honored One, can even such a person as this still enter the Buddha's own teaching? I answered: he too possesses buddha-nature, and shall attain unsurpassed enlightenment in time. Though I taught him the Dharma even so, he held no heart of faith or acceptance in it at all.

Later, when I was in the city of Shīpófúluó, in the country of Kāśī, Sunakṣatra again served as my attendant. As I entered the city to beg for alms, countless beings, their hearts empty and yearning, longed to see even my own footprints — yet Sunakṣatra, following behind, tried to disparage and destroy this reverence; failing to destroy it entirely, he succeeded only in planting unwholesome thoughts in the minds of those beings instead.

Once I had entered the city, in a wine-shop I saw a Nirgrantha ascetic, his spine hunched, crouched on the ground, eating the dregs of wine. Sunakṣatra said: if there is truly an arhat in this world, it is this very man, foremost of all — for what he teaches admits neither cause nor effect. I said: foolish man, have you never heard that an arhat does not drink wine, does not harm others, does not deceive, does not steal, and does not commit sexual misconduct? Yet this man might as well kill his own parents and still feed on the dregs of wine — how could he possibly be called an arhat? Once this man casts off his body, he shall surely fall into the Avīci hell. An arhat has forever cut off the three lower realms — how can you call this man an arhat?

Sunakṣatra answered at once: even the nature of the four elements themselves can still be transformed — there is no reason this man must necessarily fall into Avīci. I said: foolish man, have you never heard that the buddhas and tathāgatas speak but a single, unchanging truth? Though I taught him further, still he held no heart of faith or acceptance.

Good man: while Sunakṣatra and I dwelt together in Rājagṛha, there was another Nirgrantha ascetic, named Kǔdé, who constantly taught: sentient beings' own afflictions arise from no cause at all, and their liberation likewise arises from no cause. Sunakṣatra said: if there is truly an arhat in this world, Kǔdé stands foremost among them. I said: foolish man, this Nirgrantha Kǔdé is no true arhat at all, and cannot even comprehend the arhat's own path. Sunakṣatra said further: why, then, do you feel such jealousy toward this arhat? I said: foolish man, I feel no jealousy at all toward any true arhat — it is you yourself who have given rise to this wicked and false view.

Should this Kǔdé truly be an arhat, then seven days from now he shall suffer sharp pain from undigested food in his own belly, and die of it, and be reborn among the food-vomiting hungry ghosts, and his own fellow ascetics shall carry his corpse to the charnel forest.

Sunakṣatra at once told the Nirgrantha ascetic: elder, consider this carefully, and devise every possible means, so that the World-Honored One might be shown guilty of false speech. Kǔdé then fasted, from the first day to the sixth; but, once the seventh day arrived, he ate dark honey, and, drinking cold water after it, died of pain in his own belly, exactly as foretold. His fellow ascetics carried his corpse to the charnel forest, where it took on the very form of a food-vomiting hungry ghost, lingering beside its own remains.

Sunakṣatra went to the charnel forest, and, seeing Kǔdé's own body there, said to it: great one, are you dead? Kǔdé answered: I am already dead. He asked: how did you die? It answered: from pain in my own belly. Who carried out your corpse? It answered: my fellow ascetics. Where did they place it? It answered: fool — do you not recognize this very charnel forest? What form have you now attained? It answered: I have obtained the body of a food-vomiting hungry ghost.

Sunakṣatra said: World-Honored One, the Nirgrantha Kǔdé has been reborn in Trāyastriṃśa heaven! I said: foolish man, a true arhat has no further rebirth at all — how can you say that Kǔdé has been reborn in Trāyastriṃśa heaven?

Later, the Tathāgata, together with Kāśyapa, went to where Sunakṣatra was; Sunakṣatra, seeing us from a distance, gave rise to a wicked and false thought — and, his own living body sinking into the earth, fell down into the Avīci hell.

It is like a man fallen into a cesspit: a good friend reaches in with his own hand to stir about, and, should he manage to grasp even a single hair of his head, tries to pull him out — but, searching long without success, at last gives up the attempt. So it was with me: I sought in Sunakṣatra for even the slightest root of goodness, wishing to draw him out and save him, searching the whole day through — yet could not find so much as a hair's breadth of it, and so could not draw him out of hell after all (Source: Mahāparinirvāṇa Sūtra, fascicle 37).